i got tagged by the lovely @rain-fall-down and @coolbutcher for wip wednesday<3 thank you so much!! i also remembered that i promised @patrice-bergerons some more soulmate au WEEKS AGO. so. mea maxima culpa for forgetting, and here it is<3
And blood, seeping into fur.
A limb– familiar, own– throbbing red with pain, pus, skin dissolved. Ribs reflected, pale flesh rotting, this sharp sense of wrong– stigmata upon stigmata, sickly little row, and all alone in that tent– hands trembling, holding the looking glass, dead to the world, and all alone–
Francis gasped. An image, he saw an image– not of his own, it was James, James was seeking him, was hurt, was bleeding. His arm, his chest, someone had– someone must have, and he saw it, he knew what he saw–
“We're going back to camp,” he said. He did not bother hiding the frenzy in his movements, the sharp turn of his heel.
Later, in their tent, Francis laid gentle hands by James' wounds, traced the healthy skin near them. He did not dare touch the bandages, and the thought of what was beneath them grieved him enough, but he needed to feel him, needed to get close to where it hurt so he could stem the pain.
“You sought me,” he said, awash with wonder. “You sent me an image.”
James huffed. “I didn't mean to. I didn't think I could do it.” He was absent-mindedly playing with the cuff of Francis' sleeve, thumbing at the buttons, brushing against the sensitive skin of his wrist. A well-developed habit, now: strengthening their heart-bond through touch ought to have been a concern more practical than it was romantic.
And still, Francis felt the traitorous thundering beat of his heart. All the sensations he got through their bond felt heightened by James' presence, his closeness, his entirely lowered guard. He was freely letting it all bleed through until the edges of their awareness blurred: love, together, us, safe, Francis, Francis, Francis.
“Very few can,” Francis murmured. “Few heart-bonds are strong enough for it.”
“Christ, how embarrassing. I'm sorry. And now of all times... to have called you back so–”
Francis would not have it. He grasped James' hand and brought it up to his lips, pressing slow, fervent kisses to each of his knuckles, his fingers, the back of his hand. “Don't you dare,” he managed, “don't you dare be sorry. If you hadn't called out to me, dear heart, I never would have found you. Where would I be then, hm?”
If James hadn't sought him all those years ago, hadn't cried out in anguish and begged for him, if he hadn't always been the one to push their bond further, if he hadn't received all his sorrows with open arms– Francis could not bear to think of it.
“Will I make you terribly cross with me if I say you'd be better off?” James' eyes were still tired, but his cheeks had turned a lovely pink, and clearly he was well enough to tease.
“You will,” Francis said, and leaned in to kiss that crooked smile off his lips.
