Work Text:
Soren moves to Norway when he's seventeen, because his soul mark tells him he has to.
His mark is bigger than most, traced across his chest in two lines of pinched writing, Norwegian on the top and English beneath it, both translating out to roughly the same thing - 'Shut up, I have the worst headache.' Soren doesn't think that bodes very well for a first meeting, but he tries to tell himself that maybe the 'shut up' is playful, the tone warmer than the lines on his skin make it seem. And clearly the person (Soren's never been discerning on gender) is Norwegian, right?
And so he researches Norwegian universities, finds one that offers his program, and goes.
~*~
Kiku finds his soul mark to be very strange. Living in Tokyo, he knows a few people whose marks are in English; that's only to be expected with the way people travel and communicate all over the world now. One of his school mates even had a mark in German, and ended up marrying the German exchange student who tutored her at university. But Kiku's mark is not in English. It's not in proper Japanese either.
His mark, tracing the intimate contours of his inner thigh where it makes him blush every time he sees the thing, is in katakana. In the bath, sometimes Kiku props his heel up on the edge of the tub and traces his finger over the contours of the kana - 'su-mi-ma-se-n ta-su-ke-te ku-da-sa-i'. 'Excuse me, can you help me?' It should flow naturally, intricate kanji bumping up against fluid hiragana participles, but instead it's the blocky katakana writing reserved for foreign words and very young children who haven't yet learned more advanced ways of writing.
Kiku has no idea what that might mean for his soulmate, and he's a little uncertain he wants to find out.
~*~
Arthur and Francis find each other before they find their soulmates.
They meet in university, and don't bother taking note of each other's first words, because they don't match the lines crawling across both their backs. There's an undeniable attraction though, a friction between them that sparks arguments until one late, rain-drenched afternoon when Arthur shoves Francis up against a table and kisses him.
That isn't so uncommon; plenty of people enjoy short relationships or flings before finding their soulmate. Waiting is hard and lonely; it's easier to bear when you're waiting along with someone else.
The first time they see each other shirtless, Francis cannot stop laughing.
"I don't believe this," he says, tracing his fingertips along the looping writing stretched across the back of Arthur's shoulders like the mantle of a king. (The handwriting isn't his, and that sends a sharp little pain through him he can't seem to ignore.)
"Don't believe what?" Arthur twists around to look at him, cheeks flushed. Francis admires him idly for a moment before wordlessly shifting around to show Arthur his own back, the soul mark scripted low, like a tramp stamp of a lover's caress. "You're joking."
Francis looks back over his shoulder at him, eyes laughing. "Yes, I faked my soul mark just to play a terrible joke on you."
Arthur rolls his eyes and drapes himself across Francis' back, hiding the mark beneath his own hips and making Francis gasp. "I really hate the wording, I don't want to be stuck working retail forever."
"Not forever," Francis tries to reassure, despite his own nagging worries. "Just until we each find our soulmate."
Arthur bites down on his shoulder and Francis moans. The first time they have sex, Francis ends up scratching the hell out of Arthur's shoulders, like he's trying to tear off the offending mark and replace it with his own.
Both of them carry the same words - 'Are you guys open?' - and because they only ever see each others', they never realize that the handwriting is the same.
~*~
As he grows, Will comes to resent his mark, just a little.
It's not quite the worst mark, not as bad as the poor bastards who have some variation of 'Hello!' or 'How can I help you?', but it's close. The letters on his left hand are smaller than most and neatly printed, easily readable, there's even an exclamation point.
Sorry!
No one ever thinks of how often a stranger's first words to each other are an apology, but Will notes it every single time. His sister, whose soul mark is a variation on a Hungarian greeting, says it's one of those things that once you start noticing it, you find it everywhere. He decides, eventually, that if his soulmate is going to be so generic, then it's up to him to make sure his first words are memorable, his words staining someone's skin with something completely unique. It starts off playful, his sister helping him come up with flirty lines he can throw out in response to every stranger's 'sorry!'.
Sometimes it's a little more bitter, Will has bad days too. Sometimes his responses are growled more than spoken, but he can never bring himself to not respond at all, because what if?
The fact that he has a mark at all is proof that somewhere out there is someone who will apologize to a stranger, look into Will's eyes and love him anyway.
He has to hold onto that.
~*~
Alfred's mark is in Japanese, which everyone at school thinks is awesome. It is pretty cool, Alfred thinks, and definitely pretty. The inky characters seem painted on his skin rather than written, intricate characters and graceful swoops wrapping around his right wrist and forearm. His twin brother Matthew's mark is in the same place on his left arm, but his is in English. 'You're in a hurry. Got a hot date?' Every time Matthew goes out with someone in high school, Alfred teases him and asks where the date ranked on the 'hotness scale'. Usually Matthew's answer is a sigh and a dejected "Lukewarm."
When the twins are thirteen, deemed old enough to understand what a soul mark really means, their parents help Alfred translate his. 'Are you looking for Shibuya Station?'
That's in Tokyo, Alfred learns after a little more research, and it's one of the busiest train stations in the world. He finds a picture of it on Google and prints it out, hangs it above his desk. Someday he's going to go there and find his soulmate. At least he has a location, that's more than most people. Then again, the more he learns about Tokyo, the more he thinks he's going to need all the help he can get.
As a teenager, he studies what he can about Japanese history and culture. Video games and anime evolve into an honest interest in Japanese folklore and legend, and his desire to take Japanese classes at university is seventy-five-percent sincere.
When he's twenty, his professor looks at him over the top of her glasses, equal parts amused and pitying. She reaches out and takes hold of his hand, turns it palm up and runs her finger lightly over the kanji of his mark. "Shibuya. I suppose you'll be wanting to study abroad?"
Having it said aloud like that, concrete and real, sets butterflies off in Alfred's stomach. He's not sure he's ready at all. But then he thinks about his soulmate, someone kind enough to stop and give a lost American directions. Someone who, right now, has Alfred's handwriting scrawled across their body. Someone who's waiting on him.
He meets his professor's knowing gaze, and nods.
~*~
Gilbert has two marks, in two different handwritings. That's weird, to say the least, and the words themselves aren't exactly encouraging either. They slide down over the sharp curves of his collarbones, curling in toward his heart, inky black against his pale skin. On the left, a scrawl of jagged, gangly writing - 'Piss off!' On the right, more aesthetically pleasing at least, swirls of feminine writing - 'Perhaps you should come back tomorrow.'
He doesn't know what it means, and no one seems able to tell him, either. Two marks isn't totally unheard of; sometimes a person will develop a second one later in life if their first soulmate dies, but Gilbert's had two for as long as he can remember. Polyamory is a thing, but search as he might he can't find any stories of multiple, concurrent marks.
He's not exactly worried by the words themselves. As he plows his way through his teenage years, he's self-aware enough to know he can be a bit of an asshole, and it makes sense that he'd have arguments even with his soulmate(s?). It'd probably be boring if he didn't, honestly. He never goes looking for them, either. If God saw fit to give him a weird situation, then God's sure to put the fuckers in his path at some point, he figures.
His younger brother Ludwig disapproves, shakes his head at Gilbert's cavalier lifestyle. He says that Gilbert deserves people who will take care of him. But Ludwig's known who his soulmate was since he was fourteen and Feliciano literally fell into his arms, and Gilbert doesn't really want whatever sickening domestic thing his brother seems so happy with. He's much more happy bar hopping, having fun, playing music and not looking for his supposed soulmates.
If they find him, they find him. Otherwise, he's fine with being alone.
(Really.)
~*~
Eirik can't think of a soul mark more embarrassing than his, and he's always been relieved that it's in a place easy to hide - carved along his ribs and down his side, the letters scratched with a careless messiness that drives him insane. 'Hey, can you point me toward the bathrooms?'
It's stupid, and for his entire life Eirik has taken pains to hide it. Even when he was very young, when his teacher randomly picked him out as an example in a class about soul marks, he sat and stared at her angrily until she got the hint and picked someone else.
It's never a conscious decision. There's not a moment he can point to where he decided 'I don't want my soulmate'. But as he gets older, he says less and less, avoids crowded places with lots of strangers. People wear him out, drag down his days with unneeded chatter, it's so much easier not to bother at all.
Eventually, he gets a job at the university library. He settles in there, puts down roots and begins to find that he actually is capable of relaxing after all, surrounded by comforting silence and written rather than spoken word. The head librarian is an older woman who's seen a lot in her years, the faded smudges of her soul mark across the back of her hand almost unreadable. She understands Eirik's difficulties, even without him explaining.
"He died in the war," she tells Eirik one day while they're reshelving encyclopedias in the wake of a student whirlwind. Her tone of voice is both fond and sad, and Eirik has to turn and look at her, his own expression open and aching for once. She smiles, sadly, and holds up her marked hand for his inspection. "These marks bind us, but not always for the best."
But maybe he gets a little too comfortable, and maybe in the end that's his undoing. Eirik starts minding the front desk, especially during off-hours, because they find that his icy stare does wonders for heading off the stupider requests from students and faculty alike. So he's sitting there late one evening, all his paperwork done for once, a thick volume of Finnish poetry propped open in front of him and a mug of coffee at his elbow, about as relaxed as he ever gets.
He looks up when the door opens, and sighs. Student, not one Eirik recognizes on sight, but definitely student. Spiky hair, sheepish grin, and that particular hesitant walk of someone who's wandered somewhere where they don't quite know how everything works. Mentally, Eirik pegs him as a psychology major who's here on a sports scholarship and doesn't know the first thing about studying. He's already pulling up the university's webpage so he can find the idiot's class list as he walks up to the desk.
"Hey, can you point me toward the bathrooms?"
Eirik had never imagined he'd hear those words spoken in a warm Danish accent.
For a long minute he freezes, unable to breathe around the sudden clawing sensation in his throat. The Dane smiles apologetically, waiting on an answer to what he assumes is a perfectly routine question. Eirik bites down hard on his tongue, swallowing back any words that might threaten to creep their way out. He can't- He's not ready. Not ready to find out where his words have marked this stranger's skin. His life is fine the way it is, the last thing he wants or needs is a too-tall Dane invading his space.
He says nothing at all, just points toward the prominently displayed sign with the universal gendered figures that mean 'bathroom'. Eirik's expression must have shifted or tightened when the stranger said his words, but he seems not to notice. He doesn't seem to see anything odd in Eirik's silence either, just beams. "Thanks, you're the best!" And with a jaunty wave he trots in the indicated direction.
Eirik lets his hand fall back to his lap, finally chancing to breathe again once his soulmate the stranger is out of sight. His breath catches on nothing, shudders a bit, and with a sudden burst of unexpected anger Eirik slams his shaking hands against the side of his desk.
"Dammit," he whispers, and then bites his tongue again before anything more can slip. Not with the Dane still lurking around.
He's not ready.
~*~
Alfred is legitimately lost.
Everything had started out well, but by this point he's been on planes and hauling luggage through airports for - no joke - twenty-five hours and he really just wants to find his hotel and faceplant into a pillow. His spoken Japanese is fairly good, but he can't read kanji for beans (though ironically he does actually know the kanji for 'beans') and all the signs are starting to blur together. Most of them do have English lettering, at least for the place names, but he's so tired he's having trouble remembering where he's supposed to go.
Luckily, he has a paper with directions from the airport to his hotel, but so far he hasn't had much luck finding someone to help him. His spoken Japanese is starting to slip away with the jetlag, and even in Tokyo a white boy asking for help is odd enough that most people hurry by while only darting him the briefest glances.
He's almost ready to go back inside the airport and look for an information desk where people are paid to help him, and he's not thinking about his soulmate at all when he turns and nearly runs into a short, slight Japanese man about his own age. Alfred jumps back with a startled, wordless yell, and the Japanese man gives him an owl-eyed look but doesn't bolt. Alfred squints at him through the haze of jetlag and smudged glasses, trying to squash his American accent as hard as he can.
"Sumimasen, tasukete kudasai?"
~*~
Matthew is, admittedly, moving fairly fast through the market. With his brother away in Japan, he doesn't have to go at Alfred's pace (and Alfred gets distracted by everything, peering into every window and waving at every baby). So Matthew is darting between the places he wants, weaving through people and dodging around strollers. It's probably inevitable (and karma) that he twists to get around a group of Chinese tourists and slams full-tilt into someone.
That 'someone' seems to be a man, from the height and solidness of the chest Matthew rebounds off of, and he flails to try to keep from losing his balance and landing on his ass. The man reaches out to grab his arm and steady him, and Matthew feels himself flushing, ducking his head in awkward embarrassment before forcing himself to at least look up and offer his victim/saviour a wane smile. (Oh no, he's hot.) "Sorry!"
Maybe it's Matthew's imagination, but he thinks the man's eyes flick over him - up, down - before refocusing on his face. He lets go of Matthew's arm now that he's not in danger of falling over, and offers his own wry smirk. "You're in a hurry. Got a hot date?"
For an instant, Matthew's mind stutters to a stop, caught unawares and blind-sided with the realization. But he's had these words on his skin his entire life, spent most of his teenage years coming up with the perfect (if corny) response, and somehow for once in his life he's suave enough to pull it off. He can't help the smile building up, now that the first ice-water shock has worn off he feels giddy.
"Well," He flicks his hands, deliberately drawing his soulmate's attention downward as he slowly, purposefully rolls up his left sleeve to reveal the neatly printed words, his own handwriting from Matthew's wrist to his elbow. "I hope so."
His soulmate stares, and then slowly begins to smile, softer and a little more shy than Matthew might have expected. Wordlessly he holds his hand up, the back toward Matthew and the carefully printed 'Sorry!' across his knuckles, and Matthew's eyes go a little wide.
"Oh my god that is the worst soul mark, I'm so sorry."
Will stares, and then starts laughing, and after a moment Matthew joins him. They end up out of breath and leaning against each other, a little hesitantly but somehow so comfortable too. "I can't believe you're apologizing for apologizing," Will rolls his eyes, and Matthew blushes in embarrassment.
"Sor-"
Third time's the charm, Will decides, and cuts him off with a kiss.
~*~
After they graduate, Francis and Arthur open a pub.
Francis runs the kitchen, dancing around on light feet with four different dishes on the go, catchy French pop music bouncing out of the Bluetooth speaker in the corner. He hires an assistant to help with the dishes and the dinner rush and once he has someone to boss around, he's never been more at home. Arthur mans the bar, mixing drinks and pouring shots, thankful for the bartending courses he took on a whim and teaching himself fancy tricks. He steals Francis' assistant to help him wipe down tables after close and turns up the volume on his favorite Bastille CD to drown out the Eurotrash music coming from the kitchen.
They share an apartment, both of them claiming it's to save on rent. (What they save in rent they probably lose in broken dishes when their arguments get out of hand.) There are potted plants on every windowsill, a blanket Arthur knit one winter draped across the back of a second-hand couch, more bookshelves than they have wall space, and their cat, Percival, drowsing on his back in the sun. They bicker all the time, but they're so tangled up together now they can't seem to pull apart, and the truth is if they didn't bicker it would be too boring.
They both stop looking for their soulmates, and it's easy to ignore the marks when they're on their backs, black scrawl hidden against fresh cotton sheets.
But sometimes, sometimes the arguments skid beyond broken dishes, hot anger coiling around them both until one of them snaps, spitting and screaming like a spring forced to breaking. They grate against each other, friction that can be so good but turn so ugly so fast, nothing to put the brakes on as they careen out of control.
"You're not my soulmate," one will snarl.
"I'm glad you're not my soulmate!" the other will retort.
It's a tango they've done and will do again, bruised egos and burning eyes, rubbing each other raw until they have no choice but to shut each other out for a few days. Arthur curls up on the window seat and puts on his headphones, arms wrapped close and one hand over his shoulder, mindlessly rubbing at the mark he can never forget isn't Francis' handwriting. And Francis wraps himself up in his favorite cashmere scarf and walks down to the cafe on the corner owned by two nice Italian brothers, wraps his hands around a cup of indulgently sweet cocoa and lets Feliciano pamper him until he starts to feel something again besides the ache of the mark low on his spine, a brand burned into him by someone who isn't Arthur.
But they've always made up, so far. Wordless, usually, no spoken apology, but one slinking over to sit beside the other, leaning against each other and sinking into a warmth that transcends their soul marks. Neither of them ever says 'I wish you were my soulmate', because it would hurt too much. It can never be true, but it resonates between them in the wordless moments, in the way their fingers intertwine. Aching for each other, yet aching for their soulmates at the same time.
And then, late on a Friday night, Gilbert walks into their pub.
They've been arguing again, both worn thin and frayed. It's late enough they should be closed; Francis has already shut down the kitchen and Arthur is wiping tables, but distracted by their argument neither of them has gotten around to locking the front door. Gilbert pokes his head in and blinks at the empty room. He asks "Are you guys open?" but neither of them hear him.
He waits, eyebrows arching at the increasingly angry French, and then deliberately rattles the door so that it jingles the bell hanging over it. "Hey!"
Both Arthur and Francis whip around to face him, Francis surprised but Arthur, hot-blooded as ever, still snarling. "Piss off!"
"Arthur!" Francis gapes, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. Then he tries for an apologetic smile toward Gilbert. "Perhaps you should come back tomorrow."
So wrapped up in his own concerns, his exhaustion, his argument with Arthur, Francis doesn't notice Gilbert's pale, wide-eyed expression as he ushers him out the door and politely but firmly shuts it in his face.
~*~
Kiku doesn't usually spend much time in Tokyo's downtown centre. He lives out in Shizuoka, where things are quieter, more to his speed. Even his workplace is on the outer fringes of Yokohama, not quite Tokyo proper. But every now and then he likes to go into the city to shop, see what new merchandise he can find in Harajuku and scope out new shops to solicit his manga to.
Today the streets are busy, but Kiku is practiced at sliding between larger people and isn't hampered much. He's lost in his own thoughts, and when someone steps back directly into his path, Kiku nearly collides with him and has to back-pedal, an apology on the tip of his tongue.
It's stalled, though, when he gets a good look at who he nearly ran into. Foreigners are not at all uncommon in Tokyo, especially this close to the airport, but Kiku's traitorous brain decides to notice how handsome this particular foreigner is, with his strong jaw and sandy hair and the smattering of freckles across his nose. He looks just as startled as Kiku for a moment, then tries for a sheepish, earnest smile.
"Sumimasen, tasukete kudasai?"
Oh.
The foreigner's speech is very careful, obviously trying to pronounce everything correctly and make himself understood. Deliberate, and correct, but still foreign.
Like a script written in careful katakana.
Kiku feels like his heart has gotten too big for his chest, pressing against his ribs as though it's trying to go directly to the foreigner, his soulmate. He's so stunned that he doesn't even think about what he says, answers automatically in Japanese. The foreigner stares at him for a moment, blinks behind his glasses, then his eyes go wide.
"Shibuya," his accent slurs a little more now, he's being less careful in his pronunciation, and Kiku tentatively pegs him as American or Canadian. But then the foreigner is rolling up his sleeve and holding out his hand, and even if he hadn't already realized, Kiku can't deny his own calligraphic handwriting across the man's forearm.
Kiku looks up at him, meets his eyes. He can feel himself turning steadily pink, but forces himself to hold the eye contact. This is important. "My name is Kiku," he says, in his own decent but slightly rusty English.
The foreigner beams, his smile bright like the sun in July, and it warms Kiku all the way down to his toes. "Boku wa Alfred."
~*~
For reasons he can't quite pin down, Soren keeps ending up in the library. He gets used to seeing the silent, silver-haired little fae creature which is allegedly the assistant librarian, usually behind the desk glaring at anyone who makes a ruckus. Soren likes to think of himself as a friendly guy, and always greets the librarian when he's there, but he never gets so much as a smile in return.
"Don't take it personally," the head librarian tells him once, when she catches him looking a little mournful after a particularly icy snarl. "Eirik is very private. He doesn't say much of anything to anyone, it's not just you."
That comment sticks out to Soren. He starts watching Eirik a little more instead of trying to constantly engage him. He still says hi, chatters at Eirik, but he shrugs it off a little easier when Eirik says nothing in return.
Once, on a hunch, he brings Eirik a coffee. The look he gets is surprised, briefly unguarded, and Eirik opens his mouth as though he's going to say something. Soren grins, and then Eirik's jaw clamps shut, his shoulders drawing tight even as he wraps his hands around the coffee. Soren's smile fades, but he reaches across the desk and ruffles Eirik's hair, retreating with a cheerful wave before he can have a finger bitten off.
After that, he brings Eirik coffee weekly. He never gets a thanks, but each week Eirik's expression is a little softer, just a little bit more unguarded. He listens when Soren speaks instead of ignoring him, even occasionally nods or shakes his head.
Soren still wishes he could hear Eirik's voice, but maybe someday he will. Baby steps.
It's almost the end of the school year when Soren steps into the library, coffee in hand, to find Eirik slumped across the desk, his face buried in his folded arms and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his silvery hair. Soren frowns in concern, setting the coffee down and leaning over him. "Hey, hey, are you okay?"
Eirik mumbles something in what sounds like Norwegian, then before Soren can say anything he seems to realize, and raises his head just enough to repeat it in slurred, weary English. "Shut up, I have the worst headache."
It takes a minute for it to sink in.
Soren stares down at him, stunned, one hand coming up to press against his chest where the lines of his mark lie (Norwegian, English, he should have guessed-). He swallows, reaching out to very, very lightly rest his hand on top of Eirik's head, trying to keep his voice steady. "...I've been talking to you for months. You knew."
Eirik tenses under his hand, like a cat about to bolt, but nods minutely. Soren sighs a bit, but it's one of relief more than anything else, and he pets his hand lightly, lightly over Eirik's head. "Good thing I don't have to explain to my soulmate how I'm in love with a mute librarian."
Eirik raises his head enough to peek up at him, eyes wide in surprise, and Soren shrugs. "Or selectively mute, whatever. C'mon, let's go get you something for that migraine."
(He doesn't remember what his first words to Eirik were, months ago. The first time he sees Eirik shirtless he's mortified, and Eirik laughs until he cries.)
~*~
Gilbert doesn't sleep that night.
For the first hour it's pure shock, trying to wrap his head around what the hell had just happened, the two blond idiots in the pub who are apparently his soulmates. He realizes pretty quickly that neither of them heard his first words, that if he wanted to he could just... walk away, go on as he had been.
He considers that, hands jammed into the pockets of his battered leather coat, wandering aimlessly through the local park. He could pretend last night never happened, keep on with his single life without trying to make himself fit into whatever sado-masochistic Schadenfreude they have going on.
But he'll always know. He has their faces now, feels like even those few short moments have been burned onto his skin along with their handwriting - spikey Augenbraue with his jerky angry writing and foul-mouthed British accent, elegant but tired-looking Frenchy with his looping handwriting that Gilbert had always assumed was a girl's. He wishes he knew their names. For one blessed, brief moment he lets himself imagine what it might be like to have one of them in each arm, warm and goopey and grossly domestic, just like Ludwig and Feli. It couldn't be all that bad, could it?
He could walk away, and they would never know, but without ever really making a conscious decision Gilbert finds himself back at the pub the next afternoon. He briefly considered getting flowers before discarding the idea as stupid. If these two are really supposed to be his soulmates, they probably don't need much of that romantic crap anyway.
He takes a deep breath and shoulders open the door, making sure he raises his voice this time.
"Hey! Are you guys open?"