Work Text:
Mark wakes up on his eighteenth birthday with black lettering across his chest in a pleasant script. It takes him a while to make out the word, extravagantly written with an unnecessary amount of swoops and curls.
It curves beneath his collar bone, just low enough to be almost completely covered by most of his tops, just the points of the spirals that form each letter poking out from underneath the fabric. Some of his lower cut shirts show off the word fully, but he doesn’t wear them much after it appears.
The day it happens, he ignores the stream of birthday wishes and curious questions about his marking (and the puns some of his friends make with the word) in favor of standing in the bathroom, tracing his finger over the patterned lettering for hours until he finally realizes. At the very base, if you remove all the ridiculous décor from each letter, it spells WANG.
Jackson wakes up on his eighteenth birthday and rolls out of bed, exhausted. He changes his shirt, eyes half closed, shuffles out to find coffee, and sprints to his part time job at the nearby burger king.
A couple coworkers wish him happy birthday, and he can feel his phone vibrating almost constantly with rapid texts from everyone he knows, but he won’t be able to check them until his three o’clock break.
His boss overhears the other new employee, a girl two years older than Jackson, wishing him a happy birthday. She asks how old he is, and when he replies eighteen, she excitedly asks about his mark. His immediately response is that he doesn’t know any Marks, and his second reaction is that, fuck, he’s eighteen, and that’s when you find out who your soul mate is.
Sort of.
Everyone in the store begins to badger him, abandoning their posts and waiting customers to crowd him against the freezer and ask, all at once, if he knows what his means, and then laugh at him when he tells them he hasn’t even seen it.
When Jackson finally sees it later, he’s furious for several reasons. First of all, he was an idiot for missing it, a smattering of stars, all in black, some filled and some outlined and some half coloring in varying forms dotting the space from his hipbone to his ribcage on his entire left side. Second of all, it means nothing to him. He knows no astronomers, official or aspiring, not even an astrologist. No one he’s encountered has mentioned stars, or asked him to star gaze, or even worn something with a galaxy print. Even in the abstract, it means nothing. He doesn’t know any stars – other than himself, and that’s more personal opinion than public title.
Mark wakes up on his nineteenth birthday and glances down at his chest, as if maybe the offending image will have disappeared, or become worse with his second year of adulthood.
It looks exactly the same as it has for a year, but, he finds something new. It’s nice, in a way, knowing that none of the people currently in his life are his soul mate, but it also sucks. As he’s stepping into the shower, preparing for his birthday party, he finds a second word on his left hip, a small, simple thing that just says “JFLAWLESS”.
People tell him, all day and night, once they hear that he’s received his second marking, that he can expect quite a few more; that it usually takes years to find your soul mate. One of his mother’s friends shows him her fifteen while her husband shows off twenty three.
Mark prays he finds his before the year is up, imagining himself forty years old, alone, with a series of irrelevant words scattered across his entire body.
Jackson wakes up on his nineteenth birthday, hoping to all that is holy that there are no additional markings on his body.
He’s quickly disappointed by new color staining his left forearm. It’s some sort of trophy, the gold figure on his skin mid-kick, right foot planted on a thick block of black.
When he eventually shuffles to the bathroom to shower, he lets the water run for a while, staring at himself in the mirror. He lets his arm hang down along his side, looking at the symbols side by side. Jackson wracks his mind, desperately trying to think of all the kids he does martial arts with, trying to remember if any of them have won anything for it. There’s exactly three, one girl and two boys, but when he tries to match them up with the galaxy on his torso, the idea of any of them being his soul mate falls to pieces.
Jackson deflates with his disillusion, dropping his forehead against the sink counter and squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see them anymore, the meaningless pictures that are going to slowly take over his body, and wonders if he can cancel his own surprise party.
Mark does not wake up on is twentieth birthday.
Instead, he wakes up the day after, miserable with the flu and notices a bold, 852 in a blocked font on his right wrist when he goes to wipe the puke off his mouth.
He’s not disappointed. As a minor, he’d always hated the idea. He’d rant for days about how the magic of it all was nothing but a curse, and that none of it made any sense. They were all getting these, especially in his case, awful images forced on them, only to lead them to someone who was supposedly made for them, and all they did was ruin perfectly enjoyable and valid relationships and drive people crazy with curiosity.
But, somewhere, buried underneath apathy and nausea, he really wants to know who this kid is and why his heart always aches when he thinks about the fact that they’re somewhere out in the world and not by his side.
Jackson wakes up on his twentieth birthday and immediately checks for a new mark, but he finds none.
He finds none and he is ecstatic.
He has his soul mate.
There is no better news, nothing anyone could possibly say to him or give him on the best day of his life that could top finding out about that, while he doesn’t know who it is, he has a soul mate. His soul mate. Someone made just for him. Someone so perfect for him they won’t care that he’s kind of ridiculous and a little (really) obnoxious sometimes and that he’s not really very good looking and the only two things he feels good enough at to say he’s talented at are fencing and doing this one flip his martial arts buddies taught him, which aren’t necessarily helpful life skills even if they’re both cool as hell.
Jackson skips into his mother’s room to wake her up, ignoring the fact that it’s five thirty seven am, to tell her that he has his soul mate and the pictures have stopped and he feels his excitement wane as a look, a mix of horror and pity, replaces the tired confusion on her face.
He deflates further and further until the excitement fades completely into desolation each second she speaks, explaining in a soft voice to him that, no, sweetie, if you had met them, you would’ve known well before this. The marks continue until they’re with you, not just until you cross paths, she says.
The only way they stop without that, she tells him, is… well…if… they’re gone.
Jackson’s entire world crumbles and she tries to grab him, tries to apologize, tries to find out what he’s thinking but he’s already stumbling out of the room, into the bathroom where he locks the door and slides to the ground and stares at the dumb fucking trophy on his arm that he can never get rid of.
He dresses himself with his eyes closed, in a baggy long sleeve that he tucks into his pants so there’s no chance of it riding up, hiding away the reminders that he’s alone for life.
Mark wakes up on his twenty first birthday and finds, in addition the obnoxious WANG across his chest, the smaller, but no less obnoxious, jflawless on his left hip and the little block letters reading 852 on his wrist, a small outline of a snapback high on his thigh, just below his right hip bone.
And it’s too much. He has no idea who his soul mate is, but he does know they are the most ridiculous person in existence. He’s so tired of the wondering and the waiting and the constant searching for someone on the street who might give any sense to the dumb pictures decorating his body. It’s been years, and it’s always on his mind and he wants it to stop. He wants nothing to do with this… whoever, JFLAWESS 852 WANG and his fucking snapbacks. Mark can’t even believe whatever magic does this would match him up with anyone who could cause these markings.
Three weeks after Jackson’s twentieth birthday, his brother manages to talk him out of bed and into the bathroom for his first shower in far too long.
Jackson takes off his shirt, only to see the trophy, and feels his heart breaking all over again. He sits on the edge of the tub, the water running behind him, and drops his head into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
He scrubs his palms over his eyes, trying to erase the rush of images of potential soul mates he’ll never get to see and series of ‘what ifs’, only to see something even stranger.
A sob catches in his throat, tears springing to his eyes and dripping down his cheeks as soon as he sees it. The stars splattered across his side, the plain, black stars, have changed. All of the stars that were unfilled, partially or completely, have been colored in a brilliant silver color.
He doesn’t know how he missed it the first time, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that it’s still fucking useless, that he received no new information, nothing to lead him any closer to his soul mate.
He doesn’t care who they are or where they are or why they’re represented only by beautiful stars and a crap trophy, as long as they’re alive.
Three weeks after Mark’s twenty first birthday, he’s walking down the street, his gaze towards his feet as he toys with his phone, trying to bring up the directions for the shoe store because he thinks it’s just a few buildings past the burger king he went to the night after he moved into town but it might be in the plaza behind the grocery store, and he needs to know which it is before he gets to the corner where he has to choose left to the store or right to the burger king.
The map shows that his first thought was correct and he heads to the right, only to see something interesting across the street.
Walking ahead of him on the opposite sidewalk, Mark can’t see the entire person, but he can see a baggy jersey with the word WANG sewn into the back and the numbers 852 even larger beneath it. He can also see shiny silver letters reading WANG on a snapback turned backwards.
His own tank top falls low enough to show off part of the lettering on his chest, a constant reminder of who he’s supposed to be looking for. The 852 on his wrist is covered by a set of thick bracelets, bought just for that purpose, but he never forgets what’s underneath.
Unexpectedly, the boy turns around just after Mark crosses the street, half-following him, showing a thick block of wood that also says WANG hanging from his neck. The strangest but most wonderful feeling floods Mark’s chest and all the sudden everything feels right and there’s a smile on his face and if he didn’t know after the first three WANGs he does now.
Mark has spent years imagining this moment, planning out what he might say, coming up with endless starter jokes about his markings, but all of that falls away when he actually sees him, and instead, he just shouts ‘hey’ and runs towards this boy, nearly shaking with nerves.
The boy looks shocked, gestures at himself and then glances back, as if Mark would be talking to anyone but the fucking ridiculous boy covered in the name that took over his life the day he turned eighteen.
Closer, Mark sees little silver letters, smaller replicas of the ones on the hat attached to his shoe laces, and he cannot believe this is the boy he’s probably going to spend the rest of his life with.
When Mark is standing in front of him, the boy points to himself again, offering only a look of confusion. Mark, immediately, sees two things. First, this unbelievable boy has four thick silver rings in a row on his left hand that, shockingly,spells out WANG.
Secondly, his left arm has a trophy, identical to the ones that line a shelf in Mark’s room, the stretches across his forearm.
Mark, unable to stop himself, whispers oh my god, because this is really happening. The day he has dreamed of and dreaded in equal parts, the day that he thought would never come but secretly hoped would. This insane boy is his, is literally made for him, and standing right in front of him, a horrible, ugly, dumb picture on his arm to match the four that Mark has, and Mark somehow thinks it’s maybe the nicest sight he’s ever seen.
Still, the long list of things he planned to say fails him, and instead, he takes four big steps back until he’s standing in the road, the boy watching on nervously, and does a flip without warning.
The boy watches Mark with a strange look, an interesting mix of unimpressed, confused, and nervous, and Mark realizes that was probably not a good idea and didn’t actually explain anything. He still can’t find the words and he fidgets nervously, eventually blurting out, “I’m Mark.”
“Jackson,” the boy replies, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “Why are you so weird?”
Mark mumbles, “Have you seen yourself?” back, and immediately begins to silently berate himself for messing this up so badly. He had plans. He can’t stop thinking about all the plans he knew he had but he can’t remember a single one because Jackson, his soul mate, covered in the most obnoxious accessories is right there and so cute, looking adorably confused while Mark makes a fool of himself.
Finally, Mark gives up words completely and just tugs down the collar of his shirt so his first marking is shown in all its glory. He watches several emotions pass over Jackson’s face. Confusion. Recognition. Excitement.
There’s a fourth that Mark doesn’t get a chance to read because Jackson quickly covers his face with his hands.
Jackson stares at the word on Mark’s chest, so confused, because this crazy guy just ran up to him, and then flipped in the middle of the street, which, Jackson can do, so it’s not even that impressive, and now he’s, what, stripping?
But, the word looks familiar. Jackson glances down at his own chest, at the lettering on the right breast of his jersey, perfectly identical to the tattoo on Mark’s skin.
Except, it’s not a tattoo, because who in the world other than Jackson would get that willingly put on their body, it’s a mark, and holy shit holy shit holy shit that is his last name marked on the prettiest boy in the universe and suddenly the entire world makes sense.
“Oh my goooood,” Jackson moans, palm half covering his mouth as he holds out the o. He says it several times, holding the last syllable longer each repetition.
“Oh my god,” Jackson repeats for a ninth time, this time pronouncing only a single o, “It’s you. It’s really you. It’s definitely you. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe you’re seeing me like this. I mean, I’m always like this. I dress like this every day. I haven’t taken this necklace off in a week. I mean, I have. I have. I shower. I promise I shower. Every day. I could shower twice a day if you wanted. I wear this a lot, though. I should’ve taken it off before I left. Why today. Why didn’t I wear my uniform. I don’t want to meet you in my burger king uniform either. I work at burger king. Do you like burger king? Oh my god. This is awful. I’m… you… can you turn around? I’ll take it all off. Forget this. Forget me. You don’t know me. You didn’t see this. Turn around and run into me in five minutes. Forget about the necklace and the rings and the hat.”
“And the shoe things?”
“Oh, god, shit, and the shoe things. Who am I? Why did I buy these?”
Mark laughs, giddy and excited, a warm adrenaline rushing through his veins listening to his soul mate ramble and stumble and prove that he’s just as embarrassed and nervous as Mark. He steps back up to Jackson, grabs his wrists and gently pulls his hands away from his eyes so he can see Mark’ wide, happy grin.
“It’s okay, honestly, I’ve had this on my chest for four years,” Mark gestures with his hand, and Jackson’s, technically, because he’s suddenly holding hands with his soul mate, “If I can walk around with this for the rest of my life, I can accept you wearing all your accessories,” Mark very carefully skips over the words silly and obnoxious, for now, choosing to save his teasing judgment for a time when they’re hopefully closer and it will be taken as fond instead of mean, “I was embarrassing too, and, who cares if our first meeting is a little rocky. We’ve got the rest of our lives, right?”
“Right,” Jackson agrees softly, absolutely blown away because this is everything he’s wanted to hear his entire life, and he knew when he saw the silver stars that his soul mate wasn’t dead but after the first scare there was this constant nagging worry that maybe they were, but, here he is, beautiful and kind and deserving of every star stained on Jackson’s chest and even more, “Right, you’re right, but, I’m going to be late for work? Will you, uh, walk with me?”
Mark agrees, readily, and tells Jackson that he was heading towards burger king anyways, so it’s kind of perfect, and honestly, Mark was never one for fate, but it’s impossible to deny now.
After about forty semi-uncomfortably silent steps, Jackson stops suddenly, and does the same flip that Mark showed off, only to the left instead of right.
“I… just… I can do it to,” Jackson mumbles to Mark’s affronted look, once he’s back on the side walk.
Mark just laughs that giddy, happy laugh again, and thinks about how much wants to get to know this insane boy and maybe probably spend forever with him.