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tommy is soft and sleepy, sat cosily in wilbur’s lap. his little hands pat happily at wilbur’s forearms, twisting and tugging at the fabric of his jumper. 

“tommy?” he says softly, running his fingers through baby-soft hair. “I need to tell you something important.” his little brother hums, barely listening. tommy’s far more interested in the posters, crumpled at the corners, that decorate the walls, far more entertained by the bright patterns on the duvet cover than his brother’s crisis happening behind him. “you know how I got my hair cut a while ago? and how I got new clothes?” wilbur had got a five-pack of shirts with sea creatures on them, the height of coolness for a seven-year-old boy. 

“uh-huh,” tommy murmurs, craning his head back to grin toothily up at his brother. “bubba!” his teeth are gappy, his smile is gummy, and he’s so precious. his hair curls around his chin like he’s the cherubic child on a victorian christmas card. wilbur squishes his baby brother against his chest, peppering kisses into golden hair. 

“yeah, toms, I’m your brother,” he says in that tone that their whole family uses with tommy when he does something especially sweet. “and ‘cause I’m your brother, I’ve got a new name now.” 

tommy gums cheerily at wilbur’s jumper sleeve, slurping at the woollen fabric. “okay!” he chirps, settling back against his chest. 

“I’m wilbur from now on,” wilbur says. 

“wilbah!” tommy lisps, mumbling and muttering it to himself again and again. “wilbah. wilbuh. wilby.” 

covered by his shirt, tommy’s chest begins to itch. on a smooth patch of skin, just above his heart, a scrawl etches onto his flesh. red lines start to pick out a mark, looping letters forming into a clear, legible signature. frowning, tommy lets go of wilbur’s sleeve, by now thoroughly soaked in toddler-spit, and reaches to pat at his prickling chest. 

by the time wilbur changes him into his pyjamas, getting him ready for bed, tommy’s soulmark will have already faded again. dwindling back into a pale, only-just-raised line on his chest. it’ll slip from his mind for now, chased away by sleepy toddler dreams, well forgotten until turning sixteen raises red lines up again.

-- 

on wilbur’s sixteenth birthday, the realisation hits him before he’s even opened his eyes. it’s today! strikes him over the head, the thought rushing through him like a jolt. he keeps his eyes screwed firmly shut, even as half his brain screeches at him to snap them open and scour his body for the soulmark he’s sure is there. you’ve got one , wilbur insists to himself, even as he keeps his eyes shut so tight that little lights dance on the inside of his eyelids. just look, pussy. 

wilbur can feel a phantom prickle on his chest. probably wishful thinking, but he could swear he feels the tingle he was told he’d feel, just over his heart. 

the fear lurks in the back of his mind, just like everyone who’s still waiting for their soulmark to appear. it’s the sort of rumour that everyone hears, the urban legend everyone claims they don’t believe, but stay up at night worrying about. my sister’s friend was born without a soulmark, gets whispered at sleepovers. I heard the reason old mr. davidson never got married is because he has no soulmate. shitty instagram accounts that post re-screenshotted “facts” say things like an estimated 5% of the earth’s population is born without a soulmate identifying mark. 

and what if wilbur’s one of that five percent? what if he’s the sister’s friend, the old man who lives at the end of the street and is forever alone? he won’t be, mum has reassured him time and time again, but what if he is ? 

screwing up his courage, balling his hands into fists so tight that his nails dig little painful crescents into his palm, wilbur wrenches his eyes open. he glances at his wrist, and it’s blank. fear, white hot and ice cold, makes his stomach lurk. wilbur turns to the other wrist, and there’s nothing, not even a little dot on his arm. with shaking breath, he turns his hands over. blank, blank, blank. 

swallowing around the lump in his throat, wilbur glances down at his bare chest, and- there! a little red chicken scratch, etched over his heart. 

wilbur scrambles up from the bed, staggering over to the mirror propped up in the corner of his room. the little mark is flipped in the reflection, but it’s barely legible anyway, just a gathering of wobbly lines, and a little smiley face. CLEMENTINE, it reads, in letters that wilbur already loves. 

“clementine…” he murmurs, shaky fingers crawling up to trace over the fine lines. 

clementine, he bets, is funny. she probably tells jokes that’ll make wilbur snort, and she’ll giggle in turn at all of his, even the bizarre ones that go on too long and make everyone but wilbur sigh. clementine’s probably energetic and cheerful and loud and she’ll balance wilbur out perfectly. she’ll coax him out his shell, maybe, soothe his racing mind in the way that, at the moment, only tommy can. 

“wil-bur!” tommy, who is apparently the devil and will appear now that wilbur’s said - or thought - his name. “wil, dad says you need to get up.” 

still staring, mesmerised, at his chest, wilbur hums non-committedly. it feels so good knowing he isn’t broken, he isn’t going to be alone forever. clementine’s out there somewhere, probably seeing wilbur’s name spread across her chest. oh god, he thinks, rubbing gentle circles over the mark, clementine has his name on her. the thought that it might not be ‘wilbur’ etched into skin that he’s already started fantasising about prowls at the edge of his mind. he doesn’t dare let it in. “coming,” he murmurs. 

“wil!” tommy shouts, ignoring his brother’s quiet reply. “c’mon, man. I know it’s your birthday, but dad wants you downstairs.” 

“I said I’m coming,” wilbur huffs, but it’s too late. he can already see the shiny brass doorknob rattling in place as tommy struggles to push the door open. “christ, tommy, stop.” his brother tumbles into his room, blond curls all askew. “or don’t, that’s fine too.” 

long, gangly limbs straighten themselves as tommy stumbles back into a semi-respectable standing pose. 

“happy birthday, wil,” tommy offers after a second. “I got you a gift but it’s downst- is that your soulmark?” 

wilbur glances down to where tommy’s gaze has focused on his chest like a laser. slivers of a bright red scrawl peek between his fingers, and wilbur quickly crosses his arms, shielding the mark from his brother’s curious eyes. it’s silly, he knows it’s silly, but he wants to tuck clementine away from the world still, keep her just for himself. “yeah,” he mutters, fingers twitching to cover the mark. 

“ ooh !” tommy shrieks, scurrying across the room to perform some kind of octopus-inspired flying tackle to wilbur’s waist. “let me see, let me see! is it red? wil, is it red?” 

it’s a desperate fight to detangle tommy from around his waist, spindly legs twined with wilbur’s. “yes- stop- tommy!” the only sound for a moment is their heavy laughter, wilbur’s mixed with tommy’s quick, childish snuffles. “yes, yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s red.” 

tommy’s round, blue eyes widen with excitement. “wow!” he cheers, clinging to wilbur’s waist again. “you have a romantic soulmate? that’s so cool!” 

“yeah,” he says with a sheepish smile. “now piss off and let me get dressed.” 

--

at school, wilbur feels like he’s been branded. every time he walks into a classroom, the teachers fix him with a pointed look. their eyebrows raise, their lips smirk as they stare at him, each one letting their eyes flick quickly over his gangly form as if they’re scanning him. wilbur feels absurdly thankful that his soulmark is tucked safely away under his brinder and shirt and school jumper. he keeps on catching his hands wandering up, shaking fingers leaving his pencil case behind on the desk and scurrying up his tummy to lay across the mark. wilbur’s convinced that patch feels just a little warmer, although he’s sure it’s all in his imagination. 

by the time it’s lunch, wilbur is so glad to be out from the knowing gazes of his teachers, that he forgets his friends know it's his birthday too. they’re already gathered around the usual table by the time wilbur shoves his way through the crowd that gathers in the canteen.  

“look,” eret says as soon as they catches sight of wilbur wandering towards their table, “I brought my mum’s copy of-” they pause, lifting the hefty tome up so she can squint suspiciously at the spine “- ‘Soulmark Interpretation: Forty-First Edition’ so we can investigate your soulmark.” 

a chorus of oohing and cooing springs up around the table, everyone reaching over to nudge at wilbur’s sides and prod him, their faces all curled into identical wicked grins. 

“who’s the lucky girl? or guy!” fundy asks, probably glad to get his own back for the number of times wilbur’s teased him over his crushes. “c’mon, wil, don’t be shy.” 

he looks over at niki pleadingly, hoping she’ll be an oasis of respite for him from the hollering laddish-ness he’s found himself trapped in. 

“don’t look at me,” she giggles, prodding wilbur’s cheek and forcing him to turn back to the curious throng of their friends. “I want to know too.” 

begrudgingly, wilbur agrees, helping eret clear a space on the book-and-tray covered table so they can set down the weighty book. “happy birthday, by the way,” they say as they flick through the pages, seeking out the right pages. his other friends join in, a noisy chorus of cheering and congratulations surrounding him. gift bags are passed back and forth, and wilbur gladly takes each one, thanking and insulting the giver as appropriate. wilbur almost thinks he’s gotten away with it, almost thinks he won’t have to face the inquisition ahead of him, but then-

eret clears their throat primly. “ahem. ‘the well-agreed stance on soulmarks is that they represent a permanent emotional bond between-” 

jack scoffs, miming a yawn. “you can skip this bit, we all know it. we want the juicy stuff, mate.” 

“yeah!” fundy agrees, nodding so hard he sends his hair flying. “is it red or not, that’s what we want to know.” 

“fine,” eret says with a roll of their eyes, looking more than a little put-out that their grandiose introduction has been cut short. “the colour chart is at the back, I think.” 

the silence is thick as they flip through yellowed pages. “size… position… oh, here! colours.” they flip the book around, sticking under wilbur’s nose. 

wilbur flinches under the force of his friends’ keen, expectant gaze. “point to the colour it’s most like, wil. go on.” uncomfortably close to his face is a page of rich, vibrant colours. wide swatches of zinging green, calm, placid blue, sickly yellows. thick, blood-red, glinting ruby, cheerful cherry red. wilbur frowns, trying to recall the precise shade of the squiggle on his chest. slowly, he points to a patch of dark, lush burgundy. 

“red?” jack howls. “ red ? of all the lucky bastards in the world, wilbur soot gets a red soulmark?” 

“sorry,” wilbur laughs, trying to push down a blush. “can’t help that I’m just so romance-able.” 

eret smiles, leaning close. “well, the book says dark red soulmarks represent a deep and meaningful romantic connection.” they wiggle their eyebrows, peering over the top of the book, and the table bursts into laughter. “that particular red actually means ‘a lasting love that goes beyond the physical’. so, y’know, take that how you want.” 

“we are all aware that this is bullshit, right?” wilbur offers. “what are you gonna tell me next, that the fact it’s two inches long means she’s a gemini? or what, because it’s on my chest we both have tits?” 

“well, actually,” eret starts, “it being on your chest means-”

“it’s a she?” fundy buts in. 

niki frowns. “don’t call her ‘it’, fundy, that’s rude.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, I just-” fundy splutters. the rest of his friends’ voices babble up, and wilbur sinks happily into the comforting wash of sound. 

freed from the storm of his friends’ scrutiny, wilbur leans back in his seat. rubbing a finger idly over his covered soulmark, he smiles to himself. he’s sure clementine would be smiling with him.  

--

clementine quickly settles into a precious, private part of wilbur’s life. 

every morning, he wakes to find his hand has strayed to cover his soulmark, rubbing tender circles with his fingertips. wilbur finds himself scanning scribbled walls in cafe bathrooms, graffiti on tumble-down walls, flyers on the noticeboard at the community centre where his support group meets, looking for a familiar messy signature. he listens in on stranger’s conversations, hoping against hope for the mention of a familiar name. at least clementine has a somewhat unusual name - if they hadn’t already known each other, neither niki nor jack would’ve had a chance without seeing their handwriting. wilbur himself has done his soulmate a favour by picking out a name otherwise more suited to victorian waifs and little-boy-ghosts and pigs in children’s stories. they’d make quite the pair, he thinks. both rocking top-ten names from 1900. 

the other half of wilbur’s life revolves around tommy.

at half past three every weekday, wilbur meets tommy at the bus stop, and they wait for the number fourteen bus. ride the twenty minutes home, or, on fridays, get off a stop early and go to the chip shop for a greasy, salt-and-vinegary snack. 

like he catches himself doing often nowadays, wilbur slips into thought of his soulmate while tommy cheerfully dunks a chip into his little tub of curry sauce. does clementine like curry sauce, or is she a ketchup girl? 

“what is it now?” tommy asks through his full mouth as he chomps away. 

“what’s what now?” wilbur mumbles in reply, remembering he’s supposed to be eating. 

rolling his eyes, tommy reaches for another chip. “can’t fool me, wil. you’re doing that far-away thing again. where you look of into the distance and do your little brooding face.” 

offended, wilbur scoffs. “I don’t have a brooding face! and anyway, it’s nothing like that. I was just thinking about my soulmate, if you have to know.” 

tommy’s teasing grin falters into a little frown for a second. wilbur almost thinks he’s imagined it, except for the fact that tommy’s cheeks are just a little less flushed than they were a second ago. “you and your bloody soulmate,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “what were you doing, thinking about their lovely and beautiful mouth chowing down on a battered sausage deluxe special? wondering whether she likes curry sauce or not?” 

“no.” yes. 

tommy shrieks with laughter, drawing the attention of the whole chip shop. times like this, wilbur almost doubts they’re brothers. if a whole shop was staring at him , he’d just melt into a puddle and trickle away into the floorboards, never to be seen again. but tommy ploughs on, gleefully and mercilessly taking the absolute piss out of wilbur. “I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, wil, and I’m sure she’s quite the battered sausage expert.” tommy gives an exaggerated wink. “a conny-sur, if you will.” 

with a huff, wilbur reaches over and delivers a resounding smack to the back of tommy’s head. “fine, fine,” his menace of a brother huffs, after his howling and whining has died down. “and hey, wil, I’m sure your soulmate loves whatever you want her to love. curry sauce and all.” 

with that, he dunks another chip and goes back to eating, only stopping to fill wilbur in on details about his day. 

--

tommy’s been- well, not different, exactly, but off. he’s quieter. he seems to be keeping to himself a bit more, spending less time with the family. less time with wilbur. it’s hardly a surprise that tommy’s been withdrawn from their parents, he’s a teenager after all. he’s fifteen now, and all teenagers get fed up with their parents. but wilbur? him and tommy are a different story, at least wilbur thinks they are. they’ve always been closer than wilbur’s friends and their siblings. infact, he remembers their parents’ frustration as a child, with all the times wilbur would clamber out of his little bed and toddle down the hall, slipping into tommy’s nursery and sticking his pudgy, childish hands through the bars of his brother’s cot, clutching the baby’s curled fist in his. 

wilbur hardly sneaks into tommy’s bedroom while he’s sleeping now , but it still leaves him cold to go without his brother’s constant company. tommy used to curl up by his side in the evenings, tucking himself under wilbur’s arm to peer at his phone screen as they watched videos in companionable silence, only interrupted by their joking commentary. tommy used to slip into his bed when he had bad dreams, sliding himself between wilbur’s back and the wall. he’d curl up, tucking his little hands under the pillow and nudging his forehead into the dip between wilbur’s shoulder blades. tommy used to poke his head round wilbur’s doorway while he worked, padding across the soft carpet and settling down by his feet to sit in comfortable silence. he’d tap away on his switch, playing the game with the little animals that wilbur’s brother loves so much. 

the tommy shaped hole in his life hurts. and without tommy, wilbur turns to clementine. 

“I just wish he’d come back to me,” he often finds himself murmuring, stroking over his soulmark. “I don’t know what I did, clementine.” the thought that tommy’s been hurting over some careless thing wilbur said to him has wilbur sniffling. 

in his mind’s eye, clementine wipes away the tears that trickle down his cheek with her fine hands. her fingers are soft, and she mops up the tears from his face with a gentle touch. “you didn’t do anything,” she’d say, wrapping her tender arms around his shoulders. “you remember what being a teenager was like, don’t you? all that pain and sadness, and nowhere to put it.” 

“yes,” wilbur would sigh, tilting his head back to rest on her soft stomach. “but I hated myself and my body and I was desperate to change.” 

clementine would move, wandering around him to settle in his lap. wilbur would bring his arms up to wrap around her waist, tugging her close to press against his chest. “maybe so,” she’d say. her face is always out of view, her voice always no more than a whisper, her body more of a suggestion than a solid form. despite the shapelessness of wilbur’s imagined soulmate, he has his own private thoughts. 

he likes blondes, pretty blondes with golden hair that compliments their blue eyes. wilbur doesn’t mind a button nose, but he prefers stronger features. a strong jaw and curly hair - though you might say wilbur’s conceited, since he shares those traits. her height would match his, a few inches taller or smaller. and, of course, she loves him. she thinks he’s funny, but she can make him laugh too, and she knows how to soothe his worries and she gets his little quirks, and she loves him. 

“you should talk to him,” clementine would say, knocking her forehead against his. “there’s no point torturing yourself if it’s something you can fix.” 

so wilbur hefts himself up, awkwardly shuffling the five steps down the hall to tommy’s room. the brightly painted door taunts his anguish, the cheerful letters that spell out his brother’s name almost mocking wilbur’s silent stewing. rapping his knuckles against smooth wood, wilbur steels himself. “tommy?” he calls. “tommy, it’s wil. can I come in?” 

“no,” comes the muffled reply. “piss off.” wilbur frowns. despite everything, he wasn’t expecting rejection at the first hurdle. “toms?” he tries again. “tommy, what’s wrong?” 

stomping on the other side of the door rattles the ornaments and picture frames that line the hall. “fuck off, wil, I already told you!” tommy’s voice sounds closer, and considerably more tear-filled. alarmed now, wilbur tries the door. it opens with a quiet click, and he doesn’t hesitate to enter, despite tommy’s shouted objections. “go away!” tommy shrieks, shrill and hysterical. “I told you, fuck off!” 

in the doorway, wilbur freezes. stood in front of him is- tommy? 

red clips push tommy’s hair back from his face, ones with sweet little pom-poms. his usual ratty t-shirt and grubby jeans has been replaced by a strappy dress with a tiny ribbon bow on its low neckline. the lace at the hem falls on tommy’s thighs, which wilbur is certainly not staring at. and he definitely isn’t staring at the suspiciously glossy shine to tommy’s lips either. 

shock wears off, and wilbur winces as tommy starts screaming. “I said get out! fuck off, wilbur, please !” he wails, scurrying to the corner of the room and kicking bright scraps of fabric into his wardrobe. 

“hey, hey,” wilbur soothes, shutting the door behind him and shuffling closer to tommy’s trembling form. “tommy, it’s alright,” he croons, speaking low and soft, as if he’s hushing a spooked garden animal. tommy’s flinch at being addressed doesn’t go ignored. “you know you can always tell me anything, right? anything at all.” with each word he creeps closer, steps careful and measured. tommy’s panic doesn’t seem to decrease, but it doesn’t get any worse either, which is a good thing. 

when he’s just a step away, wilbur reaches out, carefully gathering tommy up into his arms. his brother is tense, thin body trembling against wilbur’s chest. “listen, sunshine-” tommy glances up at that, his glossy lips parting in shock at hearing his childhood nickname, “-you can always talk to me, alright? I’ll understand, or I’ll try to. I promise you.” 

with a shuddering breath, tommy leans into the embrace. tension melts out of him as he returns wilbur’s hug. wilbur sees a flash of colour, and notices with faint surprise that tommy’s even painted his nails red to match the dress. the glinting burgundy colour reminds him that his - sibling - has never done anything by half. 

“I’m a girl,” gets whispered into his shoulder, and wilbur smiles. it’s all clear now, and though it isn’t magically all made okay, knowing the cause of tommy’s withdrawal lifts a leaden weight off wilbur’s shoulders. 

“okay,” wilbur says in return, matching his sibling’s quiet voice. “okay, sunshine. I’m happy you told me.” 

she looks up at him with her big, round eyes, the ones that have hardly changed since she was a baby who used to beg wilbur to fetch her favourite toys down from the top shelf, even after mum said they had to put them away. she still has that look, as if she believes wilbur can make everything alright just by being her big brother. “I love you,” she murmurs. 

“I love you too,” he says, and just for a second everything is alright. 

“I’ve picked out a name,” his sister says. in the last second before everything changes, she seems so light. he knows it’s been weighing on her more than it was on wilbur, keeping this secret. 

he’s so happy everything’s out in the open. “yeah?” wilbur prompts, squeezing her shoulders.

she grins, all bright and stained with burgundy lip gloss. “I like the name clementine.”  

wilbur chokes. 

--

things go wonderfully back to normal after that. 

as much as they can be, they do. 

it’s wilbur who takes the plunge to tell their mum. he sits her down at the kitchen table, the same place she was sitting when three-and-a-half foot tall wilbur had toddled over and announced that he wanted to have a boy name. clem (she likes the nickname clem, and wilbur can’t ever tell her how that loosens a sickening band of anxiety from around his fluttering heart) hovers nervously behind him while he lays out the whole scope to their mum. her hand sits on his shoulder, squeezing tight whenever mum pauses to take in what’s being said. her nails are still painted that lush burgundy colour, and wilbur has to drag his eyes back to their mum’s pinched face. 

“well,” mum says, once wilbur’s told her everything clem wants to be told. “now I have my little boy and my little girl back, just in a different way!” 

they both wince, but it’s fine. neither of them can be bothered to get into it, not when they understand each other just fine. 

though clem wants to tell her own friends (and she does, the three of them locked up tight in her room and only emerging hours later to take over the console in the living room, seemingly no different from before apart from the way clem smiles a little brighter), wilbur snatches up the chance to “introduce” his little sister to his friends. 

they all coo, and fawn, and fuss. it’s just what wilbur wanted them to do, and from clem’s giddy laughter, it’s what she wanted too. niki instantly invites her round to her house for “girl chat”, whatever that is, and clem accepts so quickly her eagerness makes them all laugh. jack flirts with her, jokingly under the eye of his soulmate and wilbur, the overprotective older brother, but a little more sincerely when he thinks they’re both out of earshot, though clem just blushes and titters. 

it’s wilbur who lends clem his wallet and agrees to be dragged around the local shopping centre. he puts up a few protests, but really, wilbur’s thrilled to have an excuse to spend time with clem again. mum hands him a list of ‘girl essentials’ and wilbur happily plays the role of Clueless Male Shopper, dragged around racks of clothes he wouldn’t touch for the life of him and stacks of lacy things he has no idea what to do with. clem seems half-lost, at times racing off to snatch up hangers and folds of fabric that seem inscrutable to him, and at other moments sidling up to wilbur with a sheepish smile and asking for his advice. 

most of the items are fine, a jumper here and a t-shirt there, with wilbur’s input being sought simply, it seems, for the sake of conversation. others, however, are things he’s certain a brother shouldn’t be encouraging his sister to buy. skimpy little skirts that seem like they’ll reveal more than they’ll cover, and tops cut daringly short. when clem comes out of the changing room to show off her outfits, wilbur has to fix his gaze firmly on the cream-painted walls, incase he gets an eyeful of pale skin or clem’s delicate collarbone. 

that’s the thing that hasn’t gone back to normal: wilbur’s in love with his sister. apparently. 

he keeps on forgetting, and then it creeps up on him. he’ll be sat next to clem on the bus, their thighs pressed tightly together in the cramped double seat, and wilbur will feel her warmth through his clothes and shuffle closer for a second, only to remember that she’s his soulmate, and he’s disgusting. or he’ll go to wrap an arm around her shoulders as they shamble along the pavement together, and clem will grin up at him, and it’ll send a wave of shame through him. 

wilbur’s used to living with a great big dark cloud hovering over him. he’s anxious and moody by nature, but with his usual source of relief as the cause of his misery (it’s not true, as per usual it’s wilbur causing his own suffering. bastard.), wilbur’s left with no respite. it’s one big pendulum swinging over his head, counting down to the day of doom: clem’s birthday. 

because the thing is, it’s one thing for wilbur and clem to be soulmates. it’s strange, perhaps, unusual, sure, but it isn’t unique . it isn’t wrong. soulmates are soulmates, you can’t change it, try as you might. people have ended up as the soulmates of people they hate, people they fear, people they’ve made afraid. compared to all that, siblings aren’t anything. 

the worse option, the one wilbur doesn’t want to face but secretly fears is true, is that they aren’t soulmates at all. that the attraction, the infatuation, the love he’s quickly realising he has for his sister is just something wrong with him . 

for two years, he lives in limbo. unable to let go of his perfect, imagined clementine, just in case this is all some cosmic joke and his lovely, non-incesty soulmate is out there somewhere, waiting and ready to forgive him for staring at his sister’s rapidly growing tits. 

but wilbur can’t let go of the fact that he loves clem more than anything, his little clem who still crawls into his arms for comfort and laughs with him at anything, and looks at him with shining eyes. 

it isn’t hell, because nowhere with someone as good as clem is hell. it’s limbo, with wilbur trapped and unable to go either way. 

--

on clem’s sixteenth birthday, wilbur wakes up feeling nauseous before he’s even opened his eyes. his hand flies to his chest, feeling for any difference in the soulmark. it feels just the same as it has for the past two years. what did you expect, idiot? wilbur thinks to himself, frowning. soulmarks don’t just change overnight, not unless someone dies or has some sort of tragic accident. he had clementine’s name on his yesterday, he’s got it today, he’ll have it tomorrow. the question he should be asking is what’s happened with clem’s soulmark? wilbur swallows down a lump in his throat. does he want clem to have his name? 

does he want clem to be tied down to him forever? stuck skirting around wilbur’s melancholy moods and fits of dejection? does wilbur want his sister to be forever linked with him, known by all their loved ones as the soulmate of her own brother? should he let go of the image of clementine in his mind, his fantasy soulmate, in favour of the real, solid figure of his dear sister?  does he want clem to be branded with it, her soulmark proclaiming boldly that there’s a precious place in her heart for wilbur? when she comes to question him (and she will, he knows), will he deny it all, or will wilbur shamefully show off his soulmark, subjecting his guilty secret-keeping to her judgemental eyes?

yes, he thinks guiltily. 

if clem woke up with wilbur’s name scribbled across her chest, or her forearm, or her thigh, he’d fall to his knees and kiss it. if clem is soulbound to him, wilbur will take it and cherish it, tucking her love up into his heart and refuse to let go. if clem really is his soulmate, wilbur would happily throw away the clementine he’s imagined as the companion of his soulmark - she’s nothing compared to his sister. 

“wilbur!” his door rattles on its hinges as clem thumps her fists against it. “wilbur, open this fucking door!” bile rises in wilbur’s throat. forget everything, he’s going to hide under the duvet and hope that this goes away. he shivers beneath the blanket as the doorknob jiggles and jingles. “wilbur! open the door!” 

wincing, wilbur rubs at his soulmark. it aches, prickling his skin where he touches it. “no, clem,” he shouts hoarsely. “go away.” 

“the fuck I will,” his sister snaps. “wilbur, let me in.” clem’s voice is high and thin. she sounds desperate, pleading. “please,” she says softly. wilbur can picture her, just a few feet away, pressed flat against the door. “I’m just confused. let me in, please?” 

wilbur whimpers. tossing off the duvet, he marches unhappily to his doom. one step, another, a step closer, and his hand is wrapping around the lock. with a click, wilbur lets her in. 

eyes closed, ready for a slap (or, since it’s clem, maybe a strong bite), wilbur stiffens. before wilbur has even opened the door, clem’s arms are wrapped tightly around his waist, tugging him close. he flinches as clem nuzzles into his stomach, her warm breath puffing against him. hesitantly, wilbur brings his hands up, returning her embrace. 

“wil,” clem murmurs. the quiet word hits like a bullet. “what’s going on?” she pulls back, looking up at him with watery eyes. “I woke up, and my soulmark is there, but- but-” 

wilbur swallows. “yeah,” he says. “I know.” 

a small furrow appears between clem’s brows. even her frown makes his soulmate throb, and wilbur closes his eyes, turning away. but her chilly hand worming its way up his arm, finding its perch on his shoulder, forces him back. “you know?” she asks. her face is open, innocent, guileless. clem has always been easy to read for him, and now is no different. her brows are pinched, her pink lips downturned. but her eyes still shine, and when wilbur meets her gaze, a small grin flickers on her face. 

“I know.” wilbur steels himself. “when I got my soulmark, it- it was your name. clementine.” 

clem blinks. “me?” 

blushing, wilbur splutters. “well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I? I thought it was-” the thought of clementine springs into his mind. clementine who was in front of him the whole time. clementine was supposed to get him. she was supposed to think he’s funny, and be funny, and be beautiful, and nice to him, and perfect.

she is, though, isn’t she , wilbur thinks. doesn’t clem get you? hasn’t she always understood? isn’t she funny? and she’s pretty. and she is pretty. 

golden hair that curls just beneath her ears, blue eyes that flutter beneath long lashes and gaze up at wilbur so trustingly. she’s familiar, there’s a clem-shaped place in his heart that wilbur suspects clementine, had she been real, couldn’t have really filled. clem fits neatly under his arm, her hand tucks neatly into his, her legs tangle comfortably with his legs. 

almost without thinking, wilbur’s hands drift down. it feels natural to let his palm cup clem’s waist, to rub small circles over her soft tummy with his thumb. 

it’s been clem all along, really. his ideal girl, his fantasy soulmate, has always been clem. his sister. fuck. 

“you,” he murmurs. 

clem’s small smile grows wider, turning into a great big beam that splits her face and makes her eyes scrunch up. “you love me,” she whispers, tipping her head forwards again to bump gently against wilbur’s shoulder. her voice is full of wonder, so giddy and gleeful that wilbur almost feels he’s intruding on her happiness. “you love me!” 

an answering smile creeps onto his lips. “yeah,” he says. “you don’t mind?” 

“mind? why would I mind?” clem asks. she sounds truly confused, as if she sees no problem with loving wilbur, gloom-filled and greedy for love as he is. “you love me, I don’t give a shit about anything else.” 

--

wilbur’s always had a weakness for pretty girls, it’s true, and the way clem’s hair curls tightly beneath her ears, framing her cheeks with two perfect, golden twists, the clear shade of her doll-like blue eyes, the quirk of her rosy lips whenever wilbur cracks a joke to make her laugh, it all draws him in. despite his insistence that they keep their nighttime visits to each others’ rooms secret from their mum, wilbur can’t resist it when clem sticks out her bottom lip and flutters her lashes. 

by now wilbur knows well how to avoid the creaking floorboard between their rooms, carefully stepping in the centre of each plank. he twists the doorknob and quickly steps inside. clementine is already waiting for him, her expectant eyes sparkling in the half-light. wilbur has slipped into the bed next to her before she’s even flipped up the duvet, curling close to her. they lie in silence, matching curls splayed out on the pillow, identical nose touching identical nose, hands pressed against twin spots on their chests. clem’s delicate fingers trace the shapes of wilbur’s soulmark under his pyjama shirt. his skin fizzes wherever she touches, wilbur’s mark singing out at his soulmate’s careful contact. wilbur carefully does the same, tracing the same loops and lines he’s written a hundred times over the soft fabric of clem’s shirt. 

their breaths mix together in the stifling silence of the bedroom, and wilbur scoots forwards. his sister’s steady huffs hitch for a half-second as he presses closer, brushing a curling strand of hair away from her cheek with a shaking hand before he ducks in. their lips touch, chapped skin to chapped skin, and clem is sighing softly before wilbur has even deepened the kiss. his soulmark glows with a warm, comforting heat. it always does when they do this, the comforting burn a reminder and a promise that clem is his soulmate. wilbur runs a thumb over clem’s cheekbone, the sharp line hidden under soft baby fat. 

their kiss isn’t practised, it isn’t the familiar peck that married couples and long-time soulmates do. it’s fumbling, hands twining and reaching and groping under the covers, it’s clumsy, teeth clashing and nose bumping. it’s exploring. wilbur presses a little harder against clem’s lips, letting his tongue slip inside at her gentle gasp. he whimpers happily, chasing the rush of pure joy that clem’s kisses give him. 

“you know,” clem hums, rubbing a thumb over the red lines of wilbur’s soulmark, “we hardly look like brother and sister. I bet people wouldn’t even know if we didn’t tell them.” 

wilbur’s gaze flickers between his sister’s earnest, tear-splotched face, and the soft glow of the mark on his chest. it looks so innocuous sitting there, squiggles and shapes no different to the soulmarks of any other lovers. 

“yeah,” he says. what else can I say ? he thinks. he’d do anything to be like any other lovers. to show clem off to his friends, bring her along on their lunch outings and evening trips. to have clem sit on his lap when the train is crowded, and tuck his arm around her waist, keeping her safe. wilbur would kill to just be able to rest his head in her lap, at the park or by the sea-side, to simply curl up and tuck his chin into the sweet cleft of where her shoulder meets her neck. 

but it can’t happen. by some accident of birth, or whatever it is they say in classic novels, clem is his sister. quick kisses swapped beneath the covers is what they’ll get, or trips out to some city, hours away where no one knows them and they can pretend they only met that day. 

“we could get married, y’know.” clem’s voice is soft, as if she’s trying to entice a wild animal. “I looked it up and everything. the government’s not allowed to stop us, not if we’re soulmates.” 

wilbur snorts. leave it up to clem to actually research her harebrained ideas. “I think you’re forgetting that to them, we’re not clementine and wilbur. we’re-” 

clem sits up slightly, twisting in place to frown up at him. “but we could be. you’re wilbur, legally and all. I could be clem, it’d only take a few forms and shit. it might take a while, but I’ve been wanting to do it anyway, and then we could get married after. once you’ve got it changed, they don’t care anymore. not like they can refuse to let us get married ‘cause we’re trans.” 

the way clem says it, it seems so simple. she has a way of saying things that cuts through the flurry of wilbur’s mind and lays everything out as if it’s really as easy as she says it is. what if she’s right , his mind offers, the little lizardy part that just wants to keep her wrapped up in his arms forever, but also show her off as the grand treasure that she is. what if you could get married, easy as that. 

wilbur pictures it. clem, his wife. a golden band on her finger, one that seems plain when you first look at it, but has some sort of floral etching on the inside. it’d suit her, he thinks, something that isn’t flashy but still special, still beautiful, something that he’s taken the time to perfect for her. she could keep it on, and use it to chase away all the guys that come chasing after her pretty face and enchanting grin. he imagines coming home after a day at work to find clem sitting on the sofa, or at the kitchen table, or stretched out on the bed. they could take turn making dinner on the weekdays, and going on long walks in the countryside at the weekends, like married couples do. maybe they’d get a fat labrador, or a cat that’d twine around wilbur’s ankles when he tries to take the bins out. 

his heart aches for it, for a cosy little two-up, two-down house in some town along the south coast. a home, their home, where he can proudly shout about how much he loves clem. where he can go shirtless, and show off clementine’s precious little scrawl on his chest and have everyone know that his soulmate . 

“sure,” he says, pushing his rising joy down and forcing his voice to be calm. “let’s do it then.” 

—

the click of the key in the lock reassures him as wilbur shuts the front door of their flat. he always gets a flash of anxiety when he gets to work, a sudden ‘shit, did I lock the door?’. so, as per clem’s suggestion, he lets the mechanical sound of the lock settle into his mind, to be brought up as a soothing reminder when the fear hits him. 

the fresh sea air helps wake him up as he strides along the seafront to the cramped little building where wilbur works, squashed between a red-painted cafe and a second-hand clothes shop that pumps out psychedelic songs all day. the cold winds make wilbur’s nose scrunch up, and he tucks his chin further into his coat, wishing he was still beneath the duvet, curled up in clem’s sleeping arms. 

he turns the last corner, stepping out onto a bustling street. wilbur floats through the morning routine on auto-pilot, unlocking the front shutters and walking through the empty shop front into the staffroom. “hey, wil,” a co-worker says as wilbur stuffs his jacket into one of the cubbies. “how’s the missus?” 

“just fine, thanks,” he hums in reply, fiddling with the office pass dangling around his neck. “she’s got a new load of editing commissions to do, so she’s happy.” 

wilbur heads over to his desk, setting his phone face-up on the tabletop. a picture of clementine in her wedding dress graces wilbur’s lock screen. it had been a terror of a thing, all lace and no taste, but it made clem happy in the way that makes her whole face scrunch up and her fingers wiggle. she’d been so happy she could hardly stand still long enough for wilbur to take the photo, but he treasures clem’s blurry face, all crowned in a halo of golden hair and ivory veil, just the same. their little wedding was tiny, and just the two of them, and it was perfect. they’d filled in the paperwork themselves over a table in the pub, their new local, ticking all the boxes and signing on all the dotted lines that would make them married. 

this evening he’ll trek back up home - the downside to living by the sea is that everything but the sea is ‘up’ - and probably spend a few minutes examining the wilted spinach and dubious-looking pat of butter in the fridge before deciding to give up on the healthy-but-not-really stir fry they were going to have for dinner, and order takeaway instead. they’ll get indian, because clem always wants a curry when they get takeaway, and wilbur will throw himself down on the sofa while they wait. 

exhausted, his eyes will slip closed, and he’ll only mean to rest his eyes for a second, but he’ll wake up to the house smelling of spice and fingers running gently through his hair. wilbur will realise he’s been carefully laid down in clem’s lap, head cradled between her plush thighs, and he’ll turn to hum happily into her tummy. the cat will jump up onto the sofa, curling into a purring ball on his chest, and they’ll sit in happy silence, clem petting wil, and wil petting the cat, until his wife finally gets too hungry to stand it, and she’ll head into the kitchen to divvy up the food (more rice than curry for him, more curry than rice for her) and wilbur will settle back onto the sofa and try not to let sleep drag his eyes shut again. 

they’ll sit tangled together, clem and the cat and him, watching some awful show and being happy. and they’ll be happy the next evening, and the evening after that, and the one after that. all of them.