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According to legend, there is a thread of crimson tying each pair of soulmates together by their little finger - a thread connecting each soulmate, heart to heart. Predetermined by Fate, or so the legend goes.
Legends, Yut Lung often finds, are pointless, frivolous tales which are never true, and he simply doesn’t have the time to dwell on such things.
Except, rather unfortunately, he thinks, this one just happens to be true.
Yut Lung has always been able to see the threads - and it’s really more of a thorn in his side than one could possibly imagine - the crimson color is unbelievably garish, and there are far more soulmates in the world than he ever would have wished for. There are threads everywhere, trailing across the ground, curling around lovers, slipping through the cracks of doorways and walls and loose floorboards.
Some simply aren’t - they’re scarlet threads snipped off that wither into black and fray at the ends, a symbol of a soulmate who once was, but is no longer.
Soulmates are fickle things, he thinks, so he’s surprised at the sheer amount of the ones in the world - what are the chances that lying at the end of the thread tied around your finger will lead you to the person that is completely, utterly, and irrefutably perfect for you? A perfect other half, if you will, someone that complements you perfectly, in every way possible?
What are the chances that the thread around his own finger will lead to that person?
His thread is different from the rest of them, he thinks. Just a little bit. The little bow tied up neatly on his pinkie finger has faded to a dusty, muted rose - he’s tied and untied the bow so many times that the color has simply started to fade away, like leaving a rich tapestry in the sun and bleaching the color from it, except the sun is the nimble tips of his fingers, weaving and looping, weaving and looping, unable to let the string fall away completely but still able to tie the bow a little prettier each time.
No one else can see them, he knows. No one else can touch the thread and fiddle with it when they’re feeling restless. Few know that the threads are anything more than a lost legend, a wistful daydream for the desperate romantics.
He’d told his mother once, when he was young. He’d told her about the red thread on his little finger, asking, “Mommy, where does it go?”
Her eyes had widened just a fraction, just a little bit, and she’d held him close and stroked his hair. “It takes you to the one you are destined to love, my darling,” she’d said. “But you mustn’t tell anyone you can see it, okay?”
He hadn’t understood, then. “But why, Mommy?”
“Because,” she’d whispered into his hair, “Not everyone can see it. Only the ones who the gods think are special enough can see the thread. If everyone could see it, then finding the one at the end of your thread wouldn’t be as fun.”
I’m special, he’d thought. The gods chose me.
“Mommy,” he’d said. “Will you help me find the one at the end of mine?”
“Later, my love. It’s too soon, still,” she had replied, and had continued to stroke his hair as he played with the bow on his finger.
It’s later, now, and his mother is no longer here. It’s later, now, and he understands why she’d asked him not to say anything.
It’s later, now, and he doesn’t need anyone to help him find whoever is at the end of his thread.
He’d found the person at the end of his thread in 1985, a silhouette wearing a blue jacket outlined against the burning backdrop of Golzine’s billion dollar mansion.
*
Isn’t it cheating, he thinks, If everyone can see the threads?
He’d thought so, for a long time. Where’s the fun in love if you know exactly who you’re supposed to love?
Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t see the threads at all, to have that little bit of risk in loving someone, to not know for certain if they were the one you were supposed to be with, but staying with them anyway just because you could.
He wishes he couldn’t see them at all, but he has just the slightest feeling that perhaps he’d be able to tell where it leads to, anyway.
time left: 13 days
Once every millennium, the threads reveal themselves to all.
They flicker - once, twice, before becoming completely visible, and the world for Yut Lung becomes the world for everybody - a world of pooling and swirling threads, a world lined with delicate scarlet threads and a world dotted with just a few burnt grey threads.
They remain visible for 24 hours - time enough to do with the knowledge whatever one would like to, before flickering off and disappearing again.
At least, that’s how the legend goes.
In the 20th century, the day the threads become visible is in 1989, on the 13th of November.
Today, it’s the 1st of November, and everyone is here, crowded in Ash and Eiji’s living room, sprawled across sofas and spilling onto their carpeted floors. Yut Lung is situated comfortably in the corner of a soft suede sofa, holding a half-full wine glass and his cheeks are pleasantly warm, with Sing just inches away. His arms are wrapped around the back of the sofa and the thread is running across his lap and hanging between Sing’s right hand and his.
He hopes Sing can’t hear the sound of his heartbeat, because it’s beating so hard he thinks the cushions might be able to feel it, too.
“... Less than two weeks,” Yut Lung hears Shorter say, whose head is turned towards Ash and Eiji, who are huddled together under a blanket, sitting on a chair he’s quite sure is meant for one.
“Less than two weeks until what?” Sing asks, hand swinging and tugging on the thread a little.
Shorter holds up his pinkie finger and waves it. “‘Til we can see the strings tied around these babies.”
Sing frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “The red string of fate? Isn’t that just a myth?”
Shorter smiles, big and bright. “Not so, my good sir! In fact, as I was just saying to Ash and Eiji here, we’re gonna be able to see them soon!”
Shorter, at least in his case, will not be able to see the thread on his little finger. That isn’t to say he won’t be able to see any at all, just that he won’t be able to see his - because it isn’t there. Although rare, it’s possible for someone to have no thread at all. There simply isn’t anyone in the world that’s destined to be with him - there are only the people that he chooses to love and be loved by.
Some without strings lack the desire for romantic love - some lack the desire for a soulmate at all, preferring to love as they will, knowing that they alone are in charge of their destiny. The idea of not having a soulmate is often frowned upon by those who are more traditional, but many without one are quite content.
“You mean like, forever? We’re just gonna see who our soulmates are?” Sing questions, a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Hell yeah, we are. I think it’s only for like, a day, though. Those two,” he says, pointing with his thumb at Ash and Eiji, “Are bound to be connected. Not sure where mine’ll go, though.”
Eiji flushes a delicate pink, and hooks his pinkie around Ash’s, whose face has not, unlike Eiji’s, gone a delicate pink, but has rather flushed a violent red. He curls his finger around Eiji’s for a moment anyway, before intertwining the rest of their fingers and looking away, still blushing furiously.
“Y’all think everyone got a string?” Cain calls from the kitchen a few feet away, before walking out with a can of beer.
Yut Lung is just about to say something before Skip asks, from the circular rug he’s laying on, “Can you get me one?”
Before Cain can respond, Ash says, “Kid, you’re fifteen. You can have a juice box.”
Skip sits up, legs crossed, and shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
“Not everyone has to have a string,” Yut Lung says, a belated response to Cain’s question.
Suddenly, all eyes are on him, and Sing seems to shift just a little bit closer. “Not everyone is destined to be with someone. Or have a soulmate,” he continues, just because he feels like he has to.
“Man, I don’t even know if I buy the idea of soulmates. Don’t seem like it make much sense to me,” Cain says.
“But would you not like to believe that it does?” Eiji asks, and Yut Lung doesn’t think he’s imagining the twinkle in his eyes.
“You right, Eiji. I just don’t got the energy to deal with all that shit. Y’all can do whatever y’all want.” Cain says, and Eiji smiles a little softly, eyes twinkling just a little bit brighter.
“What if your soulmate is like, on the other side of the world, or something?” Sing asks, and Yut Lung fiddles with the bow on his finger.
“Then I guess you’d better hope you have enough time to follow it,” Yut Lung says. He glances at Skip and Cain quickly, whose threads trail across the creme carpet and out of the apartment door. He hasn’t ever seen the people their threads are connected to.
It’s a shame, truly, that they might not have enough time to find the ones on the other end, but he has a feeling neither of them would mind too much. Skip is just a bit too young to be worrying about that, anyway.
“Do you think I’ll have enough time to find whoever’s on the end of mine?” Sing asks, looking down at the thread he can’t yet see.
“Why?” Yut Lung asks, heart pounding wildly in his chest. “Do you really think your soulmate is that far away?” His voice has dropped just a fraction, and his ribs are starting to bruise with how hard his heart is pounding against it.
Sing inhales, just an edge too sharp, and suddenly Sing’s eyes feel searing on his skin. “No, I… I was just wondering.”
There’s a loud cough from the other side of the room, and Yut Lung jerks back, realising too late that he’s gotten just a fraction too close to Sing, and when he looks over he sees Eiji knocking Ash with his elbow.
He doesn’t dare look over at Sing, but he does wonder if his face is as hot as his own.
time left: 10 days
“Hey, sleepy.”
Yut Lung blinks drowsily. There’s something poking his arm. “Mm?” He lifts his head from where it was encased in arms, folded across a wooden tabletop, and for a moment he’s not quite sure exactly where he is.
He feels a little rumpled, and when he lifts his head, he sees Sing’s normally sharp grin melt into something like caramel, sticky sweet and full of affection.
Perhaps Sing’s gentle smile and gentle voice aren’t the worst things he could have woken up to.
“Did you fall asleep again?” Sing asks, part teasing and part just a little bit tender.
“Mm. No,” he lies.
Sing snorts, pulling out a chair across from his and sitting down.
Yut Lung looks around, still disoriented, and realises he’s fallen asleep in the bookstore again, a pile of books to his left and an untouched cup of coffee to his right.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t drink any of my coffee. Now it’s cold.”
In a flash, Sing has snatched up the cup of coffee and chugs once, twice, three times, until he’s finished the entire cup. He gulps loudly and places the now-empty cup down on the table, while Yut Lung gives him a withering stare.
“I paid for that, you know. It was seven dollars.”
“And it was cold. You weren’t gonna drink it anyway. You should be thanking me for not wasting your money.” Sing flashes him a cocky grin, and Yut Lung tries to glare for a little while longer, but his resolve really is far too weak and he has to force himself to look away far too soon.
There’s a pause, a moment of silence that really, couldn’t be called uncomfortable - it’s more just a chance to catch his breath - a chance for the dust to settle, if you will.
“So,” Sing says, and Yut Lung finds himself holding the breath he just caught once again, holding it tightly in his hands and hoping it doesn’t slip through the cracks. “Where… where do you think yours goes?”
“Mine?” he asks, knowing just what he’s talking about but hoping to see his cheeks redden in the way that makes his heart soften, beaten up leather and bruises on sun-kissed skin.
“Yeah. Yours,” Sing says, and instead of the pink cheeks he was hoping to catch a glimpse of, all he gets is Sing taking his hand in his and circling his little finger with his thumb and forefinger.
He forces himself to exhale, releasing the breath caught in his throat, if only to relieve the aching in his lungs, but it takes a lot more effort than it really should. This, of course, could be attributed to the fact that Sing is, in essence, caressing his hand, and he thinks the warmth pooling in his stomach can’t quite be blamed on a sudden change in temperature.
He’s struggling to gather his composure, and he feels Sing’s dark eyes flitting across his face, waiting for a response. Is it just his imagination, or is the thread around his finger tightening? His blood doesn’t feel like it’s pumping as quickly, anymore.
“Oh, I… I don’t know. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” Yut Lung finally says, eyes skating across the red thread pooling across the wooden table, stretching between their fingers.
Sing’s fingers are still caressing his own, and Yut Lung is beginning to feel light-headed. “You think Ash and Eiji are connected?” Sing asks.
“Without a doubt. They’re made for each other,” Yut Lung says.
“They are, aren’t they?” Sing’s smile holds something a little wistful, and Yut Lung’s ribs feel like they’re cracking. “‘Sides, I think that even if they weren’t, they’d never leave each other, anyway.”
“They wouldn’t,” he agrees. “But I think I’m glad I’m not with someone right now. I don’t know what I’d do if… I don’t know. Just, not everyone can be Ash and Eiji.”
“Yeah, but… not everyone has to be Ash and Eiji.” Yut Lung feels the warmth in his stomach coil tight, tight, tighter at the sound of Sing’s words, and he feels drunk on the feeling of Sing’s hands holding his, on the low rumble of his voice, on the hope that maybe his words mean something beyond what he’s saying. He feels it bubble up inside him, float to the surface and let the foam build in his lungs.
“I wonder if I have a thread at all,” Yut Lung says, wanting to continue the charade, knowing very well that there’s a bow tied neatly on his little finger, but Sing’s fingers suddenly stop moving, and he starts to pull away.
No! he wants to scream, but he can’t, he’s said the wrong thing, it’s too late, and his fingers feel cold. “Not everyone is destined to have a soulmate,” he adds, stupidly.
Sing swallows, nodding. “Yeah, I mean. I can’t really picture Shorter getting married, or anything.”
“Somehow I doubt he would want to. But, well. I suppose it would be nice to have a soulmate. I would be disappointed if I didn’t have one,” Yut Lung tries to amend.
“I’d be disappointed, too. I hope… I hope whoever it is isn’t too far away,” Sing says, looking down at his hands.
“So do I.”
time left: 9 days
Ash and Eiji’s kitchen is something clean and spacious, with wide granite counters and glass cabinets, drawers stocked full of pots and pans and gleaming stainless steel sinks. It always smells vaguely of something sharp, but it’s always warm, and Eiji and Ash have spent hours there, cooking, eating, and sometimes just talking, enjoying the feeling of being warm and in love.
And the kitchen is exactly where they are now, sat across from each other, with Ash spooning fried rice in his mouth and Eiji scooping noodles from the Chinese takeout box in front of him. Ash pauses for a moment, dropping his spoon back into the styrofoam box, and asks around a mouthful of rice, words and a few chunks of rice spilling out of mouth, “D’you we’re gonna be connected?”
Eiji’s lip curls as he eyes a lone globule of rice that’s fallen onto the table, but his eyes turn sugar coated once he hears Ash’s words, placing his chopsticks on the table before reaching out and wrapping his hands around Ash’s. His fingers are always cold enough for him to require Eiji to “warm them up, or he might get hypothermia,” which is a paper-thin excuse Eiji never fails to see through, but goes along with anyway, because maybe he likes holding Ash’s hands.
“Yes. I am sure,” Eiji says, and his words sound sugary, a little bit like honey because he thinks Ash deserves sweet things.
The corner of Ash’s lips tug upwards, and Eiji thinks that his eyes look like jade pools of water, crystal clear and endlessly deep. Eiji likes to see the pebbles inside and watch his eyes splash and ripple, watch the jade turn a little bit stormy but just soft enough.
“Good. But even if we aren’t, I’m not gonna leave you. Not for some stupid string.” Eiji suddenly feels very, very sweet, like his skin is coated in sugar and his heart has turned to caramel, and he feels very soft, like if Ash pressed his fingers in his skin he would leave dents, but Eiji doesn’t think he would mind having Ash’s fingerprints on his skin.
Ash is blushing, just a little bit, but he goes on anyway. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Eiji laughs lightly, and there is honey on his tongue, and he says, “I would never want you to leave, Ash.”
Ash blushes harder, his cheeks turning maroon.
Their apartment feels so warm, all the time, but it’s a wonderful sort of warm, something that keeps his skin heated and somehow Ash’s fingers are still cold, but he feels so full of love he doesn’t really care. Everything inside of him feels very much like cotton balls, and they feel like they’re soaking up the syrupy sweetness of their love, and perhaps they’ve turned a soft, light pink.
Ash’s smile turns sort of dry, and then he says, “So - Yue and Sing are really something, huh.”
Eiji feels amusement bubble in his chest. “I wonder what will happen when they will be able to see the threads,” he wonders.
Ash huffs, exasperated. “Those two have been dancing around each other for months. Better hope can get a goddamn clue when they can.”
“Do you think they will be connected?”
Ash pauses. “I don’t know about that. I’m hoping they are, just so we don’t have to deal with their fucking doe eyes anymore.”
Eiji squeezes Ash’s hands. “Just because we are already here does not mean you should criticise them, too. Perhaps they only need a little push.”
“I’m willing to shove them if that’s what it takes,” Ash grumbles.
“I know,” Eiji says, and he notices Ash’s fingers aren’t very cold, anymore, but he doesn’t let go.
time left: 3 days
“Wanna go for a drive?”
Sing is standing outside Yut Lung’s bedroom door, a slight grin on his face and car keys in his hand.
Yut Lung lifts his head from where he’s bent over his desk, and his neck is aching a little bit.
“It’s late,” he says.
Sing’s grin stretches wider. “So?”
Yut Lung narrows his eyes. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere.”
Yut Lung drops his head on his desk and sighs. “Fine.”
“Cool. Meet me by the car.” When Yut Lung lifts his head, he’s already gone.
*
He meets him by the car. Sing is already in the driver’s seat, hands resting on the wheel, and as Yut Lung climbs into the passenger’s seat, Sing turns his head towards him and says, “Where to?”
“Anywhere,” he says, and he has to hide his own grin when Sing gives him a look.
“Touché,” Sing says, and then he drives.
He drives for a long, long time, into the night and cocooned by silence. There aren’t any stars, not quite yet - the road is speckled with orange street lights that burn bright, glowing imprints behind his eyelids. The drive is dotted with sparse conversation that fades into the air like frayed ends of threads broken apart, split in two like severed heartstrings, but it doesn’t feel strange, not really.
No, their conversations spiralling away doesn’t seem to be a result of a lack of things to say, or even a lack of desire to speak - no, it’s more like their words are muffled every time they try, suffocated by the feeling in the air, suffocated by the thread between them that seems like it’s trying to wrap itself around their throats. Choke the words they want to say so that they can’t quite manage it, choke them before it turns their threads grey.
Sing drives for a long, long while, so long that Yut Lung finally manages to unwrap the thread around his throat to ask, just one more time, “Where are we going?”
The car swerves and comes to a sudden halt. “Here,” Sing says, and when Yut Lung looks around, there isn’t really much of anything - they’re parked on the side of a lonely road, surrounded by forest and the faint sound of crickets chirping.
Sing turns the key in the ignition, and everything shuts off - the purr of the engine quiets, and the light above them fades away and bathes them in darkness once again, except there’s nothing left here to illuminate their path, only the twinkling stars and a small sliver of the moon above.
Yut Lung reaches for the door handle, but then he notices that Sing hasn’t moved at all, he’s just sitting there quietly with his hands on his lap. Yut Lung lets his hand drop, fingertips skating across the side of the door before his right hand comes to rest to his side and his left traces the rim of the cupholder between them.
“Are you not getting out?” he asks, and his voice has dropped a few pitches.
“I don’t think we need to,” Sing says, and Yut Lung thinks that maybe he’s right, but he isn’t quite sure why.
He just hums in response, and he thinks that the air feels awfully strange - not the static from before, not like radio waves in the air, but something that feels oddly like nectar, coating the words he feels trapped in his throat, too sticky-sweet to come unstuck, too raw to swallow them down.
“So, three more days, huh?” Sing says, a little bittersweet in the dulcet air, and Yut Lung twirls the scarlet thread around his finger and watches the spirals press into his skin.
“Mm. I wonder who’s on the other end of mine,” Yut Lung says, and he tugs on the thread between them, watching it stretch between them and pulling it taut.
Sing looks down at his hands, and for a moment Yut Lung wonders if he can see it, too, but Sing’s left hand is slowly sliding off his leg and onto the chair with a soft thud, and Yut Lung wonders why his heart is suddenly racing.
“Will you find them with me?” Sing asks, fingers tapping against the leather seat.
“I can try,” he says, and Sing probably thinks that means they might have to travel a long time to find them, but he really just means he isn’t quite sure if he can stand to see Sing’s face when he realises that it’s him, that they’re connected.
There isn’t any sound at all now, not even their breathing, and Yut Lung realises that perhaps they’re both holding their breaths. Their hearts are waiting to spill open, a flood of ink on paper, hues bleeding out from the sunset and giving way to the blackness around them now.
Yut Lung can’t quite see the look on Sing’s face, it’s just a shadowed silhouette against the gentle glow of the background outside, but he can see the black outline of his hand inching towards his, and the words grow sticky once more, toffee on his tongue and caramel in his throat.
He swallows and tastes the sugar in his mouth, and then he feels Sing’s fingers brush against his, it feels like glaze on his cracked skin, and he thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. Yut Lung feels syrup poured over his chest, he thinks if he tried to clutch his heart his fingers might get stuck wrapped around it. He finds a spare breath in his lungs and inhales, just a little, and then he tangles their fingers together, thread twisting, and Sing’s hand is warm and soft and feels just a little bit unsure.
For a moment neither of them breathes, moves, acknowledges their contact at all, but after a heartbeat or two Sing squeezes, and Yut Lung feels his heart being squeezed too, but in the nicest way, in a way that makes the artificial sweeteners bleed out of his heart and run down his ribcage, in a way that makes it feel close, warm.
Yut Lung traces Sing’s hand with his thumb, and feels the caramel in his throat unstick, just for a moment, but he seizes it, whispering, “Are you scared?” before the caramel clogs it again.
“Of what?” Sing asks quietly, and Yut Lung thinks he can hear a slight tremor in his voice.
“Of this. Of me. Of everything,” he says.
“Yes,” Sing whispers.
“I am, too,” he replies, but their fingers are still intertwined, so neither of them can be all that scared, can they?
They stay like that for a long, long time, holding hands at midnight, and Yut Lung hopes they can stay there forever.
time left: 27 minutes, 43 seconds
This bar is different from their usual.
There are quite a few things that don’t match, but perhaps one of the most notable differences is the lack of a graffitied brick wall coated in a strange sort of grime that none are too keen to identify. Brown also seems to be a color that this particular bar tends to shy away from, which is a welcome change after the overwhelming oppressiveness of the shit colored floor and tabletops of their usual.
It also seems to have more rigorous standards for who exactly is let in, and their eyes narrow when they fall on Skip, who, despite his talents with guns and a beer (behind Ash’s back), still just looks like a regular 15 year old kid. Fortunately, Cain’s folded arms, with his muscles rippling and sheer mass, coupled with Shorter’s easygoing attitude and inviting smile, seems to work better than any ID that they could have shown the bouncer, and they’re ushered inside with a wary glance.
The three of them slide onto the bar stools, and Shorter shouts their orders to the bartender, and the steady conversation between them continues to flow despite the rowdy drunkenness of the crowds around them and the clinking of glasses.
It’s an odd sort of familiarity that Shorter has missed, somewhat, the smell of booze in the air and a note of carelessness in their veins, induced partly by the alcohol and also partly just the recklessness of those around them, shouting because they can and raising their glasses to celebrate nothing in particular.
They haven’t done this in a while, and it’s not something that Shorter can bring himself to regret - they’re all in better places now, and the need to forget has lessened considerably - but he finds that sometimes it’s nice to return, if only for the sake of nostalgia.
In the midst of their conversation, in the midst of everything around them, there’s a moment, just a second or two where Shorter feels weird, like the air has frozen around them, like the carbonation in his beer has lingered for a second too long, slowing in the golden liquid and bubbling up inside of him instead.
A second or two passes, and suddenly there’s shimmering and gasps and a flurry of panic, and Shorter doesn’t really know what’s going on either, but he really doesn’t think that there’s any reason to get worked up about it - at least, not until he notices the glitter.
Or, maybe more accurately, glimmering - it’s missing that false brightness of glitter, and instead just seems like a bright sort of luminescence, lines of light stretching all around them for a single shining moment before it fades to a soft, sparkling glow of scarlet threads. He glances over at Cain, who’s staring at his hands - there’s a string tied to his right pinkie finger.
Oh, he thinks, before looking down at his own hands, where there isn’t any string at all.
Oh, he thinks again, somehow not surprised at all. He never thought he needed a soulmate, anyway.
“Hey, Shorter!” Skip calls.
Shorter turns to look at Skip, who’s smiling so wide that Shorter can’t help but grin, and his eyes are sparkling with a childish sort of delight that he’s been seeing just a bit more often, and he feels fondness swell in his chest.
“Yeah?” he says, and Skip smiles a little wider and holds up his left hand, wiggling his pinkie finger and displaying the sparkling red string tied there.
“Show me yours!” he says, and Shorter holds up his bare hands to show him that there’s nothing.
Skip’s eyebrows crease a little, not like he’s pitying, or anything, just a little confused. “Where is it? Did you take it off?”
Shorter snickers a little. “Naw. Don’t think I have one.”
“Yo, but that’s chill too. You can do whatever you want, baby,” Cain says, and Shorter grins wider.
“Hell yeah. Hey man, you got one too!” Shorter says, looking down at Cain’s hands.
“Yeah. But I don’t care now, you know? I ain’t wanna mess with that shit. I’ll find ‘em if I do, and if I don’t, then that’s just how it works, man.”
“Yo, Cain! Shorter!” Skip says. “Can we see where mine goes?”
“Sure, kiddo,” Shorter says, and they walk out of the bar together, following the thread that stretches and tugs on Skip’s finger, and none of them is quite sure where it’ll lead but they’re all perfectly content to follow the glimmering thread in the dark. They walk for a long, long while, and their journey is fuelled by Skip’s contagious enthusiasm. It takes them across roads, across winding sidewalks and through the various shades of grey concrete in New York, until they finally arrive at the railing above the lapping waves of the water beneath them.
The string stretches across the water, far out of sight.
Shorter looks over at Skip, whose arm is dangling over the railing, string still tied to his finger. His face is downcast, and Shorter feels something tugging at his heart.
“Hey, kid. Don’t worry about it. You don’t gotta give a damn about where it goes. You’re still a kid. You don’t gotta be worrying about that shit,” Cain says, ruffling Skip’s hair.
“Yeah, he’s right. You’ll find them one day, man. You’re destined to be together, right?” Shorter says, nudging Skip’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I guess,” Skip says, now cracking a small smile. “You’ll find yours too,” he says to Cain, which earns him a slight smile. He turns to Shorter and says, “You can just do whatever the fuck you want! That’s cool as shit, yo.”
Shorter grins. He doesn’t need a string. What’s the point of being tied down when you can run free?
time left: 13 minutes, 52 seconds
Eiji likes their balcony, especially at night.
He likes the biting chill in the air, and he likes going out with a sweater and pulling his sleeves over his hands and balling the fabric in his fists, he likes leaning over the railing and looking at the lights below, and if he stares for long enough they look like they’re spinning.
It’s ten minutes to twelve, and he thinks Ash is in the living room reading the newspaper. He has his glasses on, probably, and he is probably sticking his tongue out because Ash does that a lot when he is very focused. Sometimes when Eiji watches very closely while he reads and his eyes move across the small, black printed letters, he thinks he can see the colors in his eyes mixing and swirling.
Ash is so, so pretty, he thinks, and he’s so, so lucky.
The stars have been twinkling above him for a while now, he notices, and it doesn’t happen very often, because they live in New York, and New York isn’t exactly the best place to go stargazing, but tonight is very special indeed, so special Eiji thinks that even the stars must know.
He breathes in, feels the cold fill his lungs, and then he notices the stars have stopped twinkling. At least, that’s what it looks like. They shine still, but they don’t sparkle like the did just a moment before, and Eiji thinks it’s awfully strange that he can’t really hear anything anymore, like there are cotton balls clogging his ears.
“Ash?” he tries to call, but his voice sounds like it’s underwater, and he doesn’t think Ash has heard him at all.
His lungs feel very strange, like they’re being compressed, and he tries to take a breath, but he can’t, really, and his head is starting to feel fuzzy.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, he inhales and everything is sharp again, but he feels a little dizzy, still. He inhales again, sharply, not to breathe, not this time, but because of his shock - there’s a bright thread tied around his finger trailing into the apartment, and it shines so brightly Eiji has to squint.
He feels his heart pounding in his chest, because he’s nervous - why is he nervous?
Soulmate, something whispers in his mind, and his ribcage is starting to shake and his mouth is starting to get dry and maybe his legs are wobbling a little bit too, he has to hold onto the railing to support himself because he’s afraid he’ll crumple into a pile on the balcony if he lets go, and -
“Eiji?” Ash whispers, and oh, he is right there, at the doorway onto the balcony, and he looks so beautiful still, his eyes are so very big and the other end of Eiji’s thread is tied around Ash’s little finger.
Eiji feels his heart expand in his chest, he can feel it pressing against his ribs, because he’s so, so in love. The thread between them is twisting and swirling around them, it’s shining brighter than the stars in the sky, glowing scarlet and glittering gold, and he thinks that it’s strangely perfect.
Just a moment ago, the thread was pooled at their feet, but now it’s lifting in the air and wrapping around them - he feels the thread tie around his back, looping around Ash’s body, and it’s pulling them closer. It’s curling, and it wraps around them once, twice, three times, four, and Eiji runs hands across the threads, plucking them like harp strings, and he swears he can hear the gentle, humming notes of music in the air.
Eiji looks at Ash, and Ash looks perhaps a little bit starstruck, and Eiji can’t help but smile.
“Were you afraid we would not be connected?” Eiji asks softly.
Ash’s face looks very soft, like everything except their love has melted away, and all that’s left is a gentle dusting of pink on his cheeks and something bright in his eyes.
“I was afraid things wouldn’t be the same if we weren’t,” he says, and the thread pulls them close, closer, until Eiji’s hands are resting on Ash’s chest and his arms are around Eiji’s waist. Eiji thinks he can feel Ash’s heart beating beneath his fingertips.
“I will always stay with you,” Eiji says, pulling Ash closer. “I know that I love you, and I know that you love me. There will never be anything that can tell me we are not supposed to be together.”
Ash inhales, and the pink on his cheeks is quickly turning red, and then, without warning, he takes Eiji’s face in his hands and kisses him hard, and it makes Eiji feel so, so warm. Everything is melting, even his heart, but he isn’t worried at all, because he knows Ash will be there to keep whatever melts away.
They break apart, and the mist of their breaths clouds their faces for a second before fading into the air.
“I love you,” Ash says, and Eiji thinks that Ash glows brighter than any star, any golden thread ever could. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life. Nothing could ever make me stop loving you.”
“Forever,” Eiji says, and he smiles.
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It’s shining, now.
It’s strange, Yut Lung thinks, because he’s been able to see the thread on his finger for his entire life, but it’s only now, in this moment, that he feels fear bubble up at the sight of it. He’s been bent over the desk in his room for a while now, but he thinks it’s time he left.
He doesn’t know where Sing is, but he’ll find him.
*
He finds him in a park.
It’s the one right next to their apartment, where the grass is still just a little bit green and the trees have started to lose their leaves and the ones left over are sparkling shades of yellow and vibrant oranges and burnt auburn, and he thinks it’s a shame he can’t really see any of the colors underneath the midnight sky.
Yut Lung stands on the sidewalk on the edge of the park, and Sing is there, a few meters away from him, standing with his back facing him in the middle of the grass, staring at the thread trailing across the ground.
Yut Lung is silent for a while, fear choking the words he’d like to say and nerves making his chest feel awfully tight.
He steels himself, willing his voice to work, and says, “Hey.”
The park is empty, and suddenly his voice seems loud and ringing in the autumn air.
Sing turns around, and when he sees Yut Lung he breathes in sharply, his eyes widening.
Yut Lung’s heart stutters in his chest. “Are you surprised?” He walks towards him, close, because, well, he couldn’t really see his face all too well from that far away.
Perhaps he just wants to be closer to Sing.
Sing tilts his head a little. “Maybe I’m just relieved.”
Yut Lung can’t quite interpret the expression on his face, but it’s something that’s caught between his heartstrings, and he’s afraid that it just might rip them apart.
“Were you hoping it would be me?” he asks, and he’s almost shocked at his own daring, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.
“Yeah,” Sing says, a little breathlessly. “I think I was.”
“I would have wanted you even if we weren’t connected,” Yut Lung says, and he hears blood rushing in his ears.
“I would have, too,” Sing says, and they’re close, really close - so close that Yut Lung thinks he could count Sing’s eyelashes.
“I was gonna kiss you,” Sing says after a beat, and Yut Lung can feel his breathing start to shake. “That night, in the car.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was scared it wouldn’t be you. And it was enough, I think, just to hold your hand and pretend that it was.”
Yut Lung wonders how his knees had gotten so weak, and he wraps his arms around Sing’s shoulders so that he doesn’t fall to the ground. His body feels warm, and strong, like he could hold on forever and Sing would always be there.
And maybe if he fell, Sing would fall with him.
He leans in close, and his lips brush Sing’s cheek. “I wanted to kiss you, too.”
He hears Sing swallow, and his lips curve into a smile.
“Why didn’t you?” Sing whispers, echoing his words.
“I was scared you wouldn’t want it to be me.”
Sing turns his head, just a fraction, and Yut Lung’s eyes drop to his mouth.
“I did,” Sing says.
“So kiss me now,” Yut Lung says, and then Sing does.
It’s soft, and it’s gentle, and Sing’s lips are so, so warm, and Yut Lung feels like he might combust, explode into a shower of unbearable affection and shards of his pink, pink heart that’s full of something that feels a little like love. He’d like to give it to Sing, he thinks.
Sing would take care of it.
The thread is curling around them, almost teasing, wrapping around their wrists and pulling tight so that the palms of both of their hands are touching, and Yut Lung tangles his fingers with Sing’s.
They pull apart, and Sing smiles.
“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, and Yut Lung’s heart leaps, his breath caught in his throat.
“Me too,” he says, and the thread glows brighter, squeezing a little tighter.
In the distance, he can see threads glittering.