#there will be significantly more pax in part 2 don't worry

[thewhumperinwhite]

Just for fun: Soulmate AU

I was reading a fanfic about an au where you’re born with a mark representing your soulmate somewhere on your body and i was feeling sappy, and this uhhh.... got WELL out of hand;;; So I’m gonna post it in two parts because otherwise it’s longer than I’m comfy putting in one tumblr post. (i’ll put it as one complete piece in ao3 when it’s complete, though.) Also, i wasn’t even sure this would be that whumpy when i first had the idea but UH

Please note!! This oneshot contains a fairly graphic suicide attempt. I’m tagging it accordingly, but please err on the side of caution and be safe.

TW for: suicide attempt, gore, implied parental abuse, drowning, mild internalized ableism, underage whumpee (at this point Kent is 17, Sol is 19 and Pax is about 21).

@whumpitywhumpwhump

----

Sol Michaelis has two soulmate marks instead of one—an eye with a slash through it sits just under his collarbone from the day he’s born, and then when he’s two a second one slowly filters in, twin patterns of three lines around each of his wrists, just above the veins, in delicate summer-sky blue.

To be honest, Sol doesn’t think about it that much. He’s got too much to do, always—he’s in every sports club where they’ll let him play on the right team, and he always has to force himself to study if he wants to do good in school; he doesn’t tell anyone because his dad’s a genius so he can’t let anyone know he’s stupid, but it takes him three times as long to do anything as he knows its supposed to, always. It doesn’t leave any time to think.

About three times a month, he has nightmares about drowning, where he braces his hands and tries to push up out of the water but there’s a big hand around the back of his head and it holds him under, and he wakes up gasping for breath, pinned down against his sweaty pillow by the feeling that it’s his fault, that he deserves it somehow, that it’s only justice.

He honestly believes they’re just normal stress dreams, and they usually don’t stick in his head that long. And he’s always so busy. He’s busy in high school and then all of a sudden he’s busy surviving instead, busy finding jobs he hates and doing them as many hours as he can, and just barely making rent and food money, and he really doesn’t have time to think about soulmates.

And then in the middle of a workday he drops an entire tray of dishes because his wrists are on fire.

----

With the caveat that they have never met, Pax Field sometimes resents their future soulmates.

There’s a specific flavor to feelings when they aren’t yours—you’re not quite feeling them, you just know they’re happening, in some room and brain you aren’t actually a part of. But you can’t ignore them, either, no matter how much you try. And Pax always tries. Their own feelings are plenty without worrying about the feelings of absolute strangers, thank you very much. And they’re never good feelings, or at least hardly ever; always cold prickly sorrow-embarrassment-shame around their wrists and hot itchy anxiety-fear-loneliness over their heart.

Occasionally at night, when Vic is out doing unethical science or whatever and they’re alone, they put their hand over their heart and rub the skin there, or they massage their wrists as softly as they can, and try to—feel outward, which they’re not sure is even possible; whisper into the skin of their wrists that this stranger should fucking relax, fucking lighten up a little. Once they woke up from a nightmare—unrelated to soulmates, presumably, since it prominently featured Vic—and rolled over onto their stomach so they could press both wrists against their heart and bury their face in their pillow and cried, hard, because they didn’t know what was happening but they knew it wasn’t fair and they also knew there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Then they woke up in the morning and did their absolute best to forget about it, because they don’t know these people and anyway they aren’t going to waste their time on things they can’t change.

But they’ve never felt anything like this.

It’s a Friday evening and they are, by the grace of god, alone in their apartment, which means no one has to see them stagger and then fall hard onto their knees in the middle of the hallway, staring at their wrists.

The little blue marks there don’t look any different, which seems insane, because they have never ever been more sure that something is wrong.

It isn’t like being in pain—it isn’t like being in their own pain. It’s like seeing a car accident on the news and hearing your phone ring at the same time and knowing you can’t get there fast enough, but you run out the door anyway, because you can’t do anything else, you can’t do this, you can’t lose him, he can’t do this.

Even though Pax knows while they run into the bathroom, slipping and sliding on nothing and having to catch themself against walls and doors, that whoever “he” is, he already has.

They saw this in a movie once, where someone had to warn their soulmate about a murderer or some fucking dumb thing. So it probably doesn’t even work, and their soulmate’s going to bleed to death on expensive bathroom tiles before Pax even gets to meet him.

But they can’t not do anything. They turn the shower all the way to hot, and the sink all the way hot too, and they close the bathroom door behind them and stuff a towel underneath—and the bathroom mirror still isn’t fogging up quick enough, so they breath on it, hard, too, even though that’s objectively dumb. Then they stand at the sink, staring at their own wild-eyed reflection as it fogs out, one hand clamped white-knuckled around the opposite wrist, which burns with pain that’s so much worse for not being theirs.

 ----

It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore, actually.

Well, it does—it stings like a really terrible papercut, except much deeper and almost the whole length of his forearm. But it’s getting easier to ignore, even when he makes fists and squeezes to make the blood come out faster.

Kent kind of thinks, at least based on the movies he’s seen, that you’re supposed to strip naked before you do this, and he knows that would make the least mess. But he’s in the bathtub, and he’s stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, so it shouldn’t be too hard to clean up, anyway. And the maids are mostly older ladies, or young ones working through college, and stuff, and he’s too embarrassed to let them see him naked, even if he never has to know about it. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathtub, with his hands in his lap, so the bottom of his boxers are getting wet and sticky, but that’s getting easier to ignore, too. The blood is bright against the white porcelain, by far the most he’s ever seen, and it’s hard to look away from. Kind of pretty, even.

His heart is going a little faster, now, and he thinks he might be sweating. He squeezes his fists again. It’s taking longer than he thought it would.

Maybe he should make another—

People are looking at him.

Kent sits bolt upright, looking around the empty bathroom. He has a sudden urge to hide his arms behind his back, and he thinks he can feel an embarrassed flush in his cheeks.

“I-I,” he says, like he’s going to try to explain, even though he has no idea what he would say.

“Oh, god,” the brown-skinned boy with the round face and black hair says. He’s on the floor in the middle of a big kitchen. There are people around him but Kent can’t see them as well. It isn’t like looking through a window, or like the boy is here with him; it’s simply the new experience of seeing clearly into a room he is not in.

“Call for help,” the darker-skinned person says. Their hair is long and lose around their shoulders in tight waves. It’s dyed a violent pink. They’re staring into their bathroom mirror with more intensity than Kent has ever been looked at with, and they must be mad at him; he grabs one of his wrists and squeezes it with his other hand, makes blood bubble out and gush over his hand and onto his leg.

“Fuck,” the black-haired boy screams. He’s kneeling in front of a metal dishwasher with a foggy reflective surface and he throws himself towards it, grabs the sides of the dishwasher with both hands. “Don’t!”

Kent loosens his grip, panting. He’s staring straight ahead, seeing the blank tile wall of his own bathroom and the industrial kitchen behind the black-haired boy and the bathroom behind the person with pink hair. His heart is pounding now, rabbit-fast, in a way that’s starting to feel scary.

“Don’t do that, baby,” the black-haired boy says, and his voice is shaking like he’s in pain, even though Kent knows, somehow, that he can’t be, that Kent would know if he was hurting.

“Who’s in the house with you?” the pink-hair-person barks, and Kent shakes his head, because his father is home but his father can’t see him like this, he can’t, he’ll make sure Kent doesn’t die so he can drown him himself. “Call for help!”

Kent shakes his head again, harder, trying to scoot back away from them, except they aren’t really here so there’s nowhere to go.

He’s lifted his arms, now, holding one wrist in the hand, and now there’s blood down both his forearms and slick on his legs, soaking into his boxers and the bottom of his t-shirt, and he’s—beyond embarrassed, scared, doesn’t want them to see this, doesn’t want anyone to see it.

Kent doesn’t think of the golden sun that’s always sat on his chest, over his heart, and he doesn’t think of the smaller slashed eye beside it, because he is not thinking of much at all, but he’s always been glad they were easy to hide under his clothes. Not because he was ashamed of them, but because if no one else saw them they were his and nobody else’s. Sometimes those marks are the only parts of his body he likes, the only parts he never wants to hurt.

Both marks are warm, now, but the rest of him is becoming cold so fast that Kent doesn’t notice.

“Oh, god,” the black-haired boy’s voice says again. He hits his fist lightly against the dishwasher, like he wishes he could come through it, and Kent stares at him, because he’s lovely, and he’s sad, and it’s Kent’s fault.

“I-I—” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“God damn it,” the pink-haired person says, and their voice is wild, almost a roar. Then they say, “Where are you?”

Kent shakes his head. “I—I don’t—”

“Are you in the city?” they snap. Their hands are braced on the bathroom sink, and they’re lovely too, and Kent didn’t mean—he didn’t think— “Hey!” they snap their fingers, eyes blazing, and Kent crashes back to earth with a start. “Are you in the city?”

Kent nods helplessly.

“Where?”

Kent blinks rapidly. Their eyes are so bright that he mumbles an answer before he’s even decided if he wants them to know or not.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” they say, diving for the pocket of their sweatpants.

“That’s near me,” the black-haired boy whispers. “That’s near me, that’s near me, I’m coming to get you!”

Kent balks, scooting back in the blood along the bottom of the bathtub, shaking his head rapidly. “You—you can’t,” he says, and then his mind goes blank with terror, because more than not wanting to be seen in bloody boxer shorts, “My father is home!”

 ----

Sol only kind of hears this, because he’s already scrambling to his feet and wrestling his apron off over his head.

“You can’t just run off in the middle of your shift—” his boss starts, and then cuts off because Sol’s apron has just hit him in the chest.

“Then fire me,” Sol says, and he takes off across the restaurant floor at a dead run.

The address is ten or eleven blocks away—the restaurant where Sol works is right at the edge of the fancy part of town, and the blue-eyed boy’s house is in the heart of it. Sol doesn’t have a car, but it makes objective sense to wait for a bus or run to the train station. He does not consider this for even a second.

Sol runs, hard, his work shoes pounding on the pavement in time with his breath, and it doesn’t occur to him that it’s a summer night, still hot, or that he’s wearing his binder, or that the sidewalk is crowded with strangers who yell and dart out of his way. He doesn’t see any of them, doesn’t feel his ribs aching, doesn’t feel anything except that the blue lines on his wrist are pulsing—warm one second, like he’s going the right way, and cold the next, because his soulmate is dying.

Sol is drenched in sweat by the time he grinds to a stop in front of the tall fancy apartment building—and he knows immediately which one it is, because there’s an ambulance parked out front with it’s lights flashing.

Sol rounds the side of the ambulance and the stretcher is halfway in, and he stumbles sideways and almost falls—but he can feel the warm pulse in his mark and the boy on the stretcher gasps and moves, arching his back slightly.

The EMT about to shut the ambulance door turns at the sound of Sol’s pounding footsteps, looking alarmed, and Sol raises his arm and waves it over his head.

“He’s my soulmate!” He pants, holding his arm out so the EMT can see the mark, pulsing and flickering in a way that makes panic burn the back of Sol’s neck, but definitely giving off a soft glow. “He’s my soulmate. We’re soulmates.”

The EMT frowns, and then opens the door back up and lets him clamber inside.

Sol’s never been inside an ambulance before; it’s cramped, with two EMTs hovering on either side of the stretcher, now staring at Sol, but Sol barely sees them because the boy on the stretcher is looking at him too, and there’s blood everywhere—they’ve put tourniquets around his arms, but only just now—and Sol loves him.

Sol holds up his arm, still panting, hard. The paramedic on the boy’s left frowns at him, then down at the boy, and then tugs the collar of his t-shirt down.

There’s a big yellow sun over the boy’s chest, glowing bright and steady, like it’s mocking the weak stutter-pulse of the glow at Sol’s wrists. Sol flushes, feeling almost embarrassed, like his mark is showing off.

The EMT sighs and gestures for Sol to sit down.

The boy on the stretcher gives a little gasp. His eyes follow Sol when he awkwardly arranges himself on the little bench next to the stretcher, bright blue and reflective as glass. The EMT on his right leans over to scribble something across the boy’s forehead with a black marker—“TK” and the time—and the boy blinks at Sol around the EMT’s arm, his lips slightly parted.

“Hey,” Sol says softly. He wants badly to take the boy’s hand, but it’s covered in blood and he’s worried he’ll hut him. He pats his knee awkwardly instead, and the boy gasps again, sounding punched-out and rough but not pained, exactly. “My name’s Sol. I’m one of your soulmates.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispers, staring at Sol, and it sinks into Sol’s belly like a punch, and he gasps, hard, because he can feel it, not like it’s his own but still so strong he can taste it: shame and guilt and heart-fluttering panic.

Sol folds forward, the wind knocked out of him, and lowers his head to touch his forehead, as gently as he can, to the back of his soulmate’s bloody hand.

“I’m not mad at you,” Sol whispers, and he hears the boy gasp again, his breath starting to come in hard quiet sobs. “I’m not mad, baby, I’m not mad, I’m not mad, I’m not mad.”