Peter isn't sure what he had been expecting, but it definitely was not this.

He had wrestled with himself for most of the day before, unsure what to do about the curiosity that was eating at his insides. Luckily, Ned was too oblivious to notice that there was anything wrong, especially since he was still reeling from the successful night they had had two days prior. Ned loves being the guy in the chair all the time, but when they manage to stop a massive heist at Queens County Savings Bank, he really, really loves it. Peter was thrilled too, of course, but not as much as he should have been. Instead, while Ned kept him up until four in the morning on the phone, he had found himself watching as ink stains blossomed across his hands.

Peter knows he has a soulmate, and he has for a long time. They're very careful, meticulous, even, about washing away all and any traces of ink from their skin almost as soon as they appear. But they are an artist or some sort. Ink on their hands must be unavoidable when they are drawing or writing, because for stretches of time Peter's hands often tingle on and off as black and blue tinges his left middle finger like a bruise. It is right where a writing callus would be, and it is always the first thing to become covered in ink. Little lines and dots slowly spread across his hands as well, but never before that callus.

He cherishes them while they last, because as soon as they stop appearing they are scrubbed away.

Last night, he had been looking down at the unmarked skin of his hands, wishing that the warm tingling would appear and that ink would cover the bruises all across his knuckles from a fight with a thug. It was then that he found himself reaching for a pen and writing the words.

Are you there?

Peter knows people who had spent hours preparing the first sentences they will write to their soulmates. Cindy Moon is one such person, and she and her partner are constantly updating their Instagrams with happy pictures together. Peter doesn't know if that is what he wants, but when he stared down at his bruised hands last night, he knew that he wanted to see something, anything. So he did the stupid thing and picked up the pen, and he knew he could not take back what he had done.

For a while, he had waited in the dark of his room. May was asleep and all of the lights were off except for his flashlight, which had miraculously not run out of battery even though it was at least four years old. There had been no reply, and so he had written more.

I know you're here, my hands were covered in ink yesterday night.

Every moment he waited felt uncertain, and Peter had ended up groaning and rolling over to shove his face onto his pillow. He knew he was an idiot for doing something so important on an impulse. But even if he doesn't know exactly what he wants to do about his soulmate, he does know he wants them in his life.

The tingling had caused him to sit up so fast that he almost hit his head on the bunk bed.

Fantastic. If you're done playing Sherlock, I'm trying to sleep.

Peter had spent several seconds gaping at the writing on his arm. He had felt a twinge of guilt and a ton of uncertainty. But almost against his will, he had written one final thing before switching off the flashlight.

Goodnight.

This morning, Peter sits in his bed staring at the writing that is left from the conversation of the night before. He slept poorly and woke early, so he takes the time to look at the words in the gray morning light. The ink from the crappy pen he used is slightly smeared, but his soulmate's ink is dark and unchanged against his skin. He studies the cursive, running his finger along each loop. Even the words that he can tell were written by an irritated hand are beautiful. They are tightly compacted and messy, and the writer clearly values speed over appearance. The 'i's are dotted with a sharp jab that he can practically envision in his mind's eye.

Fantastic, Peter thinks to himself, I'm already freaking out over, like, one sentence. He knows he is screwed.

Peter drags himself out of bed and stumbles to the shower, where he easily scrubs away his own writing. He doesn't want to leave it longer than is warranted, not with the person who so carefully washes away their own ink every time. If he hasn't pissed them off already by writing to them way too late, he knows he probably will by leaving his words on her skin longer than necessary. But even though his writing fades, his soulmate's does not. No matter what he does, it is their job to remove it themselves. They are probably still sleeping, so he takes the time to relish the feeling of it on his wrist while he still can. For once, he doesn't have to worry about it disappearing out of nowhere.

As Peter darts around his room, grabbing various books from where they are spread out on his desk, he tries not to think about what he is going to do about the whole soulmate thing. Contact has been established, so it technically wouldn't be too weird if he tried to talk again. But they did not seem enthused by his first attempt, and it was a bit difficult to tell through writing exactly the inflection of what was said.

But whatever, Peter decided as he yanked on a t-shirt with the periodic table of elements on it. He was going to try again, and this time, he wasn't going to fail.

"Thompson, as fascinating as your droning on about the Mariana Trench is, I asked you to compile facts on trench warfare." MJ's dry remark cuts through Flash's presentation, which has been going on for ten minutes of facts about the depths and the measurements of the various underwater trenches. The whole table lets out a collective sigh of relief, lowering their pens from the index cards they have been filling out.

These reports are something MJ introduced when she first became decathlon captain, and Peter is fairly sure that they are a large part of the reason why the decathlon team's scores are improving. Every week, MJ assigns three different people topics to research. Those people compile the most important facts and principles from the various subject, everything from geology to conspiracy theories. When everyone has made their reports, they present them to the whole team so that everyone can make flashcards with them. It's ingenious, and that's how Peter knows MJ came up with it herself.

Flash's jaw drops as MJ interrupts him, and his eyes widen. "No, you didn't say-"

"Yes, she did," Abe interrupts. "She told you three times."

Flash glares at Abe from across the table, and Peter raises an eyebrow as he too glances at his frustrated classmate. "There's no way you can know-" Flash begins.

By way of response, Abe ruffles through his meticulous notes until he comes to a specific page, holding it up for them all to see. There, Abe has the various report assignments and their topics, and Flash's is clearly labeled 'war in the trenches. Beside the assignments is an untitled column, and everyone's name has only one check next to it- other than Flash whose box has got three.

"That row is for-"

"Um, yes, I think we know what that's for, Abraham, thank you," Mr. Harrington interjects quickly.

Peter lets out a soft huff of laughter, and Flash immediately turns to glare at him. "No one asked you, Penis. At least I actually come to practice."

Harrington's eyes widen behind his spectacles, and he is clearly unsure how to handle the situation. "Flash, that's... Not... Something we say."

"Peter has been here every day for weeks," Ned informs Flash.

"Oh, are you defending your boyfriend now?" Flash crows, facing Ned. Ned recoils, appearing as though he has been physically slapped.

Peter's eyes flash over with red. He is ready to lean across the table and punch Flash in the face with his super strength for putting that look onto his best friend's face. It would be immensely satisfying to web Flash to the ceiling and to watch him there, not knowing what hit him. Before Peter can do anything he regretted, however, MJ is speaking.

"If only you got points for homophobia in practice rounds," she retorts, and there is a bite in her voice that Peter is fairly sure could do some serious damage. Flash's jaw drops, but MJ isn't finished. "If you're done screwing around, I want a report on trench warfare shared with me by seven o' clock tonight with sources linked. And do me a favor, make it twice the length."

"Give me a break, I didn't mean that Leeds was-"

"I really don't care what you meant," MJ cuts him off. Her eyes flash dangerously as she stares him down. "I care that you decided it was a good idea to imply that a certain type of sexuality is worthy of being used as an insult. Are we done, Eugene?"

Flash gawks at MJ. "I… I have plans," he fumbles.

MJ does not budge. "Cancel them."

Peter's eyes widen as he stares at MJ, along with everyone else. She seems thoroughly unbothered by the stares as a shell-shocked Harrington struggles with whether or not to intervene in the situation. He decides against it, and Peter knows that it's because MJ has handled it better than he ever could. Something about this is surprising to Peter in the best way.

Peter and Ned have known for a long time that MJ is perfectly capable of shutting Flash up. But that is not what is so remarkable about this; MJ did it for Ned, who is currently looking her that she is a goddess.

"Now," MJ announces, her voice as unbothered as ever as she sits back down. "Let's break into groups, come on. I want everyone done with at least one set of flashcards in fifteen minutes." There is chatter as they pair off, and MJ moves to pull her own cards from her bag. For a moment, neither Peter or Ned moves, and then Peter's best friend speaks up.

"Um, MJ-" Ned begins, clasping his hands in his lap. She looks up, raising an expectant eyebrow. "Thanks for… Erm… You know."

MJ looks back down at her cards, and though she is not smiling, Peter can see a hint of pink in the undertones of her cheeks. "Yeah, whatever," she mutters. For a moment, there is quiet between them.

"So…" Peter says slowly. "There's an odd number, do you want to study with us?"

When MJ looks up at him, there is surprise in her eyes for just a moment. Then, slowly, MJ begins to nod. "Fine," she replies slowly, but she doesn't look away the way Peter is expecting her to. In fact, as they begin to quiz her, there is a little glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes, one that is mirrored in Peter's own thoughts.

He manages to gather up the courage during Pre-Calculus.

Peter grips a black Papermate in his hand, spinning it between his fingers hesitantly. Finally, when he can't stand it anymore, he uncaps the pen and holds it to his skin.

You're an artist, right?

The ink sinks into his skin with a finality that sends his stomach flopping, and Peter sets the pen down. He is not expecting any sort of response since his soulmate tried to ignore him the last time he made contact. This is why it catches him off guard when the tingling starts almost right away. Peter stares at his skin as the words form, as though a ghost is writing them.

You're a stalker, right?

He has to hold back an amused breath as he picks up his pen again.

I notice when you get a lot of ink on our hands. It's a lot of different colors.

Peter chews his lip, trying not to think about the way that his heart speeds up when he writes 'our hands.' His soulmate takes a bit longer to respond this time, causing him to actually attempt to do a problem until he feels the tingling again. He is probably doing it wrong anyway, so Peter turns to look at his arm.

I write and I draw. I don't really see how it's any of your business.

Peter winces when he sees this appear on his arm. Last night he had been able to pass off his soulmate's hostility as sleep-deprivation, but this is something else. He picks up his pen with a shaking hand.

I mean, we're soulmates. I guess I wanted to know more about you.

The response is immediate.

And what if I'm not interested in having a soulmate?

Peter lets out a sharp breath, and he feels a sinking feeling in his chest. Is this because of his awkward attempt at contact? Is it his fault? He doesn't know, but with heavy fingers, he writes back anyway. The words feel like a betrayal of every fiber of his being, but they're true, so he forces himself to write it.

Then that's your choice, and I get to respect it.

Peter lets out a shaky breath, blinking several times as he turns to look at a whiteboard filled with problems that he knows he won't be able to solve later. There is an ache in his chest that he. doesn't want to think about, but then the tingling resumes.

I draw mostly sketches with brush pens.

When he looks down at this, he has to blink several times to register what it says. When he does, the ghost of a hopeful smile slides onto his lips, and he turns back to his math page.

He's not going to push this, the fragile bond that is forged by ink on another's arm. Right now, he is just going to do his math homework and try to wipe that stupid smile off of his face.