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Something’s missing.
It’s a half-formed thought in the back of Eustass Kidd’s mind, a scribbled note he tucked into one of his comic books and promptly lost between one re-read and the next.
Something’s missing.
Raised by unloving hands and hard-edged voices, shunned by the kids on his block for becoming that. It’s the only thing Kidd knows how to be even now, loud and angry and out of place with hair dyed a bright red and clothes ripped both on purpose and by accident.
(There’s only so many brawls you can get into without something giving way eventually.)
So there’s that – and there’s this, this awareness of a lack he never knew how to grasp or begin to define. Kidd’s not a child anymore, he knows there are some screws loose in his brain or whatever and it’s fine, nothing he can’t handle. No, this is something else: It’s waking up and reaching for something that isn’t there, in that liminal space between dream and consciousness; it’s setting off with a goal in mind and ending up on the other side of town, his sense of direction shot in ways he can’t explain. Like there’s something more, waiting for him just beyond the horizon, and his entire being aches to find it.
Whatever he does, Kidd is never where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there, and it would be less frustrating if he knew what the fuck it is but– It’s just–
Something’s missing.
The walk home is the same bleak tale of concrete sidewalks and sun-warmed asphalt. It hasn’t rained in days, the city’s stinking heat all cooped up between buildings dozens of stories high, turning the air into a flickering haze. There’s an empty basketball court to the left, an equally desolate parking lot to the right, weeds breaking through the cracks only to be killed by a summer without mercy.
Every day, Kidd retraces this exact path like he’s expecting it to spit out an epiphany or two at some vague point in time.
Just another one of those things he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s something to this – the constant rush of traffic, the dog that barks and growls and throws itself against the fence like it hasn’t known Kidd since he moved here – that begs to be noticed, like Kidd’s been sleepwalking all his life and is on the brink of waking up.
Up ahead, the traffic light blinks from green to yellow to red, and Kidd turns the corner. His headphones are broken, have been for a while now; in one ear, heavy guitar riffs and deeply familiar lyrics dictate the beat of his heart, and in the other there’s the sound of his steps, that distinct stomp of steel-capped boots–
A dull thud, a muffled grunt.
Kidd’s been in fights all his life and that… He slows down, flicks his thumb over the switch on his ancient MP3 player. Silence falls and there, again, the scraping of shoes on gravel followed by a wet nhhg, a gasp drowning in spit or blood on the way out. Only a few minutes left to go, Kidd’s flat waiting for him just two or three blocks from here.
Those fuckers, Kidd thinks, immediate and furious because this is his turf. What the fuck.
Step by step those sounds grow louder and Kidd’s pulse thrums in his veins, insistent. He follows that call without much reflection, already tearing off his headphones and picking up his pace at the mouth of an alley filled with shadows. He can barely make out the indistinct shuffling of bodies further inside, a ring of backs turned his way and something – someone – on the ground in the middle.
“Hey!”
Kidd grinds his teeth as he goes ignored. He’s running now, hurry, his mind is screaming at him, hurry, hurry, that longing at his core writhing with it. His right hand wraps to a fist around the bundle of keys in his pocket, each individual key pushed like metal spikes between his fingers.
“Hey, the hell you think you’re doin’?!”
It’s a group of a few guys and some girls, all the same shade of ugly and mean-looking. One of them turns, says, “What the…”, and doesn’t get to finish as Kidd nails them square in the cheek. A moment of stunned surprise, of blood welling up along shallow cuts and dripping down a bruise waiting to form–
All hell breaks loose. There’s a good handful of them and only one of Kidd, and while it’s clear they didn’t expect anyone to give a shit about whoever it is they’re ganging up on they didn’t come entirely unprepared. Kidd spots the glint of a knife just before the skin of his shoulder is torn open on its edge; he drops his keys in favor of grabbing the blade, the guy who wields it going pale as Kidd’s grip only tightens.
Gotcha.
Kidd grins, more than a little feral. Blood drips, slick, from his fingers and to the ground between the harsh push and quick pull that gains him a proper weapon, and it’s then that Kidd is sure he’s won.
How long he fights, Kidd doesn’t know. By the end of it he’s covered in sweat and dirt and blood – both his and not-his – and it’s worth it, so worth it to see those cowards finally realize it’s a lost cause and scurry off with their tails between their legs. Kidd yells after them, “Don’t fucking come back!”, all kinds of hoarse but grinning still.
It occurs to him then that there’s a person behind him, has been behind him this entire time. Blonde hair and polka dots is all that Kidd glimpsed before jumping into the fray – it’s a little weird to him now, as he wipes the blood off his nose (broken again, urgh), that he actually cares. Huh.
“Fuck”, is the first thing the person says, and “You okay?” like it’s Kidd who got beaten within an inch of his life. Deep voice, soft-spoken, sounding just as rough as Kidd feels right about now.
Kidd opens his mouth to tell them just how stupid of a question that is when their eyes meet and–
Something was missing and suddenly it’s not, the flick of a switch that finally completes the circuit left open in Kidd’s brain ever since he can think and with it the memories come a-rushing. Rapid-fire images and sounds, overwhelming: The creaking of wood under his boots, fluttering sails and ocean salt in the air and those eyes. Always on him, blue like waves rolling over white-sand beaches and the only thing Kidd will ever call beautiful without a single hint of irony.
“Holy shit”, says Kidd, blood dripping from his nose and more than a little breathless, and Killer (Killer, it’s Killer, of course Kidd’s life felt incomplete without him) laughs that shy little smile of his.
“Took a while to find me this time, huh?”
And – yeah, okay, maybe Kidd could’ve gone looking instead of turning his shitty lot in this life into a trench he dug deep and decided to sit in forever. In his defense, this soulmate shit is a pain to figure out every single time and for some reason, it’s always Kidd who ends up stumbling over Killer.
Then again, who cares when he’s found him for another lifetime and things make sense again.
Kidd sniffs and shuffles to where Killer sits on the ground, long legs bent at the knee. Mumbles, “C’mere, you idiot”, pulling him to his feet and into his arms for a bone-crushing hug. “What are ya even doing, out here all alone?”
Killer’s breath comes out a pained groan. He’s holding onto Kidd just as hard, though, hands on the small of his back and head coming to rest against Kidd’s neck. Pretty fucked up as well but it’s nothing they can’t handle, together.
“I was looking for someone.”