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The first time Carwood hears him, it's D-Day and the plane he's in groans like an archaic metal beast, flying through a forest of fire and destruction. They are waiting for the signal now, for that hypnotic green light, and he splits into Carwood's mind over the sound of explosions.
determined
He heard it's rare to find the connection through such an intricate emotion, and in a situation like this, where the most complex feeling an average person can grasp is deadly fear, he knows it immediately that his soulmate must be very special. The word comes in tinted by swirling purples and reds, and for a split second, Carwood is fearless and smiling. Then, he jumps.
Scientists call them fluences, these charged energy bursts that transfer between individuals who have highly compatible and receptive brains. Carwood read an article about them once, when he was eighteen and desperate to explain it to himself why he had not found the other half of his soul in Huntington. The electrical signal, if strong enough, pushes certain neurons into activation and causes a mix of sensations, a bit of synesthesia that always mirrors the emotions of the sender. In essence, a transfer of feelings. It’s only biology, but centuries of history circled through a myriad of interpretations and arrived at soulmates. People who are destined to be together, blessed by God. Carwood can’t believe he got lucky enough to find his match.
He catches his fluences intermittently throughout that entire fateful day. Winters gives them a briefing above a makeshift map and Carwood almost gasps from the strength of excited when it hits him, leaving the taste of mint on his tongue. He wants to look up and search for him in the crowd, overwhelmed by the relief of knowing he made it, but Winters is leaving and there’s no time. The Germans are hammering Utah and duty calls.
They lose each other for a while before Carentan. Carwood can sense the vague turmoil beyond his mind that isn’t quite close enough to register as a feeling, and it helps him stay calm, knowing it’s just the distance that pulls them apart. It’s only when he’s at the aid station that the white-cold worried, worried, frustrated barrels through his throbbing head. He must have shut things off after the damn shrapnel hit, he guesses, and he curses his bad luck for having to learn navigating a connection in a freakin’ war. He owes the poor guy on the other end an apology. No matter how tired he is, he concentrates on relaxing and, although he didn’t have a chance to ask Nixon for tips yet, he tries sending sorry.
Placated, comes back, and it smells like chocolate. Carwood grins at his hands and curls them around nothing. Is it possible to transfer touch?
Nixon, predictably, is both very helpful and incredibly not. “Yeah, well, I knew who it was immediately. There’s no way anyone else was interested in the boring crap they were teaching us that day.” He hums in thought. “And Dick says he had no trouble picking me out from the crowd. I can’t hide my feelings well.”
“I don’t think he’s in Easy.” Carwood replies forlornly. “He goes all muddled sometimes.”
“Don’t be so certain.” Nixon shakes his head and looks at Winters in the distance, who stiffens for a second, then rolls his eyes at the roadside, not gracing them with a glance. It seems to satisfy Nixon nonetheless. “He could be blocking it, or the connection might not be stable yet. It gets better with time.”
It truly does. He was always looking forward to this feeling, it was a part of why he enlisted, because he wanted to get away from home and find it - and now that he did, he relishes every second. Even though Holland is a fatal trainwreck of fiascos, each time he gets to connect with him, he tries harder and masters it more, until one day, he rubs the side of his neck and his soulmate erupts in a burst of happy colors in his head.
“What?” Carwood whispers into the night in confusion. He scratches his neck this time, going for a bit rougher touch, and he gets a baffling hurt-happy-irritated response in bright orange. Then just plain happy in waves, and he guesses this is what Nixon described as second-hand laughter. Carwood’s lips stretch into a wide smile. “Are you ticklish?”
“Who? Me?” Luz mumbles from his nook beside him, squirming once and rolling his shoulder to his neck. “A little bit. Never touch my neck, Lip.”
Carwood’s heart skips a beat. “You are?”
Luz grunts, half-asleep. “Don’t be so surprised.”
“How do you know I’m surprised?”
At that, Luz opens his eyes and gives him a once-over. “You sounded like you were. Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Carwood clears his throat. His connection is silent. “I think so.” He bites his lip, unsure now, but goes for it anyway. “Luz, do you know your soulmate?”
“Not yet. He never answers.” He says with a small sigh. “You?”
Carwood’s disappointment is too bitter to measure. “Me neither.”
Embarrassed, comes through the line a minute later, regretful, and Carwood wants to smack himself for letting his thoughts go while he was still so open to their connection. He wants to shout that he’s not disappointed in his soulmate, how could he be, ticklishness is endearing, not shameful, but there’s no way to convey thoughts or concepts as complicated as that. His heartfelt sorry has to suffice.
There's no official list, but he keeps track of the bonded pairs in Easy as much as he can and tries to make sure they're okay when they get surrounded in Bastogne. Muck and Malarkey are like peas in a pod, but none of the others take this winter’s slow torture well. Liebgott is alone and he’s resentful that Webster has not gone AWOL from the hospital yet, and Toye refuses to acknowledge that Luz is throwing everything he has at him for a scrap of attention. The only reason they even found out that he was on the other end of that connection is because Luz annoyed him until he snapped. But they aren’t the ones Carwood is worried about. It’s Heffron and Doc.
"Lip? Can I talk to you for a second?" Heffron comes up to him one afternoon at “chow-time”, as they started calling it last week. The half-solid mass caked into their bowls does not qualify as lunch.
"Of course. What's wrong, boy?" Carwood asks between two spoonfuls he manages to force down his own throat. Sometimes starving seems like the better alternative.
Heffron heaves a loaded sigh. "It's Gene."
"Doc?"
Heffron nods, and they glance back towards the men in unison. Roe's crouching with his back against a tree, apart from the others, staring at the ground with his eyes glazed over. He looks like the living dead, pale and lifeless as his hand moves his spoon with sluggish, repetitive movements.
"I can - You know, he and I -"
"I know. Go on." Carwood encourages warily. He wishes he had the guts to ask Nixon how he does it with Winters. They seem tighter than they’ve ever been.
"I can't sense anything." Heffron confesses at last, wringing his hands. His voice is low and almost hysteric. "He's right there, but I can't feel a damn thing."
"Has this happened before?"
"Only for a few hours at most, as normal."
Carwood considers that. He doubts anyone from the unit has experience in breaking mental blocks, but he remembers how Toye slapped Luz’s hand away before their fight and how both their faces contorted from the brief blast of feelings. "I think you should touch him."
“You think so?” Heffron rocks back and forth on his feet. “He’s not exactly affectionate. He refuses to even say my nickname. Do you think he just doesn’t feel at all?”
Carwood shakes his head. This, he’s sure of. “He feels too much, Babe. Tell him you can take it and touch his shoulder.”
He watches as Heffron follows his advice and kneels in the dirt beside Roe, talks to him and pulls his bowl away, then takes his hand. They both squeeze their eyes shut in pain until Roe scrambles back and stumbles away, into the fog hiding their foxholes. Heffron looks on, stricken. Carwood is tempted to swear.
“I said shoulder for a reason.” He mutters to no one and turns his thoughts to his own bond, desperate to confirm that it’s still thriving and alive. Worried, he sends, because he can’t muster any other emotion.
The answer doesn’t take more than a minute, and it makes Carwood suspect that his soulmate prepared a memory in advance in case he had to make it all better. Calm. Composed.
He has no idea who this person is, but he knows he's here, and he’s a good man who does not deserve to die in a foreign land’s snow.
They play sometimes, when the nights get long and the air slices into their skin like ice. Carwood recalls a funny memory and focuses on it until a little spark of joy batters into him from the other side. There's usually a pause then, as if his soulmate is thinking, and then a different emotion comes right through to bring light and color into their monochrome world. He knows some people only feel basic shades, sadness, anger, happiness, but to him, every pulse seems different, a kaleidoscope of feelings. Appreciation is peach-sweet in his mouth, thirst is grey like a rainy English morning, and disdain is heavy as mud. He likes sleepiness the most, because it’s soft and fuzzy, and often drags a hint of affection along that probably wasn’t intended to be revealed.
One night, his soulmate doesn't respond, no matter how hard Carwood thinks of his memories. It happened before, whenever they were too far away or too caught up in the heat of war, but there's nowhere to go from Bastogne except to the Lord himself and it makes him fear the worst. There was a shelling that day, and he's terrified that the silence means his desperate calls are for a heap of frozen, torn-up meat right now. His mind runs over the list of people the unit lost that day and he gets nauseous thinking they never got to have each other. He falls asleep crying that night, and the tears harden into ice on his face, in the corners of his eyes. His lashes stick to his skin from the dampness, and he thinks perhaps he won’t open them again.
He wakes up angry, livid at the world and confused by his own reaction until he realizes it's not actually his. The relief almost knocks him over, and he flushes from it, feels warm and steaming all over as he climbs out into the fresh snow that claws the chill back into his bones. His soulmate is disgruntled as all hell by the strange mix of sensations that interrupts his current rage fit, but he snaps out of it and turns mildly amused, then concerned. Probably risking a bruise on his own arm, he sends the sensation of a weak squeeze to Carwood’s shoulder.
"I'm fine." Carwood sighs and brushes the tracks of dirt off his face. "Don't worry, I'm fine."
He asks Winters about it that afternoon, but it's Nixon who answers. "When you let your responsibilities crush you, you can fall into a sleep so deep that the link shuts off. It might not come back for days."
"Lew, please." Winters tilts his head softly, shuddering.
Nixon grimaces, but his expression stays somber. "Sorry. I'll try to be happier for you."
"I told you it's never going to happen again."
Nixon looks past Carwood into the remains of this cursed forest. "You cannot know that."
It makes Carwood think his soulmate is an officer. He doesn't know if that should make him happy or not, but his mind races to skim the roster to narrow down the possibilities. For a split second, he fears it's Dike, then he remembers how clearly scared shitless the guy is at times while Carwood's soulmate has never been afraid before, and suddenly, it's hilarious. He keeps chuckling on the way back to his foxhole and imagines that his soulmate hiccups from it.
Confused. His soulmate pokes at their bond. Curious?
Carwood looks up at the sky and finds a single hole in the clouds, a glimpse into the sunny-blue heavens above. Funny. He replies. Relieved.
It’s one of those rare times when a pure, uncomplicated emotion is his answer.
Happy.
Most same-sex soulmate bonds don't turn romantic or sexual, in part because of society, so Carwood is taken aback when one evening, what crackles through the line is aroused. Surprised, he lets his mind reveal, thinking his soulmate will apologize now and that will be the end of it. But what he gets is an even stronger burst of arousal mixed with something he calls longing, for lack of a better word, and he knows this can only be deliberate.
"Really?" He mutters, smiling despite himself. He wonders if his soulmate is jerking off right now, broadcasting it through their link and trying to get him to partake. “No.”
Aroused. Hungry. Wanting.
“No.” Carwood chuckles, but then his thigh tingles with a barely-there phantom touch and his breath catches in his throat. It takes considerable force and focus to transfer even a hint of physical sensation - how can his soulmate be so demanding that he’s willing to chafe his leg raw just to get Carwood hard? It’s astonishing, really.
Impatient.
“Yes, yes. Your wish is my command, sir.” Carwood grumbles, tacking the sir on for his own amusement, even though he has no idea of his soulmate's rank. For all he knows, it could be Sink. He snorts at that thought. "God, please no."
He takes a furtive inspection of his foxhole’s surroundings, then leans back against the awful, frigid soil and unzips his trousers. He’s not even at half-mast and his boys are trying to shrink away from the bite in the air, but Carwood closes his eyes and rides the currents of pleasure his soulmate gives him. There’s sugar on his lips and daisies behind his eyelids, the smell of water in his nose and rays of sunshine pinking his cheeks. His soulmate projects fragments of a single memory, and he soaks it all up and lets his fantasy fill the rest. Lakeside summer picnic on a meadow, his first time, the sweet brushes of wetness as his partner kisses down his stomach and takes him between his lips, the whispers of thick grass in the breeze and the sweat in his hairline. Carwood’s mouth drops open and he strokes himself faster, with a hand that feels just cool enough to resemble a stranger’s. He’s in the middle of a meadow, unprotected and spread out in the open, but there’s nothing to fear, he’s enveloped in peace and fondness and rapture. The intensity blends all their emotions together and he doesn’t know which came from whom while the harsh reality slips away, but it doesn’t matter much when he’s peaking, coming for the first time since they entered this grave.
When it’s over and his sticky hand is washed with snow, he sags back into a slouch and makes an effort to project. Satisfied. Thankful. Exasperated.
The answer is tired-pale, but clear. Sorry, amused, sorry, triumphant.
"You ass." Carwood laughs quietly. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the bond wrap around him like a shield that melts snow and ice and banishes the ache from his limbs. As they come down from their imaginary meadow of joy, their emotions ebb and flow without settling on anything in particular. A little blissful afterglow. They deserved it, Carwood thinks, then his vision is flooded by a ribbon of dusty violet and blue. Lonely.
"Me too." Carwood whispers and caresses the cold, rigid wall of earth he's staring at.
When they lose Muck, Malarkey shatters and dies with him. Not physically, no, his body is still there, performing the basics because it’s written in the system to keep going, but his soul isn’t there. Nobody knows the right words to tell him. They can't begin to imagine the void of a severed connection, not even those who never had a link to begin with. Carwood gives him the Luger and sends him back from the line, thinking it might quell his own sadness somewhat, but he’s swimming in grief all day. Something has broken in all of them today and only time can provide the glue. Huddling in his foxhole, he watches the warm air from his lungs turn to steam in the bitter draft, and cries on the inside. “What if it had been you?”
His soulmate tries to comfort him through the bond, sending happy, relaxed and then proud, proud, proud, and it's crazy, almost makes Carwood laugh, but all he can answer with is love.
He's not surprised when the end of the battle for Foy pushes them into a ricocheting loop of joy, but the strength of the waves crushing between them knocks the breath out of him. He's close, that's the only thing he can suddenly think of. Close. He hides behind a building while everyone celebrates, and rubs, bites at his own lips until they sting and throb, to send a kiss. A ghost hand strokes his chest above his heart.
"I love you too." Carwood sniffs and hugs his stomach just a little, because he feels cracked open and so exhausted after crawling out of this icy pit of hell that he doesn't think he has any other emotion left to spare.
Then a choir of angels bless them in a church, and he realizes, of course. So familiar and so foreign, someone he sees to the bottom of his heart but still doesn’t know at all. In the rush of fighting, he didn’t notice, he thought the lurch in his guts was nothing but relief to have competent guidance again, but he should have recognized that bravery, and the grip of that hand on his shoulder, the exact span.
Speirs looks up as if hit by the lightning of Carwood's surprise and rises to his feet. He hands Carwood a report and almost fumbles with it, his fingers are shaking so hard. It isn't until he starts muttering about Tertius and the Carthaginians that Carwood notices Speirs is afraid. For the first time since D-Day, his soulmate is terrified.
Happy, Carwood projects, pushes with all his heart, because there’s nothing to fear now, not from this. His soulmate is the greatest thing that has ever happened to him and he knows he will not find this man lacking in any way. Stunned. Curious.
Speirs' breath wavers, and he glances away, turns to go. Fear. Shock. Fear.
Carwood calls after him to keep him talking just a bit longer, until that irrational panic settles. He calls him a good leader and doesn’t push the conversation, doesn’t demand acknowledgement, tries not to spook. There’s not one particle in him that cares about the rumors, he has seen the pearlescent insides and they did not belong to a monster. He looks this beautiful man in the eye and finally some of the excitement trickles back, tentatively at first, then spiced with a pride that makes Carwood shy.
He doesn’t quite know how to react to the praise Speirs shoves at him, but when his soulmate says "Congratulations, lieutenant" all he hears is love, love, love.
~End~