Work Text:
On the third ring, the phone stops ringing -
“Seam me up, Scotty, Liam speaking.”
- and as if on a really ill-timed cue, Pez’s doorbell rings.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaims, tripping over the open suitcase on the floor to reach the entrance, dropping his phone in the process.
“Listen, I know the name’s a little trite, but - “ the voice on the other end is small.
“Fuck! I’m sorry, mate. That wasn’t directed at you. Hold on one moment.” Pez calls out, leaving the phone where it fell. He opens the door to find nothing but a pair of wildly colourful socks held together with a piece of red ribbon in a bow. He lets out a lengthy string of expletives.
“Hey man,” comes the voice from the phone on the floor. “Why don’t you give me a call back when - “
“No!” Pez exclaims, grabbing the phone and repositioning it next to his ear. “My best mate, Henry, is getting married in just under a week, and he said you’re the best short-notice tailor in Brooklyn. I arrive on Sunday evening, with a suit that needs alterations due to an ordering mishap - please tell me you can help?”
“I’m sure I can fit you in.”
Pez snorts. He runs the fingers of his free hand over the socks. They’re soft.
“I’m sew ready to help.”
“Does your continued employment depend on your use of word play?”
“Threadfully sorry, I’m hanging on by a thread here, uh, - “
Pez sits down on the ottoman and kicks his slippers off. “Percy. But everyone calls me Pez. Like the - “
“Candy that requires decapitation to access?” Oh, Pez likes this guy already. He slides a sock over his left foot. Comfortable. Nice.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Pez. Give me a call when you land.”
Pez agrees, and ends the call. With both hands free, he dons the second sock, and pulls the cuff of each one up over his calves. Of course they fit. After all, they’re soulmate socks, which means Pez has recently crossed paths with his soulmate, triggering this cosmic delivery. Too bad he’s leaving the country for a month in just a few days.
///
Pez leaves the socks at home.
Not because he’s nervous. Not because he’s tempting fate or trying to outsmart the universe or making some grand, symbolic choice about destiny.
He leaves them at home because, frankly, why would his soulmate be anywhere else but London?
London is where his life is. London is where his people are, where his work is. He’s waited years, wondering if socks would ever show up - long enough that the waiting itself stopped feeling heavy and started feeling like background noise.
Anyway. He’d find them when he got back.
After all, Pez has waited this long. He can wait a few more weeks.
So, Pez reaches for the compression socks instead - the good ones that actually fit properly, that don’t dig into his calves or slide down around his ankles like a betrayal halfway through the day.
The flight is long but uneventful. Pez dozes, watches a film he doesn’t remember, drinks a Bloody Mary that tastes mostly like dollar store tomato juice and spicy regret. By the time they land in New York though, he’s stiff, jet-lagged, desperate for a hot shower, and very ready to be done with airports forever.
Henry meets him curbside. “You made it,” Henry says, unnecessarily, and Pez beams at him anyway.
“I did,” Pez agrees. “Barely. The man next to me snored like a wounded rhinoceros.”
Henry laughs and takes one of Pez’s bags, steering him toward the car. “You ready for this week?”
Pez exhales. “Ask me again after the fitting. Are you?”
Henry just smiles softly. Of course he’s ready.
Less than an hour later, Pez finds himself standing outside Seam Me Up, Scotty, staring at the shopfront like it might suddenly sprout teeth and eat him.
It’s charming in that aggressively Brooklyn way - exposed brick, large front windows, a hand-painted sign that suggests either whimsy or deeply entrenched stubbornness. Pez adjusts his jacket, suddenly aware of his body in a way he hasn’t been since… well. Since ever, really. He rolls his shoulders, grounding himself.
“You okay?” Henry asks.
“Fine,” Pez says. “Great. Never better. Just about to hand over the only formal clothes I brought for the wedding of the century over to a stranger with sharp objects.”
Henry smirks. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Implicitly,” Pez replies. “Which is frankly alarming.”
Henry unlocks the door and lets them in. Inside, the shop smells like fabric and steam and something faintly citrusy.
“Liam’s just finishing up with his last client,” Henry says. “He’ll be out in a bit.”
Pez nods and wanders, fingers ghosting over bolts of fabric stacked neatly along the wall. Wool, linen, silk - each texture distinct under his touch. It’s soothing. Familiar. He’s always liked clothes, the way they can be armour, or invitation, depending on how, and where, you wear them.
They sit. They wait.
And then Pez’s feet start to itch.
It’s subtle at first. Just a faint awareness, like when a sock seam is slightly off-centre and your brain can’t quite let you ignore it. He shifts in his chair, rolling his ankles discreetly. The itch persists.
He tries to think about anything other than how his feet feel.
Five minutes later, though, it’s worse.
It’s not painful…yet…but it’s insistent. A crawling sensation along the arches of his feet, radiating outward toward his toes and heels. He presses his feet flat against the floor, hoping pressure will help. It doesn’t.
Henry is flipping through a magazine, blissfully unaware. Pez fidgets.
He slips off his shoes, tugging at the heels and letting them fall neatly beside the chair. Then he rubs his socked feet against the carpet, back and forth, like a restless child discovering static electricity.
It helps for about three seconds.
Then the itch intensifies, sharp enough to make him hiss under his breath.
“You all right?” Henry asks, glancing up.
“Fine,” Pez lies, because what else is he supposed to say?
He presses his heels into the carpet harder, jaw clenched. The compression socks suddenly feel too tight.
The door at the back of the shop opens.
“Sorry about the wait,” a voice says, warm and easy. “Last-minute hem-ergency.”
Pez looks up.
Oh.
Oh, that’s unfair.
Liam steps into the main space with the grace of someone entirely at home in his body. He’s taller than Pez imagined, not looming, but solid, grounded. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that speak of repetition and precision, lean hands that know hard work. Those hands take the suit from Pez before Pez fully realizes what’s happening.
“Good to finally meet you in person,” Liam says, smiling.
Pez opens his mouth.Nothing comes out.
“Pez,” Henry supplies helpfully, elbowing him lightly.
“Pez,” Liam repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” Pez squeaks.
Excellent. Eloquent. Truly dazzling conversationalist.
Liam sets the suit over his arm and gestures toward the fitting area. “Let’s get you measured.”
Pez follows, feeling slightly off-kilter. Liam moves around him with quiet confidence, tape measure snapping gently, fingers brushing Pez’s shoulders, his waist, his back.
Each touch is professional. Brief. Entirely appropriate. Wholly insufficient.
Pez’s brain short-circuits, as he responds to Liam’s chatter.
“Yes.” “Mm.” “Okay.”
Monosyllables fall out of him like loose change, but somehow a complete sentence is impossible.
The itching in his feet fades to a distant hum, dulled by the sheer sensory overload of standing this close to Liam. He notices details he has no right noticing - the faint scar along Liam’s knuckle, the way his brow furrows slightly when concentrating, the clean, sharp scent of soap and fabric starch.
“Turn a bit,” Liam says.
Pez turns.
“Relax your shoulders.”
Pez seems to forget how shoulders work.
Henry watches from the sidelines with poorly concealed amusement.
“Alright,” Liam says eventually, stepping back. “I’ll have it ready in time for the wedding. Alex can pick it up two days before.”
“Thank you,” Pez says, earnest and breathless.
Liam smiles again, softer this time. “Enjoy the week, Pez.”
When they leave, the itching comes roaring back.
It’s worse now - hotter, sharper, like his skin is protesting something deeply unfair. By the time they reach the car, Pez is grimacing openly.
“Okay,” Henry says, starting the engine. “What’s wrong?”
“My feet,” Pez says helplessly. “They’re on fire.”
Henry doesn’t hesitate. “Straight home, then.”
Alex meets them at the brownstone door, concern etched into his face. “What happened?”
“Feet,” Henry says succinctly.
Alex nods like this explains everything. “Bath,” he declares. “I’ve got this.”
Pez barely has the energy to protest as Alex steers him upstairs, running water and adding oatmeal and something that smells herbal and vaguely medicinal.
“My abuela used to use this,” Alex says, pouring it in. “Works wonders.”
Pez sinks into the bath with a groan, the heat soothing, the itch easing almost immediately. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply.
It helps.
Or maybe it’s just that, when he gets out, he doesn’t put socks back on.
///
The next morning, Alex answers the door to find a small package sitting neatly on the doorstep.
It’s unmistakable.
Socks. Bright. Wrapped with red ribbon.
He frowns and picks them up, turning them over in his hands. “Huh.”
Inside, Henry is making coffee. Alex holds up the package. “I think this got delivered here by mistake.”
Henry peers at it. “Why?”
“Well,” Alex says, “we already have ours. And these look… different.”
Pez walks into the room and freezes.
Then he gasps.
“That’s mine.”
The words come out on a rush of breath, sharp, startled, and undeniably true.
Henry and Alex both turn to look at him.
“What?” Henry asks.
Pez crosses the room in three long strides and takes the socks with trembling hands.
“They’re my soulmate socks,” he says. “Same pattern as the ones at home. They just arrived right before I left to come here.”
Alex blinks. “So… what does that mean?”
Pez laughs, a little hysterically. “It means my soulmate is here. In New York.”
Henry’s eyes widen. “Here here?”
“Yes,” Pez says. “Here here.”
“But you don’t - ” Alex starts.
“I don’t know anyone,” Pez finishes. “I know you two. And” - he hesitates - “Liam. Sort of.”
///
Later, alone in his room, Pez googles.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.
He does anyway.
Once soulmate socks have been assigned, feet will itch, burn, develop rashes, peel, and blister if not worn when in proximity to the soulmate prior to the bond being established.
Pez stares at the screen.
His feet hadn’t burned on the flight.
Or the drive.
Only once he stepped into the tailor shop.
“Oh,” he whispers. He takes the new pair of socks and slips them over his feet.
They fit perfectly, just like the first pair. Now, Pez just has to get through the next five days to the wedding and then somehow hike up the trouser leg of a complete-stranger-who-may-be-his-soulmate to confirm. No problem.
///
By the morning of the wedding, Pez’s feet have more or less stopped burning.
Feels a lot like the quiet miracle of the socks.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls them on with care, rolling the fabric up his calves until the compression settles in just right. Pez exhales slowly once they’re on. The ache in his arches fades to a tolerable hum. He flexes his toes, testing the limits. The socks respond like they should: steady and grounding. Soulmate socks, the Wiki entry read, come in pairs. They find each other and Pez feels ready.
The suit is next. He dresses with a kind of reverence, aware of the potential significance of the day, even if none of it is technically about him. Shirt crisp, cuffs aligned. Trousers that fall just right. Jacket that settles over his shoulders like it belongs there.
He swallows, adjusts his tie, and leaves.
The old estate, former stateside residence of Lemmington the Third, hums with anticipation. Stone walls, sunlight slanting through tall windows, flowers arranged in a way that feels thoughtful rather than fussy. Pez navigates greetings and logistics, aware of his feet with every step but not ruled by them. The socks continue to do their quiet work.
Henry finds him near the front, already half-buzzing with nervous energy.
“You okay?” Henry asks, eyes flicking down automatically.
Pez smiles. “Still standing.”
Henry’s grin is wide and fond. “You look incredible.”
Pez feels warmth spread through his chest. “So do you,” he says honestly.
They take their places. Pez positions himself carefully next to Henry, weight evenly distributed, knees unlocked. He feels the floor beneath him, the gentle squeeze at his calves. He breathes.
And then Liam arrives.
It’s impossible not to notice him.
Liam’s suit is unmistakably his own work - dark green, impeccably tailored. It moves with him, catching light along seams that shouldn’t work but absolutely do.
Pez’s breath catches before he can stop it.
Liam looks incredible. Even if he isn’t Pez’s soulmate, maybe they can share a dance or two later. Perhaps one or two sans trousers?
Their eyes meet briefly, and Liam’s mouth curves into a smile, quick and bright. He takes his place besides where Alex will stand.
The music begins. Guests rise. The doors open.
Pez watches Henry’s face as he sees his partner, the way everything else seems to fall away for him. Pez feels honored to be here, to stand witness to this moment.
The ceremony unfolds in gentle rhythms - words about love, about choice, about continuing to show up. Pez listens closely, feeling the weight of the day settle into his bones.
Then, mid-vows, something shifts. A trouser leg, to be precise.
Liam adjusts his stance. Just a small movement, practical and unconscious. The hem of his trousers lifts a fraction of an inch.
Pez sees the sock.
Bright blue, electric pink, deep purple.
Geometric pattern.
The world tilts.
No. Clicks into place is more like it.
It’s the same sock as his own. The same knit, the same precise pattern.
For a split second, his brain refuses to cooperate. There are too many thoughts trying to exist at once.
That’s impossible. Those are my socks. Soulmate socks only come in pairs.
The realization lands like a bell struck perfectly: clear, resonant, undeniable.
Oh.
His heart stutters.
Liam glances over, sensing the stare. His eyebrows lift slightly in question.
Pez swallows hard and mouths, barely daring to breathe, Your socks. Subtly, Pez hikes his own trouser leg up just enough to reveal the pattern, and hopefully not enough to distract from the wedding proceedings.
Liam’s gaze drops. He stills.
When he looks back up, something in his expression has changed. The easy confidence gives way to astonishment, then to something soft and electric and utterly unmistakable.
Recognition. He gives the smallest nod.
Yes.
Pez has to focus very carefully on not laughing, not crying, not doing anything other than being the Best Man for his Best Friend. When the officiant finally pronounces them married, the room erupts. Pez claps, smiles, cheers with everyone else, but his awareness is split cleanly in two - half on the joy unfolding in front of him, half on the quiet, cosmic truth now humming through his body.
Liam falls into step beside him as they exit down the aisle.
“Okay,” Liam murmurs, voice low, carefully neutral for anyone listening. “So I’m not imagining that, right?”
Pez lets out a breath. “No,” he says. “You’re not.”
Liam glances down briefly, then back up, eyes bright. “Soulmate socks?”
Pez nods. “Got my first pair when I was on the phone with you last weekend. Left them at home, thinking my soulmate was in London.”
Liam huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Same,” he says. “Mine showed up the morning after you left the shop. I figured Brooklyn’s big. Odds were terrible.”
“And yet,” Pez says, gesturing vaguely at everything. “Here we are.”
Liam’s smile softens, something like awe threading through it. “Here we are.”
///
The reception is held on the estate grounds, decorated with string lights looped between old trees, long tables dressed in linen, glasses already sweating in the warm air. Someone presses champagne into Pez’s hand. Liam stays nearby.
There are speeches to listen to, food to eat, people to greet. Pez fields questions about London, tailoring mishaps, and his plans to move stateside to New York to open two new youth shelters. Liam is repeatedly intercepted by guests complimenting his suit, which he accepts with easy grace and the occasional self-deprecating quip.
Their eyes keep finding each other across the space.
The band eventually slows things down and Liam appears at Pez’s side like he’s been summoned.
“Dance?” he asks, offering his hand, palm up.
Pez doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Liam’s hand is warm. They move together easily and Liam’s other hand settles at Pez’s waist. Pez’s hand finds Liam’s shoulder.
Liam’s gaze drops, flicking briefly to where Pez’s trousers break over his shoes. “You comfortable?”
Pez nods. “For the first time all week.”
The music wraps around them. The lights glow warm and forgiving overhead. Somewhere nearby, Henry and Alex laugh loudly, unguarded and happy.
Pez becomes acutely aware of how close they are. Of the way Liam’s thumb is absently tracing small circles at his side. Of the steady rise and fall of Liam’s breath.
“Can I - ” Liam starts leaning in, then stops, searching Pez’s face. “Is this okay?”
Pez swallows, heart thudding. He nods, barely able to produce a whisper. “Yes.”
Liam moves in slowly, giving Pez every chance to pull away, but there’s no way he would.
The kiss is soft. Unhurried. Perfect. When they part, it’s with matching, slightly breathless smiles.
“Well,” Liam murmurs. “That answers that.”
Pez laughs, light and disbelieving. “Yeah. I think it does.”