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Soap wonders how lucky he got when the universe chose this man as his soulmate. He layers his hand over Simon’s, matching silver splotches shining on the backs of their hands, right on the curves of their thumbs. They’re smiling at each other, Simon basking at the warmth that is Soap, his Sun, his stars. Soap, eyeing his Moon, staring into his eyes as they glittered like light over water, his lighthouse to shore.
They shift closer, lying together, content simply to share space. They had no need for words, for soft-spoken whispers, they had each other; as they would in every life forward and have had for every life previous. Their souls sing to each other at the same frequency, birds of a feather.
Soap wonders, distantly, if they’ve lived every life as close as this. He doesn’t have the answer. For now, it’s enough to hold Simon’s hand, to feel the steady weight of him beside him, and to believe—just for tonight—that the universe has never once been wrong about them.
And somewhere, in another time, another world, they meet again.
The flock was restless this morning, Jon noted as he watched over the sheep. They grazed slowly, jerking their heads up at any sound carried on the wind. It was only natural for prey animals to behave as such, he supposed. He leaned on his crook, glancing up from his flock to scan the treeline. His pa would kill him if one wandered away.
That’s when he saw them—big, brown eyes, almost completely concealed in the underbrush, catching a stray ray of light that turned brown to gold. For a heartbeat, something stirred in him: a flicker of recognition, fleeting and inexplicable, if only for a moment.
It stepped into the light, and Jon gasped. Almost entirely black, except for hints of silver along its face. That wasn’t even the most jarring part—he could see its spine through taut, thin skin. He knows a hungry wolf is a desperate one; it’s been engraved into his bones, burned into his teachings.
Jon cursed himself for telling his pa he’d rather go alone today.
The sheep noticed the wolf quickly, flocking together and tightening their ranks. Jon stepped forward, raising his crook and waving it frantically. “Go on! Leave!” he yelled, as if the wolf might understand him. It did not. It prowled closer, quietly, with the grace of a predator—grace that starvation could not claim, a perfection that even hunger could not steal from the animal creeping toward him.
The lambs had been pushed toward the center of the flock, the ewes frantic and aggressive. Jon glanced at the herd and wondered if the wolf could even fight them in its weakened state. He looked back.
Too late.
The wolf is not looking at his flock.
Blood runs in rivers, stains the grass a dark red.
Jones readies his sword, taking in the gruesome sight of the battlefield. He rides alone, watching for any signs of survivors. How many more will not make it back home? His thoughts are cut short when his horse startles, planting its hooves and pawing the ground with urgent agitation.
“Hm? What is it?” he murmurs, tilting his head. Dismounting, he steps closer, straining to see what has drawn her attention. A man dressed in black lies before him, chest rising shallowly. Blonde hair falls across a pale, discolored and splotchy face. A gash in his side seeps blood lethargically, each spurt a reminder of a heart desperate to keep him alive.
Jones works as fast as he can, yanking clean cloth from his satchel and pressing it firmly onto the wound. The man flinches, a small jerk running through his body, a whimper slipping from his lips.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes as best he can, not being able to afford gentleness in such an urgent situation. He pulls a kit from the parcel as well, getting a needle and string ready. He presses a different cloth into the man’s mouth. He doesn’t want him to bite his tongue.
The needle pierces skin. The blonde man gasps, clawing at Jones’s arms. Guilt twists in Jones’s chest, but he knows he must continue. “You’re almost there,” he lies, watching as the man opens his brown eyes, pupils pinpricks of panic as he grips Jones’s arms. Every movement is a struggle, but Jones forces himself to persist. The blonde recognizes that Jones is trying to help, but cannot help jerking and groaning at every pull of sensitive flesh.
A few more grueling minutes pass before Jones finally finishes, and the man visibly relaxes once he pulls away. There’s something hauntingly familiar about his face, and Jones wonders if he’s met this blonde man before. “What’s your name, stranger?
There’s a beat of silence before he answers.
“Simeon.”
Maybe he’s met him in a bar of some sort.
That’s what Simone thinks to himself, staring at the man smiling next to him—the one who’d bought his bus ticket home, and just happened to be going the same way. His mohawk was frustratingly familiar. “Do I know you from somewhere?” He asks, tilting his head.
The stranger looks momentarily shocked before bursting into laughter. “I was gonna ask you the same thing! But I think I’d remember a guy like you—Mr. Tall and mysterious.” He grins and Simone wonders if the Sun could compare.
The bus grinds to a halt.
The dazzling stranger stands, hand running through his mohawk. “Well, see you around then. This is my stop.” He walks off the bus, and Simone watches him go. He swallows—never even caught his name.
“I wonder if I’ll see him again.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic Selim! Josiah’s only gone to fetch firewood.” his mother chides, pressing her palm to his head and ruffling his hair. “You could’ve gone with him if you were gonna miss him this much.”
Selim flushes, “he’s only gonna be gone for a minute!” The boy pouts, crossing his arms and puffing his cheeks.
“Exactly,” she hums, going back to hanging her laundry on the line to dry. Selim sits on a treestump, kicking his feet and waiting for his brother to get back.
It isn’t long before the boy in question appears—and it’s immediately obvious to any outsider that they are brothers. Twins. Josiah’s hair is slightly darker, more of a dirtier blonde than Selim’s, but they share the same striking heterochromic eyes—one blue, one brown.
Josiah lays down the wood, and Selim has to stop himself from wrapping his arms around him and scolding him for taking so long. “I finished, Mama!” the dirty-blonde grins, his tooth gap flashing—a small feature the boys do not share.
“Good job,” she ruffles his hair in a similar fashion to Selim’s. “Now go on and play with your brother before it gets dark.”
The boys waste no time, hurrying off to squeeze as many games as they can into the remaining hours of daylight.
"Hurry up!"
Silas only hears it distantly, he wonders if there’s cotton in his ears. It certainly feels like it. Tastes like it, too. He can hear the voice again, shouting, closer each time. Suddenly, there is light upon him and a face he can’t make out.They’re speaking, urging him, but he cannot move his limbs. He’s too cold, too heavy, and the world is spinning. Where is he?
Pain blooms across his cheek and he feels the other shake him. “Focus!” Silas stares at the man in front of him. He.. knows him, from somewhere. Somehow. “Hhnuh?” He groans, trying to take in his surroundings.
“Hey, hey, do you know your name or where you are? Do you remember what happened?”
Silas pauses to digest his questions. “Mm…’m Silas… don’ r’mm’br.” He mumbles out, doing his best to stay conscious. He’s shivering, and he thinks he might be laying in snow. Figures.
“I’m Jodey with search and rescue, okay? You were skiing when an avalanche hit.”
It makes sense. Silas nods; that’s what it feels like, anyway. The other asks him if he can stand, and Silas does his best to cooperate. He can barely feel his limbs— they’re not really cold anymore, if anything, they’re beginning to feel hot. He’s not shivering anymore, either, which he thinks might be bad. Heard something like that a while ago or… something. Yeah.
He stumbles and Jodey elects to hold more of his weight. “C’mon, we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”
Silas nods and they make their way towards a clearing— base camp, Jodey told him. First aid stations, space heaters, blankets. 5 stars. Helicopter, too, for those who got the worst of it. Silas thinks Jodey might’ve been talking about him when he mentioned that. Oh well. Can’t be helped, right?
“Do I…. kn’w you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“....huh.”
A biologist hums, staring at a pair of nesting eagles through her binoculars. “That’s… unusual.” Not only was this a pair of males, but they were different species. The one deemed Simen was quite bigger and older than the other, making for quite the sight. One would assume they’d be territorial or fight over the space, but neither seemed to mind the company of the other. If anything, they welcomed it.
Simen had long been observed as a loner, assumed to be a widower who refused another mate. That theory clearly didn’t hold here. He was a striking bird, sleek black feathers offset by lighter tones scattered along his face.
Joey, in contrast, was a younger male speckled in alternating browns—a likely result of his age. He would probably grow into a more uniform brown as he matured, though the patchwork of feathers he wore now lent him a certain charm. Currently, the young bird basked in Simen’s attention; letting the older bird preen away any loose feathers. He was doing his best to return the favor, though he was visibly more clumsy and inexperienced.
The two were closely observed for longer, it not being long before they took flight.
Though death spirals were more common in Simen’s species, the two were locked at the talons, falling through the air. A courting gesture that strengthened the trust between two individuals. They vanished behind the trees for a moment before soaring back into view, finding each other quickly and locking together again.
They would always trust each other with their lives.