Chapter Text
Soulmates are nature’s cruelest jokes. Vincent has known this since he was little, but he’s still shocked when—on his 16th birthday—he loses something very dear to him.
He blows out the candles—like he does each year—not expecting things to be any different. Nothing happened last year either, so he concludes that his soulmate must be dead.
Sure, it’s a little sad; everyone grows up with stories of everlasting love, but he’s seen things crueler than death happen to people—his mom, for example. Maybe it’s for the best, or maybe he doesn’t deserve one; who knows?
He cuts his mother—Odette—a slice of cake, smiling at her like nothing’s wrong.
Maybe not having a soulmate is a blessing. He has his family and future career. His mother has been happier since her soulmate died, so who’s to say he can’t be perfectly happy without a soulmate he’s chained to for life.
Vince figures if he really wants a relationship—which doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon—then he can find someone who’s defective like him. He could even choose who he wants to date.
Happy with this conclusion, Vince cuts a slice for himself, checking the crumb and cream of the cake, satisfied when he finds nothing wrong with it.
He’s been preparing to go to culinary school for years now, and he’s so sure that nothing could throw a wrench in his plans now.
Raising his fork to his mouth, he takes a bite of the supposedly fig-flavoured frosting and… nothing? Vincent looks up at his mother, trying to see if she notices anything off.
˝Y’know, you outdo yourself every year, mon chou. ˝
˝Thanks, Maman.˝ Even to him, his voice sounds a little empty, but thankfully Odette doesn’t comment on it.
There must’ve just been something off with that bite. He tries again, taking another forkful to his mouth. He expects it to be a little floral—he knows for sure that he put some pretty expensive honey in it.
Nothing.
He chews slower this time, as if that’d somehow help. Vincent would even be satisfied with a slight sweetness—anything to make sure it’s not totally flavourless.
Maybe he’s sick or something; that has to be it. The recipe could also be it—though Vincent knows he’s done a thousand tests to get everything just right.
Vincent reaches for his glass of wine—something his mom only lets him drink on special occasions—downing a huge gulp of it.
Nothing—not even the usual burn of alcohol at the back of his throat.
He can feel his breathing get shallower, and suddenly there’s not enough air in the room to keep him alive.
˝Is everything okay? You shouldn’t down alcohol like that. You know what it did to your father. ˝ His mom’s eyebrows are furrowed together in concern—Vince isn’t the type to be reckless with his alcohol intake.
Vincent ignores the comment about his dad, instead opting to focus on the problem at hand. ˝Can you taste the cake?... Or—or maybe the wine? ˝
˝Yeah? Why, is something…˝
Tears blur Vincent’s vision, his grip on reality loosening. This can’t be happening to him.
˝Oh, Vince. You have a soulmate after all? ˝
His chair scrapes against the hardwood floor. Vincent doesn’t even know where he wants to go, but he needs to get out of the living room now, he needs to be anywhere but here. If he runs fast enough, if he tries hard enough, maybe he could outrun fate itself.
˝Come here, mon chou. ˝
Vincent collapses into his mother’s arms, sobbing. He can’t even remember the last time he cried in front of her, but god fucking damn it, he’s allowed it this once.
˝It’ll all be okay, Vincent. ˝ Odette strokes a hand through her son’s hair, trying to reassure him. She waits a bit before continuing, ˝It’s going to be alright. ˝
˝It fucking won’t! How am I supposed to—˝ He tears himself from his mother’s arms, taking a few steps back. His eyes won’t focus on anything properly, and his breathing is oh so shallow again.
Odette’s calm voice cuts through his panic like butter, bringing him out of his head and back into reality.
˝When was the last time you couldn’t figure something out? ˝
˝Well… I guess yesterday my ratio of jam to buttercream was way off. ˝
˝And could you fix it? ˝
˝Yes. ˝
˝That’s exactly what you’re going to do. You’ll find them, and this will all be
nothing more than a bad dream. ˝
˝You make it sound so easy. ˝ Vincent says, wiping a tear away with the back of his sleeve.
Rody Lamoree—being the hopeless romantic he is—was kind of bummed he hadn’t gotten a sign that someone out there was his perfect other half, but he still had a day until his sentence was final.
It’s February 14th, his 16th birthday. Today could make or break his entire life—and God, he’d take the most excruciating punishment heaven could devise for him in exchange for just the knowledge that his soulmate’s somewhere out there, waiting for him.
Being born on the day of love without actually having a soulmate would seriously be the cruelest cosmic joke.
He rolls out of bed, heading to the bathroom attached to his bedroom. Being the son of lawyers comes with its perks, his own bathroom being one of them.
Flicking on the light, he ignores his reflection in favour of splashing water on his face.
He savours the feeling of the cold tap water on his face now that he’s not in a rush to go anywhere. Straightening up, he finally looks at himself, not expecting to see anything different.
That’s when he notices the not-so-delicate lines on his limbs. The red, dashed lines wrapping around his limbs and torso don’t seem to be drawn on with much care. They separate his body parts from each other; some of them don’t even line up properly.
He stands in front of his mirror, squinting, trying to figure out which one of his friends climbed through his window in the middle of the night to prank him. Maybe he should start sleeping with a shirt on…
Taking a towel, he wets it and begins scrubbing at the mark on his left wrist. He expects the ink to smudge, but it’s not going anywhere. Suddenly he’s very far from groggy.
He tries one more time to make sure it’s real, but his irritated, red skin shows no sign of the mark being any different.
There’s someone out there for him.
He doesn’t even notice when he starts crying, but the relief coursing through his body is immense. He’s been anticipating this exact moment for years, yet he’s not exactly sure what to do now.
Rody takes in a shaky breath, trying to blink away his tears to see the marks better.
At a closer look they do look a little, well, horrific, to say the least. Rody’s shocked to see that the lines are now a part of him—he can’t help but worry what his friends might think.
The lines look like they were drawn with extremely hurried motions, like the person drawing them was desperate to get the task over with. They dig into his skin in places, while in others they look like they’ve faded over time.
Rody tries to recall where he’d seen something similar—then it hits him.
They’re butcher marks.
Looking in the mirror, he checks himself over to see if his body parts are labelled. Thankfully it’s just the lines—though they look creepy enough on their own.
All soulmates come with a price—some steeper than others. Rody concludes he got off relatively easy; they’re just some lines, it’s not like they’ll impact his daily life.
He traces the line separating his wrist and lower arm—he wonders how long he has to look at them.
˝I knew you’d exist… dick move making me wait this long though.˝ His voice is barely above a whisper, and he feels slightly crazy for speaking to the empty bathroom. He shakes his head, wiping off the remainder of the tears.
˝Ma! ˝ He shouts, knowing his mom probably can’t hear him. His father must be at work by now, but his mother promised to stay home with him for the day.
He walks down the hallway, then the stairs. His excitement is back in full force—maybe even stronger than before. If his mother can see the lines, it’s official.
Spotting his mom in the kitchen, he shouts: ˝Ma, look! ˝
His mother—Amélie Lamoree—turns around, furrowing her brows when she sees the lines scattered on her son’s body. ˝Rody, what’d you do? ˝
She can see them too.
˝Nothing! It’s—I have—I got my—˝ Rody wildly gestures to the marks, hoping his mom gets his point.
˝Oh! ˝ Amélie claps her hands together excitedly, a huge smile stretching across her face. ˝Congrats, mon Coeur! ˝
˝Thanks, Ma. ˝ Rody hugs his mother, excitement running through his veins like lightning. ˝When do you think I’ll meet them? ˝
˝Eventually. You can’t rush these things, y’know. ˝
˝Yeah, yeah. ˝ He pulls away, looking the marks over. ˝It’ll be really annoying to walk around with these. Why butcher marks? That seems a little… I don’t know, off-putting? ˝
˝Good things are never free, Rody. Maybe they have something to do with your soulmate’s occupation? I’ve seen that happen. ˝ Amélie pinches her son’s cheek, going back to preparing his breakfast.
˝This isn’t one of your cheesy romcoms. ˝ He says, though the phrase lacks any of its intended bite.
Amélie laughs, flipping over a pancake.
Rody politely ignores the fact that he now looks like something that escaped a slaughterhouse; instead he opts to admire his—admittedly wonky—marks.