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Billy jumps when he feels the press of the phantom pen above his wrist. He hooks his fingers under the cuff, then freezes. Does he really want to know what his soulmate has written, to face the damage he's done because he couldn't stop Kessler from ruining both their lives? What if they can't forgive him?
Scenarios run through his head like Quicksilver. They’re sitting in class when the snickers start. Tired from studying all night for their test next period, they don’t notice the letters start to appear across their forehead. By the time their teacher notices and sends them to the nurse’s office for cover-up, it’s too late. Everyone knows. They blame him for the whispers that follow them around, the snide comments, and the bruises.
Maybe they’re hanging out with their friends when the word appears with the crude picture. Their best friend takes them to the bathroom to wait it out, eyes hard because they want to fight everyone who judges them while walking past. Pathetic, their best friend says, your other half doesn’t deserve you. His soulmate agrees. Plenty of people don’t end up with the person who shares their skin. They tell Billy they never want to speak to him again.
The worst would be pity. No, false pity. Your life sucks, they say, but they really mean it’s not my problem. Perhaps they let him have the false hope that they can be together, or worse, they try to swoop in like some white knight. If I wanted my problems fixed, I’d do it myself and end up bloodier for my troubles, Billy would snap. Billy Kaplan doesn’t want a hero.
Letting go of the grip on the fabric, he takes a deep breath. Overthinking it again, he knows. An overactive imagination isn’t necessarily a bad thing, his mom often tells him. She should try living in his head. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, louder than his brothers’ bickering in the other room. He wipes his clammy palms on his jeans and reminds himself that waiting won't change the words lurking under his sleeve. Get it over with.
He yanks up the sleeve. Blinks once, twice as he stares at the blue words. What are you sorry about?
He closes his eyes. Tension drains out of his body, leaving him boneless. Thank you, universe, for not being shitty for once. His other half knows nothing, doesn't have to deal with the fallout. If he's more careful, they never have to know. He can avoid his problems if he's smart enough. Always walking on eggshells, but bruises are harder to explain than a well-developed sense of caution. He just needs to get by for two more years. College will be better. The thought keeps him going.
For the constellations being scribbled out, he lies. I didn't want you to think it was because I didn't like them. He's such a coward, but what else can he do? Admit to letting himself be bullied? No one seems to get it. If he stands up for himself, it'll get worse. Even the Scarlet Witch with her sad smile and kind eyes doesn’t understand.
Billy Kaplan is no hero.
I hate it when people mess with my skin without asking, they write back. Billy almost spills when he reads that. His soulmate just assumes that he wasn't the one who destroyed the drawing. It’s everything. They trust him; they know that he would never tear down their work or them.
Tears prick at his eyes. All he has to do is take a leap of faith, and this can all change. They can be close like they're supposed to be. They can be more than just two geeks gushing about superheroes.
Instead he just responds, Don't I know it. Billy Kaplan can’t even be his own hero.
______________________________
Teddy's lungs burn from the breath he's holding. There's something behind those words, something important. The "I'm sorry" hangs heavy between them, and he knows there's more to the story than his other half is telling. Teddy Altman doesn’t ask.
Everything's just so tangled up. If he asks about the writing that appeared on his face that he never had the chance to read, he'll have to admit he shifted it away. His soulmate will know that Teddy isn't normal. Greg accepts it, even embraces Teddy's powers. But most people wouldn't. Watching the news, seeing how people treat mutants, has taught him that. Sharing is just asking for trouble, begging for rejection.
The nub hovers over a blank space on his arm. Eventually he has to tell his soulmate. Instead, he caps the pen and puts it on his nightstand. Just not today. Not yet. Not before he's ready.
And if there's a little voice in the back of his head that whispers "will you ever be ready?" He pretends it isn't there. Teddy Altman can’t ask himself that question. Not yet.