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Tony was 35 when he got the first mark on his skin.
He was in the restroom of a “party”—he never considered them parties: parties were meant to be fun, exciting. Talking to stuck-up and self-centered snobs was neither of those things.
He noticed the crayon marks on his palm as he washed his hands. With a loud gasp—as if he’d gotten burned—he pulled his hand from the stream of water and touched the mark with a shaking, soapy hand. It didn’t come off. Vaguely, he was amused at the fact that his soulmate managed to mark their hand with a crayon—you’d need to press hard, after all.
But after that short-lived amusement simmered down, panic quickly replaced it. He’d told himself to give up on the thought of having a soulmate, that there was no way now, but here he was.
Most of Tony’s life was spent waiting; he’d been too stubborn to mark himself more than a handful of times, only when he got too desperate. At some point, he’d made the conclusion that his soulmate was dead.
Of course, it turned out he was wrong. His soulmate just hadn’t been born yet. A child.
Looking at his reflection in the mirror, in that quiet restroom, he vowed not to contact his young soulmate.
With a disbelieving and self-deprecating chuckle, he dried his hands and shoved the marked hand in his suit pocket, not taking it out for the rest of the night.
—
The various illustrations all over his body changed over the years.
He observed how crayons turned into paint; paint turned into markers; markers turned into pens. Watched how the figures drawn on his skin turned from inept child-like drawings of animals or whatever, to school notes. The school notes gradually got more complicated as the years went by, and were mostly on his palm. He’d resorted to wearing gloves whenever he went out in public.
One particular night, when Tony was getting ready to sleep, the kid tried contacting him. A simple Hi, I’m Peter written on his wrist.
After that, Tony switched his shirt to a long-sleeved one and went to his kitchen for a drink. Or a couple—he lost count. He felt sorry for the kid—Peter, now. He’d grow up thinking he never had a soulmate, or worse, that his soulmate hated him.
Tony didn’t hate him. It was the opposite, really: this was for the kid’s own good.
He’d told himself he’d never contact his soulmate. He was old, had too many problems—too much baggage. A busy and difficult lifestyle. Peter didn’t need to know about him or get involved with him. That would only make his life worse. Especially if the kid felt like he was obligated to be with him, all because of some idiotic connection given to them by the universe.
Tony drank until he lost consciousness.
—
The words kept showing up at random times—well, Tony would notice them at random times.
After the first night, Peter kept trying to contact him. Every single day, it seemed. Maybe he’d learned about soulmates and made it his task to reach out to him until he responded. Tony found it amusing that Peter seemed to have a determination of steel. He hadn’t given up after more than a year at this point.
But neither had Tony. He wasn’t going to reply.
Every morning, he woke up with one of the usual phrases in the same place on his wrist, or a variation of them.
Hi, I’m Peter
Are you there?
What’s your name?
The same thing over and over.
—
As time went on, the phrases stopped showing up every day, instead showing up every week, usually on the weekends. School and all, Tony supposed.
Tony was around 45 years old when he finally replied.
He was a little drunk that night. He thought that maybe it wasn’t too bad to write back to the kid. He didn’t need to get involved or even meet him, he’d just write back to him, let him know he’s not soulmateless. Tony remembered the hopeless feeling he’d felt after his own silly attempts to contact his own soulmate. He didn’t want to make Peter go through that, too.
So, when he saw one of the usual phrases, he replied.
Are you there?
Yes.
After that, his entire arm started filling up with excited remarks, which then turned into desperate pleas for attention. Tony stopped reading when he reached the crook of his elbow, and downed another shot. One word was enough.
—
The kid had tried writing to him for a week after Tony had first replied, each day getting more discouraged and angry until he’d completely stopped. It seemed like he’d gotten the hint, because he didn’t write to him for a whole year. The only marks he’d gotten in that year were the usual school notes.
After a year and some change, Tony was sitting on the toilet when he saw words shakily forming on his thigh.
Why do you hate me?
Tony’s heart sank with guilt as he saw the words get bolder: Peter was tracing over them over and over, accentuating his point—it had to have hurt. But Peter’s feelings probably hurt more, Tony regretfully noted.
So Tony made his way out of the bathroom, urge to piss be damned, and wrote back:
I don’t.
And after contemplating, he wrote underneath those words:
For your own good.
He’d made sure to change his handwriting so it wouldn’t be identified, of course.
Peter seemed to understand his message well enough, because he didn’t have any more breakdowns or whatever he’d gone through that day, and he didn’t write to him again.
—
When he met the boy named Peter, he ignored the fact that his age was around the same as his soulmate’s. Because coincidences happen. Because even if he was his soulmate, he couldn’t do anything about it. He was too young—had a whole life ahead of him. He couldn’t.
And if the kid was his soulmate, even if he grew up, Tony didn’t want to ruin his life by revealing the truth.
—
“Do you have a soulmate?”
The unexpected question made Tony’s hand go slack, and he dropped the screw he was holding. The clacking sound it made when it dropped on the workshop’s floor and rolled around felt deafening. The following silence felt tense.
Peter, after a while, broke the silence, hesitation lacing his voice, “Sorry… You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”
“…Do you?” Tony looked at Peter closely; saw the way his eyes darkened with sorrow when he got over the initial surprise of the question. His heart ached at the sight but he pretended it didn’t.
“Hardly,” is all he said. Tony didn’t ask him for more details: he was too scared to.
Tony glanced at his own gloved hands. “To answer your question: no, I don’t,” he lied.
He ignored the disappointed look Peter failed to hide as he nodded and picked up the screw that had fallen on the floor. Peter left that evening and didn’t visit him for a painful few weeks.
—
The dreaded confirmation was given to him in the form of words cleanly written on his wrist.
Peter Parker.
His jaw clenched, both his fears and hopes confirmed in the simple action of dragging a pencil against skin. He’d had his suspicions for so long now, but to actually have it be confirmed…
Why would Peter do this? Did he know something? Or was this another one of his attempts to reach out to him, make him say something again after all these years of silence?
Whatever it was, there was nothing he could say to reply to that.
—
As Peter had gone on to college, he’d written less notes on his hands.
Maybe he’d finally learned how to use a paper. Tony didn’t even have the proper energy to laugh at his own terrible joke. His life was the only real joke here, really, with all these situations he kept getting himself into.
It was supposed to be another regular day at the workshop with Peter. But he was tired, so tired. Of course he was bound to make a mistake at some point, because unfortunately, he’s still able to make those.
So he forgot to wear his gloves this morning.
Funny how something so seemingly minuscule and irrelevant could change his entire life.
Peter looked at the palm of Tony’s hand for just a split second before he let out a choked gasp. By the time Tony whipped it out of sight, it was too late.
Wide eyes met wider, glazed-over eyes. Tony opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no words came out.
Peter reached out a shaky, tentative hand towards Tony’s own, turning it around again. Tony let him. His skin was so soft, so warm, so welcoming. He didn’t think he could hold himself back any longer.
A warm teardrop landed on the notes—innocuous scientific calculations—and pooled in the crevices of his palm. His heart rate spiked up as he looked at the watery, warm brown eyes looking back at his own. Looking through him, as if they could see every mistake and insecurity that made up Tony Stark.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Peter croaked, shaky.
Unusually, Tony’s voice was also trembling as he replied, “I’m sorry.” Tony was surprised that those were the only words that managed to form on his tongue and spill out. Words he’d been wanting to say for so long. It felt like a weight off his shoulders.
More tears spilled out of Peter’s eyes, slid down those velvety cheeks. Tony wanted no more than to kiss them away. Wanted them to disappear because every inch of his body pained him with guilt, screamed that he was the reason Peter was crying. But he’d only done it for Peter’s own good. Peter deserved so much better.
“Why?” Peter whispered, so full of pain, Tony almost flinched.
“You don’t deserve someone like me.”
Peter’s eyebrows furrowed as he opened his mouth to say something, but Tony continued, not letting Peter speak, “I’m too old, too damaged. You’re young and wonderful, Peter, you’ve got a whole life ahead of you. You still have a chance to get with someone else.”
“We all have problems, Mr. Sta—Tony. And I don’t care how old you are, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions.”
Tony shook his head, “That’s not what I mean. I don’t want some universe to dictate your life—to make you stay with me and deal with all the shitty problems I have. I want you to be happy, not to be stuck with me.”
Peter’s eyes flared up with desperate frustration, “But I’m happy when I’m with you! Soulmates or not, you make me happy, and I want to be with you! Why do you keep thinking of yourself as a problem? You’re an amazing human being—you’re—you’re Tony.”
Seeing the pure sincerity in Peter’s eyes—it made Tony feel things. Warmth in his chest, mostly. But it was also too much: nobody had ever shown so much love and admiration for him in his entire life. Tony looked away before he got too emotional.
Peter continued after Tony’s silence, “I swear, if—if you reject me just because you think it’s ‘for my own good’, you better know how much pain you’ll put me through then.” Peter looked down dimly, “Unless…Unless you don’t want me, of course, then that’s fine—“
Tony quickly shut that thought down. “No! I do want you. Fuck, of course I do—“
Peter looked at him meaningfully, “Then isn’t that enough?”
It was a question Tony couldn’t find the answer to. Tony had denied himself this for so long, it was ingrained into him that he couldn’t have this. No matter how much he wanted it, longed for it. It was for Peter’s own good. But now… Now that he knew Peter wanted him just as bad… He contemplated actually accepting his offer.
“If it was enough, I would’ve told you a long time ago.”
Peter caressed Tony’s cheek, rubbing his thumb against the wetness on it. He was wiping his tears, Tony vaguely realized. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been crying.
Tony licked his dry lips and continued, “But it wasn’t. I didn’t care about my happiness as long as you had a chance to have yours.”
“I can’t have that happiness without you in my life.”
Tony closed his eyes to stop the tears pooling up. He reached for the hand still placed firmly on his cheek and gave it a gentle squeeze. When was the last time he’d cried in front of someone? He didn’t care: this was Peter. Peter, who always saw him for what he was. Peter, who believed in him.
Peter, who belonged to him just as he belonged to Peter.
Peter’s voice was low and shaky, hesitant, “Can I kiss you?”
Tony nodded, the only thing he could do. He trusted Peter, he cared about him. If being with him made Peter happy, then Tony could indulge himself and give him what he wanted. What they both wanted, for so long now.
His lips were soft, so soft, as they pressed lightly against his own chapped ones. Peter sighed into the kiss as he put his other hand on his cheek, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. Quickly after it started, the kiss ended. But Tony wanted more—God, he’d been wanting this for so long now, he needed more.
So he wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and pulled him back in. Peter eagerly accepted, kissing him again, and again, and Tony had stopped counting by the time they’d stopped.
Peter’s face rested in the crook of his neck, giving him gentle, chaste kisses. Tony ran his hands through Peter’s hair, soft and fruit-scented, and pressed a kiss to his temple.
When Peter spoke, the warm breath against Tony’s neck made him shudder. “I’m going to make it my goal to make you realize what a catch you are. I’m so lucky to be your soulmate.”
Tony chuckled, “I’m even luckier—“
Peter’s tongue clucked disapprovingly, “See what I mean? I’m just as lucky as you are.” Peter sounded so sure, Tony had no choice but to believe him.
“I love you,” the words left Tony’s mouth without thought, as if they’d always been there, trapped for so long until they were finally allowed to escape. As if they were meant to be said, and they were.
Peter gave him a shy smile, cheeks red, “I love you too.”
Tony had lived through most of his life believing he was undeserving of such a bond, that he’d taint anyone by being with them. Who knew it only took a certain Peter Parker to prove he was worthy of being loved—capable of making someone happy just by being together. Not for his money, or his fame, or anything else.
For the first time, Tony was more than happy to be proved wrong.
—
The daily phrases were back on his wrist now. Instead of hopeless attempts of communication, however, they were declarations of love, phrases he read with the soft-spoken sound of Peter’s voice in his mind. Promises of adoration and longing he could slide his wristwatch off to gaze at in a restroom break on a busy day. And they never failed to make him smile.
I love you
Miss you
Can’t wait to see you
Tony always kept a pen in his front pocket to return the favor.