Work Text:
As a kid, Babe Heffron didn’t give two thoughts to the name on his wrist. He had a soulmate out there, same as everybody else, and one day, he’d find that soulmate and they’d be happy, matter of fact. Simple as that.
It wasn’t until he was in middle school that some kid—a dumb bully named Cobb—took one look at the words Eugene Roe scrawled across Babe’s wrist and shoved the redhead against a row of lockers, screaming, “Heffron’s a faggot!”, causing Babe to wonder.
At home, his mother and his siblings never made a fuss about the redhead’s soulmate. So what if it was a guy? Big deal. Babe’s father had died shortly after his birth, and so his mother knew the pain of living without her soulmate—a pain she never wished on any of her children. Mrs. Heffron went to great lengths to ensure that Babe felt normal. That her son knew that it was perfectly alright that his soulmate was also a boy, and that one day, they would be happy together.
“As long as he treats you right,” she’d murmured. “—and of course, he will, he’s your soulmate.”
So, Babe accepted the name on his wrist, eagerly awaited the day that he would meet the love of his life, and that was that.
Gene Roe’s parents were simple, but kind people. When they saw the name on their young son’s wrist, they were conflicted. Edward Heffron. Though same-sex soulmates were not uncommon, such affairs were nonetheless frowned upon in the Deep South. Like good God-fearing people, they consulted their pastor and turned to questions of absence and absolution.
As the young Cajun grew older, he was bullied at school and in town, finding seldom a moment to rest between the snickers and jabs and clumsy fists of idiots like Sobel and Dike. His parents, who loved him deeply in spite of the name on his skin, attempted to shelter Gene from the world, but the young man knew that was part of the problem.
The whole damn swamp knew about the words etched on his wrist, and so the whole damn swamp hated him because he was different while they were small-minded and afraid. Gene knew the solution was not to trap him in their tiny little town, but for him to get as far away from Bayou Chene as possible.
So, the first chance he got, Gene left on a Greyhound bus with a scholarship to a college up north, thumb absently stroking the name of his soulmate all the while.
Babe was in New York City when it happened.
He’d been in the city having dinner and drinks with an old pal, John Julian, who’d been up for the weekend to attend a conference at NYU. Long after Julian had left the restaurant to catch his flight back down south, Babe was downing shots at the bar and singing—quite loudly—along with his brand-new-drunk-friends to a classic rendition of “Come on, Eileen!” It wasn’t until well after two a.m. that Babe realized he’d missed the last bus back to Philly.
Standing in the brisk chill on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Babe clutched his scarf tightly around his neck and dialed his best friend’s number. Philly was only a two-hour drive from New York City. Bill was gonna fuckin’ kill him, but he would still make the drive. He wouldn’t leave Babe stranded. Only—Bill wasn’t answering the phone, and neither was Ralph. His brothers would definitely leave his ass out in the cold, and he wasn’t gonna call his ma. So, he’d Googled train times, only to realize that the last train that night left from Penn Station in fifteen minutes—there was no way Babe would make it.
“Fuckin’ great,” he growled, dropping onto the pavement. The next bus wasn’t until seven a.m., the next train until six a.m., and just what the hell was he supposed to do for the next four or five hours? “Fuckin’ fuck.”
Head in his hands, Babe really wished Bill would just pick up the goddamn phone.
“Hey, uh, ya alright there? Ya gonna get sick?”
The voice was smooth like velvet, but deep and accented with something similar to Julian’s southern drawl—similar, but different. Better. Babe looked up to find two men hovering over his shoulder, one leaning back as if to keep his distance, the other peering down at him in concern. This man, in his ghostly beauty, had the darkest eyes Babe had ever seen, eyes which were filled with genuine concern and piercing his own.
Babe licked his lips. “Nah, I ain’t gonna be sick. I just…I missed my fuckin’ bus, is all.”
“Perhaps, you should call a cab, then?” the other guy asked in a crisp, polished accent, glancing at his friend wearily.
“You know a cab that’ll get me to Philly for less than three-hundred dollars?” Both men frowned. “Yeah, me either.”
They entered this dance, the three of them, where Babe took the men through his options—the train, the bus, a ride from his friends if they ever answer the damn phone—when the shorter man with the gorgeous eyes and kind face, murmured, “Well, I ain’t got a car, so I can’t give ya a ride, but I do got a couch. You can rest for a few hours before your bus in the mornin’.”
“What?” his friend barked. “Doc, you can’t—”
But the man merely shrugged. “Ain’t gonna leave him out in the cold, David. He’s drunk and likely dehydrated. He stays out here in the cold all night, come mornin’ he could be in some serious trouble.”
Babe wanted to be offended, to argue that he at least had the good sense to find a twenty-four-hour diner and wait out the next few hours in the warmth with a couple cups of coffee. But the redhead didn’t say anything. Because this guy was next level attractive and his voice was like honey, pouring over Babe’s skin in a tantalizing way. Though the man was a total stranger, Babe couldn’t say that he didn’t find the idea of going back to his place somewhat intriguing.
The man’s friend—with his too-pretty face and perfectly coiffed curls—sighed, relenting. “Fine. I’m going to fetch a ride, then.” He stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. “Night, Doc. If I don’t see you at dinner on Monday, I suppose I’ll save the ‘I told you so’ for your eulogy.”
“Hey now—” Babe began, wanting to defend himself, but the stranger just laughed, waving off his friend as the other man disappeared into the back of a checkered cab. He told Babe, “Don’t mind Webster. He can be…quick to judge, but he’s a good guy, really.”
Babe grimaced. “Yeah, seems like a charmin’ guy, your pal.”
The man with the dark eyes motioned the street behind Babe. “M’apartment’s just a few blocks that way.”
Shoulder to shoulder, they strolled in the late night (or early morning?) air, their noses pink from the windy chill, arms occasionally brushing. As they walked, Babe tried not to stare at the guy, but kept stealing glances out the corner of his eye. Pale skin, jet-black hair, good posture, strong jaw. Motherfuck, he was gorgeous. Babe cleared his throat. “Ya know, I, uh, I really appreciate this. Ya must be a saint or somethin’, really goin’ outta your way here to do some good, huh?”
The guy—Doc?—snorted, thin lips quirking in a slight smirk. “Maybe I’m up to no good, gonna lock ya in my basement.”
The shorter man’s words startled a laugh from Babe. Eyes crinkling with mirth, the redhead asked, “Yeah? You gonna lock me up, Doc?”
“Nah.” He shrugged, coming to a stop outside a laundry mat beside the entrance to which stood a blue door encased in brick. “Don’t got a basement. —this is it.”
Inside, they headed up a flight of stairs to a first-floor apartment above the laundry mat. Babe was surprised at the decent size of the place, and even more surprised to see a woman sitting at the kitchen table, a semi-circle of books and paperwork surrounding her like a fortress. “You are late,” she murmured in an accented voice that Babe recognized as European but couldn’t quite place. Her eyes widened as she glanced up and noticed Babe. “Oh, and who is this? Est-ce que tu prends enfin mon conseil?”
Doc rolled his eyes. “Non. Je n’est pas. Renee, this is…” His brow furrowed as he turned to Babe, a tiny frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. “I actually don’t know your name.”
The woman—Renee—snorted at that, looking a little too pleased as she twiddled a highlighter. Grinning at her, ‘cause Babe could already tell he was gonna like her coy sense of humor, he extended a hand to the lovely woman across the mountain of textbooks before her. “I’m Babe. Pleased to meet ya.”
“Bonne nuit. I am Renee. Welcome.” Her attention shifted to her roommate? boyfriend? soulmate?, and she murmured, “There is coffee on, but it is not that chicory mess you love so.”
Doc turned to him, then, offering a cup of coffee, which Babe graciously accepted. The beguiling, dark-haired man also gave him a quick rundown of the apartment—his kind host showed Babe where the bathroom was with the accompanying offer to take a shower, if he pleased; he loaded Babe’s arms with extra blankets and pillows for the couch, which looked nice and comfy; and he graciously imparted the ever-coveted wifi password and an extra iPhone charger, in case Babe needed them.
“Gah, you’re a better host than my ma, Jesus.”
“Mon ami is from your south. Hospitality is in his nature,” called Renee from her station at the kitchen table, smirking behind a book. “Watch, he will make your breakfast, le matin. Bonne, you will see.”
Plugging in his phone behind the couch, Babe checked to see if Bill had texted. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t. He doubted Bill would even see that he’d call until tomorrow, and the chances that his best friend would actually bother to listen to Babe’s voicemail were slim-to-none. Babe snorted. Asshole. Whatever, Babe guessed it didn’t matter. He had a place to sleep for the night and would catch the train tomorrow morning. Assuming that Babe made it through the night without incident—these people seemed great and all, but ya never know—, he figured he could forgive Bill for abandoning him in the city during his hour of need.
Maybe.
Babe made it through the night.
He’d slept somewhat fitfully for the first hour or so, tiptoeing to the bathroom sometime between four and five, before he returned to the couch and finally knocked out. He’d slept soundly until noon after that.
“Can’t believe I slept so late,” he murmured sheepishly, hand cupping the back of his neck. He stood in the kitchen with Doc, who was nursing a cup of the strongest smelling coffee Babe had ever sniffed in his life. The raven-haired man had a sleepy look about him, his face scrunched all cute and shit as he shrugged and replied, “We ain’t been up long. Hazards of the night shift.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Mhmm. I work in neonatal.” When Babe merely blinked, Doc clarified with a small smile. “I work with newborns. Ya know, babies.”
Babe nodded, omitting a noncommittal noise, and chewed his lip. “No offense, but uh, aren’t you a little…ya know, young to be a doctor already?”
The guy didn’t look offended in the least. “I just graduated med school last spring. I’m only in the first year of my pediatric residency.”
“I don’t know what that means, but cool. Good for you, man.”
Doc accepted the praise with a demur murmur. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I work for my buddy’s engineering firm. We’re mostly under contract for the city of Philly doing structural and municipal work. I handle all the accounts and stuff, sorta like a glorified accountant.”
His attractive host offered Babe a cup of coffee, though this one came from the standard pot on the counter and not the fancy press that Renee said was for Doc’s ‘special Cajun coffee’. Babe took a sip, not bothering to savor the flavor, testing the heat of it, and asked for sugar. Doc watched the redhead toss three spoonfuls of sugar into his mug with a frown. “Don’t know how people take sugar in their coffee.”
“Because not everyone has the palate of a sixty-five-year-old man, vieillard.”
Renee appeared in the kitchen looking fresher than either Babe or Doc, her hair perfectly coiffed in a high ponytail, her clothes pressed. She greeted them both with a pair of kisses to each cheek and squeezed Babe’s arm. “How did you sleep, notre nouvel ami?”
“Fine, thanks,” Babe grinned at her. He glanced at the Doc. “Seriously, thank you both. You saved my ass lettin’ me crash her last night.”
“It was no problem,” Doc replied with a sweet little smile that made Babe’s stomach clench in a delightful kind of way. Renee purred an equally kind sentiment before she tilted her head at the bare stove top and swatted Doc’s arm. “Why have you not started breakfast? Notre invité a faim! Oh. Tu es terrible.” She turned to Babe with an exaggerated frown. “Please forgive my friend, Babe. He has forgotten his good manners.”
Babe chuckled as Doc raised his hands in defense, muttering something about still being half-asleep, but the shorter man began to dig into several drawers and cabinets, assembling various materials, nonetheless. Babe insisted that they didn’t need to make any fuss. If anything, he should take them to breakfast to repay their hospitality. But at this, Renee merely waved a dismissive hand and ordered him to have a seat. Not wanting to get sassed en francais—it had only taken Babe like, two hours last night to realize that it was French she kept lapsing into every other phrase—, Babe did as instructed and pulled out a chair at the modest kitchen table.
Renee flitted around the apartment as Doc cooked something called hoecakes and bacon, probably going about her daily routine, and so Babe amused himself by interrogating the chef. He would ask the young doctor an innocuous question (favorite sport, Star Wars or Star Trek, etc.), which the guy would then turn back on Babe. This went on for nearly an hour as Doc cooked, the conversation constantly flowing with a natural sort of ease. Doc, Babe realized, was quick-witted and had an excellent fuckin’ sense of humor. It was subtle but clever, and had startled more than one loud, barking laugh out of Babe that morning.
When plates towering with food were stacked on the table alongside a pitcher of orange juice and a fresh pot of coffee, Renee joined them to eat. She slipped easily into the good-humored rapport that Doc and Babe had built up, all coy smiles and gentle teasing. They ate slowly, chatting all the while, and enjoyed another round of coffee after they’d finished off the last of the hoecakes and syrup. Just as Doc finished his mug, he noticed the time and winced. “I gotta jump in the shower or m’gone be late.”
Babe offered to wash the dishes after Doc retreated to the back of the apartment. As he stationed himself at the sink, tackling the pans first, Renee collected the dirty dishes from the table and brought them to him. Ten minutes into their little teamwork routine, the young woman went to pass him the stacked plates when she gasped, “Mon Dieu,” and reached for him, stopping only just before her slender fingers grazed the pale skin of his wrist. “Pardon moi. May I?”
Babe felt himself stiffen. She didn’t seem the type to be homophobic, especially about soulmates, but Babe couldn’t relax, even as he found himself nodding. Her fingers were cool on his wrist as she turned the words skyward, a single finger tracing the name. Eugene Roe. Slowly, her look of wonder turned to positive delight. Babe snorted. “What, you know the guy?”
Dazzling eyes flickered up to his own. “What is your name? Your full name.”
Babe frowned. His hands still wet from the soap and suds in the sink, Babe sighed and shifted his weight. “Heffron. My name’s Edward Heffron.”
The grasp on his wrist tightened as Renee suddenly clutched him with both hands, a blinding smile splitting her face. “What?” he asked, confused and anxious. With a hollow laugh, he murmured, “Don’t tell me your name is really Eugene Roe?”
“Non—” she began, but a freshly showered Doc walked into the room, donned in a pair of deep purple scrubs, and her words trailed off. She looked at Babe with great urgency in her eyes. She tugged his wrist, pulling him away from the sink. “Plait. Please.”
As if in a trance, Babe allowed himself to be dragged over to Doc, numbly. The shorter man, though he was preoccupied with shoving a stack of papers from the coffee table into a shoulder bag, seemed to since the impending collision. Brow furrowed, he parted his lips to speak. “Y’all alright?” Only, before Babe could respond, Renee had snatched up Doc’s arm, as well, and thrust the men’s limbs together.
Side by side, two pale wrists adorned with black ink hovered mercilessly.
Babe, his arm dripping with soapy water, was the first one to speak. “Holy shit.” He glanced up, tearing his gaze away from the name—his fucking name!—on the man’s wrist. “Holy shit. A-are you—are you Eugene?”
The other man had not raised his eyes from Babe’s wrist. Blinking slowly, he mumbled, “My friend’s call me Gene…You’re…You said ya name was Babe…”
Renee, having the good sense to leave the soulmates—soulmates! holy shit!—alone, disappeared into her bedroom to afford the men some privacy as Babe rotated his arm to wrap his fingers around Doc’s—Gene’s—arm and force the dark-haired man to look at him. “My name is Babe. S’what I prefer, anyway. Nobody fuckin’ calls me Edward. But…”
He couldn’t believe it. He’d found him! His soulmate! Babe had just spent the night at his soulmate’s apartment and hadn’t even known it. And there he was—this beautiful, soft, kind, smart doctor with killer eyes and a killer accent and, Babe suspected, a tightly wound, lithe body beneath his loose-fitting scrubs.
The redhead felt the dopey smile split his face. “Eugene Roe,” he mumbled wistfully, a mixture of disbelief and delight.
The shorter man blinked at him. “I—”
They were interrupted by a sudden, powerful knock on the front door. “Aye! Heffron, you in there?!”
Babe’s head whipped around so fast he heard it pop. What the fuck was Bill Guarnere doing in New York City? At his goddamn soulmate’s apartment, of all places.
Like a fish, Babe’s mouth couldn’t decide whether it wanted to open or close. The redhead was frozen, stuck between the grand fucking revelation that Doc was his soulmate and the absolutely random and sudden appearance of his best friend. Doc seemed to be just as flustered as Babe because he didn’t move either, and in the end, it was Renee that opened the door, letting Bill—who was apparently accompanied by every single one of their fucking friends—and the gang spill into the apartment, loud and rowdy and every bit the stereotype of a bunch of South Philly boys with too much time on their hands.
"What the fuck are you doing here?” Babe demanded, head spinning.
Bill looked affronted. “Got your message. Came to rescue your sorry ass.”
“So you drove to New York? Christ, Bill, I sent that message last night.”
“Yeah, and you haven’t been answering your phone since,” Ralph Spina accused, all but pointing a finger at Babe, while Joe Toye looked less than pleased, glowering over Spina’s shoulder beside George Luz, who just seemed amused, glancing around the apartment and at Babe’s new friends.
Babe winced. He hadn’t checked his phone since he’d gone to bed, so distracted was he by his dark-haired host and coffee and bacon. “Wait a minute. How the fuck did you find me?”
“Your Snapchat location.” Luz smirked.
“Of course.”
“Merde,” Renee muttered. “Babe, these are you friends, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry!” The redhead made a quick round of introductions, only naming Doc as such, completely skipping the soulmate thing because again, holy fuckin’ shit. And added, “Sorry, that they just showed up. Apparently—” He glared at Bill. “—they were concerned.”
“Hey,” Bill grumbled. “We was just lookin’ out for our boy.”
“Yeah, for all we knew you’d been murdered or something,” chimed Spina, as George elaborated, “Or made into a skin suit. Redheads are a hot commodity, Babe.”
“Oh, Jesus. Guys, stahp.”
“But, uh,” Bill tossed a flirty wink at Renee. “Thanks for takin’ care of him for us, aye?”
Renee’s face steeled over, and she replied, curtly. “It is not me you should be thanking.”
At that, several pairs of eyes flickered to Doc, who’s jaw was clenched, his face white as a sheet. He didn’t look at Babe as he checked his watch. “I gotta go to work. Got a patient that’s in post-op, cain’t be late.” The short man tugged his shoulder bag over his head and made for the door, but Babe caught him by the arm. “Wait a minute, you’re just gonna leave? Don’t we gotta…I mean, we need to talk.”
When the doctor’s eyes finally met Babe’s, they were dark and guarded. “Not right now. Later, I guess.”
“You guess?” Babe snorted.
Doc didn’t bother to reply. He tugged his arm free and skirted out the door without so much as a backwards glance—and Babe’s heart fell into the bottom of his stomach. What the fuck. For a moment, Babe couldn’t breathe. His greatest fear was seemingly coming true—Babe had never worried about the world rejecting him, but his soulmate rejecting him? Babe didn’t think he’d survive.
Ignoring his friends’ curious and confused expressions, Babe approached Renee. “What the hell was that?”
The lovely woman gazed at Babe sympathetically, her eyes soft and understanding. “Je suis désolé, Babe. Eugene is…he hasn’t…je ne sais pas comment dire. I’m sorry.”
“What? What the fuck did she just say?” asked Bill, tone brusque but not unkind for those who knew him. Renee ignored the Italian’s outburst and told Babe, simply, “He needs time. To…process? Yes?”
"Yeah,” Babe shrugged, feeling suddenly very helpless. “I get that, I guess. I just…I dunno, I guess I always pictured that being…a happier moment.”
“That what?” Luz piped up, thumbing idly through some magazines on the kitchen counter. He glanced at Babe. “What’s goin’ on, Heffron? Did you accidentally sell yourself into a sex ring, or something?”
Babe rolled his eyes, irritation itching his skin. “Sorry my friends are such assholes,” he told Renee. Glowering at the boys, he snapped, “That guy’s my soulmate,” and gestured the door through which Doc had stormed out.
Silence reigned among them. Then, “Oh, fuck.”
At the hospital, Gene went through the motions. He made his rounds and checked on his patients, filed the necessary paperwork, arranged a few upcoming surgeries, and consulted with an oncologist for Stacie Haller, a nine-year-old who Gene suspected might have neuroblastoma—but as he carried out his duties, Gene was numb.
He was in shock.
He’d met his soulmate. His soulmate. The person who was supposed to be made perfectly just for Gene—and the reason Gene had spent his entire childhood as the subject of torment, ridicule, humiliation, and the occasional act of violence.
Gene had not handled the news well. He’d run like a coward, and he knew it. But even the word soulmate made Gene’s skin crawl. It wasn’t fair to the redheaded man, but Gene’s whole life, he had felt exposed and vulnerable because of the name of his wrist. Edward Heffron. Babe.
And when his guest’s friends had shown up—all big and loud and raucous, bursting into his and Renee’s apartment like they owned the place—, they had so much unruly, masculine energy that Gene took one look at them and saw a bunch of alpha males who were noisy and crass and seemed, upon first glance, not unlike Gene’s childhood bullies.
Had they even known that their friend’s soulmate was another man?
When, towards the end of his shift, Renee had shown up at the hospital with a thermos full of chicory coffee from his hidden stash, Gene nearly collapsed into his best friend’s arms with gratitude. “Je t’aime,” he told her, cradling the warm cup to his chest and inhaling deeply. The familiar scent calmed him a touch.
“Eugene…tu dois lui parler.” Her tone was loving, but firm, and Gene squirmed under its finality. “I know, I know I need to talk to him, but…Christ, Renee, you know I…”
“Oui, I do know, mon ami…but you hurt him earlier.”
Guilt tugged at Gene’s stomach. “What…what happened after I left?”
“His friends tried to take him home, but he refused. He will not leave until he speaks with you.” Renee paused, a brief moment of uncertainty passing across the smooth planes of her face. “He is here. I brought him with me and left him downstairs in the cafeteria.”
A wave of nausea rolled over Gene, and he unconsciously took a step back. “I can’t—m’workin’.”
Renee pleaded at him with her eyes, reaching to take his hands in her own. “Do not do this, Eugene. S'il vous plait. He needs you, and you need him, whether you wish to believe this to be true or not. Il est ton destin.”
He is your destiny.
Gene swallowed, lost for a retort, his emotions oscillating wildly between remorse, fear, and, perhaps, a touch of longing. Gene was terrified, but deep deep deep within, his heart yearned to reach out to his soulmate. To talk, to touch, to understand.
But he was so goddamn afraid.
“Dr. Roe?” Nurse Davenport appeared at his side. “You’re needed in room C3.”
Gene nodded, “Of course,” and excused himself with a regretful frown. He left, but not quick enough to miss Renee’s murmur of, ‘we’ll be waiting.’
“You must understand,” Renee sighed. “He had a very hard time as un enfant.”
This was all Renee would tell him. When Babe pressed for further information, the woman shook her head resolutely, assuring him that it would be better for him to hear it from Gene himself. “It is not my place.”
Bill and the others had left to return to Philly hours ago, though both Bill and Spina hadn’t wanted to leave Babe in his current state. Toye and Luz had strong armed them both into leaving while Renee promised his friends that she would make sure Babe was taken care of. That’s how he and Renee ended up at the hospital several hours later, waiting for his soulmate to finish his shift. Babe was all jitters—tons of nervous energy and no outlet.
“What will I do if he doesn’t…?” Babe half-whispered, not really expecting Renee to answer.
He’d heard stories of soulmates denying one another. Of soulmates who were married to other partners when they’d met and decided to stick with their original spouse. There were whole fields of studies—though they weren’t necessarily scientifically backed—of folks who refuted the validity of soulmates altogether. Not to mention that Babe’s entire childhood was lived out to the tune of his mother’s stories about her wonderful soulbond with his father—set against the backdrop of her grief at the loss of her soulmate when he’d died. Babe knew how powerful the bond could be, and he’d waited his whole life for what he thought would be the easy and joyous union with his soulmate. If Gene didn’t…God, what would he do?
One slice of bad hospital cafeteria carrot cake and two coffees later, it was finally time for Babe to find out.
His soulmate approached Babe’s and Renee’s cafeteria table like a warrior. Back straight, chest up, shoulders tensed, and worst of all, the shorter man’s face and eyes were like stone—a solid mask firmly in place. Gene spared Renee a glance before she quickly excused herself, reaching across the table to briefly squeeze Babe’s hand. A sign of solidarity? Of comfort? As she retreated, Gene didn’t sit, but lingered upright, one hand clutching his shoulder bag.
“M’sorry I left earlier the way I did,” he began, voice even and flat. As he continued, the doctor spoke like he had prepared a well-rehearsed speech. The robotic delivery was almost as disturbing as the words themselves. “I was…surprised. Guess I was in a state of shock. I wasn’t then—and m’not now—prepared ta have this conversation.”
Babe all but shouted, a touch of panic to his voice, “Whatta ya mean you’re not ready now? Hey, man, we gotta talk about this.”
Gene flinched, his stoic demeanor cracking just so. “I just came off a difficult shift. I—”
“No,” growled the redhead as he rose to his feet, his height allowing him to tower slightly over the shorter man. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to lie to my goddamn face. If ya don’t wanna be my soulmate or whatever, just fuckin’ tell me. But don’t string me along and shit, alright?”
In hindsight, Babe would realize that his insecurities about being rejected by his soulmate had made him snap a little too harshly and a little too quickly. But waiting in the hospital cafeteria for hours on end, the redhead had been given plenty of time to panic and worry about—what had then seemed like his—inevitable abandonment. Why else would Gene refuse to speak to him the moment they had recognized one another’s names on their respective wrists? Why else would Renee deliver such cryptic responses when probed with questions about her friend’s mysterious behavior? Why else, if not that Gene did not believe in or want to be with his soulmate?
For Gene, the moment that Babe drew to his full height—several inches taller than Gene himself—, the Cajun suddenly found himself back in Bayou Chene, ten years old and terrified. The redhead before him was no longer his soulmate, but rather a gaggle of his former tormentors, brute and mean. faggotqueergoddamnfairy. A flurry of ancient insults swirled in Gene’s mind, and he took a step back on instinct, hands clenching at the strap of his bad. His mouth, he discovered, was abruptly dry. He fought hard to swallow, but couldn’t. “I—y-you—”
Wide-eyed and fearful, Gene shook his head fiercely as he tried to center himself. He was an adult, goddamn it. He could do this. Clearing his throat, he found Babe’s dark eyes (narrowed in confusion) and declared, “I cain’t do this,” before the doctor turned on his heel and barreled off toward the parking garage.
“Hey! Wait!”
He really shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was that the redhead was following him. The man had waited in a foreign city all day, refusing to go home with his friends, just to talk to him.
“What the hell was that?” Babe demanded, hovering over Gene’s shoulder as the Cajun ambled over to the bicycle rack and began to fiddle with the lock on his bike. “Jesus Christ, ya looked scared! Like I was gonna hit ya or somethin’. Even if ya weren’t my soulmate, man, I’m not exactly the fuckin’ violent, type, alright? So whatever you gotta say, just say it. I’m not gonna fuckin’ touch ya.”
Gene’s fingers went still on the lock. He hesitated only a fraction of a moment at the desperate sound of Babe’s voice—his soulmate’s voice—, but it was long enough to recall an echo of Renee inside his head: you hurt him, he needs you. Guilt bubbled at the back of his throat. Slowly, so slowly, Gene felt his resolve shake and tremble; he knew it would crumble altogether, soon. “M’sorry,” he whispered, gaze firmly set on the handlebars of his bicycle. “I just…”
“Do ya not…” Babe’s words were quiet, his tone laced with fear. He sounded like a child. “Do ya not believe in soulmates?”
The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know…I always tried not ta think ‘bout it.”
“Why not? Why wouldn’t ya want a soulmate? Somebody made to love ya, just you?” Babe asked, incredulous. His eyes were blown wide with amazement, and he admitted in earnest, “Its all I’ve ever wanted. How could ya not think about it?”
And so, standing in the parking garage of the hospital, Gene attempted to explain, in as few words and as quickly as possible, the reality of his childhood spent in the backwoods of the Deep South with a homosexual soulmark on his skin. As he spoke, the Cajun catalogued the various emotions that flickered across the redhead’s face—confusion, anger, and eventually, understanding mixed with sorrow.
"I—” Babe reached for Gene, only to draw his hands back, frustrated. “I know I said I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t if ya don’t want me to, but…” He made a motion to take Gene’s hands in his own, and despite the turmoil and fear coiling in the Cajun’s stomach, the doctor nodded and allowed his soulmate to capture his hands in a gentle grasp. Though he was comfortable by no means, Gene had to admit that the sincerity and the unadulterated care radiating off of Babe was somewhat reassuring, if not downright calming. “Gene, I…”
Babe—the boy who spoke a million words when two would do—couldn’t figure out the right damn thing to say. He struggled to find the words, pleading instead with his hands and his eyes and his heart, which he was fully prepared to lay bare in the slightest hope that his soulmate would just give him a chance.
“Gene, it’s not like…I would neva…I am so, so goddamn sorry ya had to go through that. Nobody should eva…they shouldn’t have—fuck.” His eyes clenched shut as Babe took a steadying breath. When he opened his eyes again, they were wet with unshed tears. “Gene, please. I can’t even begin ta image what ya went through, what ya feeling now, or what ya felt then. But I am beggin’ ya to please just try. I like you, okay? Even before the marks! I thought ya were cute and nice and kind and generous. Hell, ya let a stranger sleep on your couch. Plus, you’re wicked smart—a goddamn doctor. So, let’s just…I dunno. Can we just get t’know each other as, ya know, as people and not—” his breath caught. “—not soulmates? ‘Cause, I swear to God, Gene, the idea of leaving you—just the damn thought of it—hurts. It physically hurts, Gene.”
And because it was Babe—not Gene’s soulmate, not Gene’s destiny—just Babe, some nice redheaded guy with an endearing grin that he’d let crash on his couch last night, asked him to try, Gene did.
In the beginning, Gene was hesitant and unsure and continued to act not unlike a skittish animal. He hated it. Hated being reduced to a scared kid again. The Cajun couldn’t for the life of him understand why Babe still wanted to be with Gene when he acted like the shell of a human being half the time, but Babe was endlessly patient with him. It wasn’t a problem for the redhead. They would take things slow, move at a glacial pace even, if that meant that there was hope for a future with his soulmate. Hell, Babe was just so goddamn happy that Gene was willing to speak to and see him.
For those first few months of not-quite-dating but only sorta-kinda-friendship, Babe and Gene would swap weekends in Philly and New York. They’d catch an outdoor cinema screening of Terminator in Dumbo Park one Saturday in Brooklyn; then two weeks later, Babe would drag Gene to a Phillies game at the ballpark not ten minutes from his childhood home on Front St. It didn’t take Gene long to accept that Babe was the kindest and least threatening human on the planet. The guy was like a literal puppy dog, all wide, open smiles, always eager to help if he could. He embodied loyalty—like his rowdy friends—and was effortlessly friendly and easygoing. As the weeks and months drew on, Gene found that it was difficult to not be comfortable around Babe, even if all ‘soulmate’ talk was still off the table, and the young doctor eventually began to return to life, slipping back into casual smiles and his more even-tempered manner, all cool looks and subtle humor with a dash of Southern charm.
It was like it had been that first day before the marks—easy, fun, normal. Anyway, they fell into a relaxed friendship.
Then, gradually, sneakily, Babe began to test the boundaries of their casual relationship. He would drop the occasional term of endearment into conversation or would surprise Gene at work with a fruit basket delivery—cute, personalized note and all. The Cajun took it all in with surprising grace. Though traces of his conditioned fear lingered, only a blind man could miss the fact that Babe was, in fact, perfect for Gene. They were a seamlessly balanced pair. Moreover, the unconditional acceptance of their bonding from Babe’s friends—even the butch professional boxer Joe, whom Gene found more than a little intimidating, and Luz, the loudmouth who made a living making of fun of anything and anyone that moved—went a long way to ease Gene’s worries about life as outed homosexual soulmates. Little by little, Gene was beginning to understand that the horrible treatment he received as a child was not a reflection on the wider world’s reception of soulmates. His upbringing was the exception, it seemed, not the rule.
When Babe kissed Gene for the first time—a careful, gentle brush of lips that Babe genuinely couldn’t help but do, what with the way that Gene was grinning at him and all—, the words on their wrists burned like a cool fire, and finally finally finally, Gene got it.
“I’m an idiot,” he breathed against Babe’s mouth, hands desperately grasping for purchase on his soulmate’s body. “M’sorry, m’so goddamn sorry…” He repeated apologies like a mantra, sparks still flying behind his eyes, an electric buzz still tickling his skin. Babe was his soulmate, and Gene felt it inside every inch of his being. Babe was there, tucked away into the corners of his heart, warmly placed at the edges of Gene’s fingertips and the tops of his ears, whispered at the hairs on the nape of Gene’s neck and nested behind his knees and in the crooks of his elbows. He saw it all in an instant, every kind word Babe had spoken, every selfless deed the redhead had doled out over the last year.
Babe and Gene were made for each other, and Gene had hurt them both by prolonging their union. But the bond was still there, patient and waiting, and Gene could sing for the joy on Babe’s face as the redhead watched his lover finally understand. “Been tryin’ ta tell ya, Gene,” he mumbled with a soft grin. Babe caught the doctor’s arm with one hand and swiped his thumb across his own name on Gene’s wrist, whispering, “Eugene Roe,” as love ballooned in his chest at the sheer happiness in his soulmate’s dark gaze.
“Edward Heffron,” Gene echoed in kind with a soft smile, eyes flickering over the mark on Babe’s skin, and Babe released a breathy laugh, a laugh of relief, of surprise, of gladness.
“C’mon, man, we’ve been over this. Please.”
The corners of Gene’s lips twitched, and for the first time since Babe had met his soulmate, Gene looked at Babe like a man happily, unreservedly in love. The doctor pressed his lips gently to his soulmate’s, then, “Babe.”
The ceremony was small. Gene didn’t have a lot of close friends, and not all of Babe’s family could afford the flight to Louisiana. “We should’a had it in Philly,” Gene stated for the millionth time, only for Babe to catch the shorter man’s hand in his own, fingers lacing together, and reply, “Nah. Here’s bettah. I want ya to have some nice soulmate associations with your hometown.”
Bill was there, of course, and Renee, obviously. Babe’s mother had made the flight down with him, and now she sat on the front porch of the Roe family home with Gene’s parents—both positively beaming, all teary-eyed, thrilled to pieces that their little boy had finally embraced the name on his wrist and the redheaded man who came attached to it. Standing in the yard underneath the sunshine with a city official from the neighboring parish to officiate the service, Gene and Babe publicly acknowledged and accepted their soulbond.
Drinks were had, hugs and kisses shared, congratulations given. Neither man thought they could be happier, and Babe wondered if the writing on his wrist was actually singing—as if the very mark itself had come to life—or if he was simply imagining the sensation.
That evening, finally alone, in the bedroom of the suite they’d rented in New Orleans for a brief honeymoon-esque weekend before they returned north, the soulmates drew to one another.
"It could’a been like this from the beginnin’,” murmured Gene, fingers ghosting over Babe’s cheek, trailing down to the redhead’s lips. “M’so sorry, Babe. I should’a trusted you.”
Babe placed a hand on the shorter man’s lower back, drawing him close so that he could drop kisses onto Gene’s forehead, the tops of his closed eyelids. “Ya did trust me, Genie. That’s how we got here. Ya got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
Gene pressed his face into the curve of Babe’s shoulder where it met his slender, pale neck. The Cajun nosed his soulmate’s collarbone, lips placing tiny kisses across the bare skin. “We missed out on a whole year.”
Babe’s grip on Gene tightened. He curled his fingers beneath Gene’s chin and tugged until the Cajun met his gaze. Cradling his lover’s face in his hand, Babe’s heart swelled with love and gratitude. “And now we got a whole goddamn lifetime ta make up for it.” The genuine, loving smile on Babe’s face slid slowly into a more lecherous, teasing grin. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “So, how about we start right now?”
And this time, when Gene kissed Babe, it was not soft or sweet or gentle. It was a kiss of possession, of claiming, of desire and passion and longing, a kiss of making up for lost time. They fell into one another, all hands and teeth, bruising and biting, a fury of lust and lovemaking, with “I love you” moaned harshly against skin and growled through gritted teeth—and all the while, the names on their wrists burned with pleasure.
Edward Heffron. Eugene Roe. Soulmates—and that was that.