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The fact that his mark never appeared never bothered Charlie… much. It was one of the things that brought him and his fellow cast of borderline outcasts together back in year seven. A ragtag group who hovered on the periphery of the laddish talk in the corridors; the wild speculation about what their girl would look like.
For a while, Charlie wondered if that was just it. Maybe liking boys meant that fate hadn’t reserved someone for him. That is, until Mr Ajayi had arrived at the school: decked out in Pride pins and an open heart, with his soul mark right there on the palm of his hand, right where his paintbrush settled when he concentrated.
There went that theory.
Tao’s hypothesis was that the entire system was bullshit in the first place. That the idea someone out there could be made for you was ludicrous. What did fate know, anyways? And, if soulmates were to be believed in, how the fuck was it fair that you could get only one and they go and die on you anyways?
His cynicism had been a comfort, until the day Elle came out and the four of them had watched, in exhilarating real-time, a mark appear on both her and Tao’s inner wrists.
No one had ever told them that fate could change their mind.
No one ever told them how to cope with feeling left behind.
And no one ever told them how to cope with feelings that hit like a freight train and refused to listen to silly ideas about fate and meant to be.
So, when Charlie found himself wandering into a brand new form and meeting the shy smile of Nick Nelson, his already limited coping strategies got out of dodge pretty quickly.
It didn’t help that Nick was kind. It didn’t help that Nick seemed to like Charlie, more than any new friend had done before. Not like like, obviously, Charlie was keen to remind himself out loud, when Tao and Isaac were listening. Inside, he hoped beyond all hope, but it wasn’t worth having that debate at the picnic benches.
More than anything, it didn’t help that Nick kept his soul mark hidden. No rolled-up sleeves or showing it off in the corridor. He was one of those romantic types, clearly. The ones with lofty notions of letting fate run its course.
Probably for the best. Charlie could imagine himself falling into the trap of doodling Nick’s mark on his own skin. How embarrassing it would be to forget to wash it off before Nick arrived at his door: to see Nick’s eyes widen in horror at the realisation that his poor, soulmateless new friend had an unrepentant crush.
No, knowing Nick was enough. And if keeping him meant keeping quiet, that was what Charlie would do.
Keeping quiet would work. He’d get his heart broken eventually, but at least for now he could have this one little beautiful anomaly in an otherwise dreary existence.
And Nick was an anomaly. A bizarre little exception to the rule that straight-sporty-boys would rather peel off their own fingernails than cuddle up on a sofa under a blanket and watch a film. And he was like a radiator – lulling Charlie off to sleep before the first act had played out on screen.
Charlie dreamt of nothing except a small spark that flashed across his eyelids and lit up the world. When he woke up, the film was over and Nick was tugging the blanket off ready to leave. Reluctantly, Charlie noted with another of those small pangs of what if?
A pang that grew when Nick threw his arms around Charlie’s shoulders at the door and hugged him for just a fraction too long. It made Charlie feel tingly all over – a flash of longing – before the sensation withdrew and concentrated to a small point at his inner elbow. An irritating reaction to his mum’s new washing powder, probably, or heat rash from close quarters with the human equivalent of a radiator.
Charlie chose to ignore it; forgot about it until bedtime when he tugged his jumper over his head and glanced down.
A mark, proud and new, stood out against his skin, before Tori’s voice pierced the quiet.
“I don’t think he’s straight.”