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Michael's arms were pale. They were so pale and color free that he wanted to scream, to scrub the skin until red at least bled through, to get a paintbrush and paint fake love on them. He wanted to do something. Because no one had ever loved him.
It started with his parents. They didn't want him so they didn't leave the watercolor stain on his body. Then the kids at school saw that they didn't love him so they decided not to either and they bullied him. By the time he got to highschool it was a vicious cycle of people not wanting to love him because no one loved him.
That wasn't to say that maybe a stranger had seen him and thought I love that boy because I want to love everyone. But no one loved him. He was just a footnote in a general rule. It had gotten to the point where no one had even touched him. He'd never had a real hug, never had someone tenderly brush the hair from his face or feel his forehead for his temperature or kiss him on the cheek. He'd only shaken hands, seen frigid smiles.
But even though he felt bitter as hell, even though he'd given up on himself, he hadn't given up on others. When he met people he knew that a touch would leave color on them even though it wouldn't on him. He wanted desperately to be loved but he tried to be content with just loving.
He had to tell himself that college wouldn't be any different, and it sure felt that way when he saw the large buildings around him. It was hot for September and he'd given up on covering his arms and pretending there were colors there. People knew that he at least had only a few friends because there were none on his hands or even his face and he didn't feel like bothering, didn't really care if people knew anymore.
Several people passed by him and threw sympathetic looks his way. He didn't even feel the old urge to run after them and touch them to see if they left a mark. It was pity, not love. He knew that now. He'd taught himself to appreciate the pity, though. He wasn't too proud for that.
He was used to finding his own way and he'd gotten directions to his dorm building and room, so he found it quickly. His parents had gotten high paying and time consuming jobs to avoid Michael and each other, so they could afford the nice dorm rooms. Each one had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small but decent kitchenette/livingroom area. Michael's roommate seemed to have already moved in so Michael went to the bedroom that had no posters on the door. It was nice but bare and Michael wasted no time in unpacking and spreading posters all over the wall. As a kid he'd had a lot of spare time and he'd gotten into music. There were all sorts of bands spread over the wall but punk rock was the most common genre. It wasn't a rebellious thing- he just liked it. It had a great current of feeling, something he'd had to keep to himself.
His clothes were folded with care and he arranged them by color as he put them in the closet. His pants were folded and organized the same way before he put them on the next shelf. He went through all of his clothes that way.
He took his toiletries to the bathroom. There was only one sink but it was large and his roommate had considerately kept his own toiletries on one side. They were piled haphazardly, a shampoo bottle laying on its side with a razor on top of it and various other toiletries were scattered around them. Michael saw the comb and noted that his roommate had very dark brown or black hair judging from the few hairs stuck in it.
His own hair was green. Color had seemed so absent from his life that he'd started dyeing his hair different colors when he was younger.
He thought about his roommate to distract himself as he set up his toiletries on the righthand side of the sink. He hoped that he would ignore him instead of making fun of him or bullying him. They were really the only two things people had ever done to him.
When his toiletries were arranged by size he went back to his bedroom and carefully put the bedding on his bed.
When he had finished he realized that the room looked almost exactly like his old one at home. The walls were a blank white broken up by the posters. The trim was brown and there was a window on the east side of the room. The closet doors were brown here and white at home but they were the same size.
He sighed, wondering if he would be living the same way his entire life.
_______
Around six o'clock there was a knock on his bedroom door. He set his guitar on its stand and opened the door tentatively, peering around it.
There was a boy around his age at the door. He figured it was his roommate by the hair color. His skin was tan and he had very round eyes. His smile was nearly blinding but the most striking thing was his arms. Forearms were the most common area for people to mark each other and his were so colorful that Michael couldn't help but stare.
"Hey, I'm Calum Hood! I'm your roommate."
"I'm Michael Clifford," Michael answered awkwardly. It was all he ever really said to people before they ignored him.
"Well I got pizza and I was wondering if you'd like to have some with me. I thought we could get to know each other."
Michael decided to get the whole thing over with so he agreed. "Sure. Uhm, thank you. Pizza is my favorite food."
"Good to know," Calum winked before turning toward the kitchenette. Michael followed. He hadn't ever spoken to someone for this long unless they were making fun of him.
They sat down at the table where two pizza boxes lay.
"I got two because I eat a lot and I only got pepperoni and sausage because I didn't know what kind you like," Calum told him.
The kindness of such a complete stranger stunned Michael. "Wow- thank you so much."
Calum took two slices and then motioned toward the box, so Michael took two for himself. The other boy saw his arms and Michael tried to act normal as he ate. Calum's eyes had sympathy in them but also interest. Michael didn't quite know what to think.
After a few moments Michael gave up all pretense.
"Can I- can I look at your arms?" he asked. "I don't want to touch I just- I want to see."
Calum nodded and set down his food, extending his arms.
There purples and pinks, oranges and reds, blues and greens, even blacks and whites. There was a startling streak of purple on the back of his left hand.
"Ashton," Calum said fondly, running his finger over it. "We met in a cooking class in highschool. We were making cookies and he slapped my hand as I reached for some dough."
Michael couldn't help but smile.
"You have a nice smile," Calum said.
"Thank you?" Michael said. He was unused to compliments and it confused him a bit.
"You're welcome," Calum laughed. "Thanks for eating with me. I really should go finish setting up my things before class tomorrow."
He bid Michael goodnight and Michael went to bed early and dreamt that Calum touched his arm and left a streak of pale orange.
_______
Classes started and Michael managed to keep his head down. His fellow students were too busy settling into the routine of college life to notice that the boy with the green hair had no marks. He felt fairly confident about all of his classes except psychology. His professor didn't seem like the kindest of men. They were also studying disorders and Michael felt a bit uncomfortable with the topic.
He and Calum ate several meals together over the first few weeks and found out that they had much of the same music taste. Calum hadn't touched Michael but it was because Michael had asked. He was suddenly afraid to have Calum touch him and leave no mark. Calum chatted a lot about his boyfriend and their friend Luke. He had many friends but it seemed that those three were an especially close pair.
Calum quietly made an attempt to be neater when he noticed Michael's extreme neatness and again Michael was struck by his unnecessary kindness. He also hadn't had Ashton over yet as he knew Michael wasn't used to people. It was the closest Michael had ever gotten to having a friend and it both scared and excited him.
When he'd finally settled into the routine he agreed to meet Ashton as long as there was no marking (or attempted marking). Calum agreed and the next thing Michael knew, another person was in their livingroom smiling openly at him and not looking at his arms at all. He was tall with large eyes and brown curls with a hint of blonde and red in them. He had large dimples and a smile that Michael already knew rarely left his face.
"I'm Ashton," he greeted.
"I'm Michael," Michael said tentatively.
"You're adorable," Ashton said and Calum laughed.
"Thank you?" Michael shifted on his feet.
"I've sort of mentioned you to Ash a lot so he knows almost as much about you as I do," Calum told him. "Which actually isn't very much."
"No marking, right?" Ashton asked.
"No. I'm not really..." Michael trailed off.
"No worries, mate," Ashton told him, grinning warmly. "I thought it was all crazy when I was a kid."
"It's just that's no one's ever left a mark on me when we've touched," Michael blurted, and then cursed inwardly, wondering why he suddenly couldn't control his tongue.
Ashton looked like he wanted to ask something but he seemed to think better of it. "I'd leave one," he said instead, "but its okay. We can just talk."
They ended up getting takeout and then watching a movie. Their friend Luke seemed a common topic of conversation. Michael discovered that Ashton and Luke shared a dorm room because Calum and Ashton thought they wouldn't get through college if they were around each other all the time. They were sickeningly adorable together. They seemed to have a habit of putting their soulmate marks together, Ashton setting his hand on top of Calum's. Ashton's soulmark was bright orange splotches on his fingers. Michael found it curious that he'd guessed Calum's color.
They assured Michael repeatedly that he would love Luke if he ever met him, and told him that Luke would like him too. Michael felt a little intimidated by it all.
When Ashton left Michael felt happy, though. He wondered if he could really count them as friends.
_______
Psychology class was difficult. Michael found himself staring at the desk of the person next to him and wishing he could arrange their pens. His own were. He had three pens and two pencils. His highlighter pen was largest so it was furthest to the right. Then next to it was his black pen. After the black pen came the blue pen and then the two pencils. They were all evenly spaced and the pencils were perfectly sharpened.
His notes were carefully written and his notebook was folded open and in the direct center of his desk. His textbook was closed and on the left side of his desk. Their professor assigned reading and gave the lectures in his own words.
"Today we will be discussing the disorder known as OCD. It stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Can anyone give me an example of OCD?"
The student by Michael raised his hand. "The guy next to me."
All eyes turned toward Michael and landed on his desk. His cheeks burned as several students giggled.
"Good, Ross. Clifford here has perfectly arranged his desk as we can all see. Perhaps his OCD extends to his markings as his arms appear color free." The professor turned to the front of the classroom and began writing on the board. Tears burned at Michael's eyes and he ducked his head down, glad that everyone was beginning to look away.
"Excuse me, sir," someone said. It was a blonde boy near the front.
"What?"
"I've heard that OCD is a sign of a well organized mind and possibly even higher intelligence."
The professor paused in his writing. "I suppose it could be," he admitted after a moment.
"And can't it also allow for a healthier lifestyle?"
"To some extent, yes, Hemmings. What are you driving at?"
"Then is it arguable that those with OCD are no more challenged then someone who is messy? Is it arguable that those with OCD may even have some advantages?"
Exasperated, the professor turned to the class. "If their OCD is more of a habit than an actual lifestyle, I suppose it wouldn't cloud the mind. Are you happy?"
"I would just like to say, then, that it appears that laughing at someone with OCD is like someone of low intelligence mocking someone of high intelligence because of that very intelligence," Hemmings pushed. "Maybe that's a stretch, but laughing at someone seems to be lowering yourself."
"Would you like applause or can we continue?" the professor asked dryly. He looked a little uncomfortable.
"Sorry," Hemmings apologized. "I hope I'm right in all of that."
Their professor waved him off and Hemmings turned and smiled right at Michael before turning back to his desk.
Michael felt himself smiling the rest of the day.
_______
He met Hemmings the very next day in an art class. The teacher told them to find a partner for a project and Hemmings made his way directly to Michael.
"We're researching soulmate colors in pairs," he said, flashing Michael a bright smile. "Do you want to be partners?"
Michael nodded. When their professor asked who didn't have a partner, he didn't have to raise his hand for the first time in his life.
"I'm Michael Clifford," he said as Hemmings sat in the seat next to him and pulled out his text book.
"Wait, do you know Calum?"
"He's my roommate," Michael said. He pulled out his own textbook and searched through it for the chapter they were on.
"I'm Luke, a friend of his and Ashton's."
"It's nice to meet you," Michael said. He still felt awkward talking to people, though he'd gotten more comfortable around Calum and Ashton. "They mention you a lot."
"They mention you a lot," Luke smiled. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, Michael noted.
"Really?" He asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yeah, Ashton said you were 'the bomb'," Luke told him with a slight giggle.
Lip ring. Punk rock flair?
"Well thanks for sticking up for me in class yesterday," Michael said to distract himself from staring at Luke.
"Professor Milton is a terror," Luke scowled. "I'm a terribly messy person and I think that's not any better than wanting things in perfect place. Honestly, he's quite rude. I know a bit about OCD and I know it can be difficult but it's not who you are, you know?"
Michael nodded.
"Anyway, we're off topic. Soulmate colors. Did you know that some people think each person actually has their own unique shade? I don't know what to think because even just right now there are billions of people in the world."
Luke rattled on and on and all Michael could do was watch and listen. It was all he wanted to do.
_______
Luke began sitting with him in psychology an art and they were always partners when they were assigned projects. Luke was respectful of Michael's no marking rule and was careful not to touch him when he handed him anything.
Michael thought he might be in love. He counted Luke as a friend but he just felt something different for him than for Calum and Ashton. Luke began to visit when Ashton did and thy started having movie and pizza nights once a week. Michael still had no colors but he felt loved.
Then their break came around and he had to head home. He only brought the necessities, deciding to lave the rest in his dorm. His room at home had more of his things and there were some he planned on bringing back.
His parents weren't home when he got there and he let himself in, trudging up the stairs to his room. He sat his bag down and surveyed it. White walls, brown trim. Blue carpet, white closet. Window facing west. He saw his alphabetized bookshelf and his color coded closet.
Perhaps his OCD extends to his markings.
The guy next to me.
Cleanfreak.
Such a girl about his stuff.
Before he knew what he was doing he had swept the books from the top of his bookshelf. Self hatred filled him and suddenly the cleanliness was too much. He felt crazy as he stared at it. The pile of books at his feet looked better. His hands clawed at the books on the lower shelves, tearing them down and dropping them to the floor. He ripped down his remaining posters and threw the clothes out of his closet. He stripped the bed and emptied his suitcase onto the floor.
Then he sat in the middle of the chaos that was his bedroom an broke down, sobbing into his knees. Everything in the room looked wrong again and it was all out of place. It was messy. He needed to clean it up but he couldn't stop crying. He felt his smooth, white arms and remembered the lack of color. Everything felt wrong.
It's not who you are.
Luke's voice in his head immediately calmed him down.
Luke, he thought. Luke Luke Luke.
Standing up, he dried his eyes and went over to the bookshelf.
He began organizing the books by author. Collins before Dashner. Carroll before Collins.
_______
He barely saw his parents and he felt relieved when he was back in his dorm room. Calum, Ashton, and Luke had all agreed to me up there when get arrived and Michael had made the decision to let them mark him. He suddenly felt confident that they would leave their colors, felt confident that by the end of the day he'd have the pale orange and the pale purple and the pale blue.
They straggled in one by one, first Ashton, then Calum, then Luke.
"I want you all to mark me," he announced. Calum's eyes widened.
"Are you sure?" He asked.
"Yes," Michael said, surprised that he meant it. He held his arm out to Calum.
"Wrists," said Calum. "That'll be cool." Michael couldn't help but giggle. Calum touched the inside of his left wrist to the inside of Michael's and they all watched breathlessly. The pale orange faded into existence and Michael fought back tears. A light red appeared on Calum's wrist, and Michael loved the color as soon as he saw it.
"Thank you," he said. Calum yanked him into a hug.
"Now I can do this without imprinting orange all over your body," he said into Michael's shoulder. They all laughed at that and Michael felt some of the tension slip away.
"Can I trace 'punk rock' on your forehead?" Ashton asked.
"Absolutely not," Luke said with a laugh. Ashton rolled his eyes and then brushed his forearm against Michael's. Light red streaked onto Ashton's arm and then Michael looked at his own. A light purple streak appeared and he touched it, smiling again. Ashton pulled him into a hug too.
"Now for Luke," Calum said. Luke looked more nervous than Michael as he stood in front of him.
"Hands?" he asked and Michael nodded, holding his hand up. Luke reached up and laced their fingers together, his grip firm. Michael held his breath as Luke pulled his hand away.
Pale blue appeared on his palm and between his fingers. It kept getting brighter and brighter and Michael completely forgot how to breathe when it finally stopped. The blue stood out sharply against his white skin. He looked at Luke's hand quickly and saw the streaks of bright red.
They all stared silently at Luke and Michael's hands. Michael hadn't even considered this, hadn't even let it cross his mind. Luke don't look disappointed or disgusted, his eyes were full of wonder as he turned to Michael.
Ashton took Calum's hand and led him to his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click.
"You're my soulmate?" Michael asked incredulously.
"Yes," Luke breathed. "Are- are you upset?"
"Why would I be upset?" Michael asked and Luke's smile spread all the way to his eyes. His eyes that perfectly matched the blue on Michael's hand.
"I hoped it would be you," Luke whispered, stepping closer to him. He lifted a hand and tentatively placed it on Michael's cheek.
Michael was done with hesitancy. Grasping Luke's wrist, he leaned forward and connected their lips, marveling at the feeling. Luke immediately pressed into him, kissing back and pulling him close. Michael wanted to cry with happiness. Luke was his soulmate.
Luke pulled him over to the couch. One of the pillows fell off as Luke pulled him down but Michael left it.
It was fine. He could get it later. He had years of being alone to make up for.