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By some miracle, they're alone the first time it happens. The majority of the new recruits have shuffled off to the mess hall in search of supper, leaving Joe to lean against the wall of the barracks while he finishes off his cigarette.
The last lingering fellow is a New York transplant from Fox Company; one of those East Coast intellectual types, with dark, wavy hair slicked back and stormy eyes that seem to shift between green and gray depending on the light. He's a looker, with a strong jaw and a full mouth that appears very pink against the white barrel of the cigarette bobbing on his lip. The name tag on his breast reads 'Webster.'
"Got a light?"
Joe considers holding out on him, maybe demanding something by way of payment, but it's early days yet. He doesn't want to stumble into a reputation for being stingy. He grunts in acknowledgement and reaches into the interior pocket of his jacket for a packet of matches.
He holds it out, and Webster mutters a soft, "Thanks," and reaches to take it.
When their fingers brush, the glow flares up between them as fast and bright as flash paper.
Joe's whole body jolts, a wave of warm, tingling heat flooding through him even as he gasps and steps back, pulling his hand to his chest.
When his vision clears, Webster is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Both their cigarettes and the matches have fallen to the dirt, forgotten.
"You - " Webster starts, all breathless amazement, but Joe cuts him off with a sharp, warning hiss. He holds up a hand as he peers around frantically, in search of any wandering eyes or passersby who might have noticed.
They're fairly secluded, around this corner, which is a small blessing. Joe can hear the distant hum of voices, but the cadence is that of the usual lazy chatter; nobody yelling or screaming or drawing attention to the pop of golden light that had blinked into and out of existence in the space of a heartbeat. Christ, are they fucking lucky.
"C'mon," he tells Webster, tipping his head toward a distant supply shed. He starts walking without bothering to check and be sure that Webster is following him, not that it matters. He can feel a bright point of heat emanating from the other man, stretching between them all sweet and sticky like a band of honey and catching in a warm knot behind Joe's sternum.
I have a soulmate, Joe thinks, only a little hysterically. Of all the fucking times and all the fucking places.
He leads the way into the dingy interior of the small building, not stopping until he's nearly nose to nose with the furthest wall, at which point he turns on his heel to face the door.
Webster is standing in the doorway, face shadowed and figure limned with the soft pink light of early evening. He doesn't look away from Joe as he steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him with a gentle snick.
He's still glowing, albeit faintly enough that Joe would've been hard-pressed to spot it if they weren't standing around in the dark. Joe glances down at his hands and finds them emitting the same thin golden light.
"It's real," Webster says, and Joe looks up to find him studying his own fingers with a similar intensity. As if on cue, Webster raises his head, pale eyes shining. He looks so shocked that you could knock him over with a feather as he breathes, "We - we sparked. We - we're - " He stops and swallows, words failing him as his brow knots with the same awful, anguished hope twisting Joe's stomach.
"Soulmates," he croaks. "We're soulmates."
Webster's eyes go soft, mouth curling as he nods. Joe finds himself smiling back before he can help it. He steps forward until he's standing in the middle of the room and holds his hand out, palm up.
Webster's gaze flicks down to Joe's hand and then back up to his face, and he tucks his lower lip under his teeth, hesitating. Joe arches his eyebrows and gives his fingers a welcoming little wiggle.
"Got to make sure, right?"
Webster snorts and rolls his eyes, but he's sauntering over to meet Joe, unhurried and unbothered. When he's close enough to reach, he holds out his hand. The glow flares before they even make contact, rising from their skin in shifting golden beams. Webster's fingers curl around Joe's and both men close their eyes against the gleam that brightens between them.
Webster's breath is warm and wet against Joe's cheek when he gasps, "Fuck, I can feel it."
Joe hums in agreement, letting his temple rest against Webster's and savoring the fizzy euphoria that's bubbling under his skin, the warm pulse of the soul bond slowly beating to life behind his breastbone.
"Feels nice," he observes.
"That's one word for it," Webster mutters. Joe's eyes are closed, so he doesn't see Webster move, but a fraction of a second later, there's a hand nudging at his hip, tracing tentatively along the line of his belt until Webster manages to tuck a couple of fingers into his belt loop.
"Christ, c'mere," Joe sighs, reaching up to get his free arm around Webster's shoulders and pulling him in until they're pressed together from top to bottom, clasped hands trapped between them.
Webster turns until his nose is brushing Joe's cheek and says quietly, "I don't even know your name."
"It's Joe," Joe supplies. "Liebgott. Or Joseph, but mostly when I'm in trouble."
"Joe," Webster repeats, low and reverent. "I'm David. David Kenyon Webster."
"Regular mouthful you got there," Joe teases, and Webster—David—snorts again.
"Family name," he explains. They lapse into a comfortable silence, standing there holding each other close and sharing air, basking in the twinkling heat of the bond settling between them. It's strange, to feel such bone deep affection for a man that Joe has only known a few hours, but not unpleasant. A moment later, David shifts his weight and nuzzles absently against Joe's cheek. "Are we still glowing?"
"Probably," Joe says. "Let me take a look." He squints one eye open, letting his vision adjust for a second before he blinks and looks around.
He and David are, indeed, still glowing, though the white hot glare rising off of them has dimmed to a pleasant golden haze, shifting and rolling over their skin like sunlight reflecting off the water.
"I think we're alright," he says.
David holds out for another second before he sighs and follows suit, opening his eyes and leaning back just far enough to meet Joe's gaze.
"Hi," he greets, fond and breathless.
"Hi," Joe replies, just as affected.
He isn't quite sure who moves first, but between one breath and the next he and David are kissing. The glow flares again, turning the darkness behind Joe's eyelids pink while David's tongue slides against his own, hot and possessive. They don't kiss long, too wary of discovery to really lose themselves the way Joe is sure they'd both prefer, but neither man goes far when they break apart.
"What are we gonna do about this?" David murmurs, bumping their noses together. "The brass figures us out, it's a pair of blue tickets straight back to the States."
Joe shrugs and kisses him again, chaste but lingering.
"We'll figure it out," Joe promises, tucking the words into the soft corner of David's grin. "Keep our distance or something, I don't know, but for now, can we just - " He means to say something along the lines of 'enjoy this' or 'be together,' but he loses the tail end of his question to David's waiting tongue.
Not that it matters much, as David seems just as content as Joe is to stay right where they are, stuck fast together at the heart of a star.