Chapter Text
Brock learns about soulmates when he’s four.
His mother shows him a scribble on her arm, matching the one that his father has just drawn on his own forearm with a marker.
Brock doesn’t understand how it works, how drawing on his own arm doesn’t make anything appear on anyone else’s. He doesn’t get the idea of a soulmate - two people that are made for each other.
Brock supposes his parents must be soulmates, from the way that they often turn towards each other, having conversations without words with just a glance, just a slight touch.
He wonders what it would be like.
His older sisters talk about soulmates with hearts in their eyes, about the boys at school whose arms they keep checking for matching Sharpie marks. Because, they say to him, it runs in families. Not everyone finds their soulmate, not everyone can write and have it show up on their soulmate’s skin.
But some people have some extra help in finding theirs.
There’s the librarian in his school, Mrs. Chen, who always wears long sleeves whenever Brock goes at lunchtime to read there to be away from the other kids because they’re too loud, noisy. She always grabs the books from the top shelves for him, hands them to him with kind eyes as if she knows a lot of things about the world and wants to share them. But even when he sees the ink peeking out from her sleeve by her wrist, the ever so changing marks, he never has the courage to ask.
Maybe Brock doesn’t even have one. It’s okay, because he likes being by himself. He can’t imagine having someone else to spend time with forever, like his parents.
Brock is five and lying on his bed when scribbles appear on his arms.
They’re haphazard, no recognizable letters or numbers, or even pictures. They’re drawn with an unsteady hand, ink bleeding along the surface of his skin in a multitude of colours that grow and grow and grow.
He pulls on a sweater because he doesn’t know what else to do.
His sister tugs on his sleeve when he comes down for lunch and is about to eat a bite of Mac and cheese. “What are those?”
“What?” Brock is defensive as he scarfs down another bite, because he himself doesn’t know what is happening and how is he going to wash it off and-
“Did you draw those?” His sister doesn’t give him a chance to answer, pulling him up from his seat and rubbing her fingers on his ink stained skin and looking to see if the colour transfers. She lets out a gasp when she sees that it doesn’t.
“Mom! Dad!”
Brock shrinks from their gaze when they come bounding down the stairs, along with his other sister. He crosses his arms, tucking his hands underneath so that they can’t see but then his mother points at his neck.
“There, look.”
Brock runs to the bathroom, and gasps when the scribbles have seemed to grow even more.
“Must be a toddler, or another kid, from these scribbles.” Brock’s mother’s voice is soft as she comes up behind him with his dad, looking at Brock in the mirror.
“I don’t want a baby.” Brock is five. He’s not a little kid anymore.
“She’s not going to stay a baby forever. Nor will she always have free range with a bunch of markers to draw on herself like this.” Brock’s mother flips his hand over, looks at the purple webs drawn on there. “She’s quite the little artist.”
“Why does it have to be a girl?” Brock grumbles. The girls in his school are weird, and one told him that he was too tall.
“That’s the way things are.”
Brock doesn’t get it, but he supposes it’ll make sense later.
The marks start to fade while he’s getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth. They disappear fast, as if someone is scrubbing at them, before his skin is completely ink free as he climbs into bed.
He wonders if his soulmate’s mother was angry about all of the scribbles.
Brock is seven before another drawing appears on his arm.
It makes him gasp, pull down the sleeve of his sweater. Part of him had started to believe that the scribbles had been a dream, made up by his subconscious after hearing so many stories about his parents and the tales woven by his sisters.
He had started wearing t shirts again, no longer fearing that a wayward scribble would appear on his skin, not after it had been two years since his arms and neck and chest had lit up in rainbows. He’d supposed that his soulmate’s parents had stopped letting them near any markers.
Until now, because he’s pulled up his sleeve and now there’s a smiley face on his wrist and a messy star beside it, and it doesn’t hurt, but he feels like he’s electrified, his heart beating faster and faster while his teacher, Mrs. Paul, is trying to teach them about what photosynthesis is.
He still doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter, because the drawings have stopped, and now he’s staring at them under his desk and seeing how his soulmate’s drawings have changed. They’re no longer scribbles - now, the small doodles are drawn with an unsteady hand like one would expect from a kid like him, or maybe younger. Brock wonders how old they are now.
He rifles through his desk, a wave of disappointment washing over him when he realizes that he’d leant his markers to his friend Sean at lunchtime, who still has them in his desk. He pulls out a gel pen that his sister had given him earlier in the year, wonders if it’ll work.
It’s worth a shot.
He draws a smiley face next to the one already on his arm.
Waits.
Another one appears, right beneath his elbow.
Then one by his palm.
Then Brock’s teacher calls on him and he stutters because he didn’t hear the question, then his classmates are laughing at him and he’s turning red and sinking in his seat, wishing to disappear.
But when he looks down, he sees a flower. One by his wrist.
It makes Brock feel better, somehow.
It’s another six months before there’s more than just drawings that show up on Brock’s arms.
He’s doing his homework at the kitchen table with his sisters, ignoring the way that his parents are arguing in the den (the door is closed, but he can still hear them, and he’s sure that his sisters can too). He pulls up his sleeves like he’s become used to doing in the past few months, looking for more art upon his skin.
This time, there’s a star, and four letters. Four haphazardly drawn letters that Brock can make out if he squints.
J o s e
They’re messily written, with shaky hands. Brock’s not quite sure if it says ‘Tose’ instead, but ‘Jose’ sounds like a name and he’s sure that there’s someone named Jose in the class above him, so it must be a name.
The words show up again on his skin, underneath the original letters. Then again, until his wrist is covered and all Brock can see is the name Jose Jose Jose.
Is that his soulmates name? Brock wonders if he’s practicing writing it.
He interrupts the writing, grabbing the Sharpie from the cup of pens on the table and writes down Brock.
The writing stops.
Then, in shaky letters-
B r o c k
- and a smiley face.
He wonders what his soulmate thinks of his name.
Brock’s arms become a mosaic of letters from A to Z, interspersed with the stars and smiley faces and flowers that are ever changing. There’s words sometimes, words like cat and sat and mat and hat, but most importantly, Jose and Brock.
The writing becomes more self assured over time, neater, less shaky. Then, eventually, he sees-
Hi
Brock nearly scrambles off of his bed to grab the Sharpie that’s taken up permanent residence on his desk to write a response back.
Hi
Brock has barely dropped his Sharpie onto his bed when more words start to appear.
My nam is Jose
I know
My name is Brock
I know
Jose. His soulmate’s name, his actual name, is Jose.
At least, Brock thinks that Jose is a boy. He’s never met a girl named Jose before.
His mother is wrong, maybe he does have a boy soulmate.
It makes him feel better than it should.
Brock becomes great at deciphering Jose’s handwriting. The letters that would look like scribbles to anyone else trying to read them are like a lifeline to him.
Brock’s lying in bed, having just woken up and he needs to get ready for school, by the way his father has already slammed the door, already left for work, and the way his mom is yelling up the stairs to his sisters to get out of the bathroom.
He pulls on a sweater, ready to cover up the marks like he does at school, after a classmate of his had pointed at them and asked what they were in second grade. He doesn’t want anyone else to see them, because they’re just his and Jose’s, just theirs.
Playing soccar todai :)
He wonders where Jose lives. Right now, as he looks out the window, it’s December and it’s snowing and he knows he’s going to have to wear his winter boots and his snowpants and his giant jacket if he doesn’t want to freeze.
That sounds fun
Ya I’m relli good
I want to play soccer too
It’s not true, not exactly. He doesn’t really like gym class, or when soccer balls or basketballs come his way, because he’d rather duck instead of having them hit him. He doesn’t want to get hurt, even if it makes his gym teacher yell at him every single time.
But maybe it would be fun with Jose.
Wat are you doing todai?
School then dance
He’d begged and begged and begged his mom to let him take dance classes the way his sisters do, and his mom had relented, letting him take some jazz classes. Except he still wants to take ballet, like his sisters do in their pink leotards and the buns in their hair.
Brock is nervous about mentioning dance to Jose, because the boys in his class had teased him for it, even though some of the girls from his class are at the studio, too. Would Jose make fun of him, too?
I like dance too
Brock gasps, his heart filling with something akin to hope, lightness.
You take dance classes too?? What kind? I do jazz
I dunno I just dance
Brock lets out a little laugh. He wonders what it would be like to meet Jose in person, if everything he said would delight Brock the way his words always do.
Brock’s mother sees the words on his arms one night when he’s nine, as he rolls his sleeves up to wash his hands before dinner.
“Is she finally writing to you now?”
Brock yelps, pulling down his sleeves because what if she sees Jose’s name and their conversations? He catches his breath once his arms are covered, safe.
“Yeah.”
It bothers Brock, the way his mom says ‘she’. The way she can’t possibly fathom that he could have a soulmate who is also a boy. What’s wrong with it?
He doesn’t know, because they don’t mention soulmates at church. Nor does he know why his mom muttered under her breath when they passed two guys on the street holding hands, even though Brock had thought it looked quite nice to do. He had wondered whether Jose would hold his hand like that.
“Can I see?” His mother reaches out for his arm and Brock dodges her grasp, crossing his arms.
“No.” His voice comes out more panicked than he wants it to, but he doesn’t want her to see and be mad at him for it.
He’s afraid that she would be.
Brock pulls his sleeves up past his palms as they eat dinner, and it’s good, really, that his mom and dad are arguing again because now it means that his mom won’t want to look at the writing on his arms anymore. Even though the yelling is loud, and his sisters are both texting underneath the table, tuning it out. Brock doesn’t have a phone, so he can’t do that, but he does have-
Jose.
Brock draws a smiley face on his arm. His and Jose’s way of alerting each other when they want to talk.
It’s two, three minutes before Jose draws one back, with its tongue sticking out.
Brock smiles, despite the way his dad slams his fist on the table, making his fork clatter against his plate. It startles him, just for a second, because Jose starts to write.
I’m eating pizza 4 dinner
Wat about you
Casserole
Ew what’s that it sounds gross
Brock has to stifle a laugh as he writes back.
It IS gross
Yuck
How are you doing????
I’m ok
Brock doesn’t want to talk about how his dad has stormed off to his study, how his mom is eating in silence, how his sisters are too. How this has become the norm, more often than not.
Brock had previously thought that soulmates never fight. Now, he guesses that it’s not true.
He wonders what would happen if his father drew on his arm again, if anything would actually show up on his mother’s skin the way that it used to.
Brock
Brock
Brock
Brock’s eye catches on his wrist when he sees the words appear, tossing the pencil he was using to do homework to the side in favour of his Sharpie.
He’s twelve and middle school is a place that he does not want to be, because the other kids in his class are mean, teasing him about stupid things and he wishes that he didn’t have to go.
He wishes that Jose went to his school, because at least he would have a friend there.
Yeah?
My abuela
She’s in the hospital
We’re in a waiting room
My mom is crying
Brock can feel his stomach turn. Jose talks about his abuela all the time, about how she always whispers in Jose’s ear that he’s her favourite grandson, that he’s going to be a star when he grows up. About how her hugs feel the softest.
Oh no
I’m sorry Jose
He wishes he could teleport to wherever Jose is now, hug him in real life, because he feels useless right now, so far away and unable to do anything or make anything better.
I dunno what to do
How can I help
Can you tell me a story
Ok
And so Brock does. He weaves a story about two friends who live far away but are penpals, talking all the time and it’s soft and familiar, covers him like a warm blanket. Jose draws smiley faces and hearts around the words that Brock writes, and it feels like he’s holding his hand.
Brock does the same thing a week later during Jose’s abuela’s funeral.
Brock is fifteen and has gotten into the National Ballet School, something he knows will surprise his mother and his father and his sisters when he tells them, but most of all, it surprises himself. It makes him giddy, makes him feel like maybe he’s good at something.
He writes to Jose in the bathroom after the audition, after his name has been called and he’s gotten a place at the school for the upcoming fall, because he wants to tell Jose first. He shuts himself in a stall, drawing a smiley face and then a star until Jose draws them back to him.
Hi hi hi
I DID IT
AHHH
YOU GOT IN
I TOLD YOU
YOU DID
YOU WERE SCARED
But you’re the BEST at dancing
You’ve never even seen me dance
Don’t need to
Brock smiles to himself, tracing over Jose’s words with his finger. He pauses, realizing something.
I’m going to have to wear short sleeves when I start ballet school
Because of the uniform for dance
Oh
Brock pauses, because he doesn’t want Jose to think that this means that he wants them to stop talking, and he’s about to write more when-
Look at your chest
Brock wrinkles his nose before writing back.
What?
Just do it
So he does, pulling his shirt up because he’s still in the stall and he gasps, because Jose’s starting to write along his ribs all delicate and he can see goosebumps rising up on his skin beside them.
This better? More sneaky
Brock’s not sure that he’s imagining the shiver that runs down his spine as the words appear, because this feels different from the writing on his arm. He feels more exposed even though he knows that Jose can’t see him, that Jose’s just looking down at his own chest and writing on himself.
He wonders, for a second, what Jose looks like right now, before pushing the thought from his head, away to the corner of his brain where he pushes most thoughts like that these days.
Yeah. Better. For school.
The Sharpie tickles on his ribs as he writes and it feels so novel, so new, as if they haven’t been doing this for years and years and years already.
Jose always manages to surprise him somehow.
Brock doesn’t start at ballet school for a few more months, but Jose keeps writing to him on his chest, along his ribs, above his hip bone, and it makes him shiver every time. Like it’s his secret, his secret that he shares with Jose and no one else, and he wonders if first kisses feel like this, enough to make his head want to spin.
He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like, where Jose lives. He knows that Jose is two years younger than him and also likes science and dance like him but really likes soccer, which Brock doesn’t. He knows that Jose loves his mom more than anyone in the world, and that his brother is older than him and that he doesn’t have sisters like Brock, but he wishes he that he did.
He wants to know more. He wants to see how Jose laughs in person, if he’s as loud like Brock expects him to be, from the way he loves to write in big capital letters when he’s excited.
Jose writes to him one evening, their customary smiley face scribbled on his hand, and Brock shovels his dinner so that he can go write back.
Hi
Hi
I kissed someone today
The words are etched onto Brock’s shoulder in black ink, bleeding into his skin and Brock draws in a breath, not quite sure why his heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his chest.
Because it doesn’t matter, right? Just because they’re soulmates doesn’t have to mean-
It was a girl
It was weird
Brock’s never mentioned that he likes boys because he hasn’t wanted to ask Jose himself, but he’d thought that if his soulmate was another boy that it would mean-
But it doesn’t matter. Soulmates don’t always get together, in the end.
It’s not like Brock has been thinking about it, letting himself hope that one day, one day, he’ll find Jose in real life and they don’t have to write to each other anymore and that things will suddenly be perfect.
But that’s not how things work.
So it’s okay, really, because Jose can kiss girls if he wants to.
Brock realizes that he hasn’t written back and so he pulls his Sharpie out from his bedside table, scrawls with shaky hands.
Okay
What else can he say, really?
For the first time he wants to scrub Jose’s words off of his body, wishing that he didn’t have to see them anymore because Jose kissed someone else and why is it making him feel upset for no reason?
He pulls on a sweater on top of his t-shirt so that he doesn’t have to look at his shoulder anymore, doesn’t have to see what Jose responds with.
Brock is getting out of the shower the week when he sees Jose’s writing on his side in the mirror.
He’s been trying not to look, trying to give himself some space because thinking about Jose is making his heart flip in his chest and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel even more out of control than he already is.
But the words that show up now make him pause.
Brock
Brock
Brock
I think I like boys
Brock looks down, trying to crane his neck to see if it really says what he thinks it’s says and it draws all the air out of his lungs when he realizes that it does.
His Sharpie is on his desk, as always, the ink blurring slightly on his wet skin.
You do?
I don’t like kissing girls that much
I don’t wanna kiss them
So why did you?
It was spin the bottle, everyone did
And then that girl tried to kiss me again later and I was like ew
Brock cracks up, despite himself. He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like but he can picture a look of disgust that mirrors his words easily.
How do you know you like boys?
Brock’s heart is beating faster and faster, and he’s not sure how long it can go on for before it gives out, trying to pump oxygen when he feels so out of breath.
Because I wanna kiss boys
The next words that appear on Brock’s skin make him gasp.
I wanna kiss you
He’s frozen, his towel around his waist and his skin is starting to dry off from the shower and Jose wants to kiss him.
Brock?
Sorry I shouldn’t have said that
Brock scrambles to write back because Jose needs to know-
I want to kiss you too
It’s true, when Brock thinks about it, so true because he’s never even met Jose in real life but he feels like he knows him better than anyone else in the world, because Jose is his best friend and he really really is-
His soulmate.
Jose draws a heart below his ribs and Brock wonders what it’s like to fall in love.
Brock is eating breakfast at the kitchen table when he’s seventeen and his mother turns to him. He can see they way she’s peeking down at his arms, even while trying to be discreet.
Jose only writes to him on his shoulders and chest when he’s at home now, just in case. Brock didn’t have to explain himself, because Jose got it without him having to.
“Brock.”
He doesn’t want to look up, because he can’t tell anything from his mother’s tone of voice. He’s not sure if he really wants to know.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
So he does, reluctantly looking up from his cereal and his mother looks tired, worn down.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Words bubble up in his chest but he can’t say them, he can’t make things worse and he knows that his mom probably knows and wants him to say it too, but he can’t-
“No, there isn’t.”
“Brock, your soulmate-”
He escapes from the table and goes up to his room (‘ gotta go, I have homework’) as his mom sighs, and he realizes as he climbs the stairs and passes their old family pictures on the walk that his dad hasn’t been home in awhile.
He doodles a small smiley face on his wrist, enough for Jose to notice, then continues above his hip bone.
Does your mom know?
Know what?
You know
He doesn’t want to say it, because he hasn’t even said the words to himself, and if he does then it means that it’s all real and that his mom will hate him and-
She knew since I was a kid and kept stealing her dresses and makeup
Brock laughs a little, trying to picture a five year old strutting around in his mother’s heels.
Me too, I did that too
And she doesn’t know??
I think she does
She asked me if I had anything to tell her
Today
Yikes
You think she’ll be mad?
Yeah
I don’t want to tell her
No one says you have to
If you don’t wanna right now
Okay
If you end up doing so, I’ll be here to cheer you on
Jose draws a stick figure that’s grinning above his belly button and Brock can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter.
Brock is eighteen and drunk at a party and kisses his friend Kyle and all he can think about is Jose.
He doodles on his thigh when he gets back to his room, after his friends drop him off and he flops onto his bed and thinks about what Jose’s lips would taste like.
It’s like 3 am
I’m trying to sleep
Brock squints as he fumbles with the Sharpie, trying to write clearly.
I wanna kiss you
I missssss you
He draws little stars all over his leg while he waits for Jose to write back.
You’ve never met me
But I wannaaaaaa
Why do you live in Alska
Alaksa
Alaska
Brock tilts his head. He can never tell if things are quite spelled right when he’s drunk.
That’s a weird way to spell Florida
So you don’t live with polar bears :(
Definitely not
:(
We have gators, though
No that’s scary
How drunk are you
Soooooooooooooooo drnk
I want a polar bear
You should sleep
Wanna cuddle with you
Jose doesn’t respond and Brock’s drunk brain pauses for a second, wondering if he’s said too much but what does it even matter, when Jose’s his soulmate and he love love loves him, even if he doesn’t have a polar bear?
Maybe we can do that. In the future
YES
Drunk you is bananas
You better not wash these off I want you to see this when you’re sober
Sober Brock can eat it
Let’s see what you say about that tomorrow
A thought comes to Brock’s mind, one that sober him has been pushing down, down, down, because it’s felt too much to ask, too personal, but fuck it, he’s gonna do it because why the heck not?
I wanna see you
Your face
I wanna see
It’s kept him up at night, distracted him during dance class. Wondering what Jose is like, what he looks like, and Brock isn’t shallow, per se, he’s just curious. Curious as to what his other half looks like.
Bold
Pleaseeeeee
There’s a pause, and then-
Write down your phone number
Brock does so, breathlessly, waiting for his cellphone to buzz as he flips it over in his hands, when a picture pops up from an unknown number.
Jose is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. He has a backwards cap on and he’s raising his eyebrows at the camera with a facial expression that’s saying really?
Brock grabs his pen to reply but keeps his phone in his hand, open on the picture because wow Jose is perfect and he can’t stop staring.
Wow
You never told me you were HOT
Omg
Sure, sober Brock is going to hate him but Brock can’t help it, who cares about inhibitions or self control when his soulmate is absolutely perfect? His dimples and his jawline and his eyebrows and Brock gets how easy it is to fawn over someone, because he’s head over heels for Jose.
Now send me a picture of you
Let’s make it even
Brock fumbles with his phone and grins into the camera and it’s probably blurry and he’s a bit stubbly because he didn’t shave today and he’s still in his clothes from the party and looks like a mess, but he sends it anyway.
A minute ticks by, then another, and Brock’s wondering if he’s made a grave mistake, maybe Jose’s changed his mind-
You never told me you were hot, either
:)
Dork
Brock wakes up with a massive headache and a dry mouth. His thighs are covered in his own scribbles and he groans, because it’s almost 11 a.m. but he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.
He grabs his phone, opens his texts and freezes when he sees an unknown number, a picture of himself and then-
Jose.
It all comes rushing back to him, flooding his memories and oh god he had texted Jose.
He writes on his stomach because it feels like the most right thing to do.
Oh god I’m sorry I’m sorry
I shouldn’t have done that
Shouldn’t have made you send a pic
I’m sorry
Please don’t hate me
Brock feels like he’s going to cry, because shit shit shit, he’s probably gone and ruined everything between them and he’s never, ever going to drink again.
It’s okay
Wanted to see your face for awhile anyway
You did?
Tell me you weren’t curious too
I clearly was
My drunk self took over and did that
I’m glad it did because I was too scared to
Me too
Brock lets out a breath. Maybe Jose isn’t mad at him, and things aren’t falling apart just yet, and they’ll be okay.
Now I can imagine your cute ass face when we write
Brock lights up, because Jose actually thinks he’s cute. Jose’s seen a picture of him, and instead of being uninterested, Jose thinks he’s cute.
You’re cute
Real cute
He wishes he could say more without sounding too pushy, too forward, too expectant. He wants to tell Jose that his eyes are brighter than the stars and the photo he sent is still making him smile, even now. He only as of last night knows what Jose looks like, but he feels like he’s known his entire life.
Brock’s phone buzzes again and it’s another picture, and this time Jose’s blowing a kiss to the camera and Brock finally knows what all the movies mean when they talk about love at first sight.