There's young love, and then there's destined love.

At the age of seventeen, nearly a man, nearly too old to be too young, Takumi thinks perhaps it's time to draw a definitive line between the two.

But he hesitates, every time he sees the delicate tattoo imprinted on his right hip.

Isami, with all his silly math and bright brain, tells him, "It's actually highly probable that Souma-kun is the one, you know."

"According to your math." Takumi will follow with, chucking a pillow at him.

If Isami hadn't found his passion in cooking, no doubt the younger twin could have gone into the field of mathematics, with all his long calculations about probability and statistics.

During fits of desperate, lovesick pain, Takumi wonders if he could have Isami calculate how long it would take for him to get over something as stupid as a first love.

Then he shakes it off. It's embarrassing, and there are more important things to think about. Like tomorrow's dinner or the test next week.

Still, he finds himself scribbling equations and alphabets over the margins of his notebook that his pen presses a little too hard into.

It leaves a trail of broken ink on the page beneath, but there's no one except him to notice anyway.

Soon enough, Takumi does. It turns his face bright red and he's quick to tear out another wasted page. He scribbles over the margins with a flat black marker, before crumpling the paper up.

Sometimes, Takumi entertains the thought of leaving all these silly notions like soulmates and unrequited love behind, even if the blazing trail of red along the side of his body won't let him.

Sometimes, Takumi entertains the thought of leaving everything behind and starting afresh somewhere else where he isn't bound to responsibilities and duty and destiny.

But those times are brief and cast aside as quickly as they come, for another test to be studied for, another dish to be created.

When Takumi Aldini first sees Yukihira Souma brazenly speaking over his entire cohort, he skips the next practical in lieu of panicking in the bathroom. His hip has been tingling for the last few minutes, and one quick check solidifies his guess.

The blossoming mark has never looked so ill inviting.

Takumi groans into his hands, both mortified and intrigued that such a person could be his soulmate.

During the time it takes for Isami to find him, Takumi reasons that it might not be the transfer student after all. It had been the first day of school. He'd interacted with more people today than he had the past week.

It could have been anyone.

Anyone at all.

Somehow, that thought doesn't make him feel better at all.

Burying his face deeper into his hands, Takumi grits his teeth and tries not to cry over nothing at all. This is supposed to be exciting.

Except it's anything but - it's ghastly and timed at the apex of his mental breakdown, a million miles away from home.

At the age of sixteen, actually understanding what a mid-life crisis could be like while alone in a bathroom cubicle, Takumi has never wanted more in his life for everything to be over - love, life and the universe in general.

Takumi first notices his mark growing during training camp.

He had been undressing for the bath, when he spotted red peeking over his waistband.

Thoughts that constituted of many expletives ran through his mind like a slot machine.

Yet the worst of his problems presented himself in the baths.

Souma waves at him, and Takumi thinks for a split second maybe he should just turn around and leave.

But it's been a long, sweaty day and the baths look too inviting to turn down.

So he hikes his towel a little higher, and tries to look as passably normal as he can.

Yet Takumi finds himself leaving the baths early anyway, spewing a half hearted excuse at a very confused Souma.

He tells himself it's because it had been too hot for him, and actually believes it for a whole week until he sees the half an inch the tattoo had grown down his thigh.

"It's a lovely mark."

Megumi had said, softly.

Takumi had smiled, rolling his shirt back over his stomach. "It's not you." He had promised. He's seen in classes the way she shyly glances over at Isami; heard at home the way Isami mumbles red faced about the way she might have.

Besides, Isami's mark had been the one to change when they'd carried a feverish Megumi all the way back to the Polar Star Dorm from the school kitchens.

Sometimes, destiny is kind.

Her remark sticks in Takumi's head, even a year and a half after.

Takumi looks at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror, barely able to make out all the delicate markings on his skin.

A red ball of flame curled on his hip bone, the sparks of flame that meld into petals tracing their way up his side, fanning his lower ribs; the cinders of the flames burning into half-formed flowers melting down his inner thigh.

It's a disaster of conflicting emotions.

Some nights when his mind wanders, Takumi thinks about what that could mean.

Then he tucks his face into his blanket, and wishes he knew who his other half was, too.

Maybe everything would be easier that way.

And maybe he could give up on people he doesn't think he's meant for once and for all, too.

"I'm telling you, it's not me." Takumi sighs, shoving his books a little too hard into the cardboard box.

"Then who is it?" Isami counters with no real challenge in his voice.

"It's not me." Takumi repeats himself. "I'm going to go get the other books from my room."

He doesn't wait for Isami to respond before escaping to his bedroom. Closing the door, Takumi leans his back against it.

They've had this conversation so many times already, since they're both stubborn idiots unwilling to give up until reasonable doubt has been cast.

Of course it wouldn't be him. There were so many other people it could be - Nakiri, Mito, Hayama, Kurokiba, Arato.

Takumi slides down the door, pressing his face into his knees. He lets his hands fall uselessly beside him.

There were so many other people. Even for him.

Takumi clenches at his shirt tightly.

His heart beats rapidly beneath his knuckles, insistent and afraid. Of course there could be others. The universe had an infinite number of people to pick from. For the both of them.

So it's not fair, to the one Takumi is meant for, that he's feeling so conflicted. That he might meet them any day now, that they'll find out Takumi doesn't love them. That Takumi might never love them.

It's not fair even now, that he's spending time dreaming about someone he might not end up with when his soulmate is out dreaming of him.

Takumi squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn't mute the white hot pain he's used to now; that blooms tenfold whenever he sees Souma smile his way, laugh, or exist in general.

Takumi groans, muffled. It was so much better a year ago, when he was still in denial. When he didn't bother putting too much thought into things because his mind was crowded enough with thoughts of suspended leave from school, Italy and mama.

Now his mind is crowded with equally obtrusive things, like soulmates and unending guilt and an incorrigibly handsome redhead.

He sighs again, this time a little lighter. A little more lovestruck, a little more suited to the worries a boy his age.

Isami and Megumi were happy enough. Who's to say that he won't get his miraculous happy ending with someone he chose, too?

At the age of seventeen, still a boy, still a romantic, Takumi wants to believe that sometimes, maybe, just maybe, love comes through, even for him.

But at some point growing up, Takumi realises that some things might be better, more convenient, if they were shelved away and kept as memories.

So Takumi starts to think he might be content at where his relationship with Souma lies; with the rooftop lunches, the friendly kitchen rivalry and the late night texts.

He's a second year now, going onto third. The ache in his chest still persists, but he's able to quieten it better now. Love lost wasn't going to be the end of him, and watching someone else attain happiness was also a form of joy.

It isn't too bad. It's a friendship Takumi could get used to. He stops expecting more, expecting something out of nothing.

Sometimes, Takumi even thinks if his soulmate were to turn the corner and sweep him off his feet, he might actually be okay with putting Souma aside forever and to learn to love someone else.

He can only hold onto unrequited love for so long, and a bond made by cosmic forces beyond him was also going to be stronger than any bond he wants to try and forge anew.

At least that's what he tells himself, when Souma stands a little too close to someone else, laughs a little louder than he does with Takumi.

Still, Souma gets easier to interact with when Takumi's not so busy paying attention to every little thing that could go wrong or every little way he might give his feelings away.

Takumi starts noticing more things, then.

Like the one sided dimple Souma has when he smiles, the way he tends to shifts his weight when he's lying, how the criss cross pattern he wraps his bandana around his wrist never changes.

Takumi also notices, with mixed emotions, how his tattoo's core changes to a deep burgundy with this new settlement of feelings.

At age borderline eighteen, ready to give up on some things to embrace others, Takumi finds himself looking back and wondering if perhaps, young love and destined love weren't so different after all; if perhaps, he hadn't been as unlucky as pessimistic that sixteen year old him had been so determined to be after all.

Souma has never been shy about his soulmate tattoo.

He doesn't show it off, but he doesn't go to the lengths Takumi does to hide it, either.

It decorates his left arm, a blue liquid that swirls over and around his shoulder, flowing into a darker shade as it circles his bicep. As it crosses his elbow, the liquid shows faint beginnings of melding into a winding ribbon, peppered with gold.

While Takumi would once watch Souma's mark lengthen with somewhat anxiety, he now observes it with curiosity. It's grown steadily throughout his current two years in Tootsuki, he notes, making it's way down Souma's arm.

Surely, when it's fully formed, it'd be a wonderful tattoo to behold.

However, these thoughts are never shared. In fact, Takumi doesn't overlook how Souma never broaches the subject of soulmate tattoos around him.

It isn't just an issue of privacy, Takumi's gut tells him as much.

Still, it isn't his place to probe.

It isn't his place to care about Souma's mark at all.

So the topic remains untouched, unspoken.

Avoided.

But much like all taboo topics, they're always brought to light at the most inopportune of moments.

For Takumi, it starts in the middle of the class when a classmate trips over herself in her hurry, spilling a potful of water over Takumi.

The water had been lukewarm, but that quickly proves itself to be the least of Takumi's worries.

As flats of red begin to show through the wet fabric, Takumi's mind draws to a standstill. Everyone is staring. Some begin whispering, and his head starts to empty of viable solutions.

Suddenly, a large drying cloth is wrapped around his middle. Megumi is pressing the towel to his middle, body angled to cover his side.

"Be careful about your burn from last week, Takumi-kun!" Megumi says, the lie quickly gaining gasps of horror. Her wide, unblinking eyes tell Takumi to run. Isami is already spinning a story for the teacher, who claps her hands over her mouth.

Keeping the towel wrapped around him, Takumi nods and books it out of the room.

He runs down the corridor, grateful for the third year's wing to be relatively secluded. Along with the fact that the Elite Ten's offices were situated two floors above the usual kitchens. Erina had seen to it, after one too many complaints from Alice about the ridiculous travelling distance for such an absurdly little number of students.

Takumi locates his office with no difficulty, and slips inside as quietly as he can. Letting out a shaky sigh, he pulls out his phone to send Megumi a quick 'thank you' before crossing the room towards the cabinets with his spare uniforms.

He'd no sooner removed the towel when his office door was swung open.

In a protective instinct, Takumi wraps his right hand around his middle, glaring at the rude intruder.

"You should be at the infirmary, Takumi." Souma frowns, entering the office. Takumi's arm squeezes tighter.

Just what he needed. More problems.

"It was just a light burn, i'm fine." Takumi keeps up the lie. It's easier that way. "How did you know I came here, anyway?"

Souma, clearly not buying it, strides forward. He stops a step away from Takumi, who takes a careful step back to gain more distance.

"I followed you. And I saw it. It was red. And you wouldn't be grabbing your middle if it didn't hurt." Souma says, crossing his arms, tone flat. Takumi winces. It's the voice he uses when he's upset or worried. Or both.

"It's nothing. Just...get out of my office. Please." Takumi says, a hard edge to his pleasantry. Anything to get Souma away, as fast as possible. As touching as his concern was, Takumi couldn't really do anything with it right now.

"Takumi." Souma's voice is even, but he reaches out a hand. Takumi takes another step back, wary. "Let me see it. It's bad, isn't it?"

A tint of anger slips into Souma's question. Takumi doesn't answer.

He doesn't know how.

"Takumi!" Souma looks ready to shake Takumi out of silence.

Takumi bites his bottom lip.

Two and a half years. The reality of how long he's been keeping his feelings, his mark, his suspicions a secret shocks Takumi. He supposes that this fiasco has gone on long enough. He supposes he's tired of the burden of guilt for someone he's never met.

It's as good a time as any to put all the side stepping and fruitless love to rest, anyway.

Takumi holds up a hand. Souma is instantly quietened.

Takumi looks back up and stares into Souma's eyes, pensive. Souma puts down his hands, still worried, but willing to give Takumi the space he needs.

"I'll show you, but." Takumi holds Souma's gaze for a silent minute. Souma nods, already agreeing to whatever condition Takumi might set.

'You lovable dullard,' Takumi thinks fondly. He wishes this reveal could have come at a better time. He wishes he didn't have to do this at all.

Since his blacked out, margin notes used to spell a very, very low probability of requited destiny.

"But you can't tell anyone about what you see." Takumi finishes lamely.

"Okay." Souma says. "No one at all."

Takumi exhales, and unwraps his arm around him. He unbuttons his chef's coat, laying it over the back of the nearby sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Takumi notices the way Souma furrows his brows. Obviously, the pattern of red beneath Takumi's white shirt did not in any way look burn related.

"It's not...a burn." Takumi murmurs, allowing Souma to connect the dots in his head.

"Wait, Takumi, you don't have to -." Souma startles, realising the gravity of the situation he'd gotten himself into.

"No, I want to." Takumi replies grimly, taking off his shirt swiftly.

Just like that, Takumi puts his soulmate tattoo in plain view of the one person he'd tried to hide it from for nearly three whole years of his life.

"Oh." Souma breathes, his anger dissipated. He can't tear his eyes away from the gradiented markings.

Takumi shrugs awkwardly. "Yeah." He looks up towards the ceiling, resisting the urge to cross his arms. "Yeah."

Souma looks so taken aback Takumi might have laughed aloud if it hadn't been for the tightly coiled ball of anxiety tucking itself in his stomach.

"Can I, uh, touch it?" Souma asks, gesturing with a hand. Takumi drops his head back down, in a slight nod. Might as well. In fact, anything might as well happen right now. Like a meteorite destroying Tootsuki and everyone in it.

Souma gently touches Takumi's hip bone, causing the latter to suck in a breath. With the tip of his fingers, Souma traces the tattoo delicately, as if scared of marring it with a rough touch.

Souma takes his time. He's gentle, and doesn't make any crude remarks about the contratory nature of Takumi's tattoo. The way he treats something as undefined as Takumi's tattoo could make Takumi cry.

Takumi lets a shudder run down his spine, instead.

When Souma's fingers touch Takumi's ribs, he stops. At the stilled touch, Takumi looks down, and his eyes widen.

A new petal softly imprints itself beneath Souma's shaking fingertips. Golden flecks follow where Souma has traced.

Then right before their eyes, the ribbon on Souma's elbow slowly loops itself around his lower arm, once.

Time seems to stop.

Instantaneously, dozens of thoughts and desires race through Takumi's mind. He meets Souma's eyes, almost afraid.

When Takumi sees Souma looking back with the same struck expression, he feels his face shift into something odd and ugly before settling on a crooked smile.

Souma's returning grin is enough to give him courage to acts on the one thing he's wanted to do since he was sixteen and locked in a bathroom cubicle, terrified and lonely and only living by clinging onto a silver thin hope.

Takumi leans forward, burying his face in Souma's shoulder, relishing in the calm that he finally lets wash over him.

There was a happy ending waiting for him, after all.

"What took you so long to get here." Takumi says, muffled.

His voice is thick with relief. About what - requited love, probability and mathematics coming through for him, the Universe finally dealing him a reward worthy of all the labours he'd been through, finally able to let go of years of guilt that a crush had laden on him - Takumi doesn't know. He just knows he's comfortable here, finally able to let go of pretenses and denial and false contentment.

"Same thing as what took you this long too, probably." Souma laughs, wrapping his arms around Takumi.

Takumi doesn't miss the way he chokes on his words ever so slightly, and laughs in return.

Takumi wants to apologise, for all the silly thoughts he's had, for all the time he's made them miss. For loving him, for almost not. But Souma is still looking at him with that awfully lovely smile, that's lopsided on the end with the dimple.

So Takumi leans in to kiss him, and murmurs smiling against his lips, "Thank you," instead.

It's a sentiment Souma returns with vigour.

At age eighteen, still a child, still too young to be even considered old, Takumi thinks love is a stupid, silly made up word with made up definitions and even more made up derivations, but the feelings it inhabits are real, and maybe sometimes that's all that's important.

Maybe sometimes, that's all that's important.