Notes: Today, May 14, is Daiharu Day! In celebration, I decided I'd post this fic I've been working on for a few months... though I still only have the first half done so far, eheh. I'll get the rest done within the next few days probably! (EDIT 6/23: Obviously this is taking a LITTLE longer than the few days I had anticipated! I'll get it done as soon as I have the free time and am motivated again!)

So, some small notes: this is a Soulmate AU, and I borrowed the soulmark concept from the Yuri on Ice fanfic "Unwritten" by kaizuka. Essentially, anything written on your skin also appears on your soulmate's skin.

Other than that, it's just normal games canon, plus some personal headcanons regarding the education system in the Pokemon world, based on Takeshi Shudo's "legal adult at ten years old" setting (supplemented with a heaping side dish of common sense). My usual headcanon has a seven-year age gap between Haruka and Daigo (usually 15 and 22, because ORAS didn't exist yet), but for the purposes of this story I'm changing things up a bit.

Also, I'm using Japanese names for human characters and English names for Pokemon/places because, as always, that's how I roll. Also using Haruka's mom's name from the anime for lack of anything else.

Also also, many thanks to CSakuraS for being my beta!

With all that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

Proof of You
Part 1

The ink first appeared on Haruka's skin when she was just a few hours old.

That in itself wasn't so unheard of—it was common for soulmates to be a couple of years apart in age, so it stood to reason that while one is an infant, the other could be in the finger-painting-on-any-available-surface stage.

But the marks on Haruka's hand weren't haphazard splotches of color.

They were words.

Good night.

It took Senri and Mitsuko a moment to be sure of what it said—the letters were impossibly tiny on the newborn's hand, indicative of being written originally on a much larger counterpart.

On rare occasions, parents would write on their infant's skin in an attempt to contact their child's future in-laws very early on in life, but that didn't seem to be the case either. From what they could make out of the writing, it didn't have the practiced finesse of an adult's penmanship. Nor was it as awkward as the scrawl of a young child just learning to write.

The message was written independently by Haruka's soulmate—her significantly older soulmate.

It was a bit worrying to come to that conclusion, but faced with the demands of being new parents, the messages simply became a footnote in the tedium of caring for their child.

They continued to appear like clockwork—literally. In the morning they were greeted with a "good morning," and in the evening they were wished a "good night." (Rarely did the greetings correspond to their newborn's actual sleeping schedule, though.) Occasionally they would notice a stream-of-consciousness message added during the course of the day—"I found a really neat rock," one of the minuscule messages read. "Do you like rocks?"

"They seem to live in the same time zone," Mitsuko noted one morning, with as much humor as she could muster after staying awake with a fussy infant since 2 AM. "Too bad. It would have been nice to move to Alola someday."

"Is he still at it?" Senri leaned over to peer at the morning greeting on his daughter's hand. "You'd think that after a week of no response he'd get the hint."

"It could be a she."

"No, it's a he."

Mitsuko rolled her eyes. Once her husband had decided something to be true, there was no convincing him otherwise—even if his predictions had been made with no real basis. "Yes, yes. But either way, do you really think the messages only started a week ago?"

"Of course they only started a week ago," Senri answered, arching an eyebrow. "How could they have existed any earlier?"

"They've only had a recipient as of a week ago," Mitsuko corrected, gazing down at Haruka slumbering in her arms. She gently took her daughter's hand between two fingers, caressing the tiny words with her thumb, and smiled when Haruka squeezed her index finger in response. "But her soulmate wouldn't have known that. Don't you think they would have been sending these messages all along? The poor thing is probably desperate, having spent their whole childhood worrying that there wasn't anyone on the other end..."

Senri stood silently for a while, contemplating his wife's words. When it was evident that he wasn't going to be responding immediately, Mitsuko turned away and gently placed Haruka in the bassinet, hoping against hope that she'd stay asleep this time.

"Mitsuko," he finally said, softly. "Does it worry you at all?"

She paused, hands hovering apprehensively at Haruka's sides, before slowly standing and tiptoeing back to where Senri stood. "A little bit," she whispered. "If her soulmate is so much older, will they have anything in common? Will they be able to communicate effectively? Can their relationship grow in a healthy manner?" She paused before continuing. "But on the other hand, this is her soulmate. This is the person she's meant to be with. I'm sure this person will be lovely to her."

They fell quiet, listening to Haruka's steady, even breathing as she slept.

"I agree," Senri said finally. "But for the time being, we can't let these messages continue."

Daigo's soulmate was very quiet. It was kind of lonely, and he had his doubts that there was even anyone on the other end.

He didn't pay much mind to it when he was very young—at that age, a soulmate wasn't understood to be anything more than a sort of invisible friend to sometimes share doodles with. Daigo wasn't much of an artist, though; he preferred to spend his time hunting for rocks with his father, gathering together all of the prettiest, roundest pebbles he could find and lining them up to gaze at in wonder.

So he didn't really think much of his soulmate's silence until one day in kindergarten when his classmates were cheerfully drawing their favorite Pokemon on their arms, giggling with happiness and wonder as phantom drawings appeared alongside them.

It seemed kind of fun.

Daigo picked out a blue marker from the selection scattered on the table and pulled the cap off, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he tried to draw a Beldum on his left wrist. After a few minutes, he was reasonably satisfied with his work and sat back, waiting to see what kind of response he would get.

There was none.

He frowned, looking around at his classmates to see if he could gauge how long they had to wait for their soulmate to draw something. Most of them seemed to get an answer right away, with maybe a delay of a minute or two. Daigo had been waiting for five minutes, which was pretty much forever.

Cocking his head to the side, he studied his drawing again. Maybe his soulmate couldn't tell what it was; now that he looked at it again, it was too blocky, the Beldum's angular body too awkward and off-balance. He decided that he should try drawing something a little easier, so he grabbed a gray marker and doodled a bobbly-legged but sufficiently recognizable Aron.

Again, his soulmate didn't respond. He sat quietly, staring at his arm and trying to fight the disappointment prickling at the backs of his eyes, until one of his teachers came to shuffle them all off to a different activity.

(The next day he tried drawing a Marill; maybe he wouldn't screw up at drawing something so simple and round, and maybe his soulmate was a girl who didn't like rugged Pokemon like Beldum and Aron anyway. But he still couldn't get a response.)

Once he had gotten over that disappointment, he didn't spare much thought about his reticent soulmate until a few years later, when his schoolmates became increasingly interested in leaving behind more childish pursuits to play grown-up. Soulmates were for adults, after all, so maintaining a line of meaningful conversation on your skin was seen as proof, to yourself and to others, that you were that much closer to growing up.

Not all of Daigo's friends could boast that privilege; some of them seemed to have soulmates who were a year or two younger, who hadn't quite gotten the hang of writing competently yet. He didn't feel completely left out, but still, everyone he knew had gotten some sort of message from their other half.

In all his eight years of life, Daigo had never seen any mark on his skin that he hadn't placed there himself.

There had to be some sort of mistake. Daigo must have a soulmate of his own out there, right? It's just that his soulmate was shy, or otherwise unable to communicate, right? It wasn't even about having proof that he was "growing up," not really. But from what little he understood of "fate" at that age, didn't it mean that his soulmate was supposed to be someone who would like him and accept him for who he was?

What if there was no one out there who could?

It was a little bit weird to still be so fascinated with digging up rocks in the schoolyard, Daigo knew; all the other boys had moved on to Hoenn Rangers, and the girls would make faces when they saw his shorts caked with dirt and fraying at the edges. He knew that it was okay for him to keep digging for rocks at eight years old, because his dad did the same, and he was old. But was there no one else who would like that about him?

He had to know for sure. So one day, he finally took up a pen and wrote a message on his left arm.

Hi! My name is Daigo.

He stared at the letters for a little while, unsurprised when he received no immediate response, then continued with his day. Every hour or so he would quickly glance at the ink, right up until it washed off in the bath that night. He never got any sort of answer.

Undeterred, Daigo tried again the next day, writing on the back of his hand this time. Maybe his soulmate had been wearing long sleeves and hadn't noticed.

My name is Daigo and I'm 8 years old.

That message didn't remain as long as the first, disappearing after just a few handwashes, but it still should have been enough time for his soulmate to notice and respond. But they didn't.

He kept trying, leaving information about himself that he figured a soulmate should know, and when he couldn't think of anything else to say, he fell into the habit of writing a greeting every day when he woke up, and another right before falling asleep. Not once did he get any answer, any sort of acknowledgment.

If there was someone on the other end—and he tried his hardest to convince himself that there was, there had to be—he wanted them to know that he was thinking of them. If his soulmate just wasn't checking for messages, if they were just missing them somehow, then there had to come a day when they would finally see the ink. Once that day came, he wanted his soulmate to know he was there. He didn't want them to think that they were alone, too.

He stubbornly persisted with his routine, always keeping a pen at his bedside, for what seemed like forever. And then one day after school, as he sat in the Devon Corporation lobby waiting for his father to finish with work, he glanced down and noticed writing along his arm.

He hadn't written those words.

How old are you?

It felt like his heart had jumped into his throat, his head dizzy with adrenaline as he fully comprehended what those words meant.

His soulmate had contacted him. Finally, finally, his soulmate had written a message for him!

He leapt up, trying not to trip over his own feet as he scrambled to the reception desk to ask for a pen. The few seconds it took for the secretary to locate and hand over a ballpoint pen seemed to last an eternity, and once the writing utensil was in his hands he clutched it like a lifeline and dashed back to his seat.

Daigo's hands trembled as he pulled up his left sleeve to give himself more room to write—his soulmate's message was unusually large on his forearm. He found it a little bit strange that he was being asked for his age, since he had mentioned it a few times before; he had definitely written about his milestone birthday just a few months earlier. Nevertheless, he carefully penned out the answer on the inside of his arm, trying his best to keep it legible in his excitement.

Hello! I'm 10.

He stared at his arm anxiously, and after a few moments, the ink smeared and faded, then disappeared completely. He had barely five seconds to be concerned before words appeared on his skin again.

And what's your name?

That had Daigo frowning. He knew for a fact that he had mentioned his name several times. Had his soulmate really not seen any of those messages? And beyond that... somehow, Daigo felt like he was being interrogated. Like he was being accused of doing something wrong.

Talking with his soulmate shouldn't feel like that, right?

My name is Daigo, he wrote, trepidation curling in the pit of his stomach. There was no reason to feel guilty about reaching out to his soulmate, right? He hadn't done anything bad.

There was a longer pause this time before the words were once again washed off and replaced with others.

Daigo-kun, our daughter—your soulmate—is currently one week old.

He stared. He scanned the words over and over, making sure he hadn't somehow misread.

One week?

His soulmate was one week old?

Was that a joke? Had the person on the other end simply misspelled some words—misspelled them really poorly? Maybe they had meant to write "year" instead of "week," but that still didn't sound right, so maybe they also hadn't meant to write "one," maybe it was supposed to be... "seven" perhaps?

...His soulmate was a baby?

He had to admit that it would explain why he had never gotten any responses to his messages. He had worried that there wasn't anyone seeing what he wrote, and if the words he was reading were to be believed, that meant his concerns had been on spot. He hadn't had a soulmate receiving his messages, at least not until a week earlier.

But now he did have a soulmate. That was something to be happy about... right?

He realized then that he had been staring at the words on his skin for quite a while. The person or people on the other end (his soulmate's parents?) hadn't added anything more, and notably hadn't tried correcting any sort of mistake on their part. What he was reading, then, was accurate.

Were they waiting for some sort of response?

What was he supposed to say in the face of such a revelation? At a loss, he jotted a quick "OK" on his palm just to indicate that he had seen and understood.

After a few moments, the ink was once again washed off. Daigo watched anxiously to see what sort of message would appear next, but nothing came right away. One small dot of ink did materialize after a minute or two, but it didn't immediately expand into letters, as if the writer was hesitating, deciding how best to say what came next.

When the letters did finally appear, Daigo felt his stomach drop.

We're very sorry to ask this of you, but we'd appreciate if you wouldn't initiate contact with our daughter until she's much older.

Daigo couldn't completely believe what he was reading. Not contact his soulmate? But wasn't the entire point of their soulmarks that they functioned as a form of contact between a bonded pair?

He watched as the ink was once again cleared away—realizing numbly how small of a canvas of skin his soulmate's parents must be working with—to make room for more words.

We know that this must be difficult for you, they wrote, but we need to ask this for the sake of our daughter. We want her to grow up at her own pace, the same as any other child, without being made to worry about soulmates before she's ready.

The messages came slowly, a little bit at a time, taking frequent pauses to cleanse the skin of words, only to be filled up again. Daigo couldn't look away.

But don't let her feel abandoned. If she reaches out to you, meet her halfway—but no more than that. Let her dictate the pace your relationship takes. That's what would be healthiest for both of you.

A tiny, petulant part of Daigo wanted to rebel. They wanted to keep him away from his soulmate? His soulmate? They thought that was healthier? Did they have any idea who he was? They should be grateful their daughter was bonded to the sole Tsuwabuki heir!

That small spot of anger was quickly overruled by reason, however; his father always told him not to take their wealth for granted, having started out himself as a miner struggling to advance his company's reach. Even if his soulmate's parents knew who he was—and they didn't, of course they had no way of knowing he was that Daigo—that was no reason they should treat him with any special favor. And if he did try to go against their wishes it was entirely possible they could forbid him from meeting their daughter ever.

Daigo might be a respectable ten years of age, but the adults still held all the cards.

Biting his lower lip, trying not to show any outward display of disappointment—not here, not in public, not at Devon Corporation where he had an image to uphold—he hesitantly penned out a response.

I understand. I'm sorry.

The "I'm sorry" escaped before he had really thought it through, and he immediately regretted it—he wasn't sorry, why should he be?—but it would probably look especially rude to cross it out.

Don't be sorry, came the response, making him feel a little bit better. But thank you for understanding. We look forward to meeting you someday, once our daughter is older.

And that was it. The words were erased a minute later, and with a sigh, Daigo reached to pull his sleeve back down his arm. At just that moment, though, he noticed new words being written on his arm.

Please grow up into a wonderful person.

Daigo stared at those words for a long while; he couldn't quite put his finger on why, but reading them filled his chest with a warmth that almost washed away the disappointment from the rest of the conversation.

A wonderful person. Yes, he'd grow up into a wonderful person—someone who his soulmate and her parents would certainly be proud of, once he was allowed to meet them.

And he already had a ten-year head start, too.

The message remained on his arm for hours, encouraging him throughout the evening whenever he happened to glance at it.

Even after it had faded from his skin while washing up that night, he made sure it remained in his heart.

"I told you it was a boy."

If Mitsuko didn't know her husband any better, she might have thought that he was being smug.