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[song-seunghyun]

Soul marks. An invention by some internal force of nature that left a human body covered in images that told stories of a person's past. Many remarkable moments were eternally saved on the skin of people globally and some, ones that were meant for true soulmates, were shared.

One Dorian Grey however, had long come to terms with his unique soul marks. In his youth, they had been exciting, an equalizer for everyone. They transcended social class, though in the late 1500s it was thought that royalty had marks to prove their worthiness to rule others. Dorian had never seen a royal up close and wouldn't for a long time.

His first soul mark had appeared before he could remember, around the age of four. A small white rabbit that he had kept as a pet, his first true responsibility, dashed the back of his small tanned thigh, running in an invisible field of flowers representing a youthful quality that Dorian never lost.

After the first mark appeared, another shorty followed after when he started to question his mother about them with childlike excitement. On his mother's side, just at her ribcage was a harsh, childish drawing with a round face and innocent eyes. Dorian could hardly recall it, but his mother explain it to be a drawing he once made for her and it had engrained itself permanently on her skin. Later in life, when he would be taken away, the drawing would fill in, dark and marred by the loss of her son.

Dorian similarly, discovered a new mark for his mother the next morning. A willow tree, just blooming trailed over his side, the branches creeping over his ribcage to cover his skin. When he was taken captive, the tree warped and changed, shedding its leaves and wilting. Over the years, the mark had faded, a faint color as the years seeped by, draining away as the memory of his mothers smile disappeared into oblivion with it.

By the time the war broke out, Dorian had a small handful of marks, all vibrant and vivid on his skin. A small vine with delicate purple flowers wrapping around his bicep, similar to the ones his younger sister would pick for their mother. Another curving around his thigh for his father, thick black lines heavy and binding to his skin to represent his more rigid, firm personality.

However, after the long journey on the boat, bound in ropes, Dorian was left in a land he knew nothing of and sold off to someone he could hardly understand. When his bindings were removed, his new owner showed concern at the dark marks on his wrists, thinking them bruised. It wasn't until later that Dorian came to realize they were permanent, marks to show his eternal enslavement. Others that had survived the journey bore similar, distinguishing marks. A man, who Dorian had slept next to many a night, had new marks of rope slithered around his ankles and throat by the end of their journey and Dorian had been thankful his had been less conspicuous.

For the time that Dorian stayed with the family that purchased him, no marks appeared. There were only the bruised wrists and what he had earned back as a freed man. Nothing spectacular happened to him for two long years... he scraped by and learned just enough until he could finally escape.

On his way into France, a new mark formed just on his ankle. Birds soaring into the sky to represent his new found freedom in a country that did not know he had been taken captive.

Living on the streets did little to help the young man, his body becoming worn down and fatigued until he came to a church that took him in. Dorian stayed with them for several months, regaining his strength and learning French and Latin to broaden his chances at work. The first words to ever grace his skin appear in curling cursive, swirling its way over the back of his hand as he learned to write them.

Omnia vincit amor.

When he left the church, seeking a work in trade, he had received a blessing from the deacon. Dorian had never felt particularly attached to religion, but the kindness of the man gave him perhaps some hope. Well that's how he explained it when on his right thigh a set of ornate gates appeared, wrought in gold and jewels, slightly ajar, waiting for the him to open them completely. However, later in his life, the mark shifted just enough that the gate closed, black seeping up the golden bars from beneath. His chances of Heaven eternally lost.

After he became a baker's apprentice, he met Madame Garon who would change his life forever. She painted him, unknowingly to him sealing his life to an eternal age. A small portrait of her silhouette graced his skin, situated just at base of the decaying tree that represented his mother.

It took years for Dorian to realize what had happened, living his life normally in France and trying to return home. He rarely received extra marks, focusing on his work until it finally came to his attention that everything around him was changing, but not himself. That he had all the time in the world to go back but he chose not to.

Marks slowly began to appear on his skin as he gave himself the freedom to experience life. Most of them were small and insignificant. A simple, golden locket curling over his hip to represent a man he concealed his love and attraction for as a merchant in Rome. A scarlet rose blossoming in the middle of his back where a woman he held dearly for several decades would kiss him as they lay in bed at night. Emerald eyes on his shoulder to remind him of whore he came to worship nightly, void of the kohl that rimmed her eyes before he lost her to disease.

There were also visible marks that accompanied not just the people he met, but incidents that impacted him greatly. A picture of flower petals cascaded down the back of his calf, melting away into ashes to represent the substantial loss of life during the Black Plague. The lens of camera emboldening itself on his hip when his love for photography was born in the technological advancements. A snake curling into a circle, eating its own tail placed at base of his spine when someone he trusted attempted to use his gift of eternal life against him and the betrayal was felt deeper than anything he had ever known.

As time progressed and his marks shifted with him, some fading over the centuries others staying just as vivid as the day they arrived, Dorian came to accept his unique outlook on life. He was content with his snippets, his memories of the past that he carried with him on his skin. That's was until he met a remarkable man in a museum after returning home. It had been... different. There was an understanding, a knowledge that Dorian had not known could exist for anyone else other than himself.

The man had no visible markings, but he was... breathtaking. They could sense within one another that they were unique. For one, Dorian didn't hide his marks as so many did, having learned long ago it didn't matter. He had been through the mysticism and the scientific reasons behind the soul marks. He had seen every taboo there was to have about them and frankly, his were different but rarely did people ask why some were more faded than others.

The most visible were still the marks on his wrist, hardly having faded as the memories of the tiny boat and death still clung to him like a second coat, constantly reminding him of where he came from. No one dared to ask about them, clearly assuming an abusive relationship had been the cause of it. Dorian would occasionally smirk to himself, thinking if only they knew.

The man however never even glanced at them, or if he did, Dorian didn't notice. He was intrigued by the energy he gave off and later when they ended up tangled together, he never once thought about the fact that Blake's skin was barren. Perhaps he was very private, covered them up with his make up. It was perplexing but Dorian didn't mind.

Later, when he found out that Blake wasn't necessarily human, it all clicked into place. Maybe it worked differently for beings that only mimicked human emotions. Or perhaps there was some hoodoo going on that kept Dorian from seeing them, but he never actually asked.

When Blake began to help him to understand his meaning in life, why he had stuck around for so long, the marks began to appear slowly, one by one crowding his skin. The first had been simple. A symbol etched itself just behind his ear where he enjoyed having Blake whisper to him. It wasn't uncommon, for Dorian to receive a mark from someone he felt a connection with, though it was small and tucked away, as if it was meant only for the Demon. The symbol came from a stamp set, one the Dorian knew Blake had probably had since forever, as ancient as himself most likely. An old crest of sort with a sword dipped in hellfire.

When the second mark appeared, Dorian had settled into a routine with Blake. It was easy, simple, perfect and utterly terrifying. Dorian had loved people, but they had been capable of feeling in return. Those that had left marks on him had bore their own from him. Blake's skin, for all he knew, was empty. However a new mark was forming across his chest and it scared him more than it should have.

Over the space on his chest, just over his heart, a lock appeared. It was a padlock, rusted and worn as if it had gone through years of rain and had never been touched. The only thing that's stood out about the mark was the fact it was unlocked, the hinge swinging open and free and it didn't take long for Dorian to realize what it meant.

When he later talked to Blake, telling him that he couldn't continue the facade forever, he never once let it be known what had appeared on his skin. That was his secret to bear and it would be nothing to a demon, or at least that was what he convinced himself as he moved countries to escape his emotions.

What Dorian hadn't been expecting was for only a few years to pass and for Blake to have hunted him down. It was a whirlwind, whipping him back up into the frenzy that was the rush of emotions he felt for the inhuman being. Blake never asked about the lock, possibly because he didn't want to know the answer. It could have come from anyone or anything while they were separated.

It was blissful, a few months of happiness that began the process of his skin filling with color on his back, curling from the rose and out. It was slow, barely creeping across his skin in his own hesitancy to accept what he felt. Then when he left again it stopped, half finished and incomplete. Blake must have known, he could see it on his skin what he was doing to the immortal man... but the demon didn't seem to stop. He kept finding him, kept letting the colors seep further and further across the planes of his back.

Dorian did his best to fight it, shoving the demon away for what was the last time, he promised himself... the portrait on his back nearly complete. It took years, many years for the man to come to his senses, to realize what had exactly happened to himself. It was deeply rooted inside of him and finally he got the nerve to seek out Blake for himself.

The woman and children he found however sent a shot of white hot rage and jealousy straight through him. Blake had been his, always would be... and this woman thought she stood a chance? It nearly made him laugh but it hadn't stopped another mark from appearing just at his navel. In crude, harshly written Greek letters, the name Phthonos was spelled out in dark red.

It took Dorian another year to finally approach Blake in his home when he knew that the wife would be away. And everything he remembered and loved about the man came rushing back to him. The canvas on his back completing itself overnight. The red rose was still bold and bright, but the colors Blake had left were softer. Surrounding the flower was a beautiful work of a water colored garden, littering his skin with the beauty of freedom and sanctuary he felt with Blake. Or at least that was what he assumed, but it wasn't as if he was ever sure. The mark covered his entire back, moving with his muscles to create the illusion of leaves and branches rustling in the wind.