Soulmates: a term that everyone had learned to understand and cherish. There was a very special bond between two people designed to be together; due to a biological and genetic similarity of the skin of the two—or sometimes three, in very rare cases—people, anything that one soulmate acquired on their skin would show up on the skin of the other. If it was a temporary thing, i.e. bruises, cuts, doodles, or written things, they would fade at the same rate for both soulmates. If it were something permanent, like a tattoo or a scar, it would be permanent for the one who had gotten it whereas it faded away completely from the other soulmate's skin within a year. These soulmate connections, often referred to as Links, vary in strength, and can be strengthened or weakened over time. The weaker ones only transmit intentional, self-applied things from one soulmate to the other, while the stronger Links are able to transmit things like brief flashes of pain from injuries or, in rare cases, very strong emotions. Direct information such as names, addresses, phone numbers, and oftentimes gender, cannot be transmitted through the Links directly; one soulmate has to guess. Because of this, many people don't bother trying to find their soulmates until they're older, though some people do choose to ignore the things that show up on their skin entirely. A very few percentage of the population can see the Links, and to those people they take the appearance of a red string tied between the soulmate's ring fingers. These people can also break the Links, by cutting or burning or otherwise splitting the strings. The Links are treasured, and to intentionally break one—whether your own or someone else's—is highly frowned upon, though not technically illegal.

The words were something that Bokuto had always known. Ever since he was little, he had been communicating with the person that he had always been told was his soulmate. At first, he had had to have a maid write for him, since his seven-year-old scrawl was nearly illegible. But as he grew up and his handwriting got neater, communication with his soulmate got much more consistent.

It was slow going, thanks to the annoying rules of the soulmate Links, but Bokuto gradually learned more and more about his soulmate, and each little tidbit of information made him seem a little bit more perfect. His name was Akaashi Keiji; he was the same age as Bokuto; he liked volleyball. When they were thirteen, Akaashi learned the guitar, dropping volleyball to focus on that instead. Occasionally, sloppy little melodies or lyric snippets that were Akaashi's own creations would pop up in the crooks of Bokuto's elbows. Bokuto was probably a little over-enthusiastic about the discovery that his soulmate was so incredibly talented, but that was okay. Akaashi had always said he liked Bokuto's energy, so long as it wasn't turned toward self-destructive purposes.

Unfortunately, that happened all too often. Bokuto had grown up surrounded by a few maids or nannies, but never parents. He could never remember seeing his parents for more than a month at a time, and he considered it a good year if they came home for a month or so and for a birthday, or maybe Christmas. It wasn't like they meant to leave him alone like that, but most days coming home to a huge house that was mostly empty made Bokuto feel very, very small. It got worse when Bokuto was ten and his parents, during one of their brief stays, decided that he was too old for the servants and he was left alone.

The loneliness was only less crushing when Bokuto was talking with Akaashi. Most nights, he would end up with ink all over his arms and legs. The next morning when he showered, he was always grateful that pens had been produced purely for the purpose of communicating with one's soulmate, so they were non-toxic and easily washable.

When Akaashi wasn't there, though, Bokuto had lots of time to think. Too much time; it led to bad things. Bokuto knew he had been a troublemaking little shit as a kid, and he often found himself wondering if that was why his parents spent so much time away from him. Over time, he came to believe that it was.

Of course, he never said a word to Akaashi about that. He still found out—Bokuto wasn't a good liar, and the Link made it impossible to hide it when he spent so long scrubbing his hands in the sink because they weren't clean enough that he started to bleed. Bokuto hated making Akaashi worry, but the idea of the perfect son that he had convinced himself that his parents wanted drove those tendencies to the extreme. He would spend hours writing and rewriting and rewriting draft upon draft of every little school assignment, literally working himself to the point where he would pass out in the middle of a hallway because he hadn't slept for days at a time. Once, he had gone an entire week and a half without sleeping, with the help of a metric fuck-ton caffeine. He kept his room and the rest of the house completely spotless, on the off-chance that his parents would come home without warning, and if he saw anything out of place he would stress about it for hours until he finally just decided to clean the house again—he ended up cleaning the house four or five times a day, a lot of the time. Bokuto tried to keep everything at a perfect equilibrium – flawless, spotless, and bright, so that his parents would maybe see how hard he was trying and stay for a couple days longer.

They never did, but he kept trying anyway.

He knew it wasn't healthy; it didn't take a genius to see that. The number of burns he had gotten from when he had accidentally spilled bleach on his bare arms or legs while cleaning was honestly frightening. Even though he knew he should stop, he just couldn't. Every time he tried to stop, it just got worse and worse until he ended up cleaning or scrubbing at his hands without even realizing he was doing it. He really didn't want to live with those compulsions for the rest of his life, and he didn't want to burden Akaashi with them if—when, he always reminded himself—they ever met, but he just couldn't see a way around it.

Akaashi was helpful, though, and Bokuto thought that his OCD had gotten a little better once his soulmate had started learning how to help him control it. When Bokuto was scrubbing his hands to the point of bleeding, Akaashi would write sweet, reassuring messages on his palms until Bokuto stopped, not wanting to mar the words from his soulmate. When Bokuto spent too long overthinking schoolwork or cleaning, Akaashi would doodle on his arms and legs or write music on his skin, the patterns gentle and nearly hypnotic, until Bokuto calmed down or fell asleep. To Bokuto, Akaashi was the best thing that had ever happened.

Akaashi had his bad days, too, of course. When they were twelve, Akaashi had told Bokuto that he had been diagnosed with and medicated for depression. It was easy to tell that he had been upset; Akaashi's handwriting had been sloppy and nearly illegible. Bokuto had done his best to support his soulmate; it took Bokuto nearly two years to convince Akaashi to finally take his meds on a regular basis. Some days, Akaashi hadn't even been able to get out of bed, and Bokuto had done his best to make it at least a little better. There was a nearly-permanent heart drawn on the back of Bokuto's hand, and he made sure to trace over it every time it started to fade. It was a gentle reminder to them both that no matter what happened they would have at least one person by their side.

When they first met, they were sixteen. It was an accident, really, but neither of them really minded it. Bokuto had been nearly passed out and had knocked against Akaashi, spilling his coffee. Both had hissed when the coffee had been mostly dumped on Akaashi's arm, then they had both started laughing. Akaashi had a burn on his arm for close to two weeks, but he told Bokuto he didn't care. Bokuto had taken Akaashi home, bandaged his arm, and then promptly passed out in his soulmate's lap. Akaashi hadn't moved; when Bokuto woke he was still sitting on the bed and stroking his hand gently through Bokuto's hair. It was a nice, warm feeling that both of them adored.

Akaashi was somehow sassier in person, but he never went too far with his joking. Akaashi knew what Bokuto's emotional limits were and was careful, ever so careful, to make sure that those boundaries weren't overstepped. Bokuto found it sweet.

When they were eighteen, Bokuto was in the midst of over-studying for a final—college was even more brutal on him than high school had been—when Akaashi showed up in the middle of night with nothing more than a duffel bag of clothes in his hand and his guitar case slung over his shoulder. He was surprisingly calm as he explained that his parents had kicked him out of the house upon hearing that he wasn't going to the college of their choice, but one to further his career in music instead. Bokuto was not calm. He raged and growled and held Akaashi protectively, swearing that he could stay with Bokuto.

After an anxiety-inducing phone call to his parents, Bokuto was able to keep his word. That night, he and Akaashi slept side-by-side for the first time, and it was the best night's sleep that Bokuto had gotten in years.

Things didn't get much better, but at least they were together for it. There were still days where Akaashi couldn't find the motivation to do anything but lay in bed and stare blankly at the wall, and Bokuto still was stuck in his constant loops of homework and cleaning, but it was easier, almost. Akaashi made everything brighter and warmer and sweeter, somehow.

A month and a half later, Bokuto was a mess. At least, a bigger mess than normal. The entire day had been something straight from one of his nightmares. He had failed a test – it was a pretest, but it still hit him like a ton of bricks – he had missed a total of four calls from his parents, and he had flubbed every single spike during volleyball practice that day. It had taken so, so much effort not to break down in tears the moment he walked through the door. He didn't.

Akaashi could tell something was wrong, Bokuto knew. He could always tell; it probably had something to do with the Link but Bokuto had never cared enough to think about it in depth. Bokuto knew it hurt Akaashi, too, but whenever he tried to talk to his soulmate about things like his OCD, he just froze and he usually ended up changing the topic at the last second. It was hard to talk about things like that, even with someone like Akaashi who he knew without a doubt would love him despite it.

Bokuto threw himself into what he knew best: violent scrubbing of the bathtubs with a bottle or two of bleach to aid the process. It wasn't a good idea; he often spilled things when he was agitated, and that only made the compulsion to clean and the urge to cry worse because goddammit I can't even clean properly why can't I do something simple—

Bokuto didn't realize he was crying until thin, gentle arms wrapped around him. Akaashi pulled him to his feet and half-dragged him into their bedroom, sitting him down on the bed. Slowly, Bokuto began to realize the little things. The things like the fact that Bokuto was shaking, and that both of his shins were red and stinging and Bokuto knew that they were burning. He hissed when Akaashi pressed a cold, wet washcloth to the burns and tried to pull away, but Akaashi fixed him with a firm look and Bokuto gave in. He hung his head, letting the tears drip slowly down his cheeks as Akaashi tended to the bleach burns on his shins.

When he was done, Akaashi sat beside Bokuto and pulled him close, stroking his hands through the ace's hair. Bokuto lost it completely. He clung to Akaashi as he sobbed, his entire body wracked with the force of them. He didn't know how long they lasted, only that by the time he was done, his face was numb and his throat was sore. Akaashi had started to press soft, gentle kisses to every patch of skin he could reach on Bokuto's face, murmuring gentle reassurances as he did. It helped, to an extent, but Bokuto still felt shaky.

They both froze as the front door opened and then shut. Akaashi pressed a gentle kiss to Bokuto's forehead and stood, walking out just far enough into the hallway to see who was in the house. When he came back to his soulmate, Akaashi's words made Bokuto feel like the floor had dropped out from beneath him.

"Kou, your parents are home."

Not a moment later, Bokuto knew it was true because his mother's voice called out "Koutarou, where are you?" from amidst the sound of suitcase wheels against the floor of the foyer.

Bokuto felt sick and elated at the same time. His parents were home, but he looked like shit and there was a spilled bottle of bleach on the bathroom floor and oh fuck he didn't finish cleaning. Akaashi's hands were cool as they cupped Bokuto's cheeks, efficiently anchoring him to reality.

"Koutarou, listen to me. You'll be fine. We don't have to tell them if you—"

A shriek cut Akaashi off. Bokuto flinched and Akaashi pulled him a little closer, as if to protect him.

"Koutarou, where are you? Are you okay?" Bokuto's mother's tone was more worried that time; it was obvious that she had seen the mess her son had made of the bleach.

Bokuto had started shaking again. Akaashi ran his hands through the ace's hair in a mostly futile attempt to calm him down. "Kou, sweetheart, you'll be fine. She's not mad, I promise."

Bokuto didn't get a chance to respond because by the time he had started to process what Akaashi had said, his mother swept into the room and bundled him up into her arms.

"Koutarou! Are you alright? I saw the spilled bleach and I—oh, darling, you poor thing!" Bokuto's mother had spotted the long but minor burns on Bokuto's shins. Akaashi had been pushed out of the way, but had grabbed Bokuto's hand in an attempt to anchor the ace. Bokuto had a death grip on it.

"I'm fine, mom." Bokuto croaked, though he leaned desperately into her embrace. It had been nearly a year and a half since he had last seen his parents, so the feeling of her arms around him was something to cherish and enjoy for as long as possible.

"Koutarou, what happened?" Bokuto glanced up, then away. His father's face was too tender to be real.

"I must be dreaming." Bokuto murmured, not thinking about what he said. "This can't be real."

Akaashi gently pulled him from his mother's arms and kissed his forehead. "You're not dreaming, sweetheart, you're awake. You're awake, and this is real. They love you, Kou. They always have."

Bokuto's parents seemed to figure out what was going on because they both sighed sadly and wrapped the two in their arms. Bokuto had started to cry again. No one really reacted.

"I'm so sorry, Koutarou," his mother whispered, "I promise, we don't have to leave again for at least a year. I'm sorry we didn't figure it out sooner."

When Bokuto was eighteen, his parents came home and stayed home.

When Bokuto was nineteen, he finally allowed his parents and his soulmate to convince him to go to a therapist—Akaashi went with him, of course. A week later, he was prescribed medication. He took it, and it helped.

When Bokuto was twenty-three, he relapsed. Akaashi and Bokuto's parents were there to help, and he was okay again.

When Bokuto was twenty-five, he married Akaashi. His father walked Akaashi down the isle, since Akaashi's father wasn't there to do it. They all cried at least a little.

Bokuto had never been happier.