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On Anatoly’s 18th birthday, Vladimir doesn’t speak to him. He avoids seeing him at all, and spends his time locked in his room. Their parents are confused as to why, but Anatoly know what’s eating at him; the name that showed up on his wrist that morning. Christina. It’s written in the Latin alphabet, so Anatoly knows his soulmate won’t be from around here. His parents had lit up like twin suns when he showed it to them, but their excitement didn’t reflect Anatoly’s own.
He wonders if Vladimir is mad at him, or maybe at this Christina. He probably is. Which is stupid, because he should know that this doesn’t change anything.
Anatoly slips into Vladimir’s room that night, like usual. But it’s with another goal in mind this time. This time, he only wants to talk.
He sits down on the side of the bed, and the old mattress dips down enough to bring him closer to Vladimir’s body. Vladimir lies still, breathing evenly with his eyes closed. Pretending.
“I know you’re not asleep,” Anatoly says. Vladimir sighs and opens his eyes.
“What do you want?” He asks and juts his chin out. It loses its effect though, since Vladimir is tucked into bed.
“Whoever she is, she means nothing to me,” Anatoly says, going straight to the point.
“You say that now,” Vladimir protests, “but when you meet her you’ll feel it.”
“It won’t matter. I’ll ignore it.”
“You don’t know that,” Vladimir insists, but there’s no real edge to his words.
“Yes, I do.” Anatoly’s hand slip in under the cover to find Vladimir’s. He takes Vladimir’s hand and presses it tightly in his own. He hopes that he can transfer his certainty through that grip. He hopes that Vladimir will feel it. “It will always be us, Volodya.”
Vladimir caves, and leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Anatoly’s mouth. Anatoly tilts his head to catch the next kiss.
* * *
When Vladimir gets his soulmate name, it’s a neat Pyotr on his hip. Vladimir hates it. Anatoly hates it too. After two years, he finally understand how Vladimir has felt about his Christina.
Anatoly kisses and bites at the name until it’s partly covered by bruisings. Vladimir looks down at him with a scowl on his face.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“Marking you,” Anatoly answers and laps at this bruise he’s created. “You’re mine, after all.”
When he looks up, Vladimir is grinning at him like a madman.
* * *
It’s only years later that Vladimir runs into this Pyotr. It’s a business meeting, nothing special, just getting to know their new associates. Anatoly shakes Pyotr’s hand.
“Anatoly,” he introduces himself.
“Pyotr,” Pyotr answers. Anatoly hates that name more than any other. Whenever he hears it, there’s a burn in his heart. But he has met countless of Pyotrs by now, so he doesn’t think more of it. Not until Vladimir shakes Pyotr’s hand.
“And I’m Vladimir…” The way he trails off is suspicious enough to make Anatoly turn his attention back to them.
Frozen they stand, staring at each other, hands still joined in a handshake.
“It’s you,” Pyotr whispers. There’s a light in his eyes and a small smile on his lips.
“Yes,” Vladimir says, unsmiling.
“I’ve been waiting for you so long. And here you are!” Pyotr can barely contain his excitement. His friends are also smiling. Anatoly looks at Vladimir, waiting for him to protest. It takes a moment.
“We should clear something up,” he says, voice dry and automatic. “I’m spoken for.”
Pyotr’s face falls.
“What?”
“I have already found someone I’m with,” Vladimir explains.
“But I’m your soulmate!” Pyotr exclaims and Anatoly want to punch him in the face for reminding him that he holds the title Anatoly so desperately wants. That he deserves.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you.” Vladimir juts out his chin, and he looks the model of defiance and determination.
“You can’t live like that,” Pyotr tries.
“I can. Others have before me, and I will.”
No need to say that their business deal is out the window. Anatoly doesn’t care.
When they get home, he immediately claims Vladimir’s mouth. Vladimir is eager and sloppy, losing all finesse in his urgency. Anatoly is no better. They need this, need this reminder that they have each other, no matter what the universe wanted. They were the truly fated ones.
“How does it feel?” Anatoly asks later, when they lie in bed tangled together and smoke. He’s not happy to bring up Pyotr again, but he needs to know how it feels. Needs to know how much it hurts.
“It burns. I feel it under my skin, itching, yearning, wanting. But I can handle it.” Vladimir blows out pale smoke towards their yellowing ceiling.
“It will get worse,” Anatoly reminds him.
“I know,” Vladimir reminds him. Then he turns his head and looks at Anatoly, expression unreadable.
Anatoly knows Vladimir from the inside out though. He knows how to read those unreadable expressions. He knows what Vladimir wants to say that goes unspoken. So he kisses him, to let him know he has understood. Vladimir kisses him back, hard, and he can feel the certainty.
* * *
Anatoly has since long covered his Christina with a tattoo by the time he meets her. She’s beautiful, and she is, as expected, a tourist. Anatoly can guess the cause for her visit: to find him.
He stands behind her in the post office. She is sending a postcard to someone at home in America. He knows it’s her, because he sees the “XOXO Christina” written at the bottom of her postcard as she puts a stamp on it, and also spots his own name on her wrist as she hands the card to the lady behind the counter.
She has come a long way to be disappointed. The universe has done its part; written their names on each other and pushed them together in this post office. Had things been different, this is where he’d introduce himself.
He goes outside and lights a cigarette. He can definitely wait for her to be done and leave before he goes in there to have his and Vladimir’s mail registered to their new address.
The universe has other plans. She bumps into him on her way out and drops her bag. A lipstick and a few coins spill out on the street. Anatoly reaches for the lipstick before he even knows what he’s doing. Christina is staring at him when he straightens up.
“Here,” he says and gives in to her. Their fingers brush as she takes it, and he quickly withdraws his hand when he feels the small jolt that goes through his entire body at the touch.
“Thanks,” Christina says and continues to stare at him. “What’s your name?”
“Vladimir,” Anatoly says, because it’s the first name that comes to mind.
Christina nods, disappointment radiating off her face.
Anatoly walks into the post office before she can say anything else. There’s already a small burn in him as he fixes the new registration. It builds up as he walks home, thrumming against his bones, pulsating through his veins. It hurts, and it will hurt even more the longer he’s away from Christina. Anatoly suddenly understands, on a whole new level, why Vladimir drinks so much. This is what they choose to live with. It was their choice. Still, it hurts.
Anatoly runs up the stairs to their shared apartment. He needs to be with Vladimir now, needs to fall into him, sleep with him, kiss him, hold him close and remind himself that it’s worth it. For Vladimir, it’s worth it.