Chapter Text
"Dude, what the fuck?" you complain and rub your cheek. Somewhere, somehow, your soulmate is fighting. You have no other explanation for the aches and pains you're currently feeling. Soulmates are a hard concept to grasp, even with age. It's like love, explained to you in youth, but words don't do the experience justice.
You groan and settle yourself into doing your math homework. Another ache blooms on your left knuckles. So they're left-handed? Taking a sticky note, you scribble down the nugget of information. It comforts you to categorize what you gain about your soulmate. In a way, it helps you process the developments and existential discomfort. To have such a 'profound and unique' connection can be daunting. It's not like you've had to deal with the effects of having a soulmate regularly until now.
Sure, there are a few cases of soulmates meeting in elementary, but the pressure really starts in high school. Someone popular meets their soulmate (always in their clique) and lords it over the rest of the populace. It's far more common than meeting a soulmate in childhood. Half the time, you wonder if some of them are faking it.
For all the few aches (that you can remember,) your soulmate sure is getting hurt a lot. To say it isn't concerning would be a lie. Maybe they're going through a tough time? That train of thought leads to many dark thoughts that make you wince a little.
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After a week of aches and weird sensations that aren't yours, it stops. It feels like you hold your breath for hours before tentatively believing the torrent had stopped. A part of you feels concerned for the stranger you've yet to meet. Another part dreads the day, and the other dares to be hopeful on your good days.
Monday rolls around. As usual, you ignore everyone on your way to your first period. Boyfriends, girlfriends, and soulmates/'soulmates' embrace in the hallways, holding hands or chattering. It's a lot of noise you are glad to escape. Without bothering to look at anyone, you slip into your seat. The late bell rings, and you start to space out. You stare across the room, straight at the calculator cubby.
The teacher frowns and closes the classroom door. He walks to stand in the middle of the room, ready to collect homework and start lecturing for a century. "On Friday, I-" his grating voice is sharply cut off by a slamming door.
The first thing you see is a mop of hair, pitch black and ruffled. Bedhead. The hair shifts, showing a scowling face. You.. have no idea who this is. The stranger straightens up, now inside the classroom. He's tall. Whispers break out across the classroom, but you can't make sense of them. Your focus has been snatched by the stranger. A transfer, maybe? If you'd seen him around, you think you'd remember it. Everything about him screams, 'I hate everyone and my life,' from the way he walks down to the chains and straps dangling from his Tripp pants. You wonder if he's wearing platforms underneath or if he really is that tall.
The teacher says something, frowning and passing over a stack of papers to the stranger. Whatever is said is completely lost on you. The strange, clearly emo teen in front of you slings his bookbag down, falling into his desk seat as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Time slows down to a crawl. You watch avidly, staring forward at the new kid. He can't see you unless he turns sideways at his desk. Something feels off, but you ignore it. Anxiety, you tell yourself, it's not like you paid attention last Friday when the homework was assigned.
Emo kid huffs, blowing a thick strand of his bangs. It lands softly, crossing over forehead and cheek. He picks up the packet he'd been given, disregarding everything else with a blank look. You're glad this angle lets you see his face. There's something so riveting about his eyebags. Is it makeup or sleep deprivation? Both, probably, you decide. Idly, you rub a new ache on your finger. The stranger hisses in pain, jerking his hand up and bringing his finger to his mouth. A drop of blood hits the desk.
Numbly, you look down at your hand. Then, you look up at the emo kid.
"Class, this is Peter. He's new to the school, so be courteous. Now, let's pull out the homework from Friday."
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. The homework had looked like a foreign language each time you looked at it. None of your online searches proved helpful, and your myspace buddy is a grade lower than you. The hopeful part of you shrinks, and doubt flows into the spaces it left behind. There are many people in this school you don't want to find out about your soulmate. The number one person on that list flips his long hair over his shoulder and fiddles with his fingerless gloves. You narrowly avoid making eye contact when he turns his head by whipping your gaze down to your desk. Internal screaming sets the mood perfectly.
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Life hates you is what the past few days has taught you. Peter is in your third-period class and your lunch. In a stroke of genius, the teacher assigned you to 'show Peter the ropes' since you sat close to the front, and she laid eyes on you first. Oh, and she just had to assign a group project too. Peter decides checking his nails is more important than talking about the project. Well, it's not your first time dealing with this. Silently, you gather the materials for the poster you have to create. Now, all you have to do is avoid getting hurt when in proximity. Easy.
Famous last words: Easy. The scissors had all been snatched up, and you forgot your pencil bag at home. With a kind smile, the teacher offered you her Exacto knife- "Just give it to me at the end of class." Twice, you'd been so nervous your fingers slipped. Twice, you'd gotten lucky enough to avoid injury. Peter does everything he can to mentally check out. He stares down at a history textbook, not even bothering to pretend to read.
The poster is harder to cut evenly in thirds than you expected. It would be too clunky to roll up and stuff in your bag, and the weather forecast predicted rain on and off all day. The safest bet was to group the information into three sheets and then roll them up individually so they'd fit in your bag.
"This is painful to watch." It's the first thing Peter has ever said to you. Shit. An old legend about the words you speak to your soulmate comes back to you. It'd been called an old wives tale by teachers, but it clings to you now like a second skin. Peter sighs heavily through his nose. "Give me that, idiot," he jerks the half-cut poster out of your hand.
"I can cut the poster," you refute. Peter rolls his eyes and holds his hand out. When you don't move fast enough, he jerks impatiently. With a sigh of your own, you reach over your desk to place the Exacto knife in his hand. Peter doesn't take the knife and it plops onto the history textbook.
A harsh grip envelops your wrist and then some. Peter yanks your hand so far you end up pressed against the edge of your desk. Red drips down your hand. Somehow, you'd cut yourself without noticing. Peter stares for an uncomfortably long time at your hand.
"Uhm, what are you doing?" you ask. Peter wipes away a trail of blood with his thumb. It's bigger and warmer than it has any right to be.
"Found you," he grins and brings his thumb up to his mouth. With his back to the teacher, Peter licks the blood, eyes narrowed smugly. The hope you'd had before blinks out of existence. Dread fills all of the gaps.