QL, Round 12 | Wigtown Wanderers | Beater 1 | Anything you write or draw on yourself appears on your soulmate
Additional Prompts | 10. [object] pen/quill, 12. [dialogue] "I've waited my entire life for this. What if I mess it up?"
WC: 2999
o . o . o
watch the stars burst into light
Dean closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, breathing deeply. He was eighteen now. If he had a soulmate and they were older, it would work now. He'd be able to draw something and his soulmate would see it and could communicate back.
Dean had thought about this moment for a long time, trying to figure out what he should say. Is anybody there? That seemed a bit bleak though. Trying to chat them up seemed wrong too; they didn't even know each other. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't think of the perfect words. But anything was better than nothing, right?
With shaking fingers, Dean picked up a pen from his desk, one with smooth black ink, and placed it against the soft skin at the inside of his forearm.
Hi
He waited anxiously, hoping that someone would answer. He felt like the minutes were stretching out endlessly as he stared at his arm. After a while, he considered the idea of going to sleep, but he knew he would never manage it. Dean changed into pyjamas and climbed into bed, still clutching the pen.
After about twenty minutes, Dean saw a second word appear on his arm in messy handwriting that was so different from his own.
Hello
Dean felt a surge of excitement that knocked away any twinge of fatigue. What should he say next? Before he could write anything else, another line of scrawling words appeared on his forearm.
Bloody hell, been waiting nearly seven months for this
Really? Dean wrote back hastily. So your birthday is… in October?
Yeah, the 27th. Happy birthday by the way!
Thanks :) Dean paused for a moment. So what happens now?
It took a little while before his soulmate answered. As Dean waited, it struck him how little he knew about the person on the other side of these messages. Where did they live? What was their name? Were they a guy or a girl?
I'm not sure, I guess we get to know each other a bit
Will you tell me your name?
That feels sort of… against the rules, doesn't it?
I suppose. But I feel like I should call you something.
Perhaps we can come up with some sort of codenames?
Okay, I like the sound of that.
Dean looked out the window, trying to think of something to call his soulmate. Tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness outside sparked an idea.
What about 'firefly'? For you. Dunno why, but I just like it. Something unique, just for you.
It's perfect! I think I'll call you 'a thaisce'.
What is that? Dean asked, confused by the unfamiliar term.
It's Irish, it means 'my treasure', it's something we call our loved ones
Ah! So you're Irish then?
I am
Dean could almost picture his soulmate laughing at the words, and he smiled himself as he held this information close. His soulmate was Irish. He'd never considered that his soulmate might not be English, but he kind of liked it, and he was already fond of the endearment they had chosen. Dean felt very optimistic. He'd only had a soulmate for a few minutes, but he felt like it was going very well so far.
o.o.o
Dean looked at his bare forearm, wishing that something would appear on his dark skin. He wanted to talk to his soulmate more, but he didn't want to seem too eager. He bit his lip, debating what to do. In the end, he decided that as it was a Saturday, so he would do what he always did on Saturdays. Dean set up his easel and pulled out all his paints, intending to create something beautiful.
After half an hour, Dean was still staring at a nearly blank canvas, unmarked save for one green streak of paint. He simply wasn't feeling inspired. Usually, when he put his paintbrush to the untouched canvas, he could visualize what he wanted to paint, but today his mind was frustratingly blank. Absent-mindedly, Dean began to dip his brushes in new colours and swirl them over his skin. Sunset orange, dusky purple, navy blue, butter yellow. Slowly, a beautiful picture began to unfold on his forearm. Dean barely noticed how much time had passed as he continued to touch up the details, until suddenly he saw a messily written line of text along his bicep.
That's beautiful. Where did you learn something like that?
Dean smiled. The words made him happier than he'd expected. Soulmates… you expect that you'll get on, but there's always a bit of a question. Is it really meant to be or do you just make it work because you believe that it is? But here was the first bit of proof that his soulmate could actually be a good match for him. He appreciated Dean's artwork and saw the beauty in it.
Dunno, Dean wrote back. Just something I've always been able to do.
I would've commented sooner but I only just finished playing footie. It was kind of fun seeing it slowly appear as I played.
Dean blinked at the words, smiling slightly. So, his little firefly played football then. He imagined that they were a forward - fast and feisty and damned exciting to watch. He loved football, had been a West Ham supporter all his life, and he loved that it was something they had in common. Perhaps the universe really had matched them up well.
Hey, do you think it'll wash away if I go shower? Only it's not really on my skin, it's on yours, so I'm not sure. I'm all sweaty and gross, but I don't want to ruin your painting.
You have to shower sometime, firefly. If it does come off, I'll just paint you something else.
Promise?
Yeah, of course!
Twenty minutes later, Dean watched as the pigments faded from his dark skin, melting away unevenly as though rivulets of water were running down his skin. His mind began to wander, imagining his soulmate in the shower, running hands over wet skin, and Dean had to shake his head to clear those thoughts from his mind. Now was not the time.
o.o.o
It became something of a morning ritual. First thing after he woke up, Dean would grab a sharpie, or several, and doodle something on his wrist or up his arm for his soulmate to see when they awoke. Dean lived for the responses, scrawled in messy handwriting across his arm, but every day he found himself longing for more.
Dean began to stretch their conversations out, sharing more of himself each time. No identifying details, they had agreed as much, but his thoughts and feelings. He ranted on the days when his sisters were driving him mad and shared his bizarre dreams in the morning. His soulmate reciprocated as well, sharing anxieties and hopes and stories of the many unusual turns their day took. Dean liked getting to know them, and the more they shared with each other, the more he believed in the pair of them.
And the more he wanted to meet.
Hey firefly? What do you think about getting together in person?
Dean waited anxiously for a response. Perhaps they had already gone to bed, but he didn't think so.
Not just now, but maybe soon, they replied eventually.
What was that supposed to mean? Did they not really want to meet him? Were they not feeling the same way as him? Dean felt his heart racing, and not in a good way. As if they could read his mind, another line of writing appeared in his soulmate's messy handwriting right below the last.
It's just a busy couple of weeks. I've got a big game at the end of the month.
Okay, no problem. Why's this game a big one?
It... could be a really big opportunity for me, if I don't mess up.
I'm sure you won't! I bet you're fantastic.
Thanks, a thaisce.
Dean felt like his heart was glowing, like he always did when they called him that. Even if it had just started out as a sort of nickname, he never felt like it was insincere. It always felt like they really saw him that way. A treasure. Their treasure.
o.o.o
Dean woke up exceedingly early on the morning of June 25th. Part of it was by necessity - it would take all morning to make the drive up to Manchester - but part of it was pure excitement. He loved football, and he loved going to games. He went to West Ham games fairly frequently with his dad, but this was Euros. He'd never gotten to see the national team play in person before, but he couldn't be more excited for it.
Good morning, firefly! Dean wrote quickly across his arm. He didn't have time for his usual drawing now, but he'd do something in the car.
Morning, his soulmate wrote back, and Dean could just tell that the words were grumbled unhappily.
How did you sleep?
I didn't.
Nerves? Dean knew that this was a big day for them as well, and it didn't surprise him that they were anxious about it. He was a bit anxious for them too, when he stopped to think about it.
Yeah, I just… I've waited my entire life for this. What if I mess it up?
Dean wished he could hug them so badly.
You won't mess it up. I believe in you.
But what if I do?
Even if you mess up, you'll still have me. But that won't happen.
:) I have to go now
Good luck!
Dean was loath to wash away the messages before he left the house because he wanted his soulmate to be able to see it right up until their game began. But at the same time, he really wanted to do a special painting for them today. Sighing, he took a damp washcloth and rubbed it across his forearm, wiping away every word. He got dressed for the game, pulling on his Joe Cole kit, and made his way downstairs, where his dad was waiting for him.
"Ready to go?" he asked, and Dean nodded in reply, still a bit sleepy.
For the first hour of the drive, Dean dozed in the passenger seat, his head leaning against the cool window. Once they'd made a decent bit of progress, they stopped at a service station for some coffee and pastries, then continued on with their drive. Dean pulled out several paint pens, sticking them in the cupholder next to him. One at a time, he began selecting them and popping the tops off with his teeth before tracing the tips over his skin in sweeping motions. As the midlands scenery flew past his window, an intricate painting began to take shape on his arm, depicting a colourful football player mid-kick, with abstract bursts of colour exploding in the background. Once his forearm was completely covered, Dean went back and added in details - goalposts, a crowd, clouds in a bright sunset sky. At the bottom, by the inside corner of his elbow, Dean scribbled his name, small and nearly illegible. They wouldn't notice it, and certainly wouldn't be able to read it if they did. He sprayed the painting with a setting spray when he was finished so that it would hopefully withstand sweat and not melt away. He hoped it made them smile or gave them a little boost of confidence.
Old Trafford was crawling with fans when they arrived, most of them wearing the white and red of England, though every here and there was someone dressed in Ireland's bright green. Dean filed into the stadium with his dad, winding through the walkways until they reached their section and then down through the stands. They'd gotten incredibly lucky - the only reason they were able to go to the game was because they'd won a raffle at his dad's work, and the seats were incredible. Three rows back, opposite the England bench. It was the perfect place to watch the game. The players would be only a few metres away.
Dean and his dad chatted idly to pass the time, waiting for the game to start. After about thirty minutes, the announcer's voice blared through the speakers as the teams marched out onto the field for the national anthems. The Irish anthem played first, and Dean watched as the starting eleven on the Irish side sang along with pride. When it was over, God Save the Queen began and the stands echoed with the crowd's voices. Dean joined in as well, his patriotism stoked by the atmosphere of the game. Afterward, the crowd cheered and horns blared, everyone eager for the game to begin.
From the moment the game kicked off, it was intense and exciting. It was hardly surprising - the political history between the two countries turned into a natural rivalry. Both teams played aggressively, tackling each other with no reservations. The first yellow card was issued only seven minutes into the game, and three more followed in the first half alone. England scored five minutes into the second half, causing Ireland to get even more physical as they tried to get even.
Five minutes later, Ireland's winger got a breakaway, sprinting full out with the ball. But England was not about to sit back and let him score. The English fullback came out of nowhere, sliding across the grass to knock the ball away. Even though it was a clean challenge, the defender still got in the way of the midfielder's run, tripping him up and sending him sprawling. The Irish midfielder landed on hands and knees before collapsing onto his stomach, but it immediately became clear that something was not right. A hush fell over the stadium as everyone watched. The English defender was the first there, checking on the midfielder to see if he was alright, and he helped him turn onto his back. But where most players would have been rolling around and moaning, the midfielder was completely still. His chest was heaving and he had brought his arms up to press against his head as if he could block out the pain that way, but no other part of his body moved. Medics quickly appeared, and just as quickly determined that the player was severely injured, bringing over a stretcher to carry him away. On the sideline, an Irish player stripped off his warmups and jogged closer, ready to be waved on when the game restarted.
"Replacing Niall Foley, number fourteen, Seamus Finnigan," the announcer called through the stadium.
Finnigan jogged across the field, and as he got closer, Dean noticed something that made him gasp. Around Finnigan's forearm was a swirl of colorful artwork. Dean tried to catch the details, but he was sure it was a perfect match for the painting he'd made on his own arm hours earlier. He looked at Seamus, certain that his soulmate was standing before him. He had fair skin that made the colours of the painting pop, a pleasantly round face, and light brownish-blonde hair. He was quite attractive, really.
Dean felt utterly distracted as the game continued, and completely conflicted. He knew how important this game was for Seamus, and he wanted him to do well, but that would mean his own team losing. He nearly cheered when Seamus scored in the 85th minute, earning a bewildered look from his dad.
The game dragged into overtime before finishing with a 2-1 win for England, but Dean felt like it passed in a fog. All he could think about was his soulmate, standing right there, only a few metres away from him. He couldn't let this moment pass. When the final whistle blew, Dean knew he only had a few minutes before Seamus would be off across the pitch and out of earshot.
"Oi! Firefly!" Dean called out, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Seamus turned around, his eyes searching the crowd wildly. Dean reached out, waving in his direction, and he saw Seamus' eyes fix on the painting that covered his arm. He glanced down at his own arm, then looked back at Dean, positively beaming. He jogged across the field until he reached Dean and stood right in front of him, breathing hard and sweaty but with bright eyes.
"Hi," Seamus said.
His voice was better than anything Dean could have imagined. It was deep - not Morgan Freeman deep, but quite attractive - and even from one word, he could tell that it had a classic Irish lilt to it. Up close, Dean could see that his eyes were an electric blue, intensified by the pink flush across his cheeks.
"Hi," Dean replied, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm Dean."
Seamus leaned forward quickly, reaching for Dean across the barrier. He was already shorter than Dean, and on lower ground, so he grabbed his shirt and tugged him down until he could kiss him. Dean reciprocated immediately, his hands cupping Seamus' jaw tenderly as he kissed back. It felt perfect. It was everything Dean had always hoped it would be. As they pulled away, they both smiled, incandescently happy.
"I had no idea that this was the game you meant," Dean said, brushing his thumb across Seamus' cheek.
"I'm really glad you were here though," Seamus replied. His cheeks were brighter pink now, a cheerful stain across his ivory skin.
"Me too," Dean answered.
"Can you wait for a while?" Seamus asked. "I'd like to spend a bit more time with you but I -"
"Yeah, go, do your thing, I'll wait here," Dean agreed, grinning.
"Thanks, I'll be back soon."
Seamus stretched up on his toes to give Dean one more quick kiss before he jogged off across the pitch. Dean returned to his seat, sitting back down next to his dad and sighing happily.
"I found him, Dad. I found my soulmate."
