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[calumcest]

Ashton from your soulmate au when he finds the tattoo?

HMMMMMMMM having THOUGHTS 

It’s one of those things where everyone remembers where they were when they found out. 

Ashton had been in the studio, bleary-eyed and sleepy, rubbing at his eyes as he mumbled a hello to Reg, who looked far too happy for a Thursday morning, and made to head into the live room. 

“What’s yours, then?” Reg had asked, and Ashton had paused, hand on the door, trying to figure out whether he’d somehow missed the start to this conversation. 

“Eh?” was all he’d managed to come up with. 

“Your tattoo.” Ashton had frowned, casting a glance down at his forearms to see the moons, the tally, the heart. 

“Reg, you’ve seen my tattoos,” he’d said, bewildered. Reg had rolled his eyes. 

“No, the new one,” he’d said. 

“The moons?” Ashton had asked, holding his forearms out. 

“The one you got last night.” Ashton’s frown had just deepened. 

“Mate, are you alright?” he’d said, a little alarmed. “Think I’d remember getting a tattoo last night.” 

“Have you not been on your fucking phone?” Reg had said, frowning at him, and Ashton had shook his head. He never goes on his phone before midday. Cleanses the mind, he thinks. “Fucking hell,” Reg had said, and had pulled something up on his phone and thrust it in Ashton’s face. 

Mysterious tattoos appearing all over Australia, Ashton had read. And then read again. And then re-read a third time. 

“Is this the Onion?” he’d asked, handing Reg’s phone back. Reg had sighed, exasperated, and pulled up his sleeve to show Ashton a brand new tattoo of two half-full test tubes on his forearm, ink crisp and dark on Reg’s skin. 

“Fuck’s that meant to be?” Ashton had asked. Reg had shrugged. 

“Not a clue, mate,” he’d said. “Everyone’s got one, though. People think they’re meant to be your soulmate.” Ashton’s stomach had flipped at that, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed face forcing its way into the forefront of his mind. He’d stared down at his hands exaggeratedly, frowning, turning them this way and that, looked down at his shins just in case. 

“Well, I haven’t got one,” he’d declared flippantly, and turned to head back into the live room, at which point Reg had gasped. 

“Yeah, you do,” he’d said, and Ashton had whipped back around at the speed of fucking light, twisting to look at his hips, his arse, anywhere Reg could have seen a fucking tattoo. 

“Where?” he’d asked, heart beating wildly, because he’s wearing a shirt and shorts, and he can’t see anything on his hamstring. Reg had pointed, which was fucking useless since pointing’s not exactly the finest art, and Ashton had snapped fucking where, mate? at him once more before Reg had leaned forward and tapped on Ashton’s tricep. 

“Can’t see it properly,” Ashton had grunted. Easier than saying I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to know. 

“Here,” Reg had said, pulling his phone out again, and Ashton had pulled back. 

“Nah,” he’d said. “Don’t want to see it for the first time on a photo.” Reg had cocked an eyebrow at him, hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and put his phone away. 

“Well, fucking get on with it, then,” he’d said, and Ashton had smiled uneasily, and it had dropped off his face the minute he’d turned on his heel and headed into the live room. 

-------

Ashton’s never really given the idea of soulmates much thought. 

He’d always believed in it on some level, he thinks - maybe not that there’s one person, but that there are multiple who are perfect fits - until he’d met Luke. 

Luke had been a fucking whirlwind. Three years of Ashton’s life, and he remembers every fucking moment of them more vividly than he remembers any before, or any since. He remembers the exact hue of blue of Luke’s eyes, the way they’d crinkle when he grinned, the way they’d well with tears when they watched a sad film, the way he’d burrow into Ashton’s chest and wrap his arm around Ashton’s waist and pull, and the way that Ashton’s heart would fucking sing in response. At first, Ashton had told himself it was just a particularly intense honeymoon stage. He’d read online that honeymoon stages could last up to two years, especially if it was long distance, and given that he was away for weeks at a time recording, he told himself that was all it was. The magnetic fucking pull of Luke Hemmings was just an intense honeymoon phase, just something Ashton knew all to well but had never experienced on this level. 

After two years, though, it didn’t abate. In fact, it got worse. 

Ashton would start to feel a little unwell if he stayed away from Luke for too long. Never to the point of actual illness, but it felt like there was something spiritually wrong, like his soul was misaligned. He told himself it was just love, normal love, but he knew it wasn’t. There was something stronger at play, and it fucking terrified him. Something told him he was going to spend the rest of his life tied to Luke, and he’d pushed back, said no, he’d only ever spend the rest of his life tied to himself. Luke could come along for the ride, but he wouldn’t be the ride. 

For the first week, he does nothing but read theories online - doesn’t look at his tattoo, doesn’t talk about his tattoo, doesn’t let anyone else talk about his tattoo - and he feels that same cosmic misalignment again. It’s never gone, not really, but he’s got better at managing it, at numbing it. He never feels quite right, but he never feels all wrong nowadays, either. The theories, though, bring it back in full swing. He spends hours lying in bed, feeling spiritually queasy, after reading article after article about how they might be soulmate markings and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, because it doesn’t feel wrong when he reads it. It feels anything but fucking wrong, and no matter how much he wills himself to make it feel wrong, his heart sternly tells his mind no, not this time. 

It’s a full week before he can bring himself to look at it, and even then it’s only with a buffer. 

He gets to the studio early, knowing Reg’ll be there, and before Reg even has a chance to say anything, before Ashton has a chance to bottle it and go along with Reg’s conversation, he forces himself to speak. 

“Can you look at my tattoo for me?” A look of surprise crosses Reg’s face, and Ashton kind of wants to fucking die. 

“Sure,” Reg says, and he gets up and stands behind Ashton, touching his tricep gently. Ashton can feel something strong when his fingers brush over Ashton’s tattoo, and he’s not sure whether it’s a good or a bad sensation. 

“I don’t really know how to describe it, mate,” Reg says, letting Ashton’s arm drop. “It’s a microphone with daisies wrapped around it.” 

“Can you take a picture?” Ashton asks, voice small, and Reg nods, sliding his phone out of his pocket, and there’s the sound of a camera shutter and then the phone is being held in front of Ashton.

Ashton never thought he’d be able to pinpoint the moment his world fell apart, but then again, he never thought he’d be marked as Luke Hemmings’s either.

A microphone, Reg had said. But he hadn’t said an old-fashioned one, just like the one Luke has (or had?) stashed away in the corner of his bedroom, that he’d stopped using years and years ago, that Ashton had only ever seen in his hands once, when he’d thought Ashton was out for the day. He’d been tentatively singing a song, soft and quiet, like he couldn’t trust the notes to come out right, the words not to trip on their way out of his lips. Ashton had stood there, bedroom door open just a crack, absolutely fucking mesmerised. He’d known, then, that Luke had been it for him, and he’d nearly buckled under the weight of the fear that accompanied that fleeting thought. 

(Two days later, he’d called Luke from a phone box in California. Three minutes was all it had taken.) 

“Fuck,” he says, and puts a hand on Reg’s mixing board to steady himself, because, well, fuck. 

“Mate, are you alright?” Reg says, alarmed. Ashton barely even registers it, too busy seeing the beautiful, delicate little daisies wrapped in a chain around the microphone, each one too beautiful for the pain they represent. The blades are sharp, pointed, and Ashton vaguely wonders if there’s some kind of twisted symbolism in that.

“You really fucking think they’re soulmate tattoos?” he’d managed to grit out. 

“Dunno,” Reg had said, still sounding a little unnerved. 

“You know who yours is about?” 

“I- no,” Reg had said. “Do you really think they’re- are you- is it about someone?” Ashton had swallowed back bile, and nodded. 

“My ex.” 

-------

It had taken five weeks for Ashton to get the answer to the question he’d been dying to ask the minute he’d managed to process what the tattoo was, and what it might represent. 

Ashton had spent those five weeks breaking his no-phone-after-ten-and-before-midday rule day in, day out, picking it up and putting it down, typing out messages and erasing them again. It didn’t matter whether or not Luke had Ashton, he told himself, because Ashton had severed any chances they had at reuniting. Luke was probably in a new relationship. Luke probably didn’t even remember Ashton. Luke had definitely deleted his number. But then, if Luke had deleted his number, it wouldn’t hurt to text, would it? No, he shouldn’t. On the off chance that he hadn’t, his response might hurt Ashton too much. But then again, was he just telling himself that so he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of his actions? Running, the same way he’d been running for the past two years? 

In the end, the decision is taken from him. 

He’s in the studio again, breaking another one of his rules - no phones in the studio - twirling his sticks in his hands, bored, while Reg and Jasmine hammer something about the bass out. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it, the rapid buzzing in his back pocket, because he doesn’t bring his phone into the studio - maybe the construction work outside is louder than he’d thought - before he remembers shit, he had brought his phone into the studio, and pulls it out. 

Luke What’s yours? 

Ashton’s heart lurches, and his stomach drops, reading and re-reading the two words. 

What’s yours? 

It feels surreal to see Luke’s name in a notification again. Ashton had meant to delete it, but had only got as far as deleting the stupid nickname he’d given Luke, changing it to Luke Hemmings, and then deleting his surname, because it feels too formal and there’ll only ever be one Luke to him, no matter how many he meets. It’s a moment he’s dreamed of, daydreamed of, fantasised about, but not like this. Not so stilted, so cold, so distant. Luke hadn’t even said hello. 

But Luke wouldn’t have asked, surely, had his tattoo not been Ashton? There would have been no need, Ashton thinks, phone slipping down in his sweaty palms, catching it with one hand while he wipes the other on his shorts. Luke would never have thought to ask Ashton otherwise. But he’d taken five weeks to ask, so maybe it was just curiosity? Maybe he couldn’t figure his out, and was running through a long list, and Ashton was near the bottom? 

“Ash?” Jasmine calls, and Ashton looks up, wild-eyed, and she frowns at him. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” his voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat, but it just hurts his dry mouth. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Give me...” he trails off, staring down at his phone again. 

“Take five?” Reg suggests, and everyone nods. Ashton barely even registers it, reading the two words again. 

What’s yours?

Should he lie? Maybe it’d be easier, for everybody involved, if he pretends it’s not Luke. They can both go their own ways and find someone else to love. There are seven billion people in the world, after all, and some of them don’t have tattoos. They could do it. 

But, the selfish little voice in his mind says, you don’t want that. You don’t want Luke with anyone else. You want him for yourself. 

And that’s true, it is, but even though it hurts every fucking fibre of his being, Ashton doesn’t think he can make Luke happy, and that’s what he wants more than anything. More, even, he tells himself, than he wants Luke to be happy with him. 

Me I don’t know. 

Me Not sure, actually. What’s yours? 

Me Hey, man, hope you’re good

Me It’s my friend 

It all feels wrong. Something in Ashton’s gut, something he’d only ever felt with Luke, tugs uncomfortably, telling him no, don’t lie. You need to tell him the truth. 

So he tries. 

Me Hi. I’m sorry for how everything ended. I wonder if we could speak on the phone at some point? It feels too impersonal over text. My tattoo is you, but that doesn’t surprise me. I’m not sure if you’ve seen, but people think they might be soulmate tattoos. I’ve seen a lot of different theories, but those are the only ones that seem to make sense. I’m sorry. For everything. I still love you. 

It’s too much, and it’s too late, and it’s not enough, and Ashton can never fucking be enough for Luke Hemmings. No one could ever compete with that fucking supernova, but fuck if Ashton doesn’t want to try and be a star teetering on the brink of Luke’s event horizon. 

Ashton’s backspacing before he even realises, typing two words before he can second-guess himself.

Me It’s you.