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Baxter was, maybe, twelve when his first mark appeared.
It was a black tally on his right wrist, the first blemish in otherwise unmarred pale white skin. Maybe he was a little late in getting it, but he’d known it to be an inevitability as soon as he first felt his palms sweat and heart flutter at the sound of Qiu’s laughter.
This mark, of course, was a representation of Baxter’s first love. It was something he couldn’t escape, even if he sometimes wished he could avoid his own overwhelming feelings.
As long as he was alive, every single time he’d fall in love, his body would reward him with another mark— a bold, striking red if the object of his affections reciprocated his feelings and a deep black if he was unlucky enough to be the victim of unrequited love.
Well, Baxter never considered himself to be the lucky type or even hoped that Qiu would ever see him as more than a dear friend, so the tally’s colour was thoroughly unsurprising. It didn’t stop the heavy feeling in his heart, though, or the frown that continuously forced the corner of his lips down even when he was trying his hardest to keep a neutral expression.
He learned two lessons that day— the first , that no matter how much he prepares himself for something, he’s still be able to feel disappointed and second, that black suited him more than red ever could.
The second mark appears a year later, at thirteen. While Qiu’s still has presence in his heart, the ballet dancer’s own tally mark appearing crushed any lingering hope Baxter ever had of making his own mark change colors, even if such a thing was impossible to begin with. It’s rare for a first mark to be red, but Baxter didn’t find it hard at all to believe that Qiu would be able to find a match on his first try. After all, Baxter was observant enough to notice how Qiu’s charm and kindness didn’t only captivate him , but far too many other Golden grove kids who sported tallies similar to Baxter’s.
Part of Baxter felt bitter, about having to carry a reminder of his failure for his entire life and having nothing to show for it. But it’s not like he could blame his dear childhood friend for it.
It’s just another thing he had to grow used to. Another way in which he had to be more mature than his peers.
Baxter’s second love was also someone he had met in the dance hall. A jazz dancer just a tad older than him, who had chosen to take a few ballroom dancing classes for fun and had been bold enough to ask him for advice.
It only takes exactly two and a half weeks for the new tally to appear, right next to the first one, in the same matching black. In their next practice together, when Baxter sneaks a glance at their wrist, he notices it’s entirely blank.
He knows it’s impolite, so he doesn’t ask.
A few days later, though, as he’s drinking water from his bottle and he accidentally catches a conversation between a few of his colleagues— Baxter never would’ve had a chance to begin with, because the target of his affections doesn’t feel romantic attraction at all .
After the second month, they stop showing up to dance practice, gone almost as quickly as they’d shown up.
Didn’t he ever learn?
The third tally is the weirdest of all.
It happens on a summer evening. Baxter’s attending a summer soirée at the cypress, a different branch than the one he’s used to and is looking for a new partner to slow dance with.
By chance he happens upon someone— A kid around his age who seems to be in the same predicament. They have shiny eyes and distractingly nice legs, that make his heart flutter in his chest in an all-familiar, foreboding way that forces the young ballroom dancer right in his tracks before he could even be noticed.
He doesn’t need another tally mark.
He doesn’t want one.
He shouldn’t have too many, it’s unbecoming for someone like him to give himself away this easily to a stranger.
But… they were still looking around, a flash of disappointment in their eyes, and Baxter made his way to them before he could fully talk himself out of it.
It’s not like passing attraction is enough of a basis for a tally anyway, right? So he takes the leap and offers his hand with a confident smile.
As soon as their skin touched, and he felt a spark of electricity surging through him, he knew he was a goner. He didn’t know their name and didn’t even have to look at his wrist to be painfully aware of the new mark that would make his home there. Even as the stranger’s eyes search his, likely to extend the questions Baxter himself is dying to ask, he can’t bring himself to be anything but a stranger.
He can’t set himself up for failure once more. Can’t deal with the disappointment again.
To fall deep for someone he was bound to never see again.
So he tried to enjoy it as best as he could. Trying to memorize the heat of their hand under his and the way their lips curved themselves into an “o” when he led them to spin around and how the corners of their eyes crinkled as they smiled.
Dancing often felt magical for him, so it was no wonder Baxter was so easily swayed as he got lost in the moment. As the song ended, it was like being thrown right back into reality.
Baxter is gone as fast as he’d first appeared. Funny, it seems like he did, indeed, learn something from his second love.
As he’s in his parents' car, waiting to arrive at the hotel, he noticed that for the first time in his life, his mark was red. Somehow it hurt him more than the alternative.
It becomes a relative pattern. Baxter isn’t willing to involve himself much, oftentimes preferring to be a mere observer rather than a participant, but sometimes, when he does, he’s graced with a new tally in his wrist.
Black, of course, as if to match his new aesthetic.
The third mark is still there, only it has faded to fit the other person’s feelings. It Changed colour, from a bright red to a dark, dark colour that almost matched its companions, aside from the maroon hue that Baxter could faintly see. He covers his tallies whenever possible with long sleeves or a black leather wristband. It’s just an extension of how much of a disappointment he is, and there’s no use in keeping it visible for other’s judging eyes when he’s supposed to be better than this.
(Although, sometimes, when he’s alone, he looks at the maroon mark in his wrist and allows himself to think about shiny eyes and soft hands)
It’s stupid of him to keep falling back on his old habits. Falling in love with ideas rather than actual people , with the little glimpses Baxter can catch from hushed conversations and not much more. With the fantasies, he creates of actually fitting somewhere and finding someone who wouldn’t think him utterly disposable, like he knew he was.
Still, it’s not like he can do much more to stop himself apart than completely isolating himself from society, but he’s trying to change. He avoids looking at his wrist and pretends he doesn’t know how many tallies he has and continues putting a distance between himself and the ever-changing list of people he knows.
It’s been a little over a year since his last mark when he arrived in sunset bird.
The sleepy little coastal town was chosen specifically for its lack of excitement. There is no way for him to get into trouble or accumulate extra tally marks.
Baxter is barely out of the taxi when he sees them— a very tall man with seafoam green hair, wavy eyebrows and… at his side, someone who’s so familiar that Baxter’s heart aches with longing at the sight.
Their shiny eyes looked at him with curiosity, and the mark on his wrist almost burned underneath the leather wristband in flaming red as soon as a flash of recognition appeared in their eyes.
Part of him wanted to run away— wanted to pretend like this never happened.
He was never supposed to see them again.
They were only supposed to be a vague memory of a long time ago. But they were here.
They were here and they remembered him.
As he froze in place, reconsidering his plans for an uneventful vacation, he let a single thought linger:
Maybe, only this once, red would be a better fit for him than black and white.