The Pain is Mutual

by LuciaHarkness12

Summary:

“Oh my god,” she said, loud and shrill. “Did someone attack you? Are you having a stroke? Wait—wait, are you cursed?!”

The waiter, coming to ask if they wanted refills, froze mid-step.

Francis tried to laugh, which only made his face throb worse. “I don’t think I’m cursed.”

“You’re bleeding!” she cried. “You were fine, like, just a minute ago! What is this, some kind of prank?”

Or: Most soulmates share emotions, thoughts, or dreams. Not Arthur and Francis. They share pain. And neither of them has any idea the other exists.

Chapter 1: Is Getting Cut by Your Soulmate a Red Flag?

Notes:

I love soulmate AUs very much. They have a special place in my heart. (Right next to enemies to lovers but it's Fruk so of course it's both.) Rating of the fic may change depending on if I want to write smut or not. It's a giant maybe! Just as a warning, some of the depictions of injuries in this fic may cause discomfort. It really isn't that bad but if you are sensitive to that stuff, you have been warned! With that out of the way, enjoy the fic!

Make sure to comment if you noticed any errors. Constructive criticism is always appreciated! (Also I just like comments. Keeps me motivated and lets me know people actually like the fic .) (:

It was supposed to be a simple segment. Chop some herbs. Flash a charming smile. Say something vaguely sensual about olive oil.

Francis was good at this. People liked it when he talked with his hands, flipped his hair, and claimed that garlic was the true language of love. He’d done a dozen shows like this before, and not once had it ended in actual bloodshed.

Until now.

“Et voilà, ” he said, gesturing toward the pile of thinly sliced shallots on the cutting board. “You want them delicate, not butchered. Let them melt into the sauce.”

He reached for a sprig of rosemary to demonstrate, still speaking to the camera, still smiling—when a sudden cut appeared, as if he had dragged a knife’s edge across his ring finger.

The smile didn’t even have time to fade. Pain flared hot and immediate.

What the…

He flinched, cursed under his breath, and dropped his knife—which hadn’t even been near his now-injured finger—with a clatter. The crew froze, the cameraman lowering his rig as someone offscreen let out a gasp.

“Are you alright?” asked the producer, stepping forward with a look that was equal parts concern and deep network fear.

Francis held up his finger. A bright red line ran across the pad. Blood was already beginning to bead.

“Just a cut,” he said lightly, trying not to wince. “No need to panic. I think I still have a few pints left in me.”

The crew gave a few uneasy laughs. A PA rushed forward with a Band Aid and some gauze. Francis wrapped his finger with practiced ease. This was not the first time a delicate herb had betrayed him.

Still… something about the sting lingered. Not just the cut, but the strange way it had appeared. There was a tightness in his chest. A faint whisper of unease curling in the back of his mind.

He brushed it off.

After all, it was just a small cut.

✦ ✦ ✦

Francis found himself scrolling on his phone when he should have been getting ready. He had a date later that evening. And he was not the type of person to be late. He had many questionable qualities, but tardiness was not one of them.

He was sprawled out on the couch, phone propped against the armrest while he lay on his stomach. It wasn’t the most graceful position, but it was comfortable, and Francis didn’t feel like moving.

He’d Googled, why mysterious cut appear? Grammar wasn’t a priority at the moment. He was more concerned with the growing possibility that someone might actually be doing voodoo on him.

Most of the results were exactly what he expected: articles, blogs, and Reddit threads about small cuts and bruises you don’t remember getting. The consensus? You probably brushed up against something sharp and didn’t notice. Maybe a bug bit you. Maybe you're clumsy.

But one headline stood out.

Soulmate Connections: Can Pain Be Shared?

Francis stared at the screen for a second longer than he meant to.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of soulmates. Hell, he even had a friend who’d found theirs. Lucky Spanish bastard. But they weren’t exactly common. And even if, somehow, Francis did have a soulmate, the pain thing made no sense. Soulmates were supposed to share dreams or feelings, not bodily injuries.

Still, the thought lingered.

Francis had always had phantom aches. Random pains. It wasn’t until the last few years that they started coming with visible injuries. Little things—scratches, bruises, cuts—that he couldn’t explain. He’d always assumed he just didn’t remember bumping into something. But actually seeing the cut appear earlier… that was new.

He stared at his phone a moment longer before sighing and saving the article.

He wasn’t planning to read it. Not yet. But maybe it would be useful. Just in case.

For now, he had a date to get ready for.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time the appetizers had been served, Francis knew the date wasn’t going to end well.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his date. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The woman sitting across from him was drop-dead gorgeous. She had the kind of face that could make men fall to their knees like she was some kind of goddess, and a body that might just send them to one from blood loss. So no, it wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive, per se. It was a gut feeling. Something was going to go wrong.

Francis silently ate a stuffed mushroom as he half-listened to whatever the woman was saying. From what he’d gathered, she was a model from Milan and her name was Annabelle. Or was it Annalise? Annabeth? Whatever—it was something Anna. It wasn’t Francis’ fault she wouldn’t stop talking. He could barely process anything.

His zoning out was interrupted by an impromptu question. “But that’s enough about me, how about you? You’re a prime-time French chef. Tell me all about that!”

Francis quickly registered the question and put on his best charming smile—it was one of his trademarks, after all—and gave a classic media response.

“Well, my father was the one who taught me how to cook. And my love for the craft grew steadily over time. I enjoy being able to do what most would consider a hobby for a living.”

Anna-something seemed satisfied with that answer. He honestly felt a little bad for her. Francis had been set up on the date by one of his managers. Said it would make his “image” look better. And yes, that made sense, he just didn’t understand why it had to be with a girl most would categorize as a stereotypical blonde—ditzy and all.

They were both silent for a moment. Francis worried she might prompt him to elaborate, but luckily she just kept eating her plate of appetizers.

While Francis was grateful for the break in conversation, the silence was starting to lean toward uncomfortable. He kind of hoped she’d launch into another tangent. It was more bearable.

He quickly tried to scrounge up a question—anything to get things moving again. As he searched for inspiration, his fingers fidgeted with the Band-Aid wrapped around his ring finger. A souvenir from the cut earlier that afternoon. A random thought flashed across his mind and, before he could stop himself, he blurted it out.

“So do you think soulmates are real?”

Francis immediately wanted to crawl under the table and die.

The woman blinked, then looked oddly flustered. Maybe even happy?

Shit. She thinks I’m flirting.

She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, cheeks tinged with a soft pink. “Well, yes, I do.” Her eyes flicked downward, searching the floor as if it might have a better answer waiting.

When Francis didn’t respond right away, she rushed to clarify.

“It’s not that I’m insinuating anything about you and me!” Her hands flew up, fingers waving like she could literally dispel the implication. “Just, you know, there have been a lot of stories. People ending up together. Matching dreams and emotions and stuff.”

Francis gave her a slow, sultry grin, pretending the comment had been flattering rather than awkward.

Why the fuck did I say that?

Thankfully, he was saved from further humiliation by the waiter arriving to clear their plates. Francis offered a silent prayer to whatever god oversaw restaurants and romantic misfires, begging that his luck didn’t get any worse.

He wasn’t sure if the universe had heard him, but his pinkie finger suddenly throbbed, like someone had poured alcohol straight onto an open wound. And it hurt.

Badly.

He winced.

So did his date.

But only one of them was in pain.

Their entrees arrived not long after, delivered with a flourish by the waiter who seemed far too chipper considering the Friday evening rush of customers. Francis offered a charming thank-you and turned back to his date, relieved to see her smiling again.

To his surprise, things were going better.

They talked about art. She liked impressionists. He pretended to hate them, just to see the way she argued. It was easy conversation, light and warm like the candle flickering between them. She laughed when he said Renoir had no understanding of hands and nearly choked on her wine when he made a terrible pun about Monet. For a moment, he relaxed. Maybe the weirdness had passed.

Then it hit him.

A chill swept down his spine, sudden and cold like someone had opened a freezer behind his back. The restaurant was still warm, still softly lit, still humming with quiet conversations. Nothing had changed, but the dread coiled in his gut anyway. Like a warning.

His grip on his fork tightened.

And then the pain came.

It exploded across his face, sharp and burning. His cheek, his jaw, even the bridge of his nose. He flinched so hard he nearly knocked over his glass. His fork clattered onto the table.

“Francis?” she asked, startled. “Are you alright?”

He barely heard her. One hand pressed to his face, trying to make sense of the sudden ache, the burst of stinging heat that felt far too much like a slap.

Or a punch.

He blinked at the tablecloth, eyes watering.

“Sorry,” he managed, voice strained. “Bit of a headache. Came out of nowhere.”

She frowned, concerned, but nodded slowly.

Francis sat back in his chair and tried to breathe through it. His cheek throbbed like someone else’s anger had landed on him by accident.

He lifted his head to look at Anna, forcing a reassuring smile. But instead of her face softening, it twisted—slowly, deliberately—into horror.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted like she was about to scream. One trembling hand reached for her wine glass but missed it entirely.

“Francis,” she breathed. “Your face…”

He blinked. “What about it?”

She didn’t answer, just pointed. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

Francis reached up, fingertips brushing along the curve of his cheek. He hissed. It was wet. Sticky. He pulled his hand back and stared at the smear of blood across his fingers.

“What the hell?”

The left side of his face felt raw. His eye burned. It was starting to swell. He grabbed his phone, flipped the camera, and nearly dropped it.

There were angry red scratches along his cheekbone, like someone had clawed him. His lower eyelid was already puffing, the eye itself bloodshot and beginning to swell shut. It looked like he’d been in a bar fight, and lost.

“I—I need to go to the restroom,” he muttered, standing a little too fast. The room tilted. Anna pushed her chair back with a screech loud enough to turn heads.

“Oh my god,” she said, loud and shrill. “Did someone attack you? Are you having a stroke? Wait—wait, are you cursed?!”

The waiter, coming to ask if they wanted refills, froze mid-step.

Francis tried to laugh, which only made his face throb worse. “I don’t think I’m cursed. ”

“You’re bleeding !” she cried. “You were fine, like, just a minute ago! What is this, some kind of prank?”

She stood now too, panicking properly. Her purse hit the floor with a thunk. A couple at the next table scooted their chairs away. Francis could feel the entire restaurant watching him.

“It’s not a prank,” he said, trying to sound calm, which wasn’t easy with blood trickling down his jaw.

“Do you have some type of disease? Are you contagious?! ”

That did it.

The date, already hanging by a thread, snapped clean in two. Anna backed away like he had sprouted horns. The waiter looked like he was about to call security. Francis, humiliated and sore and still trying to process the pain in his eye, grabbed his coat and a napkin and booked it toward the restroom.

As he passed the bar, he muttered under his breath, “Perfect timing.”

He managed to make it to the bathroom before collapsing against the wall and sliding to the floor. The cold tile pressed against his spine. Francis honestly felt like just staying there. It was a nice enough restaurant, after all. Probably not that much piss on the floor.

But even the floor wasn’t helping the pain.

With a low groan, he grabbed the edge of the sink and hauled himself up, arms shaking a little under the effort. When he looked in the mirror, he immediately regretted it.

His blonde hair was matted down with blood near his temple, the strands sticking together in messy clumps. The scratches along his cheek were still bright red, a few of them starting to scab over, while others kept oozing. And his eye—God. It was bloodshot, the kind of angry red that looked like it was ready to burst. The skin around it had begun to puff, turning a sickly purple near the socket. He looked like someone had taken a swing at him with a brick and a grudge.

He splashed cold water on his face. It stung like hell.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, dabbing at the worst of the blood with rough paper towels. It didn’t help much. He still looked like a Victorian ghost who had died from either a deadly plague or blunt force trauma.

Francis leaned against the counter and stared at himself. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just breathed. Watched the slow drip of blood trace a path along his jaw and fall into the sink.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. Not a headache. Not stress. Not a rogue eyelash or sudden onset nosebleed.

This was something else entirely. And it was high time he did something about it.

He was just about to splash his face with more water when a sharp knock echoed through the bathroom.

Followed by a voice, “You good in there?”

Francis let out a sigh. “Yes, just had a bit too much to drink.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door. Then, “We’d prefer if you left once you’re done. We don’t want more of a commotion.”

Francis groaned. He had expected as much. Honestly, he hadn’t even planned on going back to the table. But being personally asked to leave? That was a bit too embarrassing.

He dabbed his face dry with a paper towel, trying not to flinch at how tender the skin felt. His eye was still puffy and red, and a smear of dried blood lingered near his hairline, no matter how much he tried to wipe it away. He took one last look in the mirror and winced. Not his best exit.

Straightening his shirt, Francis ran his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to fix it, then stepped out of the bathroom and into the awkward stares of a waiter and a man in a cheap blazer who looked like he was in charge of things.

Neither said anything. They just silently stepped aside to let him pass.

He didn’t bother stopping at the table. He doubted Anna was still there, anyway. He kept his head low as he made his way to the front door. A part of him wished he had something clever to say on the way out, something to reclaim a shred of his dignity.

But he didn’t. He just left.

The cool night air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, and Francis let out a long breath.

He was bleeding, humiliated, and vaguely traumatized.

So why, then, was his first thought: I wonder if that article had a comments section.

✦ ✦ ✦

As soon as Francis made it back to his apartment, he showered, changed into sweats, and buried the night somewhere deep in the back of his mind. The cut on his finger still throbbed. His eye was a little less puffy, though still red enough to make him look like he’d been in a bar fight.

He sat cross-legged on his couch, nursing a glass of wine he didn’t really want, with his phone resting on his knee.

The article was still there in his saved tabs. Soulmate Connections: Can Pain Be Shared?

He tapped it open. Just to skim. Just to see. Not because he believed it.

Definitely not because it was the only thing that made even a little bit of sense.

Francis scrolled past the ads and fluff at the top of the page, eyes scanning the bolded headings like he was skimming a menu he had no intention of ordering from. It was late, and his wine glass was half-empty. Or half-full. Depending on the level of denial.

The article wasn’t from a scientific journal or anything reputable. It was some mix between a wellness blog and someone’s personal soulmate diary. But Francis kept reading anyway.

“While most soulmate connections manifest through shared dreams or emotional synchronicity, there have been rare cases reported where physical sensations—like pain—are transferred between bonded individuals. This phenomenon is not widely documented, but anecdotal evidence persists…”

Francis frowned. He remembered the weird ache in his shoulder that showed up last week while he was reorganizing his spice rack. It hadn’t gone away until the next morning. He hadn’t even lifted anything heavy.

He took another sip of wine, brow furrowed.

“These cases often begin with phantom injuries when a pair is young—minor bruises, scratches, or aches. Most bonded pairs are unaware of the connection at first, particularly when the pain experienced doesn’t align with any visible cause.”

Francis looked down at his bandaged finger. The paper cut had bled more than it should have. And the sting? Way too sharp for something so small.

He rubbed at his temple.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, even as he clicked the next link embedded in the article. It led to a list of signs you might be feeling your soulmate’s pain.

He read through them in silence. Random bruises. Sudden throbbing. Injuries without memory of how they happened. Check. Check. Check.

A small voice in the back of his head, the one that usually made fun of people who believed in crystals or fate, was a little quieter than usual.

Francis leaned back on the couch, exhaling through his nose.

There was no way this was real.

But… if it was?

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then finally whispered, “Who the hell are you?”

Francis didn’t exactly know what to think. He needed somewhere to put all the thoughts running through his head.

A journal wasn’t a bad idea.

Yes. That was it. He’d go full teenage girl and write about all his feelings surrounding soulmates and romance. That was the perfect solution. Way to go, Francis.

Still… if he thought about it for more than a second, it wasn’t the worst idea. It might actually help to lay out what he knew so far. Maybe he’d figure out if he really had a soulmate—or if he was just cursed.

Francis dug through his junk drawer until he found a mostly empty notebook. The front was bent, the pages curled, and it had some very suspicious water damage in the corner, but it would do.

He flopped onto his couch, flipped to the first blank page, and clicked his pen. At the top, in the biggest letters he could manage, he wrote:

Soulmate?
He circled it. Twice.

Below that, in a much messier scrawl, he started listing what he knew.

• Shared Pain = Soulmate?
  
  
• No emotions. No dreams. No thoughts. Just… pain.
  
  
• Sudden injuries.
  
  
• Phantom pain when younger? → Ask Mom.
  
  
• Cut appeared out of nowhere.
  
  
• Random bruises??
  
  
• That one time with the ankle?? (Revisit that memory—was that really a misstep?)
  
  
• No patterns in time/location.
  
  

He stared at the page for a while, chewing on the cap of his pen.

• Could be curse.
  
  
• Could be brain worms.
  
  
• Could be soul-bonded with a masochist.
  
  

He sighed, tapped the pen on the notebook, then underlined the first line again.

Soulmate?

It was a ridiculous theory. But at this point, it was the only one that didn’t make him feel like he was going insane. And that had to count for something. Right?

 

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Hopefully you enjoyed the first chapter. I think the word estimate I have for this fic is around 30k-50k. So there is still a lot more to go!

Just as a reminder, feel free to comment anything. I accept criticism in all its forms!

Chapter 2: Definitely Not Losing It

Summary:

Arthur just wanted a quiet drink. Instead, he ends up on the receiving end of a beer bottle, gets patched up by his annoying brothers, and somehow becomes the punchline to a joke involving "soulmate phantom pain." Featuring: ghosts cleaning wounds, sibling bullying, and one very drunk Irishman on speakerphone.

Notes:

The soulmate shenanigans continue! I am sorry for the blatant reference to "Mario the Idea Vs Mario the Man." It felt like something Alfred would write. (If you don't know what that is go look it up. It's pretty funny.) And no, Alfred will not be a prominent character. He might appear one more time at most.

Anyway make sure to comment if you noticed any errors. Constructive criticism is always appreciated! (Also I just like comments in general.) (:

Arthur was going to have an aneurysm.

Grading papers from first-year students felt less like a requirement of teaching and more like a punishment from the deepest depths of hell. Doled out from the smoldering pit beneath academia’s lowest rung. He was convinced that every passing year saw a marked decline in spelling, grammar, and even basic cognitive effort. He shouldn’t have to spend his Friday morning on this.

With a resigned sigh, he scribbled a C+ onto the paper he’d just finished, then reached for the next victim in the pile.

The moment he read the first sentence, he nearly set the whole thing on fire.

Everyone knows Shakespeare is cool as fuck. But who knows what he’s thinking? Who knows why he kills off Italians? And why do we think about him as fondly as we think of the mythical (nonexistent?) Dr. Pepper? Perchance.

Fucking STEM majors. They only enrolled in his class to tick a humanities requirement and punish him for existing. Literature deserved better. Shakespeare deserved better. He deserved better.

Then again, his paycheck suggested that the university—and by extension, the world—disagreed.

Arthur was just about to slap an F on the paper and move on with his life when he stopped himself. Maybe— maybe —there was something salvageable here. He highly doubted it, but he was a professor, and he did believe in treating each student fairly. Even the ones who clearly hated him.

And if his instincts were right, this particular essay belonged to the blonde American who snored through every 8 a.m. lecture in the front row. Alfred, that was his name. Arthur made a mental note to glare at him twice as hard next class. The audacity of sleeping through his carefully constructed lectures was one thing. But submitting this ?

He skimmed through the rest of the essay. Slightly better than the introduction—not a high bar, but he gave it credit where credit was due. Still, when he tried to flip the page, he hit an unexpected snag: an extra staple jammed awkwardly into the top right corner, holding the pages hostage.

Arthur sighed. “Of course,” he muttered, grabbing the paper with both hands and attempting to free it. But the staples weren’t arranged in any logical fashion—just a metallic jungle of bent wires and poor decisions.

He yanked one free.

And then promptly hissed as something sharp sliced across the side of his finger.

“Bloody hell—” He dropped the paper and inspected the damage. A thin, angry red line was already forming on his finger, a small bead of blood welling up like it had been waiting for an excuse.

He spotted the culprit nestled among the others: a rogue staple, half-clipped and twisted backward, waiting like a booby trap for unsuspecting fingers.

Arthur glared at it like it had insulted his entire lineage.

He stuck his finger in his mouth, muffling a string of very creative curses. He’d dealt with literary theory that left him emotionally bruised, but getting literally cut by one of the shitiest papers he had ever seen was a uniquely personal betrayal.

Despite himself, Arthur kept reading. Morbid curiosity, maybe. Or a desperate hope that the student would somehow redeem themselves in the conclusion.

No such luck.

We think of Shakespeare as a genius, but he is simply a one percenter of a more privileged variety. The life kind. Perchance.

Arthur stared at the sentence for a long moment, feeling something in his soul quietly wither.

He didn’t hesitate this time. He flipped the page and scrawled a large, definitive F across the top in red ink.

Mercy, after all, had its limits. And this kid didn’t deserve any. He was obviously just trying to fuck with him. 

He was saved from having to grade more papers by the arrival of students for that day’s lecture. Thankfully, it wasn’t one of his Freshman classes. These were Juniors, students who actually wanted to be there, bless their misguided literary hearts. He could tolerate a bit of pretension if it meant they knew how to spell “iambic.”

He straightened his notes and looked out at the half-filled room. “Today,” he began, voice crisp, “we’re diving into Milton’s Paradise Lost . Which, in case any of you were wondering, is not just fanfiction for the Bible. You should have read up to about half way. If you didn’t, well, have fun being awfully confused.”

A few students chuckled. One girl, wearing a turtleneck two sizes too big and glasses that may have been ironic, nodded with enthusiasm. Good. They were awake.

The lecture moved smoothly. Arthur found his rhythm, pacing in front of the whiteboard as he gestured dramatically while discussing Satan as a tragic hero and Milton’s political undertones. There were even some decent questions. One particularly thoughtful point about the role of Eve nearly made him believe academia wasn’t entirely doomed.

By the time the hour was up, Arthur was feeling... not good, exactly, but not on the verge of setting fire to a pile of essays either. He gathered his things and gave the students a nod as they shuffled out, most of them still arguing about whether or not Satan was supposed to be sexy.

Arthur pushed himself up out of his chair, his finger brushing against the edge of the desk. The cut from earlier flared with a sharp sting. He winced, muttering a curse under his breath. He’d forgotten all about it, too focused on explaining why Milton had it out for monarchy and women. Typical.

He glanced down at the faint line of red. Bloody thing still looked irritated. Knowing his luck, it had been the one staple in the stack forged in 1992 and festering with rust. He made a detour to the staff bathroom, quickly rinsing the cut under lukewarm water and dabbing at it with one of those sad paper towels that disintegrated on contact. It was fine. Probably.

After drying his hands, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out onto the narrow pavement that led away from the main building of Royal Holloway. The campus was lovely—red brick buildings and gothic windows framed by ivy, like some pretentious postcard trying too hard to say “British charm.” But Arthur had to admit, it had its moments. The walkways were quiet this time of day, with most students either in class or passed out somewhere on the lawn pretending to read Woolf.

He only lived a few blocks off campus, in a cramped but serviceable row home with creaky floorboards and a front door that never quite closed right unless you kicked it. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was his. And currently filled with two uninvited guests.

His older brother Alisdair had a work conference in London and, naturally, couldn’t be bothered to book a hotel like a normal adult. Instead, he called Arthur the night before. No warning, no pleasantries, just a casual, “I’ll be crashing at yours tomorrow.”

Arthur hadn’t even had time to argue before Alisdair added that Dylan was coming too. Apparently, during one of their rare phone calls, Dylan had offhandedly mentioned wanting a “brother reunion.” Alisdair, ever the enabler, told him about the conference, and that was enough for Dylan to immediately book a train ticket and invite himself along. Arthur hadn’t even been consulted. As usual.

So now, instead of a quiet weekend to grade papers and nurse his resentment toward the world in peace, he had to play reluctant host to two grown men who still treated his house like their personal vacation rental. Perfect.

Arthur could at least be slightly grateful that their other brother, Seamus, wouldn’t be joining them. If Dylan and Alisdair were already enough to make him question every life decision that had led to this point, then Seamus multiplied the odds of Arthur blowing a blood vessel by at least ten. Possibly more, depending on how many drinks were involved.

He unlocked the front door of his narrow little row house with a sigh, nudging it open with his shoulder. The place was neat, if a bit cramped. Books stacked two deep on every shelf, worn rugs that had seen better decades, and a lingering smell of black tea and musty pages. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and he liked it quiet. Which meant it was about to be thoroughly ruined.

Arthur tossed his satchel onto the coat rack with a little more force than necessary, muttering a curse as it bounced off and landed on the floor. He picked it up quickly and hung it up, slightly embarrassed that he’d completely missed.

He continued into the house, clinging to the fragile hope that maybe only one of his brothers had arrived so far. It was still late morning, after all. Surely that bought him a few hours of precious, uninterrupted solitude before chaos descended.

But of course, fate hated him.

As he stepped into the kitchen, any last shred of hope withered and died. Both of his brothers were already perched at the kitchen island like they owned the place, each with a can of Wrexham Lager in hand. At this hour.

“Brilliant,” Arthur muttered under his breath, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

Dylan was the first to notice him, flashing a grin mid-sip. “Look who’s back from being a fancy professor. Good to see yuh, Arthur.”

Alisdair swiveled around on his stool as well, raising his can like a toast. “Hey there, Artie! Just in time for a pint. You’re out of Wrexham, but you’ve still got a few Guinness knocking around in the back.”

Arthur let out a long-suffering sigh as he stepped further into the kitchen. “I think I’m aware of what’s in my own fridge, thanks. And no, I’ll pass. Bit early for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

“Aw, come on, Arthur,” Dylan groaned. “You don’t have any more lectures today, right? Since when do you skimp out on a beer?”

“I am not skimping out. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Arthur replied dryly, though a familiar prickle of annoyance simmered under his tone.

“Perfect time for a pre-afternoon happy hour, if I do say so,” Alisdair quipped without missing a beat.

Arthur just shook his head and sat down beside Dylan. He wasn’t about to storm upstairs and sulk like an angsty teenager, he was a grown man. A grumpy, underpaid, overworked one, but still.

“If Seamus were here, he’d have shoved a Guinness down your throat already,” Dylan added with a smirk, likely picking up on Arthur’s simmering irritation. Dylan had always had a knack for reading a room, and needling Arthur just enough to get a reaction.

“Yeah, probably,” Arthur muttered, resting his cheek against his hand. “How is he, by the way? I assume he must be busy if he didn’t leap at the chance to freeload and drink all my beer. Like you two so eloquently have.”

“Went down to Dublin to visit Seán,” Alisdair answered. “I can assure you he’s getting his fill there.”

“He’s always been closest with our cousin,” Dylan said, spinning his beer can lazily between his fingers. “I don’t think Seán likes us much. Maybe tolerates you a bit, Alisdair. But you?” He pointed the can at Arthur. “Pretty sure he outright hates you.”

Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose. “Marvelous. It’s always heartwarming to hear just how universally adored I am.”

Dylan chuckled at Arthur’s dry remark, while Alisdair’s expression barely shifted, just the twitch of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Say, Arthur,” Dylan said suddenly, the laughter fading into something more curious. “You been seeing anyone lately? It’s high time you get yourself a nice lady friend.”

“Or a bloke,” Alisdair added casually.

“Yeah, really anyone would suffice,” Dylan went on, turning toward him. “You need someone to talk to who isn’t one of us or one of your snot-nosed college students. Hell, even just a new friend would do you some good.”

Arthur straightened in his chair, already feeling defensive. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I’m just saying your schedule is looking a bit grim, mate. Go to work, come home, rinse, repeat. That’s not exactly the picture of a thriving social life. And no offense, but this place doesn’t scream warmth and joy either.” Dylan raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not judging, just... observing.”

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt and turned his head away, jaw tightening slightly.

“Someone’s sensitive today,” Alisdair muttered, and Arthur shot him a pointed glare.

“You know what you need?” Dylan continued, unfazed. “A proper drink. Not one of those cans. I’m talking about a nice draft at a real pub. Who knows, maybe you’ll even meet someone. Stranger things have happened.” 

Dylan grinned fanatically at him, like his idea had been sent directly from God himself.

“Like I said before, it’s eleven in the morning,” Arthur replied flatly, his tone as dry as the gin he wasn’t drinking.

“Later then. We’ll go out around seven,” Dylan said, already rising from his seat and ambling toward the living room. “’Till then, I’mma see if there’s anything decent on. Maybe footie.”

Alisdair shot Arthur a look, one of those wordless expressions between siblings that said, So? You coming willingly, or are we dragging you out by the ankles?

Arthur didn’t exactly fancy being manhandled into some dingy London pub, so he sighed, long and suffering. “Fine, fine. I’ll go,” he grumbled, immediately slumping forward and burying his face in his arms like he’d just signed away his soul in blood.

“That’s the spirit, Artie,” Alisdair said with a smug grin. “A good night out is a time-tested remedy for terminal grumpiness. Been medicinal for centuries.”

Arthur groaned louder, muffled against his sleeve, and dug his face in further. Maybe if he stayed like that long enough, they’d forget he existed.

✦ ✦ ✦

Arthur sat at a high-top table, hands folded and thumbs absently twiddling like they were trying to entertain themselves. His brothers had disappeared to get another round, presumably just beer, but if Arthur knew them (and unfortunately he did), it was probably whiskey again. And, naturally, they’d decided he needed more too. So much for having just a light drink.

Dylan had dragged them into the first pub he laid eyes on, something Arthur had expected to be a questionable little pit judging by the weathered brick and flickering neon sign out front. But inside, it wasn’t half bad. Not fancy, not posh, but certainly a step up from the usual places he frequented. It had decent lighting, clean tables, and no one was actively shouting about football…yet. Honestly, it was almost charming. Not that he’d admit that out loud.

But, in all honesty, even though the place wasn’t bad, the music was decent, and the drinks were adequate, Arthur would still rather be back in his own house, quietly judging papers and nursing a lukewarm cup of tea. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy going out, he did… sometimes. But sitting here, watching everyone else laugh and lean into each other like it was the easiest thing in the world, just grated at him. Couples tucked into corners whispering nonsense, groups of friends toasting to inside jokes, even the bloody bartender chatting up regulars like he actually liked them. It all started to wear thin. The casual comfort of it. The ease. It irritated the hell out of him.

He didn’t realize Alisdair had returned until a glass clinked down in front of him. Amber, definitely not beer.

“Told you I’d find something better,” Alisdair said, sliding into the seat across from him with a smug grin. Dylan was right behind him, two more drinks in hand and already halfway into a story Arthur wasn’t following.

Arthur took a sip—yep, whiskey—and let their voices wash over him. He caught bits and pieces. Something about a bloke from Dylan’s office showing up to work still drunk, someone’s awful Tinder date, and a minor argument over which pub in Cardiff had the best live music. But he didn’t engage. Didn’t even try.

Instead, he let his gaze wander. Over to the fireplace tucked in the corner. Up to the framed photos of old rugby teams and blurry concerts. Across the faces around him, bright, easy smiles and arms slung over shoulders. People who knew how to be part of something without needing to rehearse it.

He finished half his drink before realizing it. The burn was dull now, background noise to the low hum of conversation and the pounding in his head he hadn’t noticed creeping up.

Then, a sudden yell shattered it all, someone across the room barking out in an aggressive slur of syllables. Chairs scraped. A bottle clinked too hard against wood. Arthur jolted back into his skin, glass in hand, heart kicking a little faster than it should’ve.

Alisdair turned toward the commotion, already muttering, “Bloody hell. What now?”

Arthur just blinked and looked down at his drink. The warmth that had filled him earlier now felt more like static.

Across the room, a tall, dark-haired man loomed over a waitress, clearly shouting—though what he was actually saying was anyone’s guess. His words slurred together in a half-coherent mess of syllables, spit flying from his mouth as he jabbed a finger toward her face. The waitress, who was a good few inches shorter but standing her ground, looked both exhausted and unimpressed.

He was probably drunker than Arthur, which was saying something considering he was already on his third beer and a whiskey.

“Bloody bastard,” Alisdair muttered under his breath, already rising from his seat. “What the hell is this now?”

Dylan followed him immediately, pacing across the room with a sort of calm urgency, the kind that always made Arthur worry. Arthur himself slipped off the stool, legs wobbling more than he’d like to admit. The rest of the pub had begun to quiet, heads turning toward the scene like a pack of meerkats.

Alisdair was already there, stepping in between the man and the waitress, holding up a hand in peace. Even though the guy was tall, Alisdair had a few inches on him—and a hell of a lot more presence. They’d always joked that Alisdair was a secret bouncer born into the wrong job.

As Arthur drew closer, his ears picked up the accent hidden under all the rage and booze.

French. Of course.

Arthur rolled his eyes so hard it almost gave him a headache. Figures. Loud, arrogant, and making a scene. Just bloody perfect.

“Hey, mate,” Alisdair said, placing a firm but non-threatening hand on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t we step outside for a bit, yeah? Cool your head.”

The Frenchman turned, eyes glassy and wide, and shoved Alisdair hard. Hard enough that he stumbled back, only avoiding a fall because Dylan caught him.

And that was it.

“Oh, fuck no,” Arthur muttered, then stormed forward with the kind of righteous fury only whiskey could bring out of him.

“You think you can just shove people and yell at women like a goddamn prick?” Arthur barked, planting himself between the man and the waitress. The waitress, who, to Arthur’s sudden realization, was a bit taller than himself—blinked in surprise but didn’t back away.

The Frenchman scoffed, lip curled. “Get your ugly ass out of my fucking face and mind your own damn business.”

Arthur, without thinking, because thinking was for people who hadn’t had four drinks—swung his fist.

It connected with the man’s jaw in a satisfying crack, causing him to reel back a step. For a second, Arthur felt the rush of stupid, fleeting victory.

Then the man grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from a nearby table and brought it down across Arthur’s face with a sickening crash.

Pain exploded across Arthur’s cheekbone as glass shattered. He barely had time to register the blood dripping into his mouth before fists started flying. The Frenchman tackled him, punching hard and fast, until—

Alisdair yelled and launched himself at the man, knocking him clean off of Arthur. The two of them crashed to the floor, Alisdair’s fists slamming down in a blur of fury.

Dylan was already yanking Arthur off the floor, one arm hooked under his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding—come on, we’re getting out of here.”

The waitress, still wide-eyed but steady, stood nearby. Dylan looked at her.

“You alright?”

She gave a shaky nod.

“Good. Let’s go.”

With Arthur stumbling beside him and the waitress trailing just behind, Dylan moved fast. Behind them, Alisdair had the Frenchman halfway out the door, still shouting, “You fucking wanker! I’ll knock your teeth down your throat if I ever see your face again!”

“Alisdair!” Dylan snapped. “Let’s go!”

Reluctantly, their brother let go of the man, who hurled a final string of slurred French curses as he staggered off down the street. Alisdair turned back, face flushed, knuckles red. “Fuckin’ twat.”

The three brothers stumbled into the cool night air. The adrenaline was fading fast, and Arthur was starting to feel the full weight of the bottle to the face.

They didn’t speak much on the walk back. Alisdair grumbled under his breath the whole way, Dylan kept looking over at Arthur to check if he was still conscious, and Arthur mostly focused on not throwing up in someone’s hedgerow.

Eventually, the familiar door of Arthur’s house appeared in front of them like a poorly lit miracle.

Dylan threw the door open and hauled Arthur inside without ceremony. Alisdair followed close behind, still muttering under his breath about not getting the chance to really deck the guy.

Arthur didn’t even register that he was in his living room until he felt the familiar sag of his sofa cushions beneath him. He curled into them instinctively, letting the warmth and softness swallow him up. The ache in his face settled into a dull throb, something distant and manageable, for now.

“Hey, Artie, before you drift off, I need to clean your face,” Dylan said, voice cutting through the fog in Arthur’s head.

“I don’t think he’s got any glass stuck in him,” Alisdair added from somewhere nearby. “Which is a bloody miracle, honestly.”

“Still needs cleaning,” Dylan replied, crouching down to get a better look. “Can’t let it get infected or whatever. You’ll end up looking worse than you already do.”

Arthur cracked one eye open, not even bothering to respond to the jab.

“Where do you keep rubbing alcohol?” Dylan asked. “Or vodka. Or, hell, even Neosporin. Something.”

Arthur weakly pointed toward the stairs. “Bathroom. Bottom cabinet. Upstairs.”

Dylan stood with a sigh and patted Arthur’s knee on his way past. “Alright, sit tight. Try not to bleed all over your couch.”

Arthur groaned and sunk deeper into the cushions, doing his best to ignore the way his face throbbed in sync with his pulse.

He started to drift off, the pain ebbing just enough to let the fog of sleep creep back in. But then, without warning, a sharp stinging sensation lit up across his face—like someone was pouring straight alcohol into his cuts, or maybe scrubbing them out with soap. Either way, it hurt like bloody hell.

“Dylan, wait—fuck, give me a warning, Jesus,” Arthur grumbled, sitting up abruptly to glare at his brother.

Except… no one was there. The space beside him was empty. Only Alisdair sat nearby, lounging in the armchair across from the couch, looking at him with the kind of raised eyebrow reserved for someone who’d just blurted out something truly baffling.

“Artie, no one was touching your face,” Alisdair said slowly, eyeing him like he’d sprouted a second head. “You sure you’re alright? That bastard didn’t knock something loose up there, did he?”

Arthur sat up straighter, wincing as the phantom sting jolted the last remnants of grogginess from his mind. “Don’t fuck with me, Alisdair. I felt that—like my bloody face was set on fire. One of you had to have done something. Where’s Dylan?”

“Still upstairs, rummaging for God knows what,” Alisdair replied, eyeing him warily. “I’ve been right here. None of us touched you.”

And then, as if summoned by name, Dylan thundered down the stairs, a haphazard collection of supplies in his arms and a wild look in his eye.

“I found vodka and some gauze!” he called out. “Also a bag of frozen peas and—wait, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Arthur stared at his brother, mouth slack with disbelief. He turned back to Alisdair, blinking.
“One of you must have done something,” was all he could manage.

“We didn’t,” Alisdair said flatly. “I don’t know what you’re on about. You probably just rolled over and tugged on your cuts or something. So if you want our help, stop whining and let us help .”

Arthur just nodded. He didn’t have the energy to argue.

Dylan crouched down beside him, already dousing a crumpled bit of paper towel with rubbing alcohol.

“Alright, Arthur. This is probably gonna sting, so brace yourself,” Dylan muttered, voice softer now.

“Yeah, like I don’t—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Another sharp jolt of pain shot across his face, sudden and raw. Dylan hadn’t even touched him yet. He was still right there, holding the towel in midair.

“ Fucking hell! ” Arthur yelled, clutching at his cheek with both hands.

Dylan looked over at Alisdair, who just shrugged, thoroughly unbothered.
“He’s gone insane. Don’t know what else to tell yuh.”

“I’ve not gone fucking insane,” Arthur snapped. “It just— feels like someone’s trying to clean my face. And it obviously isn’t one of you! ”

Dylan sighed, putting down the paper towel and bottle of alcohol with exaggerated care. “Well, great. I guess I’ll just slap some gauze on it since apparently a ghost already took care of the rest.”

He leaned in and gently began dressing Arthur’s wounds. The gauze felt real, grounded. At least this didn’t burn like hell.

“There. That should hold,” Dylan said, voice quieter. He lingered a moment, watching Arthur closely. “But, alright—joking aside… What did it actually feel like? Be honest.”

Arthur hesitated, rubbing the side of his neck. “It felt like someone dabbed alcohol straight into the cut. Stung like shit. Not… imagined. Real. ”

Alisdair let out a breath, leaning back in the armchair. “Mate, you’re probably just overtired. Been a long night. Your brain’s fucking with you.”

Arthur shot him a glare. “I’m not tired, you twat. I know what I felt.”

Dylan stayed quiet, still crouched beside the sofa, brows knit like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. Then, abruptly, he stood up and walked off into the kitchen.

“Where the hell are you going?” Arthur called after him.

“Getting my phone. Don’t move.” Dylan’s voice was clipped but intent.

Arthur and Alisdair were still going back and forth when Dylan came rushing back in, thumbing quickly through his screen. He stopped in front of them and suddenly barked, “ Shut up! ” Both brothers snapped their heads toward him.

Grinning like a madman, Dylan turned the phone around and thrust it in Arthur’s face.

“Read this.”

At the top of the screen, bolded in soft blue, was the headline:

Soulmate Connections: Can Pain Be Shared?

Arthur stared, brows knitting in confusion. “What the bloody hell is this?” he muttered.
But something in his chest tightened—just a little.

Alisdair got up and leaned over Dylan’s shoulder to glance at the screen. The second he read the headline he seemed to tense up a bit, as if the headline said something he didn't particularly like. But then he snorted. And a second later he burst into loud, genuine laughter.

“You sure you didn’t crack your head open tonight, Dylan?” he wheezed, wiping at the corner of his eye. “Because suggesting that little Artie here has a mysterious soulmate connection —” he broke off with another laugh, “—is hands down the stupidest shite I’ve heard all year.”

Dylan started laughing too, flopping down into the armchair Alisdair had just vacated. “I mean, can you imagine ? Arthur. With a soulmate. A soulmate .”

Arthur sat up straighter, scowling. “Why the fuck not?”

That only made them laugh harder.

“C’mon, mate,” Dylan said between chuckles, “you act like you’d believe in that romantic crap.”

“I don’t,” Arthur snapped. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. ”

“Oh my God,” Alisdair groaned, nearly doubling over. “He’s actually defending it. You’ve lost the plot, you really have.”

“Call Seamus,” Dylan grinned suddenly. “We have to call Seamus.”

“Oh yes,” Alisdair agreed, already pulling out his phone. “He’ll piss himself.”

Arthur groaned, sinking back against the cushions. “You two are children.”

“Shut it, loverboy,” Alisdair said as he pressed the call button.

The line rang a few times before a distinctly Irish-accented voice answered, clearly slurred.

“’Ello? Who the hell—?”

“Oi, Seamus!” Alisdair nearly shouted into the speaker. “Real quick—what would you say if we told you Artie might have a soulmate?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then, a loud cackling laugh came through the phone. “Arthur? Soulmate? You jokin’? Who the fuck would put up with that bastard?”

Arthur let out an offended sound. “I can hear you, you know!”

“Good!” Seamus barked. “Maybe your soulmate can feel how offended you are, too!”

Arthur snatched a cushion off the couch and threw it at Alisdair, who was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Dylan was wheezing in the armchair, Seamus still chortling on speaker.

“I hate all of you,” Arthur muttered, folding his arms.

Seamus was still laughing over the speaker when Alisdair finally hung up, wiping at his eyes. Dylan took a deep breath, trying to calm his own laughter.

“In all honesty, Arthur, it’s probably nothing. You’re just imagining things,” Dylan said, grinning at him. “But you’ve got to admit—the whole soulmate idea? Pretty damn good one, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re all complete assholes,” Arthur muttered, already turning toward the stairs. “Now if you’d kindly shut up and go to bed, I’d like to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Aww, come on, Artie! We were just messing with you!” Alisdair called after him, still chuckling. “Stay up a bit longer!”

“Nope. Because if I do, you two will just keep going on about soulmates and take the piss until I lose my mind. And I really don’t feel like getting ganged up on tonight.”

He was already halfway up the stairs by the time he finished, not bothering to turn around.

“Night then, Arthur!” Dylan called after him, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Who knows—maybe you and your soulmate’ll share a sweet little dream about living in bum-fuck nowhere, reading dusty books and sulking about the state of the world. Sound nice?”

Arthur responded by slamming his bedroom door behind him with a loud thud .

The laughter from downstairs only got louder.

✦ ✦ ✦

As Arthur lay in bed that night, sleep refusing to come and his face still pulsing with a dull ache, his thoughts drifted back to what his brothers had said.

“Soulmates. Bloody stupid joke,” he muttered into the darkness. “Wasn’t even funny.”

He rolled onto his side, trying to shove the thought out of his head. But no matter how many times he told himself it was nonsense, he couldn’t quite ignore the way his chest tightened—how his heart seemed to thud a little harder at the idea.

The idea that somewhere out there, there could be someone meant for him. Someone who could see past the sharp edges, the bad moods, the constant criticisms. Someone who could actually handle him—and maybe even see the good in him, not in spite of his flaws but because of them.

It was ridiculous. Foolish, even. He didn’t believe in that sentimental rubbish. Not really.

But still… if he were anything at all, Arthur Kirkland was—very, very deep down—a romantic. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the U.K. brothers. (With Ireland slightly mentioned yaaay!) I swear that Arthur being slow in regards to realizing that he actually does have a soulmate is going to be important to the plot!

Next update will probably be sometime in mid June. Idk I am pretty sporadic when it comes to writing.
Just as a reminder, feel free to comment anything. I accept criticism in all its forms!

Chapter 3: Someone Get Me a Psychic

Summary:

Francis sets out to uncover the secrets of his mysterious soulmate bond. He's armed with Google searches, questionable psychic advice, and a dangerously strong midday drink. Between dream-reading glitter journals and Antonio’s very legal suggestions, he may not be closer to answers… but he’s definitely closer to liver damage.

Notes:

I’m counting this as getting a chapter out on time. It’s basically mid-June. (:

I had loads of fun writing this chapter, so hopefully you have fun reading it! (I think Francis goes through, like, three different mental breakdowns in this chapter.) Like I said. It’s fun.

OC's have been added for plot convenience. Most shouldn't appear again don't worry!

Anyway, have fun reading and make sure to comment if you noticed any errors. Constructive criticism is always appreciated! (Also I just like comments in general.) (:

Lately, it felt like Google was running Francis’ life. Whether he was filming a cooking segment or loafing at home in his robe, his mind was consumed by soulmate theories, odd medical forums, and obscure folklore blogs. Some might have called him unhinged for pouring so much energy into something he couldn’t even prove was real. Maybe the bruises, the phantom pain—they were all just coincidences. But Francis refused to believe that. Honestly, it felt far more delusional to think he didn’t have a soulmate than to believe he did.

Unfortunately, it was starting to become obvious that his obsession was getting a little... out of hand.

He was mid-shoot for a segment on Simple Provencal Cooking for the Soul —a light, cheerful bit meant to make French cuisine feel less intimidating for the masses. Something rustic. Charming. Easy enough that an overworked parent or sleep-deprived student could pull it off.

He was supposed to be demonstrating how to gently sauté garlic and shallots without burning them. Key word: gently.

Instead, Francis was staring straight into the bubbling pan with the same expression one might give an existential crisis.

“Bonnefoy!” the director barked from behind the camera. “The garlic’s on fire!”

Francis blinked. Smoke was starting to rise. He stirred the pan with the grace of someone who had completely forgotten what food was.

“Ah. Zut, ” he muttered, flinching as the shallots hissed in protest. He quickly pulled the pan off the heat and gave the camera a dazzling, damage-control smile. “Ahem. And this is how you know the oil was too hot.”

The crew laughed awkwardly.

“Cut,” the director said dryly. “Francis, mon dieu , that’s the third take you’ve ruined today. First the overcooked fish, then you poured white wine into the beef bourguignon, and now you’re trying to carbonize the aromatics? What is going on with you?”

Francis straightened his apron and smoothed his hair with one hand, trying to compose himself. “I’m simply... passionate,” he offered weakly.

“Passionate?” the director repeated. “You just tried to flambé olive oil.”

There was another long pause before Francis sighed, defeated. “Okay, yes. I may be slightly distracted.”

“By what? Are you going through a breakup?”

“I— non . It's complicated.”

“Well uncomplicate it before tomorrow’s shoot, or I’ll start adding your face to the chopping board. Reset the kitchen, we’ll try again in fifteen!”

As the crew scattered to reset the scene, Francis leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably another useless lead from a message board called something like MysticPairs.net or FindMyOtherHalf . He was losing it. Completely.

Still… he couldn’t stop.

He somehow managed to get through the rest of the shoot. It went better. Less smoke, fewer passive-aggressive sighs from the director. But Francis still felt unsteady. Unfocused. He could go through the motions, smile at the camera, hit his marks, but none of it felt right. Not when his thoughts were tangled elsewhere. He couldn’t give his all to the food, not when something else kept pressing at the edges of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t reach.

Francis found himself draped across his bed in what most would probably call a melodramatic fashion. But honestly, how else was he supposed to express the sheer depths of his emotional despair? If he did have a soulmate out there, he had absolutely no idea who they were, or where in the world they might be. For all he knew, they could be halfway across the globe, living their best life completely unaware of his existence. The odds of finding the one out of billions? Practically microscopic. And Francis was starting to realize that his so-called "soulmate gimmick", as he’d come to call it, was doing absolutely nothing to help narrow the field.

Sharing pain and injuries wasn’t exactly the most useful soulmate connection. It wasn’t like they shared dreams or thoughts, something obvious. No, they had to share pain. And people didn’t get injured on a daily schedule. Most pain came from tiny, meaningless things: brushing a finger against a hot pan, walking into the corner of a table, mysteriously developing a bruise you couldn’t explain. A paper cut wasn’t exactly going to come with a neon sign that read, Soulmate this way!

Though, if Francis’ soulmate kept getting into whatever bar brawl they’d clearly stumbled into recently… well, that might just make things a bit easier.

He reached for his phone, finally resigning himself to doing something he’d been putting off for days. If anyone knew anything about soulmates, it would be someone who actually had one.

And, luckily, or unluckily, depending on how one looked at it, Francis had a friend who did. Antonio had only met his soulmate relatively recently, but insight was insight, and Francis was officially out of ideas. He told himself he wasn’t jealous. Maybe that was even partially true. But the thought of talking to someone who had actually found their other half… well, it made something churn in Francis’ stomach. And not in the romantic, butterflies kind of way. More like food poisoning.

Still, he tapped on Antonio’s contact and hovered his thumb over the call button.

Right before he could hit it, his phone began to ring.

Incoming Call: Maman

Francis stared at the screen with a mix of dread and confusion. What on earth did she want now ?

He considered not answering for a moment, his thumb hovering over the red button, but reluctantly decided against it. Talking to his mother would be a distraction. Whether it would be a good distraction or just another headache was… well, up for debate.

With a sigh, Francis accepted the call.

“ Francis, mon cœur! ” his mother’s voice practically sang through the phone, loud and dramatic as always. “I was just thinking about you, funny, right? So I decided to call, and you picked up right away. It’s like I knew you were about to call me! How considerate of you.”

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bonjour, Maman.”

Élodie Martel was not exactly what most people pictured when they thought of a mother. She had been barely out of her teens when Francis was born, and had never quite let go of her youthful flair, or her habit of cycling through men the way most people changed outfits. His father had been long gone before Francis was old enough to remember him, and Élodie had since collected a string of lovers across southern France like souvenirs. Somewhere along the way, Francis had ended up with a much younger half-sister, Viviane, who bore their mother’s last name. Though she had inherited her mother’s looks, she was fortunate to have a very different personality—one that, with any luck, would lead her to a future unlike their mother’s."

“Are you eating? You sound thin,” Élodie continued without pause. “You must be stressed. Is it your job again? I saw something on the telly about one of your shows and I thought, ‘Mon dieu, my baby looks tired!’ ”

Francis leaned back against his headboard, resigned. “I’m fine, Maman. Just busy.”

“Busy how ? Is it a girl? Oh, please tell me it’s a girl. Or a boy! I don’t judge, you know that—”

“ Maman— ”

“Wait, no, let me guess! You’re in love , aren’t you?” she gasped. “You’re being avoidant again, Francis, I know that tone. ”

Francis closed his eyes and sighed again.

So much for a distraction.

“It’s nothing, I swear—”

“Oh, come on! ” she interrupted, her voice lilting with amusement. “Do tell me. I must know who’s got my darling boy so enraptured!” She paused for a moment. “I want all the details, mon chéri. Every last one.”

Francis didn’t particularly want to tell his mother about the predicament he’d found himself in. Not because she didn’t have a right to know, technically she did, but because she had a tendency to be… well, a lot. Pushy was an understatement. She could sniff out a secret like a bloodhound and then gnaw at it until you finally gave in just to get her to shut up.

“Francis?” Élodie prompted, her voice sing-song and expectant. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“It’s nothing serious,” he said, carefully. “Just…been a bit distracted lately.”

“With what?”

He hesitated. “Research.”

“ Research ?” she repeated, drawing the word out. “On what, exactly? Unless you’ve suddenly gone back to school and forgotten to mention it, I’m going to need a better answer.”

Francis sighed, already regretting answering the call. “Just something I read about. A theory, that’s all. A bit ridiculous.”

“Oh, now I have to know. Don’t make me beg.”

There was a pause. He rubbed at his temple. “Fine. It’s… about soulmates.”

A beat of silence.

“ Soulmates ?” Her voice was somewhere between delighted and scandalized. “Are you being serious? You? Mr. I haven’t gotten a second date in years, Bonnefoy? That’s what you’re researching?”

“I never said I believed in it,” he replied quickly. “I just… might’ve read something. About pain. Shared pain, between people who are supposedly linked. That sort of thing.”

“Ooooh,” she hummed knowingly. “So, someone’s been making you feel things? That’s what this is?”

“Not emotionally,” he said flatly. “Literally. Bruises, burns, gashes. Just pain in general.”

“Oh, darling. That’s not spooky, that’s romantic. You’re being haunted by love!”

Francis groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. It’s not romantic. It’s annoying.”

“Now why would it be annoying?” Élodie asked, her voice lilting with faux innocence. “Aren’t you filled with joy every time you feel it? I’d think you’d be happy for the reminder, knowing someone out there is yours.”

“It doesn’t exactly spark joy when it happens in the middle of work,” Francis snapped. “Or during a date, when I look like someone’s lobbed a beer bottle at my face. And I’m not lying, Mother! My face still hurts, and there are marks ! It’s been an absolute nightmare trying to get ready in the mornings.”

He would’ve continued his rant, but Élodie cut him off with a sharp tut .

“Francis. I know exactly what’s wrong.”

He tensed instinctively. Not for any logical reason, just the vague, unsettled fear that his mother knowing something about him before he figured it out himself would lead somewhere deeply embarrassing.

“You’re just worried you won’t be able to find this elusive soulmate of yours,” she said confidently.

“Well, yeah. I don’t exactly want to be collapsing in the street one day without knowing why. Or getting random bruises for the rest of my life.” His voice was edging into irritation now, tightening with every word.

“I’m not so sure that’s the only reason…” Élodie murmured, mostly to herself.

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen. If you don’t have anything else to say, how about I just go? I’ve got some actual work to do and—”

“No no no! Attends! I have some suggestions!”

“Oh no,” Francis muttered.

“Psychics!” she said brightly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “And there’s a woman down in Toulouse who does hypnosis dream readings. You know, she reads your soul dreams. That sort of thing is perfect for this kind of spiritual connection.”

“ Maman …”

“And there’s this lovely tarot reader on Instagram I follow. She’s very intuitive. Her cat predicted the outcome of the 2022 World Cup— the cat , Francis!”

Francis groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m just saying! If you’re dealing with a soul-level connection, then you need to open yourself up to soul-level solutions.”

“You think Instagram cat psychics are the key to my eternal happiness.”

“I didn’t say that exactly,” she said smugly. “But I am saying you’ve got to be a little more open-minded.”

“I am open-minded,” he insisted. “Just not to suggestions involving psychic cats and dream whisperers.”

“Well, when you’re still single in five years and mysteriously blacking out during brunch, don’t come crying to me.”

Francis wanted to snap back, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. With a weary sigh, he resigned himself to the inevitable, his mother was going to talk him into going through with one of her utterly ridiculous ideas.

“Just think about it, okay? I think it might offer something,” his mother said, her voice softer now.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll think about it,” Francis muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve got to go now. Work stuff.”

“Of course, mon cœur . Give Viviane a call sometime, she’s been pestering me about you.”

“I will. Bye, Maman.”

“ Au revoir, mon petit chou. Don’t forget—open mind!”

Francis hung up with a groan, tossing his phone onto the bed. Open minded, his ass. But as ridiculous as her suggestions were—psychics, hypnosis, dream readers—he had to admit that he wasn’t making progress on his own.

Still, he wasn’t about to let his mother be his only source of guidance. He needed something solid. And if he was heading down to southern France anyway, maybe there was another option.

Antonio. He was already planning to call the Spaniard anyway, but talking in person would probably be better.

The man practically lived on sunshine and olive oil, but he had a soulmate. And more importantly, he might actually have useful insight. Plus, Antonio’s house in northern Spain wasn’t far from the towns Élodie had mentioned. Francis could hit both in one trip. Humor his mother’s mystic nonsense in the afternoons, and get real advice over wine with Antonio in the evenings.

Now that was a plan.

With a new sense of direction, Francis shot a quick message to Antonio and reached for his laptop to start looking at train tickets.

✦ ✦ ✦

Francis’ journey to Toulouse had been long, mostly filled with delays, overpriced espresso, and a woman on the train who would not stop talking about her divorce. By the time he arrived, he was tired, mildly dehydrated, and beginning to question every life choice that had led him here. But he was here. In Toulouse. For answers. Hopefully.

Which brought him, somehow, to a cramped little parlor that smelled like incense and wet fur, seated across from a woman named Madame Lumière, who had just informed him that her cat would be reading his aura.

The cat, a fat orange tabby with one eye and a permanent scowl, was perched on a velvet pillow. Francis stared at it. It stared back.

“This is Maurice,” Madame Lumière said, her voice grave. “He sees into the soul.”

Francis blinked slowly. “Right. Of course he does.”

She frowned at his remark, her expression tightening with suspicion. Francis quickly realized that making a woman who charged sixty euros to have her cat judge people angry probably wasn’t the wisest move. So, he turned on the charm, the same smile that had won over half the French public during his cooking show’s debut season.

“Now, I understand the cat reads my aura,” he said smoothly, leaning forward just enough to seem intrigued, “but how exactly do you interpret it?”

Madame Lumière narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t pull away. Instead, she gestured toward Maurice with a ring-laden hand. “He moves toward the aura’s strongest point. His posture, his gaze, the tone of his meow… it all means something. He is very sensitive to the energy of the soul.”

Francis nodded solemnly, though internally he was screaming.

Maurice stood up, stretched in a way that made it painfully obvious he was not a morning feline, then made a slow circle before plopping down again with his back entirely to Francis.

Madame Lumière gasped. “Oh my… He has turned away from you. That means something is blocked . Your energy is inaccessible. Guarded. Wounded, even.”

“Right. Of course. Yes. Wounded soul energy,” Francis echoed, trying not to sound sarcastic. “That… tracks.”

She looked up at him sharply. “Have you been emotionally closed off? Reluctant to accept love, perhaps?”

Francis opened his mouth to protest, because obviously he wasn’t emotionally closed off, but the moment he did, Maurice let out a long, raspy meow. Madame Lumière nodded as if that had confirmed her suspicions.

“Your soulmate must be trying to connect, but you are resisting.”

“I’m not resisting,” Francis said quickly. “I’m actively trying to find them.”

“Mm. The soul does not respond to desperation, monsieur. It responds to openness. Trust. Vulnerability.”

Francis resisted the urge to dramatically flop off his chair.

After a few more vague statements about blocked energies and recommendations to buy three different crystals “blessed by Maurice himself,” Francis handed over the cash and excused himself with a strained smile.

As soon as he was back on the street, he exhaled loudly. “I just paid a cat to tell me I have trust issues.”

But he wasn’t giving up. He had one more stop to make on his mother's list of “enlightened” healers.

And more importantly, he’d be seeing Antonio by the weekend. With any luck, a real conversation with someone who actually had a soulmate might finally get him somewhere.

✦ ✦ ✦

The next stop on his psychic tour seemed a bit more promising—though, to be fair, that wasn’t saying much considering he had just paid a housecat to judge him.

The building was tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon on a narrow side street, its exterior made of freshly painted red brick with soft cream-colored window trim. A hanging wooden sign swung gently in the breeze above the door, reading in curly gold letters: “Rêves Éveillés: Psychic DreamWork & Energy Alignment.” Below that was a tagline in smaller print: “Unlock the universe through your subconscious!”

Francis sighed and pushed open the door.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of lavender, patchouli, and something vaguely citrusy that made him think of fancy cleaning spray. Gauzy pastel curtains separated different reading areas, and hanging plants dangled from every corner of the ceiling. A shelf of crystals, journals, and something labeled “dream tonic” sat by the front desk, which was currently unmanned.

Just as Francis was about to clear his throat, a voice called from behind one of the curtains.

“Oh my goddess , sorry! I totally lost track of time—mercury retrograde, am I right?”

A whirlwind of pastel energy emerged: a young woman, probably in her early twenties, with a short lilac ponytail, star stickers on her cheeks, and at least five different rings on each hand. She wore a cropped sweater with a cartoon moon on it and wide-legged jeans embroidered with mushrooms and suns. She was holding an iced coffee with a reusable straw and a journal covered in glitter stickers.

“Hi! I’m Solène, and I’ll be your dream guide today,” she said, beaming up at him. “You must be... Pascal?”

“Francis,” he corrected gently.

“Right! Francis! I knew that. Names get all scrambled in dream energy, you know? Come in, sit, get cozy!”

She ushered him to a beanbag chair beside a low table topped with candles, incense, and a jar labeled Night Memory Dust. Francis sat cautiously, feeling very much like a grown man trying to sit through a particularly enthusiastic kindergarten show-and-tell.

“So,” Solène said, settling cross-legged across from him as she flipped open her glitter-covered journal, “what brings you in today? Just want to get a sense of what we’re working with.”

Francis didn’t exactly relish the idea of launching into the I-know-this-sounds-crazy-but-I-think-I-have-a-soulmate-because-I-get-mysterious-injuries conversation. The psychic cat place had only asked for a vague reason when he booked the appointment, no deep dive necessary. Now, seated across from a glitter-obsessed twenty-something year old with wide, expectant eyes, he found himself… hesitating.

“Well,” he began slowly, adjusting the collar of his shirt like it might give him more confidence, “I’ve just been experiencing some… odd things lately. Physical things. Pain. But not mine. At least, I don’t think it is.”

Solène blinked, her pen already poised dramatically above the page. “Go on.”

Francis rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding a bit mad. It’s like... I get hurt, but I haven’t done anything. Cuts, bruises, once a—” He faltered, waving his hand vaguely. “A bottle to the face. But there’s no one there. No reason. Just pain. Injuries. Out of nowhere.”

Solène let out a delighted gasp, scribbling something with heart-shaped bullet points. “Oh my God. This is soulmate stuff. Definitely. It’s not a Textbook example. But this is so giving soulmate vibes.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Francis muttered, looking vaguely horrified. His voice dipped low. “It’s not exactly something I talk about often.”

“Well, you're talking to the right person now,” Solène grinned. “I did a whole thesis on ethereal pain bonds last semester.”

Francis blinked. “They teach that?”

“Nope. I made it up. But it was a really strong creative writing final.”

He just nodded. Not knowing how to respond.

“Okay, so how much do you know about soulmates?” Solène asked, tapping her glittery pen against her journal like a gavel. “And I mean actual knowledge, not the kind you panic-Googled at 3 a.m.”

Francis opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He shifted awkwardly in his seat and tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. “Um… well, I…” he muttered, already feeling the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I went online and searched through forums, blogs, threads, you name it. I found the basics, what soulmates can supposedly share, how the bond might feel. But I mostly looked at how to find them. And everything I read said to use whatever you share as a clue to narrow things down. But I couldn’t find anything that mentioned shared pain.”

Solène let out a dramatic sigh and shook her head, her ponytail bouncing. “Yeah, see? You went about it the completely wrong way. Classic rookie mistake.”

“Rookie—?”

“You skipped the most important step!” she said, pointing the pen at him like she was about to smite him with soulmate wisdom. “You can’t use what you share to find your soulmate unless you actually understand what kind of bond you have. Not all soulmate bonds are the same, monsieur Bonnefoy.”

Francis blinked. “They’re not?”

“Nope,” she chirped, flipping dramatically to a new page in her notebook. “Soulmate bonds vary in intensity. They go from weak to strong, and the stronger the bond, the easier it is to identify and find the other person. Some people only get vague emotional echoes. Others get dreams. A rare few get actual visions. And the really strong bonds?” She paused for dramatic effect. “They can share physical sensations. Pain. Pleasure. Illness. Even memories , in some cases.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “And you’re saying I’m in the ‘strong’ category?”

Solène grinned. “If you’re walking around catching punches to the face for no reason? Oh yeah. You’ve got one of the strongest bond types. Probably what’s called a tethered pain bond. Very rare. Leads to a lot of drama. I’d assume it would be perfect for someone like you. I have watched some of your shows.”

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose, barely registering that the girl knew who he was. “Of course it had to be dramatic.”

“But!” she continued, flipping her journal toward him so he could see a doodle of two stick figures connected by a line of hearts, “you still need to identify the nature of your bond. Once you’ve done that, you can start looking at patterns, timing, frequency, stuff that actually helps you locate your person. Until then, you’re just playing stab-in-the-dark soulmate roulette.”

“Lovely,” Francis muttered. “So now I’m dramatic and inefficient.”

“Hey,” she said cheerily, “welcome to the club.”

Francis sighed and leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “So how exactly am I supposed to figure out the nature of my bond, then?”

Solène’s grin widened like she had been waiting for that question. “Ah! That’s where I come in.”

He gave her a wary look as she hopped up from her cross-legged perch and gestured dramatically toward a plush chaise lounge in the corner of the room, draped in violet and gold fabrics and surrounded by softly glowing salt lamps.

“We’re going to do what I like to call a soul-aura dream attunement session. ”

Francis blinked. “That sounds fake.”

“It is fake,” she said sweetly. “Well, the name is fake. It’s for the website. But the technique is real. I’m going to read the aura of your soul to get a read on what kind of bond you’ve got going on. For that to work, you just have to lie down and relax. You don’t even need to fall asleep. The whole ‘dream’ thing is just branding.”

Francis opened his mouth to object, then closed it. Honestly, he was in too deep at this point.

“Fine. What do I do?”

“Shoes off. Lay back. Hands at your sides. Try not to think too hard, and let your energy settle. I’ll do the rest.”

He muttered something in French under his breath as he slipped off his shoes and lay down on the overly plush chaise, which made a suspicious creaking noise under him. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to look too skeptical as Solène moved to a small table behind him, lighting incense and cracking her knuckles like she was about to perform open-heart surgery.

“Okay,” she said, her voice softer now, more focused. “Close your eyes. I’m going to start the process.”

Francis nodded stiffly and shifted to lie back a little more, scooching into the velvety cushions as if that might somehow make this whole thing less absurd. He closed his eyes with a reluctant sigh, trying not to wince at the faint scent of lavender and whatever mystery herb was burning in Solène’s incense pot.

And then… nothing.

Just silence.

Not even the sound of Solène moving around. No ambient music, no crystals clinking. Just the soft hum of the incense and the buzz of awkwardness crawling over his skin. Francis lay there, motionless, eyes closed, feeling increasingly foolish with every passing second. Was he being punked? Was this some elaborate scheme to get him to nap in public?

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, when a sudden sharp shhh! cut through the air.

“Don’t speak,” Solène whispered, her voice low and oddly serious now. “I’m almost done.”

Francis frowned, clamping his mouth shut again. Well, at least something was happening now.

There was another pause before she spoke again, this time slower, more careful. “Your bond… it’s strange. Like I said before. It’s powerful… technically. It’s binding the two of you on a physical level, but… emotionally…” She trailed off, and Francis heard her shifting behind him as if trying to figure out how to put her thoughts into words.

“It’s weak. Not broken—but… muted. As if one or both of you have been resisting it.”

Francis opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Resisting it?” he asked, his voice quieter than he expected. “How can someone resist a soulmate?”

Solène didn’t answer right away.

“How long have you known you had one?” she asked finally.

“Only recently,” he admitted. “A few weeks ago, maybe. Before that, I didn’t think anything of it. And I never—” He paused, brow furrowing. “I don’t remember anything when I was younger. Nothing big. A few weird headaches maybe, but that’s it.”

She hummed softly. Not the good kind of hum either, more the kind someone makes when they’re reading lab results and trying to soften the bad news.

Francis turned his head slightly in her direction. “What does that mean?”

Solène hesitated. Then, cautiously, “It’s not the best sign. A bond that shows itself through pain, especially one as strong as this, might be… compensating. In bonds where one person doesn’t feel the connection, or refuses it, the soulmate link sometimes warps. Instead of a calming or supportive thread, it becomes turbulent. Even harmful.”

Francis sat up a little, tension rising in his chest. “So you’re saying, what? That they don’t want me?”

She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she just looked at him with soft, apologetic eyes. Not quite pitying, but close enough to make him feel like absolute shit.

“It’s… complicated,” she murmured. “I’m not quite sure. I’m sorry, Francis. This bond… something’s off.”

Francis dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly wishing the plush velvet lounge could swallow him whole.

“But don’t get too disappointed too quickly,” she said hurriedly, probably realizing that sending a client out the door looking like someone had just murdered his whole family wasn’t great for business.

“This whole… tweak in your bond? It could be something as simple as your soulmate not even realizing they have a bond. Maybe it just took both of you so long to clue in that the connection kind of… went moldy.”

Francis gave her a flat look, the pit in his stomach easing just slightly.

“Okay, that’s definitely not the best way to put it…” she admitted, cringing a little. “But think of it like this—once you two actually find each other, and you will , the bond should stabilize. Revert to something a little more balanced. You might still share pain, but not in a full-blown ‘every scratch is your scratch’ sort of way. It should dim down. Ease up.”

She gave him a hopeful little smile. “Soulmate bonds can mend. Especially once both people are aware they exist.”

Francis nodded, her words making him feel a bit better. But only just. The queasy, anxious twist in his stomach hadn’t eased enough to stop the feeling that he might actually be sick. Maybe it was the nerves. Or maybe it was that second espresso he’d had that morning. Either way, he needed fresh air.

He stood up, smoothing down his shirt more out of habit than necessity. “Thank you,” he said, voice polite but distant.

Solène smiled, already reaching for her glitter-covered journal. “Of course. I hope it helped, really. And if you ever want to come back for a chakra cleanse or a soulmate tarot session—”

“I’ll… keep it in mind,” Francis interrupted gently, already halfway to the door.

The bell above the entrance chimed as he stepped outside into the early afternoon sun. The warmth hit his skin, but it didn’t quite chase the chill from his chest. He stood still for a moment, letting the city move around him, cars humming and people talking. Then he reached into his coat, pulled out his sunglasses, and slid them on with practiced ease.

This whole soulmate thing wasn’t over. Not even close. He still knew next to nothing about where his soulmate was, or how he was supposed to find them.

What he did know, however, was that he needed a drink. A strong one. Immediately.

✦ ✦ ✦

Francis thanked his Uber driver with a tired smile as he climbed out of the car, grabbing his luggage from the trunk. He hauled it up to the front porch of Antonio’s house, the wheels bumping noisily against the steps as he muttered to himself, “He better have something to drink.”

Francis rang the doorbell and took in the familiar sight of Antonio’s home as he waited. If he knew his friend at all, it would be at least a full minute before he bothered to answer.

The house was fairly large, mostly covered in stucco (which Francis still found absolutely abhorrent) accented with touches of adobe brick and a few exposed wooden beams. The roof sloped low and wide, its red clay tiles offering a warm contrast to the whitewashed walls. It looked exactly as he remembered: charming, sunbaked, and just a little air of smugness about it.

Corporate law could get you places, even if you were absolutely dreadful at it. Francis was only a twinge jealous, mostly of the money, not the miserable hours.

Francis shifted his attention away from observing the house when he heard a familiar voice float around the corner, muttering in Spanish.

“Siempre tan impaciente, Francis… ” came the grumbling, paired with the sound of footsteps and what might’ve been a towel being hastily tossed over a shoulder.

Francis wasn’t fluent in the language, but he could gather the gist of what Antonio was saying, and frankly, the tone alone was enough to convey the exasperated fondness.

“I’m not impatient,” Francis called back, tapping the handle of his suitcase with mock offense. “You’re just criminally slow. I’ve aged several years since I rang that bell.”

Antonio finally opened the door, hair slightly damp, wearing a loose tank top and a smile that managed to make him look like he’d just wandered out of a beach café rather than a law office.

“Mon dieu, you look like you’ve just showered after a nap,” Francis said, eyeing him up and down.

“That’s because I did,” Antonio replied with a grin, stepping forward to pull Francis into a hug. “Come in, come in. You look like you need food. Or maybe a drink.”

“Definitely the latter,” Francis muttered, letting himself be dragged into the cool interior of the house. “Preferably something strong and burns like hell.”

“Oh, so we’re having that kind of visit,” Antonio laughed, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring out the vodka.”

Francis nodded, “That sounds perfect.” He followed Antonio into the kitchen, easing down onto a barstool at the granite island with a theatrical sigh, draping himself over the counter like a wilted flower.

Antonio chuckled as he pulled open a cabinet, rummaging through bottles until he found a nearly full one of vodka. “You always make heartbreak look so stylish,” he said, placing the bottle on the counter with a light clink. “What’s got you like this? Please tell me someone finally broke your heart and not just your nail polish.”

Francis scoffed, tossing his hair back dramatically. “Excuse you, my manicure is flawless, thank you very much.”

Antonio grinned, grabbing two glasses and pouring a generous amount into each. “Uh huh. So it is heartbreak. Or... something like it?”

Francis rested his chin on his hand, eyeing the vodka like it might hold the answers he couldn’t find. “I wish it were that simple. No. It’s… complicated.”

“Oh,” Antonio said, sliding a glass toward him. “Complicated, complicated. My favorite kind.”

“You always did enjoy watching me suffer,” Francis murmured, swirling the drink before taking a slow sip. It burned, sharper than expected. His eyes watered.

Antonio raised a brow. “You okay?”

Francis blinked through the sting, shaking his head slightly. “Fine. That just hit harder than expected.”

Antonio leaned against the counter, sipping his drink with practiced ease. “So it’s not a breakup. You’d be complaining and crying into your drink already.” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he tried to puzzle it out. After a moment, he sighed in defeat. “I give up. Just tell me! Please.” He clasped his hands together and gave Francis a pleading look, complete with wide puppy-dog eyes that did not suit a thirty-five-year-old man in the slightest.

Francis raised a perfectly groomed brow and gave him a once-over. “ Mon dieu , that’s pathetic,” he said, before slipping into a flirtatious smirk. “But if you keep begging like that, why would I ever want to tell you?”

Antonio laughed and clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Tsk, tsk. You can’t go flirting with a taken man, Francis. Especially one with a soulmate. That’s bad manners.”

The mention of soulmates struck like a match. Francis’ teasing demeanor wavered, the light in his eyes dimming a fraction. “Right,” he said flatly. “I forgot. You’ve got your Belgian girl now. How’s paradise treating you? Is having a soulmate all it’s cracked up to be?”

Antonio, normally oblivious to subtle shifts in tone, picked up on that one instantly.

“AH HAH!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger toward Francis. “This is about soulmates, isn’t it? Francis, you’re awful at hiding things. You know that?”

Francis immediately waved his hands in frantic denial, his face betraying just how panicked he was. “No! Who said anything about soulmates? It’s not that, I swear on my mother!” he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape his mouth, like speed alone could make them more convincing.

Antonio grinned like a man who’d just struck gold. “Please,” he scoffed, leaning forward with delight. “Your love for Élodie is questionable at best. So I know that’s not a valid oath.”

Francis opened his mouth, ready to launch into another exaggerated denial, but paused. What was the point? He’d come all this way for a reason—he trusted Antonio, even if the man was an overly cheerful flirt with a questionable obsession with tomatoes.

He threw up his hands. “Fine! Yes!” he exclaimed. “I came here because… well, I think I might have a soulmate.”

Antonio let out a triumphant whoop, clearly far too satisfied that he’d been right. “I knew it! You should’ve seen your face. You looked like someone had caught you googling weird foot stuff or something.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” Francis said dryly, sipping his vodka and wincing a little at the burn.

Antonio leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “So? What do you want to know? Because I am a certified expert in the soulmate department.”

Francis arched an eyebrow. “Alright then, expert. How did you know you had one in the first place?”

Antonio shrugged, swirling the ice in his glass. “It started with these… weird flashes of thoughts. Like, stuff that wasn’t mine. Memories, feelings, random words that popped into my head. One time, back in middle school, I suddenly knew way more than I should’ve about feminine hygiene products.” He grimaced. “That day in biology was rough. ”

Francis chuckled despite himself. “I’m not sure if that’s horrifying or oddly touching.”

“Why not both?” Antonio grinned.

Francis took another drink. “And how did you meet her? Your soulmate.”

Antonio’s smile softened. “Totally random. My firm was doing a retreat in Greece. You know, one of those team-building nightmare things where they make you kayak and talk about synergy.”

Francis rolled his eyes. “Corporate hell.”

“Exactly. Anyway, she worked for the same company. A branch in Belgium. We ended up at the same assigned dinner, and when I saw her—really saw her—it was like this weird click. Like I’d known her for years, but hadn’t met her yet.”

Francis stared at the granite countertop, swirling what was left in his glass. “…That sounds terrifying.”

“It was. In a good way.” Antonio smiled gently. “You’ll know it when it happens. Even if the bond feels strange at first.”

Francis didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what scared him more, not finding his soulmate… or actually finding them and realizing they didn’t feel the same.

“So, what do you share with said soulmate?” Antonio questioned.

Francis winced, ironically enough, before answering, “Pain. And injuries. Can’t forget the fucking injuries.” He said bitterly.

Antonio’s eyebrows shot up. “Pain and injuries?” he repeated, a little more seriously now.

Francis nodded grimly, swirling the last drops of vodka in his glass. “ Oui . I bruise, I bleed, I get bar brawl injuries, all because someone else is clumsy, reckless, or constantly walking into bloody coffee tables, apparently.”

“Damn,” Antonio said, genuine sympathy settling over his face. “That’s rough, amigo.” He leaned forward a little. “But hey, you’ll find them. You will. It’s just… how do you actually plan on doing that?”

Francis let out a long sigh. “I have no fucking idea. I’ve looked up forums, dream psychics, aura-reading cats—”

“Wait, cats ?”

“Don’t ask.”

Antonio laughed and reached over to refill Francis’ glass. “Do you have any live shows coming up?”

Francis gave him a puzzled look. “Yes, actually. I’m doing a wine pairing special next week. Why?”

Antonio shrugged innocently. “So, what if during the show, you did something small—like, I don’t know—burn yourself a little. Just a bit. On a pan or something.”

Francis gave him a flat look. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You think someone’s going to watch my show, feel a tiny burn, and go, ‘Oh, must be my internationally renowned celebrity chef soulmate!’”

Antonio threw up his hands with a grin. “Well, it’s not like you can just fucking slice your arm with a knife on live television, Francis.”

Francis paused. That same creeping, dangerous glint settled into his eyes, one Antonio had seen far too often whenever Francis got an idea he absolutely should not follow through on.

“…You’re right,” Francis said slowly, as if tucking something sharp into the back of his mind. Then he smiled brightly, too brightly. “That would be a bit dramatic.”

“Francis…” Antonio said, instantly suspicious. “You’re not actually—”

“I’m not doing anything, don’t worry.” Francis waved a hand with exaggerated casualness, sipping from his glass again. “You’re right, mon ami. Subtle burns and phantom pain are absolutely not reliable ways to identify a soulmate.”

But he was already planning something not-so-subtle.

The thought of soulmates and other nonsense slipped from Francis’ mind as the early afternoon wore on. Each sip of vodka helped push it further and further into the background. The burning in his throat should’ve been unpleasant, but instead, it grounded him. It gave him something sharp and real to focus on. Something he chose, not something handed to him by fate or mystery. Though the first swallow stung like hell, his body adjusted. The warmth numbed everything else.

For once, he wasn’t consumed by thoughts of connection or the ache of invisible bruises. The stress that had been eating at him for weeks finally seemed to lift, if only for a little while. He didn’t know—or even consider—that somewhere far off, someone else might suddenly feel a heat burning low in their chest, inexplicable and unwelcome, during what should have been a normal afternoon.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed and sorry for the terribly blatant foreshadowing... I am not good at writing mystery lol. Next chapter will be another Arthur chapter if you couldn't tell. (Look forward to more U.K. bros! I'm very much excited!)

Next update will probably be in July at some point.
Just as a reminder, feel free to comment anything. I accept criticism in all its forms! (:

Again, thank you for reading!

Chapter 4: Hurt Me with your Best Shot

Summary:

After a painful episode at a faculty event, Arthur turns to his brother for help. A visit to the doctor brings few medical answers, but stirs up revelations that could shift not only Arthur’s understanding of himself, but the hidden dynamics within his family.

Notes:

...July. Did I say July? I must have misspelled September obviously! In all seriousness though, I deeply apologize for not uploading when I said I would. I have a whole list of excuses, but I won't give them because we don't have time for that. You want to get to the angst don't you (:

We're finally at the real meat of the story. Expect chapters to be around this length from now on. (And on a side note. I know all the chapters so far have been from the perspective of one character, but be prepared for a few dual perspective chapters to jump scare you soon.)

Comment if you notice any errors or funky parts. Also, as I have mentioned before, constructive criticism is always appreciated! (Also I really just like comments. They're so fun!)

Enjoy, and have fun reading this overly dramatic chapter!

Arthur adjusted the knot of his tie in the mirror, the fabric sitting too stiff, too formal, for what was supposed to be a celebration. The end of the first semester was finally here, and administration had decided a faculty gathering was an adequate reward for surviving the first stretch of the year.

He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to it. His face still bore faint traces from the bar fiasco—marks he’d made sure to have checked out by a proper doctor, even after his brothers insisted nothing serious had happened. Their reassurances had meant very little; Arthur didn’t particularly trust their medical judgment when it came to things like embedded glass shards.

The doctor had seemed almost surprised when Arthur explained the incident. And Arthur couldn’t blame him. He hardly looked the type to get caught up in a bar fight. Not with the stiff way he dressed, nor with his, well, less-than-intimidating height. Still, he’d left with a tube of ointment and instructions to be careful, which he had followed dutifully. Two weeks on, the scrapes had healed, though the redness lingered stubbornly.

Arthur dabbed at it now with concealer, blending carefully until the marks were passable. A colleague in the English department had recommended the brand, raising an amused brow when he’d asked her about it. He remembered her telling him it was the sort of thing stage actors used; strong enough to mask almost anything. She hadn’t questioned him beyond that, though the glint in her eye suggested she wanted to. It was natural to want to know.

When the redness was sufficiently hidden, he stepped back from the mirror to take in the rest of himself: pressed shirt, neatly knotted tie, jacket cut a little too sharply at the shoulders. He looked professional, respectable. He looked like someone who belonged at a university gathering. And yet, even now, staring at his own reflection, he felt the creeping certainty that when he walked into that room, he’d still stand apart.

But appearances mattered, and appearances were all he had to work with. He straightened his cuffs, slid his wallet into his inner pocket, and checked the time on his watch. Almost time to leave.

He’d rather be leaving to teach a lesson on Pride and Prejudice, a book the department seemed determined to wedge into the syllabus every other semester. Most of his colleagues called it timeless; Arthur called it insufferable. Romance, courtship, declarations of love; he had grown weary of dissecting those themes for classrooms full of wide-eyed students who still believed in such things. 

It wasn’t that he despised the novel itself, not really. But standing in front of a room and parsing out Elizabeth Bennet’s choices, or Darcy’s gestures, only left him feeling like an outsider to a conversation he’d never actually been invited to.

He told himself it was a critic’s distaste for sentimentality. That was easier to believe than the alternative. 

That his own personal feelings and opinions were weighing in.

Arthur dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. No sense dwelling on things that would only sour his mood further. He refused to let himself slip into that tedious, self-pitying mindset. Romantic longing was for novels, not for him, and certainly not something he’d allow himself to brood over before walking into a crowded room.

By the time he arrived at the university hall, the chatter of voices was already carrying through the open doors. He paused for half a moment on the steps, adjusting his tie again though it hadn’t shifted since the last time he’d checked. Inside, clusters of faculty had already formed. Laughter spilling between familiar colleagues, old professors catching up, glasses of wine in hand. Arthur stepped through the entrance with the faintest of smiles fixed in place, the sort he knew would pass as polite without inviting further attention.

He exchanged nods with a few coworkers, but none lingered. Most of them had already found their circles, drifting into conversations that seemed to close the moment he approached. He didn’t take it personally; he never did. It was simply the way of these gatherings: some belonged, some hovered at the edges. Arthur knew which one he was.

Arthur’s eyes caught on a table set with wine and a handful of pale cocktails. Ordinarily, he would have taken a glass, nursed it in the corner, and waited for some well-meaning colleague to take pity on him. Usually with small talk about his latest batch of students. But Dylan had asked him to stay off alcohol for a while after the…incident. Arthur had argued at first, of course, but deep down he knew his brother was probably right. Not that he’d ever admit as much.

Still… one drink couldn’t hurt. This was a university function, after all. Hard liquor wasn’t exactly on the menu.

He scanned the table, searching for something that looked even remotely appetizing for mid-afternoon. Nothing stood out, so he settled on what appeared to be a wine spritzer. It wasn’t his favorite, but it would do.

Just as he reached for the glass, a voice called out behind him.

“Mr. Kirkland!”

Arthur turned to see one of the younger colleagues—technically a TA—making his way over. If he remembered correctly, the man’s name was David, or something close to it. He’d sat in on a handful of Arthur’s lectures, and from what Arthur had seen, he was competent enough. His appearance, however, suggested otherwise: hair slightly disheveled from long hours, faint circles under his eyes, yet still carrying an enthusiasm Arthur both recognized and, in quieter moments, envied.

“Ah,” Arthur said, schooling his expression into something polite, “hello. What can I do for you?”

The TA adjusted his glasses, standing a little straighter in the way of someone trying very hard to make a good impression. “I just wanted to thank you for letting me assist with your lectures this semester. And, if you don’t mind me asking… I was wondering if you had any feedback. On how I’ve been doing.”

Arthur nodded, defaulting to professionalism. They spoke for a few minutes—Arthur offering measured, constructive observations, the younger man listening with an intensity that bordered on eager. It was harmless enough, if not a little exhausting.

But as the TA lifted his glass to take a sip, Arthur’s eyes caught on the faint glint of a gold band circling the man’s ring finger.

Arthur nearly choked on his drink.

The TA kept talking, something about areas he could improve, but Arthur’s mind had already wandered far from the conversation.

“So how often do you think I should check—”

Arthur coughed, cutting him off. “Pardon me if I’m being nosy, but is that…” He trailed off, nodding toward the band on the man’s finger.

The TA looked puzzled for a moment before realization struck. “Oh, this?” His face lit up with unmistakable pride. “It’s my wedding ring. I just got married last month.”

Arthur swallowed dryly. “Is that right?”

The man’s face brightened. “Yeah! I mean, I know I’m only twenty-four, but I’ve known him for so long and…well, I haven’t really told many people this, but I’m pretty sure he’s my soulmate. Like, legitimately.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted.

“And even if he technically wasn’t, I’m pretty sure my soul would shift just so he could be.”

The words were sweet. Genuinely so. Most people would have found them romantic, heartwarming even. But all Arthur felt was a tightening in his chest, a mix of irritation and an almost physical ache. A man ten years younger than him, already married, already confident in the existence of his soulmate… and here he was, thirty-four, with nothing remotely resembling that certainty. He’d never had a serious relationship. Had never even felt anything that pure or uncomplicated.

He wanted to be happy for this man. Truly he did. But the disconnect gnawed at him, sharper than any lecture or faculty gathering ever had. People had connections. People were happy. And he…he was just here, pretending to sip a drink, pretending not to feel the swell of loneliness he refused to acknowledge.

The warmth of the wine spritzer seemed to spread a little too far down his throat, an unfamiliar sting creeping in, subtle but insistent. He coughed, trying to clear it, dismissing the odd sensation. Surely it was nothing.

And then it started to burn.

Arthur couldn’t register what the TA was saying. All he could think about was the stinging, burning sensation clawing down his throat.

Arthur recognized the feeling. He sometimes liked a heavy drink from time to time, and his throat felt exactly like it did after swallowing a shot of strong liquor—vodka, maybe, or whiskey. The kind that scorched all the way down and lingered.

But he glanced at the glass in his hand, the pale, watered-down spritzer that barely even carried the taste of wine. There was no reason it should burn like this. None at all.

Confusion prickled alongside the discomfort, sharp enough to make him shift his weight and cough again. He hadn’t touched hard alcohol in weeks. Not since Dylan had told him to pause for a bit. And yet here he was, throat aflame as if he’d downed half a bottle in one go.

The TA was still talking, not noticing Arthur’s visibly pained expression. He was saying something about how his mother had been begging to cover wedding expenses, but how he had to keep telling her she didn’t need to.

Arthur was too confused and in too much pain to take much in. He tried nodding at moments that seemed right, forcing polite murmurs when appropriate, but every swallow made his throat feel as though it were tearing open. The heat was intensifying, a steady burn crawling down into his chest.

“Anyway, I think I went on a spiel about myself for long enough. Well, hope to see you—” The TA stopped, blinking. “Mr. Kirkland, are you alright? Your face looks really red.”

Arthur straightened sharply, attempting to smooth over the concern with a brisk wave of his hand. “I’m fine, it’s nothing. Just—” His words cut off as a violent cough ripped its way out of his chest.

The glass in his hand rattled as he doubled over slightly, coughing again and again, his other hand instinctively clutching at his throat. The burning refused to subside, spreading hotter, sharper, as if he’d swallowed fire.

A few people nearby turned to look. Conversations faltered. Arthur could feel their eyes on him, but he couldn’t catch his breath long enough to reassure anyone. He tried to straighten again, desperate to compose himself, but another fit overtook him. It was loud, ragged, impossible to hide.

Arthur could just make out, behind watering eyes, the TA glancing around in a panic. He couldn’t blame him. If the roles were reversed, Arthur would be panicking too. From the looks of it, he might as well have been dying. A heart attack, a stroke, or something similar.

But it wasn’t that. At least, Arthur desperately hoped not. He couldn’t make sense of what was happening through the haze of burning pain clawing at his throat.

The TA, forcing his voice into a shaky calm, asked, “D–do you need some water, Mr. Kirkland? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

Arthur managed to lift a hand, a single finger raised to buy himself a moment. His breaths came in shallow, ragged bursts, every one sending a sharp sting through his throat. His voice, when he forced it out, was rough and hoarse, like it had been sanded raw. “Yes to water,” he rasped between coughs. “No… ambulance.”

By now, people had started circling closer, the room buzzing with concerned murmurs and curious stares. Some looked alarmed, others simply bewildered. Arthur, for his part, fell firmly into the second category. He hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening to him, and the scrutiny made the confusion unbearable.

God, he really hated parties.

With as much dignity as he could scrape together, Arthur straightened and stumbled away, ignoring the awkward shuffle of bodies parting to give him space. He caught the sting of whispered speculation, was he sick, drunk, losing it again?, but kept his gaze fixed forward until he slipped out into the quieter hallway.

He pushed into the nearest bathroom and braced himself against the sink, gripping porcelain as though it might tether him to reality. His reflection in the mirror was ghastly: flushed, eyes bloodshot, lips parted as he tried to force steady breaths past the raw fire in his throat.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, voice a rasp of broken gravel. Panic flickered hot and sharp in his chest. None of it made sense. He hadn’t touched anything stronger than a spritzer, and yet his body reacted as though he’d downed half a bottle of whiskey in one go.

He splashed water on his face, hoping for clarity, but the sting in his throat only deepened, making him clutch at his neck again.

Arthur tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to focus on the sink, the cold porcelain under his palms, the tiled walls around him. Anything but the pain. Thinking about it only made it worse.

The sharp sting had dulled, but the burn still lingered, leaving behind a raw, persistent soreness. Even after gulping down what felt like a liter of water cupped from the tap, the ache refused to fully ease.

With the pain no longer overwhelming him, confusion took its place, flooding his thoughts with a creeping edge of fear. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had just happened, or why.

What he did know was that he couldn’t step back into that room. Returning meant a barrage of questions, concerned looks, and awkward chatter. And Arthur, throat still throbbing, didn’t have the patience for social pleasantries. Especially not now.

So, he did the only thing he could think to do.

I’m so screwed, was the only thought running through his head as he pulled out his phone and dialed Dylan.

✦ ✦ ✦

Arthur had barely managed to explain over the phone before Dylan swooped in like a one-man rescue mission. Now he was in the passenger seat of his brother’s car, throat still raw and voice hoarse, while Dylan drove like he was auditioning for a high-speed chase.

It wasn’t surprising, really. Dylan had always had this tendency to overreact where Arthur was concerned, and Arthur’s sudden, cryptic call hadn’t exactly helped. He hadn’t gone into much detail. Partly because he couldn’t, and partly because he hadn’t known what to say. Hi, my throat spontaneously caught fire while I was holding a wine spritzer didn’t exactly sound believable.

Now, judging by the way Dylan kept glancing at him between white-knuckled grips on the wheel, Arthur was about to be subjected to the verbal equivalent of a full-scale inquisition.

Arthur sighed, dragging a palm down his face. His throat still ached with every breath, and the last thing he wanted was to be treated like some reckless teen who couldn’t hold his liquor. “Would you let me ex—”

“Why were you drinking so heavily at a university event?” Dylan cut across him sharply, his voice thick with judgment. “Believe me, I like a good drink as much as anyone else on this godforsaken isle. But you definitely took it to the next level. And even after I told you to take it easy.”

Arthur bit back a groan. Typical. Dylan always jumped to the easiest explanation, even if it was the most insulting one. He wasn’t some binge-drinking alcoholic; he’d barely touched the bloody spritzer. He wanted to grab Dylan by the neck, shake him hard, and shout that this wasn’t about alcohol at all, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it was about.

Instead, Arthur forced his voice steady, though hoarse. “Listen for a moment. Do I look or sound tipsy to you?”

He waited, expecting at least a half-hearted concession. But Dylan kept his eyes fixed on the road, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. The silence was worse than an outright accusation.

Dylan, again, was the one to break the silence. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the wash of passing streetlights. “Look, Arthur… if you’d just tell me when something’s wrong, then maybe I—or Alasdair, or hell, even Seamus—could actually help you out.” His tone was sharper than he probably meant it to be, but Arthur knew that edge well. It was Dylan’s way of masking worry.

Arthur’s nails dug lightly into his trousers as he shifted in the seat. His throat was raw, his chest still prickling from the fit earlier, and now Dylan was looking at him like some hopeless case. It made his skin crawl. “I’m not a bloody alcoholic, Dylan,” he snapped, his voice raspier than usual, which only made the accusation sting more. “One sip of wine at a faculty party doesn’t exactly qualify as ‘hitting the bottle.’”

The car sank into heavy silence, the low hum of the engine filling the space Dylan’s words had left behind. Outside, the afternoon sun was sliding lower, casting a hazy film across the sky that gave everything a sickly tint.

Arthur hated how small he felt under Dylan’s scrutiny, like a teenager being dragged home after doing something reckless. He turned toward the window, jaw clenched, watching the countryside slowly blur into neat rows of houses. Dylan’s protectiveness had always been like this: smothering, heavy, often misplaced. Yet beneath Arthur’s irritation, he couldn’t ignore the truth he’d known his whole life. Dylan cared too much.

Not that Arthur would ever say it out loud.

“I’m staying with you tonight, and then taking you to the doctor tomorrow,” Dylan declared, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts.

Arthur groaned, slumping against the door. “You really don’t need to.”

“I do. Besides—” Dylan cast him a sideways grin, the kind that was both irritating and oddly reassuring—“would you rather I rope Alisdair and Seamus into this as well?”

Arthur’s first instinct was to snap back, to tell him to mind his own business. But instead, against his will, he felt the corner of his mouth tug upward. “I’d never live it down.”

“No, you would not,” Dylan agreed, smug.

Arthur looked back out the window, smile already fading. He hated how easily Dylan could drag a bit of warmth out of him, even when he was irritated. It was infuriating, being cared for this much and still feeling so bloody alone.

✦ ✦ ✦

As soon as they arrived at Arthur’s home, Dylan all but carted him inside and deposited him onto the couch like a scolded child. The whole thing struck Arthur as almost laughably familiar. He’d been in nearly the same position just a few weeks ago. Back then, though, the damage had been his own damn fault. This time, he hadn’t the faintest clue what was wrong with him, and that uncertainty gnawed at him far more than any injury.

From the living room, he could hear Dylan bustling about in the kitchen—the rattle of cupboards, the scrape of glass against wood, the soft clink of mugs or plates. Arthur winced at the noise, his head already aching.

“You’d better not bloody break anything,” he called, though speaking made his throat throb sharply.

No reply came. Either Dylan hadn’t heard him, or he was simply ignoring him, too preoccupied with whatever miracle cure he was attempting to throw together. Arthur slouched back against the couch cushions, pressing his fingers lightly against the sore line of his throat, wishing it didn’t feel as though fire still lingered there.

Dylan reappeared a few minutes later, balancing a steaming mug in one hand and a crinkling bag of cough drops in the other. Cherry flavored, thank God.

Arthur pushed himself upright against the cushions, eyeing the cup with mild suspicion. “Chamomile?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.

“Peppermint,” Dylan corrected with a shrug.

Arthur gave a faint nod and accepted the mug carefully, the rising steam brushing warm against his face. He set it down on the small stand beside the couch, sliding a coaster beneath it with practiced precision. Even now, with his throat raw and his patience thin, he couldn’t bring himself to let water rings stain the furniture.

Dylan lingered by the couch for a moment, like he was on the verge of saying something more, before thinking better of it. Instead, he straightened and called over his shoulder, “I’m phoning work. I’ll tell them it’s a family emergency and that I can’t make my meeting. Then I’ll head back to Reading, grab my things from the hotel, and come straight here.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, sinking further into the couch. “I can manage the doctor myself tomorrow, you know. You should just go to your bloody meeting.” He didn’t even believe the words as he said them. Dylan was stubborn enough to dig trenches over smaller things.

“Not a chance,” came the curt reply, punctuated by the sound of the front door clicking shut behind him.

Arthur let his head fall back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling.

He was in for a long night.

✦ ✦ ✦

Surprisingly, Arthur hadn’t been smothered to death in his sleep, and in fact woke the next morning in a tolerable mood. His throat still carried a dull soreness, but it was manageable. Certainly less miserable than it would have been without Dylan hovering and forcing tea on him nearly every hour.

Dragged out of bed by his brother, Arthur would normally have been seething at the intrusion. This time, though, irritation was contrasted with a reluctant eagerness. He wanted answers. As much as he hated to admit it, the confusion gnawed at him more than Dylan’s fussing ever could.

What unsettled him more was the way Dylan kept looking at him, like Arthur had been sneaking shots of vodka in the university bathroom. That look needed to be stamped out before it grew legs. Dylan was bound to tell their brothers eventually, he always did, and Arthur had no desire to be the butt of yet another round of jokes. Worse than that, though, was the idea of their pity. Arthur could handle ridicule. Pity was unbearable.

Dylan tried to fill the car ride to the doctor’s with light conversation, but Arthur was far too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay it much attention. His brother was probably going on about one of his blasted sheepdogs, he usually was. Arthur had never cared for them much. Every time he visited Dylan’s place in Wales, the two younger dogs barked their heads off and bounded about like over-caffeinated children. The only one Arthur could tolerate was Dylan’s elderly Border Collie, Celyn, whose graying muzzle and slow, measured steps gave him a dignity Arthur respected. The dog didn’t yap. He didn’t leap at guests with muddy paws. He simply sat, watched, and tolerated Arthur’s presence. In Arthur’s mind, that made Celyn a saint among mongrels.

Arthur’s gaze drifted out the car window as they drove, Dylan’s words blurring into meaningless background noise. The landscape did its best to distract him: neat hedgerows lining the roadside, their leaves clipped into obedience; the occasional old stone cottage hunched against the late morning chill, smoke curling lazily from chimneys; narrow lanes winding past clusters of shops that looked as though they’d been dragged into the present century against their will.

None of it helped. The knot of unease in his chest only tightened the closer they came to town. What if the doctor found something genuinely wrong? What if this wasn’t a fluke, but the first symptom of something lurking underneath? He imagined Dylan’s face if that were the case—grim, overbearing, maybe even worried—and his stomach twisted.

The car slowed as they pulled into the doctor’s. A squat brick building with a slightly peeling sign, it was about as cheery as Arthur expected. The lot was already half-full, and he could see a line of patients waiting to check in through the sliding glass doors. Dylan cut the engine, finally shutting up mid-sentence.

“Here we are,” Dylan announced, like Arthur couldn’t see the bloody building right in front of him.

Arthur straightened his tie out of habit, jaw tight. He wasn’t looking forward to this at all.

✦ ✦ ✦

They didn’t have to wait in the lobby for long. Surprisingly, only a few minutes had passed before a nurse in pale blue scrubs appeared, clipboard in hand, and called his name. The efficiency unsettled Arthur. Doctors’ offices weren’t supposed to move this quickly. Was that a good sign or a bad one? He couldn’t decide.

The lobby itself was as dreary as any he’d ever seen: off-white walls lined with faded posters about flu jabs and cholesterol, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. A toddler fussed in the corner while his mother tried to distract him with a pack of raisins. Somewhere behind the reception desk, a phone rang and went unanswered.

Arthur turned his head toward Dylan, only to find his brother already rising from his chair, clearly intent on following him. Of course he was.

“You really don’t need to go with me,” Arthur muttered, frowning as he stood. “I’m an adult, you know. I think I can handle myself.”

Dylan clicked his tongue, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “That sounds pretty suspicious, Artie. You covering something up?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and followed the nurse down the corridor. The floor tiles gleamed too brightly under the buzzing fluorescent lights, and every step echoed in a way that made him feel like a schoolboy being marched into detention. He sighed, more to himself than anyone else, and mumbled under his breath, “No, I just don’t like being treated like a child.”

Though, if he was honest, it wasn’t just that. Having Dylan breathing down his neck in the exam room made him feel exposed, like his brother could see straight through whatever thin veneer of control Arthur was trying to hold onto. And Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted anyone, not even Dylan, seeing just how rattled he truly was.

They were led to a small room tucked away in the back of the office and told the doctor would be in shortly. Arthur lowered himself into the stiff plastic chair by the wall while Dylan claimed the other, looking irritatingly comfortable, as though this were his own appointment and not Arthur’s.

The room, like the lobby, was painfully plain. Whitewashed walls, a poster about seasonal allergies curling at the corners, and fluorescent lights that hurt to look at. Arthur’s eyes drifted to the counter stacked with instruments sealed in paper wrappers, and for some reason that made his stomach clench. He began tapping his foot, the steady rhythm doing little to ease the knot in his chest.

What if it was something serious? Something with his lungs, or his heart? The burning yesterday, was that a sign of something failing in him? He wasn’t exactly ancient, but thirty-four didn’t feel quite as young as it once had. What if Dylan was right, and he’d done irreparable damage from drinking too much over the years? Or worse, what if it wasn’t anything normal at all, but something he couldn’t explain?

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, trying to will the spiraling thoughts away. He didn’t like feeling weak. He didn’t like feeling… helpless.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted Arthur from his thoughts.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon, Arthur—and oh.” Yao, Arthur’s doctor, paused mid-step when he noticed Dylan seated beside him. “I take it you’re one of his brothers?”

“Yes. Dylan Kirkland,” his brother said cheerfully, already on his feet and shaking Yao’s hand like they were old acquaintances.

“Pleasure,” Yao replied with a quick smile, before glancing back at Arthur. “So, a responsible sibling finally decided to step in and keep this one out of trouble?”

Arthur sank a little lower in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Are you even allowed to say things like that to a patient?”

Dylan chuckled. “I doubt anyone in our family qualifies as responsible, but we do our best. You must be halfway to an expert by now, dealing with little Artie here.”

Yao shook his head lightly. “He does seem… accident-prone. I never quite know what to expect when he walks through that door.”

Arthur scowled, his voice raspier than he wanted it to be. “Would you two stop acting like I’m not sitting right here?”

“Apologies, apologies,” Yao said smoothly, though he exchanged a knowing glance with Dylan, the kind that made Arthur feel like they were both laughing at some unspoken truth. It was the same look Arthur gave his students when one of them said something foolish, and he hated being on the other side of it.

Yao cleared his throat and finally gave Arthur his full attention. “But you’re right—you’re here for a reason. So why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?”

Arthur hesitated, thumb brushing over the crease of his trousers as he tried to find the right words. “It’s… odd. Yesterday, during a university function, my throat started burning. Not the kind of irritation you’d get from a cold, more like,” he paused, grimacing, “as if I’d had something much stronger than I actually did. Which, for the record, was only a light spritzer.”

Yao tilted his head slightly, pen ready over the chart. “Burning?”

Arthur nodded. “Sharp. Like when you take your first sip of vodka and it goes down wrong. Except it wasn’t vodka, it wasn’t anything close. My throat felt raw, and I couldn’t stop coughing for a bit. Embarrassing as hell, frankly.”

“He was flushed,” Dylan chimed in, arms crossed, “and he kept clutching at his throat. I had to get him out of there before he collapsed in front of half the university staff. Once we got home, he sounded hoarse for hours. Tea and cough drops calmed it down, but he’s still sore today.”

Arthur rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to argue. “It wasn’t as dire as he’s making it sound. The pain lessened after water, but it hasn’t gone away completely. It’s just… uncomfortable. Irritating.”

He shifted against the paper-covered exam table, his voice low with frustration. “I can’t think of a reason why a single bloody spritzer would do that to me.”

Yao tapped his pen against the chart, pausing. “Any previously known allergies?”

“Dust, pollen, but nothing food-wise,” Arthur answered.

Yao gave a small nod. “It could have been a one-time reaction to something in the spritzer. It happens more often than you’d think. For instance, my daughter once took amoxicillin, broke out in a terrible rash. We had her tested afterward—results came back completely negative. Sometimes the body just… overreacts, and then never again.”

Arthur stared at the floor, his jaw tightening. That explanation didn’t sit right with him. The burning hadn’t felt like a straightforward reaction to a drink. It had been uneven, almost patchy, as though the pain wasn’t anchored to one spot but flickered in and out, shifting. Foreign. He didn’t know how to put it into words, but the memory of it made his throat ache all over again.

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” Arthur muttered finally, his voice low and rough.

Yao glanced at him, brows drawn faintly together. He seemed apprehensive, but after a pause, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s not jump to conclusions, then.” He flipped to a new page on his clipboard. “What I can do is look at your throat and test for the basics. We’ll run a strep test, and I’ll throw in swabs for flu and COVID just to cover our bases. I don’t suspect those will come back positive, but better safe than sorry.”

Arthur gave a short nod, though unease still nagged at him. The tests felt like a safety net, but one with holes far too wide for whatever he was actually dealing with.

Yao pulled on a pair of gloves and wheeled his stool closer. “Open up. I’ll take a look first before we get into the swabs.”

Arthur groaned under his breath but did as told, tugging his mouth open and sticking out his tongue. The little cone of light from Yao’s otoscope cut into the back of his throat, and Arthur instantly winced at the sensation.

“Mm,” Yao said after a moment, tilting his head. “Definitely red. There’s some swelling along the soft palate, too.” He leaned back and pulled off his gloves with a snap. “Honestly, if you told me you’d spent last night pouring whisky down your throat, this wouldn’t surprise me at all. Alcohol like that can cause irritation, especially if it’s a heavier spirit.”

Arthur bristled immediately. “I wasn’t drinking.”

Yao only hummed in response, as though he’d heard that line before. He reached for a sterile package on the counter. “Let’s just get the tests out of the way. Won’t take long.”

Arthur’s stomach tightened as Yao held up the swab. He hated these things. Sure enough, the moment the cotton tip scraped the back of his throat, Arthur gagged hard and shot Yao a venomous glare.

“Lovely reflexes,” Yao said mildly, sealing the sample in a tube. “Flu and COVID are the same process. Quick swabs up the nose.”

Arthur endured those as well, eyes watering by the end of it. Dylan, of course, was sitting smug in the corner, clearly enjoying his brother’s misery.

“Alright,” Yao said, stripping off the last of his gloves. “That’s all I need. I’ll take these down to the lab. It won’t be long.”

And with that, he slipped out of the room, leaving the Kirkland brothers alone in the silence of the exam room. The faint hum of fluorescent lights seemed suddenly louder. Arthur rubbed at his throat with a scowl, doing his best to avoid Dylan’s eyes.

Arthur sat stiffly on the exam table, his hands knotted together in his lap. His throat still ached from both the swabs and the lingering soreness, and the sterile smell of disinfectant only made the unease in his stomach worse. He hated doctors’ offices. Hated waiting rooms, waiting periods, waiting for results. All this waiting left far too much space for his thoughts to spiral.

Because deep down, he knew. Whatever had happened yesterday hadn’t been some random allergy. It hadn’t been strep, or the flu, or even one of those bizarre one-time reactions Yao had mentioned. No—there was something off about it. Something foreign, like the pain hadn’t belonged to him at all but had still managed to crawl into his throat and make itself at home. It made no sense, and that unsettled him more than anything.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, dragging his nails over his knuckles, trying to anchor himself. The thought that it might be something otherworldly crossed his mind, but he batted it down before it could root too deeply. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And yet, the unease lingered.

The silence was broken when Dylan finally leaned back in his chair with a grin. “You know, Artie, I think that gag reflex of yours deserves an Olympic medal.”

Arthur whipped his head toward him, glaring murderously, heat prickling hot across his cheeks. “Shut the bloody hell up. I really don’t need that right now.”

Dylan’s grin faded into a small frown. “You’re moodier than usual.”

Arthur huffed, crossing his arms as if to shield himself. “I think I have a perfectly fair reason to be.”

The air between them tightened, the beginnings of another argument already sparking when a knock at the door cut through the silence. Arthur glanced up, startled, it must have been fifteen minutes already.

But instead of Yao stepping back in, a young nurse entered. She couldn’t have been more than her mid-twenties, her grip white-knuckled around a clipboard stacked with papers. She wore her nerves plainly, shoulders a touch too stiff, a tight smile tugging at her mouth. But beneath it there was something else. Determination, maybe, or the forced poise of someone trying to look steadier than they felt.

“Hello,” the young nurse began, shifting the clipboard in her hands. “I’m Erika, one of the new nurses here. Dr. Wang wanted me to get a bit more experience with patients, so I’ll be sharing your results today. If you’d prefer a follow-up with him directly, I can make sure he knows.” Her words came out a little mumbled, as though she wasn’t entirely confident, but she pressed on.

Arthur raised a brow but didn’t comment. He just wanted answers.

“Well, your rapid tests for strep, influenza, and COVID-19 all came back negative,” Erika continued, glancing down at the papers. “So we can rule those out.”

Dylan leaned forward in his chair, frowning. “If it’s not any of that, then what the hell is wrong with him?”

Erika looked up at Arthur instead of answering right away. “Can you describe the pain again? You said it was burning, but… anything else?”

Arthur hesitated, trying to put into words something that had felt so strange. “It was… spotty, I suppose. Like it couldn’t decide where it belonged. Almost… hazy. Foreign. It didn’t feel like it was mine.”

Something lit up in Erika’s expression. She actually seemed excited. She clutched the clipboard a little tighter, then lowered her voice. “That’s… interesting. Because I think I might know what’s going on. It’s not exactly medical.”

Arthur stiffened, eyes narrowing. “Not medical?”

She nodded quickly. “My older brother went through something similar a few years ago. He kept remembering memories that weren’t his. Not in vivid detail, more like… through a filter, as if he were watching through someone else’s eyes but muffled. It sounded almost exactly like what you’re describing.”

Arthur blinked at her, not following. “…And?”

Erika’s smile was hesitant, almost secretive. “It turned out he had a soulmate. That’s what the memories were.”

Arthur sat there in stunned silence, the words hanging in the air heavier than he wanted them to. He knew soulmates existed, everybody did. They weren’t just fairy tales; they were documented, rare, and usually plastered across the news whenever two people made some miraculous discovery about each other. But for him? The thought sat in his chest like a stone.

He turned his head toward Dylan, searching his brother’s face for some kind of answer. Dylan didn’t look shocked so much as… uncomfortable. His mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes darting between Arthur and the nurse.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Wait, hold on. Are you saying you actually believe in all that?” His voice had an edge to it, but with a trace of protectiveness creeping through. “Because it sounds to me like you’re telling my brother his sore throat is down to some mystical fate nonsense.”

Erika straightened a little, clearly expecting the pushback. “I’m not saying it is that, necessarily. Just that I’ve seen something very similar before, and it wasn’t medical. My brother still lives with it.” She hesitated, lowering her voice slightly. “And I’ve met other people who’ve had bonds like his. It doesn’t happen often, but… it’s real.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair, throat aching as if to remind him that none of this was just a silly conversation.

Dylan shifted in his chair, clearly restless, his knee bouncing with impatience. “Well,” he said at last, his tone firmer than necessary, “if everything’s clear, then we’d best be on our way.” He rose quickly, placing a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder as if to usher him up before he could think of protesting.

Arthur barely had time to grab his coat before Dylan was steering him toward the door. “Thank you,” Dylan said over his shoulder, clipped but polite, before guiding Arthur out into the hallway.

Arthur glanced back once at Erika, who lingered by the desk with her clipboard, her expression unreadable, something between hope and hesitation. The moment was gone just as quickly, Dylan’s grip on his shoulder tightening as if to drag him firmly back into the world he knew.

“Hey, that was pretty bloody rude, you know?” Arthur snapped as they stepped out of the office, his voice echoing faintly down the sterile hallway. His irritation finally caught up with him now that the initial shock had worn off. “She might’ve had more to say. More information.”

Dylan didn’t answer right away. His jaw was set tight, and Arthur noticed the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was wrestling with something he didn’t want to admit out loud.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, heat prickling at the back of his neck. “Oi! You planning on giving me an explanation for that little stunt, or are you just going to sulk in silence?”

Dylan’s response came out low and clipped. “In the car.”

Arthur sighed but followed his brother out, slumping into the passenger seat with a huff. As soon as the doors shut, he turned and shot Dylan a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“So?”

Dylan’s knuckles tightened on the wheel as he eased the car out of the lot. His eyes stayed fixed forward, too focused on the empty road. “I really don’t know if it’s my place to tell you, Artie.”

Arthur frowned, the irritation starting to bubble back up. “What do you mean by that?”

Dylan’s sigh was heavy, tired. “Alisdair… he’s never been a fan of the whole soulmate idea. And I suppose some of that rubbed off on me.”

Arthur shifted in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “But why?”

For a long while Dylan didn’t answer. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on something bitter. The countryside rolled by the window in muted blurs. Stone walls, sheep fields, the occasional tired row of houses. Arthur tapped his fingers against his knee, waiting.

Finally Dylan spoke, his tone low. “Alisdair should be the one to tell you the main reason why. It’s not… it’s not really mine to share.”

Arthur turned toward him fully, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not making any bloody sense. Weren’t you two just joking with me about soulmates a few weeks ago?”

Dylan gave a humourless laugh. “We were drunk. And even while he was laughing, Alisdair still had a face that made it look like he’d rather bite his own tongue off than keep listening. Asked me later to drop the subject altogether. Said he didn’t want it brought up again. Not even for laughs.”

Arthur’s irritation sharpened into something heavier. “Would you just tell me the reason? I don’t care if Alisdair gets upset. I’d like to know.”

Silence again. The hum of the tires on the road filled the car, steady and suffocating. Dylan’s eyes stayed on the road, his grip tightening and loosening against the wheel. Arthur watched him, every second stretching longer, waiting for the crack.

When Dylan finally spoke, his voice was quiet, so quiet Arthur almost missed it.

“Because… supposedly, our parents were soulmates.”

Arthur blinked, the words hanging in the air like smoke. His stomach twisted, heat prickling in his chest.

For a moment, he couldn’t find anything to say.

Dylan glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “It’s not something Alisdair likes talking about. You know how he is. But… Mum and Dad—well. That’s what we were told.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the fight draining out of him. He’d always known their father left when he was too young to remember, leaving their mum to raise the four of them until she passed. Alisdair had stepped into the role of parent after that, holding everything together.

Arthur remembered little from those early years. Hazy impressions, warmth that blurred at the edges, but he knew one thing clearly: Alisdair’s silence about their father wasn’t just silence. It was fury, grief, both locked behind his teeth.

Now, the revelation pressed down on Arthur’s chest, heavy and suffocating. Soulmates weren’t just some rare, far-off concept anymore. They were tangled in his family’s history, carved into scars he barely understood.

For once, Arthur didn’t have a sharp retort ready. Just a hollow quiet.

“Just… don’t linger on what that nurse said, okay? I doubt you have a soulmate, and even if you did, there’s no such thing as a true soulmate. I don’t want you getting obsessed with something that may hurt you, Artie.”

Arthur turned his head toward the window, letting Dylan’s words hang in the air. He hoped the rolling countryside would soothe him. The blur of hedgerows, the occasional crooked oak, the sheep grazing on sloping hills. It didn’t.

He wanted to listen to his brother. He usually did, even if it was through gritted teeth. Somewhere deep down, hidden under the constant bickering, Arthur idolized his siblings. They were larger than life. Steadfast, decisive, the kind of men who never seemed to falter. Standing against them, especially in something they were so passionate about, always left Arthur sick to his stomach. It felt like betrayal. It felt like blasphemy.

But this time, something inside him refused to bend.

When Erika had spoken that word, soulmate, it had been like a key turning in a lock he hadn’t realized was there. Something in him had clicked, shifted, settled into place. The haze around the memory of the pain thinned, as though the word itself had cut through the fog. For the first time since the episode, the experience made a strange kind of sense.

Arthur thought about Dylan’s warning, how Alisdair would be mad if the subject came up. They treated soulmates as a cruel fantasy, a false hope meant to ruin people. But Arthur couldn’t bring himself to agree. He didn’t think they were wrong out of wisdom, he thought they were wrong out of fear. Fear of something they’d lived through, something that left them scarred.

Arthur didn’t share that scar. What he had was the sharp echo of a pain that wasn’t his own and a gnawing certainty that it meant something.

He leaned his temple against the window, the glass cool against his skin. The fields had begun to thin now, giving way to the clustered rooftops of a small town. Church spires and brick chimneys rose against the washed-out sky.

As Arthur stared out at the passing streets, one thought kept rolling through his mind:

Was he foolish to think he had a soulmate?

Arthur didn’t think he was foolish. Because every time he let himself believe, really believe, that somewhere out there was another half waiting for him, the ache in his throat seemed to fade just a little.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Hope it wasn't too much of a slog fest. (It felt like it when writing.)

Next chapter is........ I'm not gonna make promises I know I can't keep. It will be at the latest in November.

The big question is will Francis and Arthur finally realize after five chapters that the other exists? The answer is that I'm getting impatient and want to move this along.

Again, thanks for reading! (: