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Since he can remember, Billy has been covered in soul marks. At least, that's what everyone else calls them. It makes them sound deliberate, thought out. Billy has soul scribbles, soul splotches, soul streaks, and a thousand other words that truly describe his soulmate's love of covering themself in color. As a toddler, he spent most of his time with sticky soul smears of finger paint covering his stubby fingers and wrists, once a green spot on the tip of his nose that lasted a week. Now it’s the markers, more than just accidental nicks across his fingers. At least fifty shades of colorful lines and scribbles twist up and down his arms, legs, feet, face, everywhere that short arms can reach.
His mom coos over them. She calls his soulmate creative and unconventional. They're experimenting with boundaries, she explains. Billy rolls his eyes at the big words, but he's used to the colorful chaos by now. Sometimes even likes it when an obvious attempt at Cap or Iron Man slowly starts to appear. At least markers are warmer than paint.
Since he can remember, Teddy has covered himself in color. He has paper, but the flat white surface bothers him. His skin is warm and alive. Adults sometimes freak out when he colors on himself, but Mom just smiles and draws something on her arm too. From his first memory, sinking his hand into the cool paint has been calming. The world just falls away, and he's happy. Playing with the bright color makes him hum deep, deep in himself. He feels like he can do anything when he’s wearing it around on his skin.
Then Mom gives him the pack of markers. He doesn't have to wait for them to dry, doesn't have to wash his hands afterward. He can use them so many more places, purple and green on his toes that won't rub off on the rugs or the comic books Mom reads him. She laughs too and makes up stories about the other child, his soulmate, running around with the same colors streaked across their skin. Do the bright marks make them as happy as they make him? He hopes so.