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Ezekiel pressed a finger to the purpling bruise on his arm. It had been a while since any injuries of his soulmate’s had shown up on his own body, but ever since he came to the Library, he'd found them more and more frequently: a scratch on his cheek, a scrape on his knee, a bruise on his upper arm. Sometimes it was hard to differentiate between his own injuries and his soulmate’s, but the lack of pain was a dead giveaway.
Ezekiel used to imagine what his soulmate might be like. Maybe they were tall with kind eyes, or smiled frequently, or liked to work out. Maybe they loved painting, or pastries, or puzzles. He would stare at kids that looked about his age on the bus, at the grocery store, at school. Maybe her. Maybe him. However, as he got older he started to understand the significance of the placement of the bruises: his stomach, his back, his thighs.
All places that wouldn’t be seen.
Ezekiel understood. His soulmate’s bruises weren’t the only ones covering his skin.
Eventually, after a couple years of no cuts or bruises cluttering his skin, Ezekiel had given up on finding his soulmate. Maybe, he thought, he had imagined the whole thing, so desperate to be loved that he convinced himself the injuries weren’t his own.
He pressed the bruise again: nothing.
A thrill raced through his body. But now… Ezekiel still had no idea what his soulmate was like, but he was absolutely sure of one thing: they were close.
***
Stone’s punch connected with a satisfying smack, and the invader crumpled to the floor with a groan. He was secretly ashamed of the rush he always got from fighting, it reminded him of whose blood ran in his veins, whose hands had beat him time after time. He didn't seek out bar fights anymore. But in this moment, it was simply self-defense. People had invaded the Library, and it was Stone’s job to stop them.
He blocked a punch and threw one of his own at another attacker, blinking blood out of his eye where he’d been caught off guard earlier. His world was reduced to delivering and receiving pain.
Punch. Block. Kick. Repeat.
Done.
Stone’s chest heaved as he stood over the last of the attackers. He had no idea how long the fight had lasted, only that it was over.
Well, not completely. The mysterious invaders were only unconscious. Stone knew they’d have to tie them up and question them, then decide what to do with them, but he allowed himself another second of reveling in the adrenaline released from fighting someone who wasn't Eve or a punching bag.
As Stone came back to himself, he took stock of the situation. He and Eve were standing in the middle of piles of unconscious invaders. Ezekiel was curled up off to the side. Right, Stone remembered him fighting with them when the invaders first arrived, but he’d been hit and disappeared from Stone’s sight. He’d tried to go after him, but a wave of attackers had rushed him and he had to fight his way through them. Cassandra and Jenkins had been trying to close the portal that had allowed the invaders into the Library in the first place; Stone could only assume they’d succeeded since the invaders had stopped coming.
Stone stumbled towards Ezekiel, who wasn't moving. “Ezekiel.” He touched Ezekiel’s shoulder gently and he moaned. Good, he was alive. Stone’s heartbeat slowed to a healthier pace.
Eve shouldered Stone out of the way. “Let me take a look at that bump.” Indeed, Ezekiel had a nasty lump swelling on his forehead. She performed a basic concussion test on Ezekiel and proclaimed him okay. He didn't look okay to Stone. Besides the bump, he had a couple of scrapes on his arms, a bruise on his cheek, and a black eye.
Not that Stone probably looked any better. As the adrenaline wore off, the fatigue was starting to set in, and lying down was starting to sound more and more comfortable. “Can you grab the first aid kit from the desk?” asked Eve.
“Yeah, sure.” Stone could do that. He forced himself to stand up and his legs to move him forward, one step after another.
He handed Eve the kit. “Thanks.” She opened it up and started to clean Ezekiel’s cuts. “You should clean that cut above your eye. Huh, you both have black eyes.” That last part was an innocent enough observation, but Ezekiel recoiled as if he’d been punched again. He touched his eye gingerly, then pressed harder.
“Doesn't hurt.” Lucky. Stone's definitely hurt. Ezekiel fished around on the wood floor for a shard of glass from one of the numerous smashed display cases. Before Eve or Stone could stop him, he slid the jagged tip across his palm, leaving a shallow cut.
As Stone watched, an identical cut appeared on his own palm. Oh .
Ezekiel pushed himself up off the ground despite Eve’s protests. Stone just knelt in stunned silence. Ezekiel was his soulmate?
Ezekiel strode out of the Library without so much as a glance back at Stone.
***
Ezekiel had imagined all sorts of people as his soulmate, but never Jacob Stone. For one, he was his co-worker, for crying out loud.
For another… never in his wildest dreams had the possibility crossed his mind. Stone was his soulmate? Stone was his soulmate. No way. Yes way. Ezekiel returned to his apartment and shot off a quick text to Eve apologizing for leaving and offering to return if they needed him. She texted him back that it was alright, they had it under control, so he made himself a cup of coffee and sat down on his couch.
There were some things he didn't want to think about, like Stone’s bruises growing up, and how, considering his father’s behavior when they met him, they were starting to make sense, and how many of Ezekiel’s own injuries Stone had seen and known where they came from.
His phone buzzed, and he looked at it on instinct.
Cowboy: I’m here. Can I come in?
Ezekiel opened the door and leaned his hip against the frame, blocking Stone from entering. “What do you want?”
Stone pressed a hand to the side of his face and rubbed gently. Good. If he was frustrated, maybe he'd go away. Abruptly, Stone leaned down and rolled up the leg of his jeans. He pointed to an old scar right below his knee. “I tore my ACL playing football in high school. Had to get surgery. It hurt like hell, but I didn't really mind that I couldn't play football anymore. I was only doing it to make my dad happy in the first place.”
Ezekiel had wondered where that scar came from. On his skin, it was faded, but he had known at the time it was too precise to be a regular cut.
“This one,” Stone extended his hand for him to examine the burn on his index finger. “Is from a toaster oven. My mom made me stick my hand in the sink for a good five minutes after I burned myself.”
Ezekiel pushed his sleeve up to his elbow to show off the large burn on his upper arm. “Burned myself taking pizza out of the oven,” He explained. When his mom worked the night shift, it was his job to make dinner for his sister and himself, when they had food.
Stone traced his copy of the burn with something close to awe, then pointed out another oddly-shaped scar on his arm, a half-circle of puckered dashes. “I accidentally pissed off the neighbor's dog when I was little.”
Ezekiel showed him a vertical scar on his ankle. “Cut myself climbing through a broken window.” To Stone’s credit, he didn't question what Ezekiel was doing crawling through a window in the first place.
He examined his copy of the scar thoughtfully, then rubbed his wrist before extending it out to me. “What about these?” The faded horizontal lines were stark reminders of a time Ezekiel didn't want to remember, much less talk about.
Ezekiel focused on steadying his breathing before he spoke. “I’ll tell you if you tell me about these.” He turned around and lifted the back of his shirt so Stone could see the overlapping scars he was referring to.
Stone made a small sound. Tentatively, his fingers ghosted over the angry marks. “My dad. Sometimes he’d, you know, get angry, and then…” Stone’s voice trailed off, and he abruptly pulled his hand off Ezekiel’s back. Ezekiel turned back around. His turn to be honest.
“I wanted to die.”
Stone’s entire body tensed, but he didn't look surprised. “May I?” Ezekiel nodded, and Stone gently picked up his wrist and kissed it. “I’m sorry.”
“Don't be.” Ezekiel didn't want pity. But it felt nice to say it out loud. Ezekiel'd wanted to die, but he’d survived that time. “I'm a survivor, mate, I’m Ezekiel Jones. When life gives me lemons, I pick the lock to an art gallery and sell paintings of lemons on the black market.” Stone laughed and released his wrist.
Ezekiel finally had his answer to the question of what his soulmate was like: he loved art and poetry and wore scarves in every kind of weather. He had blue eyes and strong arms and a smile that Ezekiel couldn't help but return. He was intelligent, and belligerent, and stubborn, and courageous, and compassionate, and Ezekiel had always loved him, even before he knew who he was.
“Would you like to come in?” Ezekiel asked, stepping back out of the door frame.
"I'd love to."