‧₊˚🖇️✩ 𝐍𝐎𝐄˚🎧⊹♡

Lee

When he still had flesh and bone, his mark was located on his inner wrist — the geometric pattern sprawled over his median nerve like a caution sign. Morian was always careful with it, opting to hide it beneath bandages and wrist wraps most of the time. He hid it not out of superstition that scratching it would transfer to his partner nor did he do it out of preference to keep prying eyes off of it. No, Morian buried his mark simply out of guilt — if it had been located anywhere else on his body he would have left it well enough alone. But his mark manifested too close to his hands. Though he wears gloves on the job as a necessity, he always goes the extra mile to wrap up his left wrist as well. Just the thought of blood staining his skin there leaves a bitter taste in his mouth — coppery and rotten. Morian doesn’t imagine he will ever meet his soulmate, but still he can’t help but protect this single innocent thing mistakenly branded upon his skin. For years, as he worked in the filth and the dark, he kept that patch of his skin free of bloodstains. Perhaps it was all for naught, or perhaps it never mattered to begin with, as the first and last time blood trailed down his wrist and traced the pattern of his marking was when they broke his body down piece by piece and gave his heart to his brother. That was the last he saw of that pattern for a long, long time. 

Lee sees it by happenstance one day, not long after he joins the Gray Ravens. Even back then, you had a habit of getting injured when no one was looking. It had been a scouting mission, something simple and routine. Easy. Slowly, cautious step by step, he was adjusting to his new team, even if he still felt unsettled by your effortless kindness and patience. He wasn’t sure what to make of it back then, as all he knew at the time was false niceties with strings attached (he knows better now, but sometimes he wishes you would be selfish for once). They had paused in the ruins of a dilapidated mall while Liv ran a few more scans of the area; Lucia stood guard at the entrance to the small store corner they claimed, and Lee was running his own calculations to add information for Liv’s search. You, however, were rummaging around in the debris, quiet as a thief until you sliced your palm on warped metal. Your hiss of pain immediately caught the attention of all three of them. Liv and Lee were closest to you and leapt to your side with their weapons raised, while Lucia was quick to fall back within reach. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you had said, “Just a scratch.” 

“This isn’t the time to be playing around,” Lee had hissed, “You have no idea what’s buried under the trash here.” 

“Please be careful, Commandant,” Liv had fretted as soon as she saw the blood seeping through your glove.  

“Sorry,” your sheepish smile, even back then, didn’t have an ounce of remorse. “That little girl said she lost her stuffed rabbit around here when they fled. I was hoping to find it.” 

Meaningless, Lee remembers thinking as he watched Liv pull the glove from your left hand and carefully clean the wound. Lee had watched idly — glaring, really, hoping his scowl would discourage you from future pointless endeavors — as Liv worked. It was only when she finished bandaging the wound and cleaning the blood from your hand entirely that he caught sight of it. You had raised your hand up slightly, fingers flexing as you tested the bandage. But that small movement caused the sleeve of your uniform to slide just an inch further down your arm and bare your wrist in full display. Branded on your skin was a geometric pattern Lee had not seen in years. 

Lee still remembers the way his own wrist itched and burned at the sight — as if that mark still lingered, etched somehow into the metal of him. If you had noticed how quiet he had fallen after that, how his lips pressed into a line so thin they paled, you never commented on it. Your mark was not spoken of, as if it wasn’t branded across your skin in plain sight, and the day continued on as if it were any other. 

Despite the long time that has since passed, Lee's eyes always linger on your mark when you're not looking. Most days he can catch a glimpse of it, flashing over the rim of your sleeve or from beneath the bottom of your glove. Even now, his breath catches at the sight every time, like a fisher’s hook snagged in his lungs he stumbles and shudders. Like a fool, he can’t help but search for it still and the nights that draw to a close without him catching even a glimpse of your mark are the longest and loneliest by far. There’s a fear — irrational though it is, he cannot shake himself of it — a worry that one day your mark will be erased. Just like his was. 

Now and then, to quiet his fears and that bitter taste that builds at the back of his throat, he finds ways to brush against your mark. His fingers graze it like a ghost’s kiss, barely noticeable, whenever he tries to pull you away from overworking, when he brings you something to drink while working, when he "adjusts" your uniform because the Commandant of the Gray Ravens cannot be disheveled like this. If you notice the way his fingertips always brush against your left inner wrist when he adjusts the cuff links of your uniform or plucks invisible threads from your sleeve, you do not comment on it. Nor do you say anything when his fears grow too large after he settles into his Hyperreal frame — bloodied and burdened with memories he cannot recall — and he places his fingers upon your wrist to press against the vein to take your vitals despite you both knowing the touch is unnecessary. 

He never once asks you what you thought about your soulmate marking. You have never asked about his. You are simply patient, as you always are — waiting for him to arrive at an answer he is ready to share. Sometimes he wonders what you think is on his mind when his caution falters and you catch him staring at your mark. He doesn’t regret giving his heart to Murray — not for one second. There is simply a part of him that mourns for the loss of that unique pattern once branded upon his skin. There is simply an ache left in the geometric shape of where it once was that metal has since erased. 

Lee can no longer prove to you what he once had, but he vows over and over again — a promise, an oath sworn upon a bloodied path paved with sacrifice built high like Babel’s Tower — he will remain by your side until the end of Time. 

Chrome

More often than not, Chrome finds himself thankful his frame coatings predominately have high collars. When he was younger — when he answered to Langston, his soulmate marking splayed across the curve where his neck and right shoulder met. Even back then, he wore high collars so hiding his mark was never an issue. As a Smith, it was something unneeded so it was never spoken of. Out of sight and banned from mention within that cold mansion, it became something private and delicate he would trace in the late nights when his burdens threatened to drown him in black waters. It was a comfort, a small thread of hope that someone somewhere out there would understand and accept him no matter what — even if he never managed to fully measure up to be a proper “Smith”. Even if he faltered and stumbled, even if he couldn’t understand or failed to bear the weight of all those expectations forced upon him — someone out there would understand. That mark was proof that to someone out there, he would still be enough. 

For a long time, Chrome was able to put the loss of his marking out of his mind. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. He was busy enough wrestling a foothold for himself as a construct with all the criticism and blockades built from the expectations of people who never stepped foot on the battlefield; there simply wasn’t time to worry about romantic fantasies he was forced to bury alongside his flesh. 

The first time Chrome catches sight of your marking is also the first time you bridge the distance to him. He has always made it a point to maintain a measured distance from you, despite your warm greetings and kindness. Old habits die hard and he knows all too well how tongue wag in the wake of careless actions. The last thing he ever wanted was to cause you trouble of any sort. Yet such worries never seem to cross your mind — not back and certainly not now. That day had been an ordinary one, much like any other spend on Babylonia. Chrome had managed to catch you on your way back from the training grounds and asked if you had a moment later to review a report he forwarded to your terminal. 

“Sure,” you had smiled and easily closed the distance in the hallway to stand before him as you adjusted the towel around your neck. “Lee’s fixing mine, though. I uh… broke it a little.” 

Chrome had chuckled despite himself, failing to stop the gentle tease that tumbled from his lips, “How did you manage that?”

“That piece of blackmail is for Lee to know.” You had then pointed to the terminal in his hands, “But we can use yours.” Effortlessly, as if he was an old friend, you erased the distance even further and stood by his side, just a breath from his elbow. 

Chrome still recalls the way his thoughts seemed to stumble to a halt and fumble to start again as you leaned over, gaze downcast to the terminal in his hands as you asked if he could pull it up. He moved on almost autopilot, though his expression remained carefully collected (he had been trained enough not to let his mask slip for long). It was only after he pulled up the report and he was sure your attention remained glued to the screen that he allowed his gaze to wander. It started at your hand, where it curled in thought against your lips as you read, then it lingered over your features — you still have a habit of furrowing your brow whenever you read reports and he can’t help but find it adorable even now. His gaze traveled, following the curve of your jaw and down your neck until —- 

Chrome felt his heart sink through the metal of his ribs and pool to a bloodied, agonized mess at his feet. There, framed by the curve of your casual shirt and in full view as the towel shifted across your shoulders was a mark he knew achingly well. He could have traced its geometric pattern with his eyes closed despite the years since it last branded his own skin. But you raised your attention back up to him and he swallowed back the blood on his lips. He had smiled and spoke of the data outlined as if he wasn’t trembling, shivering to pick up the pieces of something he had never given himself time to grieve the loss of. Chrome bid you farewell in the hallway as if it were any other day, a polite yet gentle smile on his lips as he hid the trembling in his fingertips. 

Chrome makes a firm point not to mention or speak of your mark whenever he sees it. Gratefully, or perhaps woefully, it is in a place where he does not see it often. Your uniform is high collared and you have a tendency to overwork yourself so he does not often see you in more casual clothing that allows him to glance at the bare curve of your neck. There are times, however, he does manage to catch a glimpse of that mark. In those rare moments his self control slips and he can't help but reach out and brush against it, he always finds a way to justify it.  “You had something on you, Commandant, " he would say, as if brushing off dust from your collar. His touch is always gentle, a faint brush ghosting against your skin. If you notice the tremble of his fingertips, you never mention it. 

When the nights get too long, he sits for hours upon hours in the dark of his room, metal fingers digging into metal of his shoulder as if etching the pattern upon his frame might change something, anything. But he never dares to leave behind any traces of what he once had. It’s gone. What has been lost can never be returned and he could never prove to you or to the many, many voices of people too high and powerful that it had once been upon his flesh before it was taken from him. 

Chrome tries to find comfort, despite the pain that lances through him. The fact that he can even see your marking is a sign of trust; it is only in these quiet, unguarded moments you share with him that he fully sees it splayed across your skin. It is a gift, something to be cherished, just as he had quietly cherished those stolen moments as Langston, tracing that pattern again and again. Chrome is careful — so, so careful not to allow his gaze to linger overlong on your mark as your head bows to read the text off his terminal as you sit beside him. But something wounded, neglected and lonely, still writhes and wails in his chest — mourning the loss of something that will never return — and yet you sit pressed against him, his mark branded on your skin. 

Roland

Roland never thought much of his soulmate mark when he had it. He was too preoccupied with the camera, the audience, his role, his lines — there was no time to think of it, really. The pattern lay beneath his collar bone, as if unraveling at the crown of his heart. For the most part, it was easy enough to hide beneath his costumes and outfits, and with the camera rolling almost continuously, rare and few were the moments his mark ever saw the light of day. 

Even when he lost his mark, he never paused to think much of it. No, no, no, his thoughts were focused on the blue of his blood that oozed from metal joints. When he followed in the footsteps of Luna, it was all but wiped from his memory. 

Fate is a cruel Mistress, one Roland has never quite been able to outrun even after Mandhasti Real Park. It’s by a happenstance — by fate — that he catches sight of something he thought burned and lost beneath the ash and rubble. His chain blade managed to arc a trail of crimson across your front, damaging your exoskeleton and inflicting a rather nasty wound across your sternum just beneath your collar bone. It’s then that he sees it, as the blood oozes from the wound and you glare at him over the muzzle of your gun — that damningly familiar mark. Oh, what a twist! What irony! What a disgusting farce! Roland’s lips twist into a smirk but there’s something bitter about it. Something fragile and hopeless. 

“What a lovely mark you have there, Commandant. Such a shame I’ve seen it before.” His words are cruel, barbed and sharp — a blade turned inward just as much as it is outward. 

A flash of despair crosses your features, visceral and wounded, before you’re able to hide it behind a mask and the muzzle of your gun.  “What did you do to them?”

What did he…? Oh. Oh, of course you would think that. Something bitter coils in his chest and it falls from his lips in cruel laughter. If this is the role you would cast upon him then so be it. He sneers at you, “Come now, you can’t expect me to remember all the humans I’ve killed?” His sneer twists, cruel and fragile, “Though I suppose they must have been entertaining at least for me to remember their mark.” 

The sound that tears from your throat is a wounded, angry, and hopeless thing. It reverberates in the hollow cavity of his chest and rattles every nut and bolt holding him together as you lunge at him. For a moment, he hears Hermano’s echoing wail. 

Since then, Roland finds himself tracing the mark upon the metal of his chest in his own vital fluid. But the blue hue of his artificial blood sickens him — dredges up old memories and echoes with the voice of Hermano.  He never leaves it on him for long, but even after he wipes the blood away, he still sees Hermano in his reflection, metallic hands cradling the mark on his chest as if to shield it. Roland begins to avoid mirrors when he is foolish enough to indulge in this hopeless fancy. He never allows himself to indulge often or long, incapable of tolerating the bitterness that lingers on his tongue whenever he does. The bloodied mark wipes away so easily off the metal of him. As if it never existed, as if that pattern had never been a part of his flesh back when his blood still ran crimson. Isn't it funny how easily he is removed from the stage, how effortlessly he loses the role of yours?

Noan

Life on the train was hard enough without having to worry about a soulmate lost, somewhere out there in the cruel world. Although Noan cherished his mark in a way few others on the train did, he did not dare to spend too much time or attention on it. His mark used to curve over his ribs on his left side, sprawled like a bandage over a dire wound aimed at his heart. If he stopped to think about it, perhaps that placement, too, was a warning of his fate. 

It was only a glimpse, but Noan has always been too attentive and sharp for his own good. He caught sight of your marking one day while dropping by to visit the Gray Raven lounge. He had knocked and announced himself through the door, a small parcel in his hands from himself and Simon — who was too busy buried in paperwork to join him. He heard your voice welcome him in, warm and gentle as always, but as he opened the door he heard the rushed voice of Liv, “Commandant, wait.” 

He was greeted to the sight of you sitting on a small stool, your shirt rolled up and pulled over your shoulders to expose your back and you hunched forward. Liv stood behind you, carefully placing a compress on a nasty bruise blooming hues of violet and yellow across the expanse of your back. Noan had stopped dead in his tacks, worry rising to the surface faster than the twinge of embarrassment he felt seeing so much of your bare skin. “Are you alright, Commandant?” 

You had laughed, a smile on your face as you nodded. “Just a small accident, nothing to worry over.” 

“There’s plenty to worry about,” Liv had said before Noan could, voice firm. She took a moment to check one last time before she allowed you to sit up and helped you roll your shirt back down.

The movement caught his attention, though he dared not linger on why, and for just a brief moment he caught a glimpse of a familiar pattern splayed across your ribs. The memory rushed through him, merciless and unforgiving — like iron nails pierced into his lungs, forming a railway for things he has no right to feel. Noan tastes iron on his tongue as he smiles softly at you and converses about anything and nothing at all while the memory burns a hole through the snow to sear the delicate flesh of his heart.  

Since that day, Noan fills his sketchbook with drawings of the mark — both where it lies on your skin and where it used to lie on his. There's an ache, a chill that lodges in the metal cavity of his chest. Just another thing lost in the snow. 

He doesn't realize it at first but he keeps rubbing where his soulmate mark used to be when he still had skin and bones. His thoughts get too loud, his memories too close and too cold — his fingers drift to his left side and rub, rub, rub along the metal of his ribs. Tracing and grasping for proof that was stripped from him as he was remade into cold metal and wires.

Your hand gently touches his as you reach across the cafe counter, stilling his unconscious movement. Your voice is gentle, so gentle and your touch is warm, warm, warm. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

A thousand words bubble up from his weeping heart and claw up his throat. But it dies on his tongue, and all he can muster in answer is a quiet, "No, I'm just missing something, is all."

The smile you give is too kind, too bright, too gentle. "What is it? I'll help you look.”