Archive of Our Own ^beta

The concept of a soulmate isn't a foreign one to Ivo's mind. Going back as far as even his most nascent of memories, he's always been aware of their pervasiveness in the cultural consciousness, and how integral of a role they were supposed to play on a person's life.

Soulmates were two halves of a whole, so they said. Whether this was by Grace of God or some other otherworldly power, or simply some odd genetic condition that predisposed two bodies to lock together in a quantum state, he couldn't say. Nor would he pretend to care.

Because as it is, it all feels like a cosmic joke at his expense.

Everyone in the world has a soulmate. Everyone. They can be born and live several blocks from each other, or have half the equator between them. The bond can be found crossing nationalities, crossing religious creeds and languages and political ideals. The bond can be romantic, or familial, or platonic. But regardless of how the bond shakes out, it always manifests whenever the youngest of the two reaches their fifth birthday. There is, of course, some leeway in this if the two are of similar age, or if there's something environmental that affects a child's development— illness or trauma, perhaps, or advanced emotional or mental acuity.

What happens is this:

One day, one moment in time, the soulmate bond reaches across what could be an insurmountable distance and snaps the two ends together like a magnet, the ferrous shavings of two consciousnesses intertwining and making themselves known to each other through shared sensations, conscious thoughts travelling the intangible line and shared as easily as a conversation at a private table. From that moment on, no matter who you are, you are never alone again.

Supposedly.

Regardless of all these facts— irrefutable and constant— Ivo is nearing his tenth year of age and he's yet to hear the voice of his soulmate.

And he is tired of being teased about it.

He's always been the odd duck at the orphanage, with a vocabulary far too hefty for a child of his age and a mouth and mind too quick for any semblance of filter. He has a stubborn streak wider than he is tall and a natural penchant for trouble, for trying to write checks he can't cash, as they say. Or as Sister Margaret likes to say, "You have the wicked tongue and pride of Lucifer, boy, and you should mind yourself lest you fall as well."

Perhaps his pride, along with his many other supposed sins that make him a difficult little monster to tolerate, let alone care for, is why the universe has yet to connect him to his soulmate.

His parents hadn't cared enough for him as a babe to keep him around, after all, so why would this be any different? He's categorically unlovable, clearly, and when he makes the mistake of expressing his pain to the Reverend Mother, well. He isn't sure what he's thinking, doing something as foolish as that.

"'Patience, Ivo'," he mocks, kicking sullenly at a rock as he swings idly on the rusted play equipment on the orphanage grounds. "'The Lord is soulmate to all. He must guard yours a little more closely until your time comes.' What utter nonsense Mother Superior likes to spew."

"Mother Superior?" A hesitant, dreamy-sounding voice asks, sounding dry from rough treatment or a long slumber. "Who's that?"

Ivo jolts and looks to his right, where he swears he heard the voice come from. There's no one there, though. "Who was...?"

"Is that your mom? 'S a funny thing to call her."

Ivo purses his lips as he scans the empty courtyard, heart hammering. He definitely didn't imagine that voice, he's sure of it. So... that must mean...

He swallows, terrified to test this theory, to allow wild and fluttering hope to dig its claws into him, but after a moment's hesitation he answers. The words stay inside his head, conscious thought rather than vocalization, which should be effective all the same. "Who in their right mind would call their parents— ugh. No, Mother Superior is one of the nuns in my orphanage."

The birds chirp around him, the breeze flutters the leaves of the large oak tree. Ivo hold his breath. Counts to five before he hears, "Oh... 'M sorry."

"I bet," he huffs, but the tension in his shoulder abates with the exhale. "What a ridiculous thing to think."

"Mn-mm," the softer voice responds in the negative, melancholy coloring it. "'M sorry you're an orphan too."

Ah, gross. Pity.

No. Wait.

'Too.'

"Yeah, well," Ivo's head seesaws back and forth as he weighs how to respond. "It's no loss of mine. The troglodytes who gave me away will regret it one day, I'll make sure of that."

"Troggodyke...?"

"Troglodyte," he repeats, emphasizing the word with a roll of his eyes. "The literal term for a prehistoric cave-dweller— or more aptly, a metaphor for a primitive or stupid person."

"Troglodyte," the other child echoes, sounding it out slowly, testing the word. Ivo can practically feel the kid weighing it out.

"Yes. My progenetors— I suppose you would call them my parents, though they've done nothing to earn that title except sire me— are mere troglodytes. I'm not going to lament their absence in my life, so you don't have to feel sorry for me."

"Okay."

"And don't feel sorry for yourself, either," he adds sternly, mouth thinning into a harsh line. "If you're my soulmate then you must be exceptional as well, and you'll go on to do great things, and your parents will one day wish they'd kept you, too."

"My mama and papa died," the other kid responds sullenly, sniffling, and oh. He suddenly understands what it's like to put your foot in your mouth. What he thought was wise encouragement was just salt in a clearly still-open wound.

Ivo opens his mouth to say something else, but whatever it was flits away from his mind as a fist that isn't his own and isn't actually there drags across and rubs at his right eye, making him wince and flinch back. That was at once a fascinating and appalling thing to feel. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Rub your eyes that hard. You could scratch your cornea."

"Oh." The kid hums, sniffles again. "Okay."

"I'm... sorry. About your parents," he offers reluctantly. "I didn't mean to dredge up something painful."

"'S okay."

"Okay," he breathes, leaning back in the swing, tilting his head up to the sky as he thinks. Something niggles at the back of his mind, begging to be answered, so he pushes it forward. "So... Soulmate? Ah, that's what you are to me, by they way— and I to you, as well, in case no one has told you of the concept yet—" He's cut off by a disarming little laugh and he tries to be annoyed by the interruption, but he just huffs softly and continues. "Whatever. I can't just call you 'soulmate', can I? It's weird. So, what's your first name? How old are you?"

"M'name is Aban. 'M six."

Six. A full year older than Ivo expects to hear, and makes something complicated and heretofore unnamable twist his insides. He notes the boy's speech impediment, the way he tends to drop the opening "I" sound in shorter words. Thinks of the boy's deceased parents, wonders how long ago they passed away. How they died. Knows it's a shitty thing to dig into, when the kid is obviously hurting.

(...He thinks of that weirdly scratchy voice, like it hasn't been used in a long time. Wonders how long Aban has been able to hear him. If it only started today, or if it's been a while. Decides when a pit forms in his gut that he doesn't want to know.)

He takes a deep breath and pushes past that line of thinking. Lays his left hand over his right, hesitates, changes to place his right over his left. He squeezes his own hand tightly, silently marveling at the gasp of wonder he gets in response. "My name is Ivo, and I'll be ten years old next week." He grins. "Buck up, Aban. You have a soulmate now. And you're never going to be rid of me."

It's an odd thing, Ivo thinks idly as he tears apart the nine-inch Panasonic television he'd dug from the neighboring building's trash bin, that he's willing to be so patient with Aban. He's long been used to talking to himself aloud and not having to stop and answer any questions, because even if he weren't alone most of the time no one had the care to ask or the werewithal to understand his responses.

At first he wanted to blame it on the novelty of having someone who couldn't run away or ignore him, but that isn't the case. It couldn't be, for two major reasons:

One, it's been two years since Aban's voice first popped into his head and the supposed "novelty" hasn't worn off.

Two, Aban technically could run away from him. And he could do the same. They could block each other out if they wanted, so they could focus on something needing their whole attention or if they became overwhelmed or overstimulated. Or if one of them (typically Ivo) was struggling with a bout of insomnia and the other was exhausted (most often Aban, who got into so many scrapes that he often had a litany of concerning injuries at any point in time and felt ragged and worn by the end of the day.) Not to mention that they were in different time zones, with the younger boy several hours ahead.

They don't utilize the ability as often anymore, save for when Aban needs to sleep. It's far more of a comfort to have each other in their heads nowadays than to have the lull of solitude.

Ivo is patient with Aban in the same way that the other boy is attentive: clumsily, but enthusiastically. He doesn't understand a lick of what Ivo tells him half the time, but that's leaps and bounds from where they started. He doesn't have to slow down and wait for Aban to process, doesn't have to constantly interrupt himself to dumb down his jargon every other sentence for fear of being too much in anticipation of being misunderstood. Instead, he trusts Aban to ask questions if he has them. And he does have a lot of them. He's like an eager puppy sometimes and peppers them jnto the conversation. Other times he's more serious and ponderous, and those are the moments that Ivo has to watch himself because he never knows what small detail the other boy is going to latch onto and where his mind will run with it.

Ivo is patient with Aban not because the boy is his soulmate. Ivo is Aban's soulmate because there's something innately Aban that make him want to take his time.

So he allows himself to ramble as he categorizes the bits and pieces he's managed to salvage from the TV's guts and Aban hums but offers no commentary, quietly listening with what he assumes is rapt attention. He's started in one the many ideas he has for his precious new haul (and where he might stash it to protect it from vandalism), when he catches himself mid-thought. "—with the electron gun. Honestly it's a pity the cathode tube shattered because— Wait. You've gone awfully quiet."

"Heh, yeah, sorry." Aban chuckles, and he sounds half-asleep. Comfortable despite the dull throb of pain that Ivo can feel near his left kidney and that the younger boy refuses to acknowledge. "Man, Ivo, you think of the weirdest things."

"Ah." An unpleasant frisson of cold washes through him. "I—"

"No, not— that's—" There's the impression of a squeeze to his hand. "I didn't mean it to sound bad. I like it," he murmurs. "Keep talking?"

And so he does, the spike of cold replaced by an effusion of warmth.

Aban's smart. Not to Ivo's level— no one is at Ivo's level— but he's a fantastic listener and picks things up quick. He's also got a surprisingly cutting, judgmental (catty and petty) wit that seems incongruous with such a sweet, high voice. Though maybe that's just Ivo's estimation of the young man.

Because he often forgets—

No, that's a lie—

Because he's far too amused by Aban's violent tendencies.

He doesn't think this lapse in judgment is because they're soulmates. The fondness he feels isn't informed by their bond. The bond, he posits, was formed because they'd naturally be enamored of each other's quirks were they to meet under normal circumstances. Their connection just manages the distance for them and allows a friendship to form despite their physical separation.

(And okay, maybe there are times Aban does catch him off guard with just how vicious he is.)

Case in point: Ivo's head is swimming as he lays in the infirmary at school.

The last thing he remembers is that he was standing in the cafeteria earlier that day, scooting through the lunch line and listening to Aban snark about something he overheard when passing the faculty lounge after his own classes had been dismissed for the day. He doesn't remember the contents of the conversation anymore, just the delivery in that moment: the sharp cluck of the younger boy's tongue against his teeth and the nasal affectation he adopted whenever he aped the art teacher and her incessant hippie droning. He had chortled softly, his lips curling upward as he tried to picture the gestures Aban might have been making to go along with the theatrical imitation.

He had become a much more introverted person over the years, especially at school. He was already the weird kid in elementary and middle school with his bombastic energy, so when he ended up skipping three grade levels and entered high school much earlier than his so-called peers, he over-corrected and became a more insular individual. The change unfortunately didn't do him any favors, so even at fourteen year old he still wasn't close to anyone, but that was just as well. He didn't need the admiration or attention of the masses just yet. He had Aban to keep him company, after all. Ever his stalwart companion. His bosom buddy. His pal.

But being self-contained was no excuse for negligence of his surroundings. He'd had no idea where his eyeline seemed to be, in that moment, and he'd paid for the moment of distraction.

"What the fuck are you looking at, you fairy?!"

The world went dark in near-instantaneously, but not before Ivo felt pain explode over his right eye.

So now he's staring at the speckled tile ceiling and listening to Aban's worried voice, trying to make out what the other boy is saying over the ringing in his ears. He forces his eyes shut in a harsh blink and hears a pop behind his lids. It at once feels like a relief and like something just jabbed into his ocular cavity. He hisses softly.

"Ivo, what happened?" Aban sounds harried, tense, like he's asked this question multiple times now. Hell, he probably has.

"Mmmnh... Too loud." He grunts, blinks again. "It was... that meathead Derek. I did something to earn his wrath, apparently, so I got the honor of meeting the broad side of his fist. Followed it up with a date with the floor."

"He hit you." It isn't a question. Ivo knows well enough that his other half can feel the phantom flash of hot pain that pops like a Black Cat over his swollen eye with every heartbeat.

"Yeah," he sighs.

"I'll kill him," Aban cheerfully announces, and when Ivo hums in acknowledgement the ten-year-old adds, "No, I mean it. I know where the matron keeps her desk keys. I can pop that bad boy open and snatch her purse, get the next bus west. Take it as far as I can. I'll hitchhike to Olympia if I have to, Ivo, I swear to God, if it means I can carve out that asshole's guts and make him eat—"

"Much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, let's reign it in a little," Ivo groans, cutting him off as an odd flutter rises in his chest. He feels oddly floaty, and he's not sure if it's the head trauma or the conversation doing the heavy lifting there. "It's just a blunt-force contusion to the soft tissue surrounding my ocular cavity. I'll be fine. And I can handle Derek."

"Mm-hm."

"I can," he stresses, and it's true. He's already running a few ideas through his head. Building different machines in his mind that could cave the prick's face in. "I don't need you fighting my battles for me. He just caught me unaware, is all. And besides, I hurt worse two months ago, when you—"

He falters and bites his tongue when he feels Aban clench his jaw so tightly the mandibular joint pops from the strain.

Two months ago, Aban had cursed and quickly shunted Ivo out of his head, cutting off their connection with the abruptness of a door slamming in his face. Bewildered and hurt at the sudden and unexplained dismissal, Ivo stalked off back to his room and flopped down at his desk to tinker. It had been necessary to prevent him from spiralling, to keep the gnawing fear of abandonement from sinking its teeth into him and ripping him apart from the inside out.

When the path of their bond started to flow again he snarled something unintelligible, gearing up to lash out at his soulmate for pushing him into the dark and locking him out. But the sound caught in his throat and he choked on it as Aban's newest injuries burned their way over their connection and settled within him.

A myriad of uneven abrasions scorched hot lines down his back. His groin hurt in that nauseating way Ivo only ever experienced once when a kickball slammed into his sensitive bits. His neck ached all over, like he'd been throttled by it, and he idly reached up to rub at the sides; he was wholly unsurprised and chilled when his fingertips slotted over every sore spot with no effort at all. His knuckles ached from a perfectly-thrown punch, and his bottom lip felt swollen and raw.

"What the absolute fuck, Aban."

"You should see the other guy," the boy rasped, sounding as if he'd been dared to eat a cactus and had the temerity to try. From the difficulty Ivo had swallowing, the guessed the boy's trachea was bruised. He laughed breathlessly, the attempt at mirth swiftly devolving into shuddering sobs. No amount of soft shushing and gentle coaxing could get Aban to describe that happened during the blackout, but he figured he could piece together the story well enough.

In that moment he had the all-consuming, visceral need to wipe the entire state of New Hampshire off the map. Starting with Manchester. One building in particular.

Sadly, the urge wasn't one Ivo could act upon with his limited means, so all he could do was make feeble attempts at comfort while his soulmate buried his face into a pillow and cried.

That was the first time Ivo wholeheartedly lamented the nature of their bond. What good was he, if he couldn't be there for his other half in any impactful way? When he couldn't fold the other boy in his arms and pet his hair— couldn't hold him tight enough to defy the laws of the universe and absorb him into his skin, take those injuries for his own and spare him the pain?

The memory of that day rattles through him, seeping into his bones and grounding him. "Anyway, I'm fine, you beautiful idiot."

"Your beautiful idiot," Aban supplies, and it's like being punched in the face all over again. He reels back as if struck, red splotching over his pale cheeks and dusting the tops of his ears.

"Nngk— you lunatic, you can't just say things like that!"

"Why not?"

"Wh— People might think you're— that we— they'll just get the wrong idea, is all."

"Ah." Aban clucks his tongue against his teeth. "What kind of wrong idea?"

Ivo furrows his brow. Surely the other boy knows what he means. He may not have to deal with the constant fear-mongering and corrective actions supplied by the nuns at Saint Therese's, but his upbringing thus far hasn't been a bed of roses, either. He must know that, soulmates or not, boys shouldn't be so familiar with each other and why.

But if he doesn't know....

Ivo should be the one to inform him, right?

His internal debate is interrupted before it can take off when Aban huffs. "Nevermind. I don't care what people think. Because it's true. I'm yours. And you're mine."

It said completely without shame, his conviction firm. As easy as saying the sky is blue. Ivo's heart does a little somersault and he pushes on his chest to contain the wily thing, feeling light-headed.

"...I really would kill him for you," Aban murmurs, returning to the original subject. The tense and vibrating quality of his words replaced with something far more thoughtful. Something soft and foreign to Ivo's ears, that settles beneath his skin and entwines with his nervous syetem. "I would kill for you, Ivo. I would die for you, too."

"And I'd much prefer the exact opposite of that outcome, thank you." Ivo's chelt feels dichotomously feather-light and leaden as he processes that decree, that near-oath. He feel energized. He feels sick. "Direct that animal instinct of yours toward staying alive for me, instead. Understood?"

"I don't mean I plan to—"

"Good," he bites, adjusting in bed as something shifts inside him and clicks into place. Something he doesn't want to look at too closely at the moment. Something he doesn't have the name for, but feels just as natural as their bond. Something thrilling, terrifying, and soothing all at once. "Mark my words: We're both going to claw our way out of this refuse pit one day, Aban. I've only got a few more years until I can get out there and establish myself, and you aren't that far behind me. I'll finally be able to make the world recognize my genius, and you'll be right there beside me when it happens. We'll be an unstoppable team, you and I. Picture it, Aban."

"I... I'm picturing it, Ivo." he breathes, voice dreamy once more.

"That's the agreement, then." Ivo nods to himself, a smile playing at his lips. There's a tight warmth curling around his heart when he imagines it as well: him and his soulmate, two halves of a whole finally bridging the distance between them, uniting at last. Meeting face to face for the first time. Taking on the world together side by side. "You and me, Aban. These fools won't know what's hit 'em."

Ivo is fifteen years old when he starts at Massachussets Institute of Technology. With his advanced intellect it's an easy admission, and his status as a minor and lack of funds grants him a full needs-based scholarship, of which he plans to take an obscene amount of advantage. This means keeping odd hours as he tears through his studies, cramming six years of courses into half the allotted time to place a PhD neatly into his pocket. The first of many, if he has his way— and he has no reason to believe he won't.

His time with Aban suffers for it just because his head is so full of mathematical theorums and practical computations, but the other boy doesn't seem to mind. He's content to listen to Ivo ramble as he goes about his day, chiming in here and there with little sprinkles of encouragement and the odd tidbit regarding his own goings-on. Quite often he's accimpanied by Aban's half-asleep mumbling as he studies.

(They don't shut each other out anymore, not even for a moment. Aban feels comforted knowing he's there while he's vulnerable and asleep; and though it breaks Ivo by inches whenever a fight breaks out and he feels every new bruise and cut take purchase on his soulmate's body, the alternative is unthinkable. He won't leave Aban alone, won't stand for feeling like half of him is missing. Ever.)

(Some would say it's unhealthy to have absolutely no boundaries, even if the other person is his soulmate. It's co-dependent. Ivo says those busybodies can take a long walk off a short pier.)

It's just as well that they don't have much time to interact outside of Ivo's heavy courseload though, because that unnamed feeling grows daily, weaving itself into the fibers of his being. It winds through fibrous muscle tissue and stitches itself through sinew, pierces through his veins and unspools its threads through him, coursing through his body right alongside his blood. It blankets him, coccoons him. Constricts his entirety whenever Aban laughs in that sweet and unguarded way of his. Each month that passes, each year, it consumes him a little more. He squirms as it slowly and quietly breaks him apart. He drowns in it like a caterpillar being reduced to a nutrient-rich soup, heating and melting from his own enzymes, helpless to stop whatever he is becoming.

At first the idea of being a mere state away from his soulmate is equally distracting and envigorating. He's sometimes tempted to skive off for a few days and barrel into New Hampshire and find his soulmate early. He wants to finally see that smile in person instead of imagining it. He wants to formally introduce himself, 'Ivo Robotnik', to Aban and be granted the privilege of his soulmate's own surname in turn.

(The expectation to withhold something so simple as their names from each other had rankled him as a child, but now he could appreciate the anticipation it brings to the table. How it encourages the two halves of the bond to close the distance between them.)

But the driving force of his desire to work hard and make the other boy proud wins over in every instance. (Yes, he's aware the effort isn't necessary. His other half is always enamored by everything Ivo does and says. But that quality of his compadre mystifies him, and even after five years of adoration it's hard for Ivo to accept it as a never-ending font. A constant etched into the stars. So he persists in his endeavors.) He never wants Aban to find him lacking. But this churning, this liquefaction, terrifies him the longer it stretches on.

It unmakes him, boils his veins and pools heat low into his belly, splinters apart his focus and leaves him untethered.

Their bond is something precious, but something insidious slithers through him, threatening to ruin it.

Ivo viciously tamps it down, sinks further into his studies.

By the time he's twenty he's got three PhD's under his belt and he's moved on to Stanford University as one of their Knight-Hennesy Scholars, where he takes full advantage of those three additional uninterrupted years without any sort of financial burden.

(No, he does not flee Massachussetts. Does not force additional distance between him and the ever-growing temptation of seeing his soulmate in-person. Anyone who assumes otherwise probably eats chalk. He just couldn't stay for free at MIT anymore, with a couple of patents bringing in a not-unremarkable amount of money and nullifying his scholarship status. Nevermind that he didn't strictly have to reguster thise patents in the first place. Hush.)

He feels more at ease in California regardless of the reason for it, and his moods oddly change for the better. There's less of that bug-like crawling within his skin, the oddly tender sense of dread. He returns to a semblance of normal.

If Aban notices this shift, or if he's feeling some type of way about Ivo's change in scenery, he doesn't comment on it. Distance is distance, he supposes.

Ivo's chattering away, as usual, as he sketches out his latests schematics and considers the coding that he'll need to figure out for his newest machine. Aban has told him time and time again he loves to listen to him prattle, even if (especially if) he doesn't understand what he's talking about. (Ivo knows this to be nothing but modesty now, as he keeps up exceptionally well, but he's flattered by the praise either way.) His other half just loves the passion and enthusiasm in his voice, the glee he gets when he has a breakthrough or learns something new.

Aban's encouraging voice, his wicked but endlessly pretty laugh, stirs something wayward and vile in Ivo's gut that he tries so hard not to acknowledge. The nuns and his time under their care may be nothing more than a memory best left behind him now, but their teachings have nonetheless left an indelible mark upon what could be counted for his soul. Ivo knows well and true exactly what things, what thoughts, are reprehensible. He's already very aware how disgusting a creature he is, how the near-divine spark of his intellect does not outweigh the darkness weighing him down. How he already burns whenever he imagines the way Aban's mouth might look slanted into a mischievous smirk, his eyes glittering, and....

No. He refuses. Ivo's always known he's an unlovable monster unworthy of absolution, save for the one miracle he's been graced with. He wouldn't dare risk Aban, wouldn't taint him with this impurity. He can ignore the tightening in his jeans whenever Aban giggles breathlessly and calls him marvelous.

If he is cursed to admire forbidden fruit instead of rotting it with his touch, then so be it. He would rather cannibalize himself than let that bit of Lucifer in him claim more than what he has been given. Let him eschew his devilry and the fire for a more solitary torment. He would gladly relegate himself to the role of Tantalus instead, always wanting but never his lips finding satisfaction.

He scratches out a line of notes next to his latest project's main hull, muttering to himself. "No, that would never work. The university would never grant funding for something that ambitious. The time sink alone in order to develop the technology to the point of it being feasible, let alone the material cost..."

"Y'could negotiate a partnership with the recycling plant again, like at MIT," Aban rumbles sleepily, and Ivo sighs fondly. The idea has merit. But what actually stirs the light warmth in his chest is the slight slur to the young man's voice as he fights to stay awake. "'S far as the timeline... 'M sure you could find ways to shorten it, Ivo. You are singularly spectacular."

"I know," he agrees loftily, because it's better than melting under the adulation and stuttering a thank-you as he used to do. Part of him still feels that urge to do so. Aban chuckles lowly, as if he knows this, and Ivo's cheeks blaze. He can't have that, so he lets sensibility win out. "It's got to be nearly two in the morning, there. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Mmh... But then I'd miss hearing your voice."

"That's no excuse, and you know it," he chides, rolling his eyes. "You need to take better care of yourself."

"I am," Aban assures in return, humming lowly in that way that sometimes feels like he's right up against Ivo's ear, making him shudder and think of apples. "'M taking very good care of myself. Besides... people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Ivo swallows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know exactly what I mean," Aban sighs. "How many meals have you skipped this week, in favor of writing your thesis?"

Yes, of course this was a fair criticism. "An eerie assessment, since I've never once mentioned—"

"You hardly need to. I know you like I know myself." Aban breathes deep, lets it out slow. He's really fighting hard to stay awake, but Ivo knows it's a losing battle the deeper his voice gets and the slower he talks. "Can't wait 'til 'M out of this hellhole. 'Til I finally get to see you."

"Just one more year," Ivo notes, curling his fingers and drawing the point of his pencil aimlessly down against the paper. The threads inside him tighten, the dread rising up in him.

"Yeah... Been thinking about it a lot, lately."

"And I, as well." He thinks of the cool waters of the lake at Tartarus lapping at his feet. He thinks of crisp fruit glittering in the tree above him. He thinks of the odd peace he's found in it. He thinks of the waters receding. The fruit dropping and rolling toward him, coating itself in muck. He thinks of a lake of fire bubbling up from the silt.

"I could rent an apartment just off campus," Aban whispers, "so 'M always close by. So I can steal you away whenever you neglect yourself. Make sure you're eating right."

Distractedly, Ivo nods. Despite his imaginings taking a far more unfortunate turn, he has to admit that sounds nice. "I would like that," he confesses, shifting in his seat in an attempt to ignore the burgeoning tightness in his loins. How he can almost imagine a sinful touch there. He clenches his hand tighter.

"I'll make sure you get actual sleep." Aban exhales heavily, takes a quicker breath, and the sound of it shoots directly south where Ivo imagines a hand tugging lightly at his neglected sack— no, he can't let his lewd mind ruin something they've both dreamed of for so long. He grits his teeth as Aban continues huskily, "'M gonna take such good care of you, Ivo."

A faint pressure, a squeeze to his heated shaft, has him faintly rocking up into the air without conscious thought. The tight grip shifts, gliding decadently along his skin in a phantom caress, and— and that is not something his sinful mind is capable of manifesting. Ivo jerks in his seat. Mildly horrified, his cheeks flushing, he squeaks into the quiet of his empty dorm room, "Are you touching yourself right now?!"

"Mmh... yeah..." Aban huffs, and Ivo finally recognizes the sound for the stifled moan it is. "Is it too distracting? I can shut you out if—"

"No." God help him, no. He'll suffer through it, rather than be left alone even for a moment. "No, it's— it's fine."

"Good," Aban groans, and Ivo can feel him stroke smoothly up and back down. A lick of pleasure dances down his spine. Oh, no. "Want you with me. Keep... keep talking? Please?"

"Y-yeah." No. No, he should not keep talking. He should not encourage this. Heat flushes up his body, a beautiful warning. But he doesn't think he can deny Aban anything he asks for, in this moment. "What should I...?"

"Anything," he whines, and Ivo's traitorous body pulses with want. "Just let me hear you, Ivo, please."

"I..." He licks his lips, casting a net out into the yawning void of his mind in hopes of finding a thought that doesn't pertain to the person on the other end of his bond. To his body draped out over his bed and rocking up into his hand— nope. "I'm thinking... of the many trees that are on campus here."

"The trees...?"

This is clearly not the avenue of conversation his companion expected, but he doesn't sound displeased in any manner. Curiosity intermingles with the sensual cadence of his voice. Interest, as he attests, in anything Ivo says.

"The trees, yes," he continues, closing his eyes and attempting to picture the familiar sight rather than follow the allure of the unknown. He bites his cheek, hands dropping from his desk to ball into the denim over his thighs. He does his best to ignore the ghostly slide and pull. "There are hundreds of them here. Oaks and redwoods mainly, with the ever-present California calling card that is the damned palm tree. The oppressive force of greenery is impressive, in a way, and when the colors turn in the fall it's like a month-long sunset dancing in the chilly air. Warm and inviting."

"Sunset orange." Aban's breath hitches and he groans. "Like your hair."

Ivo grunts like he's been punched. It was a small detail he doesn't remember telling his soulmate, though he must have, long ago. He dyed his hair months ago to hide the ginger locks away. He hated them, hated the way each orange follicle caught the light and looked like embers. He's surprised to hear that Aban thinks so fondly of the color. "But the leaves are going to fall soon, and when they get damp they turn into a sweet carpet of decay. The thick smell of petrichor on misty days is enough to overwhelm the senses sometimes, but the earthy scent is... heady. I won't deny that it's pleasant. But the slippery leaves underfoot are a menace when I'm trying to move from building to building, and the aesthetic appeal is not worth the loss of my favorite outdoor reading spaces."

"The sweet gum trees?"

"Correct. There are a few dotted throughout campus, and the stringent turpentine and lemon-mint combination wafting from each of them is quite lovely. The sap is awful and the spiked seed balls make the surrounding area a minefield for potential seating, but if you're patient enough to sweep everything away to make your own space, there are few places that are more enjoyable to relax in."

"I could bring a picnic blanket as a thermos after it rains. Warm food and sun by your side, a good book in your hand. Sounds wonderful."

Ivo draws his bottom lip between his teeth and locks his hips, commanding himself not to arch up as a heavy thumb sweeps its ephemeral touch over his glans. "When I say 'you', understand that I don't mean you in particular. I wouldn't dare trust you around any of those trees, you menace. The general populace would not be safe from those spiked projectiles in your hands."

"Don't be mean to me, Ivo." He can hear the sultry, playful lilt in Aban's voice. The hand evenly stroking up and down never stops, but in short order he's aware of another sensation: a palm cupping below the shaft and squeezing the sensitive pouch there. "I would be on my best behavior for you, and you know it."

Ivo's breath catches. "Do I?"

"Mm-hm, scout's honor."

"You're the furthest thing from a Boy Scout."

"You've got me, there. But I promise not to torment any passers-by." He laughs, that sweet-wicked laugh of his that always makes Ivo melt. "Not on purpose, anyway. I would much rather focus on you. I bet you're so pretty when you're trying to focus on reading. Makes me want to be the worst distraction. Try to steal a kiss whenever you turn a page."

"Wh— Kiss...?"

"Yeah," he breathes, and the longing Ivo detects is usually only reserved for something decadent and light on his tongue. Aban doesn't have a strong sweet tooth, but he's weak for the bittersweet profile of tiramisu. Ivo's own name tastes just like that when the other man yearningly whispers it. "Your cheek, your lips. I bet those are so soft. I want to taste them. Cup the back of your head and drink you in. Kiss you again and again until you can't breathe."

"Aban...!" He should urge his other half to stop, but the image that flashes into his head is like a lightning strike to his sense of mind. There he is, leaning against the sweet gum tree, its bark digging into the space between his shoulder blades. A book dangles forgotten in his hand as Aban threads his fingers into his hair and slots their mouths together, languid and wet, hot and sweet. Apples and honey on his tongue. Aban draws himself closer, overtaking Ivo, throwing one leg over his lap.

Ivo sinks his teeth into his lip hard to chase the image away, shivering with the force of how much he wants it.

"Ah! You like that?"

Aban chuckles and squeezes, and the evidence of Ivo's arousal pulses more insistently. He attempts to hold back a whimper but ultimately fails, and his soulmate's responding moan finally cracks his resolve. The higher processes of his brain come to a grinding halt and a pathetic noise claws its way out of his throat. He sinks into the dizzying smoke and darkness brought about by his other half's voice and promises of affection, of absolution. His hand moves on its own, his natually dominant hand, is mano sinistra, and it pops the button of his fly. The zipper strains and drags down a centimeter without assistance, the clothing just as eager to part from his turgid flesh as he is to be rid of it. His fishes out his dick and gives it an experimental stroke and squeeze. Aban yelps at the first sign of a reciprocal touch and Ivo can feel the other's grip tighten in response. He curses, his head reeling.

This. This is what will be his undoing. This is a precursor, a glimpse into how he falls into the pit, his major sin that of lust and not pride. The flames already lick at his belly, pleasant and tempting to the flesh for now, a seduction of the soul. A caress, a gentle preview of the flame that would consume him everlasting.

"I want to mouth my way down your neck," Aban pants. "Want to run my hands down your chest, your stomach, want to feel you— ah!— feel you squirm under my fingers and press up against me as my tongue glides along yours."

"Nngh...!"

"God, I didn't know you could sound like that. S-so pretty, Ivo, fuck. Makes me want to just rile you up more. See how crazy I can make you until you push me away. Push me down, lay me out, and— Fuck~"

Aban's palming hand slips lower, further back, and one finger presses pointedly at the puckered hole there. Circles it enticingly before slipping inside. The sensation sends fireworks crackling up Ivo's spine and he whines, bucking up into his own hand. It's filthy, what Aban is suggesting. What he's doing to himself, what he seemingly wants Ivo to do to him.

It's wrong.

Everything he's been told his entire life says this is wrong. He shouldn't be picturing Aban sprawled out among the leaves, flushed and sweaty and bare to him like a conquered dryad, legs splayed and inviting him, begging to be used. To be ruined. To be rutted into the earth, soiled by the blanket of rot and Ivo's body both.

But nothing about Aban could ever be wrong, and he's touching himself to the sound of Ivo's voice, coaxing himself open more and more, bucking into his other hand with high moans and soft cries for "More, just like that, yes, fuck, please—" and he can feel it all. He can feel everything Aban does to himself, enthusiastic and greedy and deserving of it all, and he spreads his legs in his chair for a better angle to thrust up into his own hand. This pleasure is wholly his own but he knows Aban can feel it too, that this debauchery is mirrored on his soulmate's senses and serves to amplify the experience.

The pleasure builds up quickly, feeding back and forth between them, supercharging and crackling as it tangles into their shared spaces. Their strokes fall out of sync but it's all the more electric for it.

"Ivo," Aban gasps, sharp and sudden. "Ivo, 'M gonna— ah, ah, gonna—!"

What follows is a live wire crackling fractals of heat from the crux of Ivo's legs outward, washing over him from head to toe. He chokes on his own spit as his orgasm erupts from him, spilling the hot evidence of his sin into his fist.

He's breathless and dizzy from the rush, especially when the cresting echoes from Aban hit him shortly after and make his softening and sensitive member jerk. Ivo faintly registers his body quaking, the high making him lightheaded... and as he comes down from it, the shaking becomes more violent. The disgust settles in once more, no longer content to slink quietly in the background of his mind.

"Oh, wow..." Aban sounds like he's punchdrunk, his tongue thick and heavy in his own mouth. "Wow."

He sounds happy, relaxed. Ivo feels like there's fire in his veins, ants under his skin.

His face crumples in on itself and he sobs.

Aban instantly becomes alert. "Ivo? Ivo what happened, are you okay?"

He can't get the full words out to express that no, he is not okay. Of course he's not okay. He's perverse, vile, he's— "Disgusting," he gasps, "Disgusting, I'm so... shit, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to—!" But he did. He won't add a lie to his growing pile of sins. He bites hard on his tongue as he hurriedly hops from his chair and rushes to the ensuite bathroom.

"Ivo—"

"Fuck—"

"Ivo, breathe! Just stop for a minute and breathe. Talk to me!"

Talk?! Talking is what got them into this mess! Got Ivo to debase himself, defile the mental image of his soulmate. He rubs his own emissions onto his boxers and rips his clothes from his body, tossing them carelessly aside. The sink handles protest as he roughly turns the hot water on full blast. He plunges them into the water and starts scrubbing.

"Ivo?" Aban's voice is suddenly small, uncertain. Pained. Belatedly, he realizes that the other man can feel the scalding heat and he scratching at his palms. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I should have asked first. I thought, since we're soulmates.... I got ahead of myself and didn't consider that you might not want to— that you might not share my feelings. I should have asked."

"Feelings?" His voice is tight, brittle, nervous. Harsh, barbed, an aegis held up too late to protect the lance that's dug into his side.

"Yeah." Aban's quiet, his voice soft and remorseful. Regretful? It hurts to hear. But... he doesn't sound repulsed. "I think about you a lot, you know? I know you're always with me, but you're also not, and I wish you were. I wish I could be by your side, and I wish I could hold your hand and..." His voice softens further, and more timidly he supplies, "I wish I could kiss you. And hold you. And.... more, if you wanted. But I didn't ask, I fucked up, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?! You're sorry." He laughs, nearly manic as he continues to clean himself off. He ducks down to splash the too-hot water in his face. "I just jacked off imagining your hand on my dick, like a filthy faggot, and you're sorry?!" He whimpers, curling over the sink as if he could shrink down and wash himself down the drain. "Sorry, sorry—"

"Iv-- wh-- Ivo! I did it too. You're not alone in this. Hell, I did it first!"

This reminder brings him to a standstill. It's not like he forgot Aban's part in all of this, but... "That's different."

"It's not. There's nothing wrong with what you did, I promise." He huffs, then growls, "Besides, there is nothing filthy about you. You're— You're glorious."

"..."

"Ivo. You are beautiful."

"The fuck," he breathes, shaking his head and quivering. "What are you saying."

"Exactly that. Nothing that you do could ever repulse me. You're transcendent."

Ivo wheezes, the breath forced out of him like a deflating balloon. "You cretin, you don't even know what I look like."

"I don't need to. I know you, and you're perfect."

He turns off the water, unfurling to look at his waifish body in the mirror. He's gaunt, his face is puffy and red. He looks, to his own eye, like a drowned rat. "Not in this case," he grumbles, then adds quickly, ripping the lance from his gut, preferring to bleed out than suffer a prolonged injury, "Aban, you're aware I'm a guy."

"Really now? Eleven years and I never figured that out."

"Fuck you. What you're clearly not getting is that this is... sick. We can't do this."

"Mm. That's what everyone else says. Since when have you ever let your lessers tell you what you can and can't have? Don't start now." The firm, no-nonsense tone Aban has adopted softens, but remains determined all the same. "Don't let this be the one thing they actually poison."

"..."

"...If you don't feel the same way though, that's different. I won't force my feelings on you. Okay? I can keep my hands to myself. I want you in any way I can have you, in any way you're willing."

Ivo swallows.

Considers.

"...If you were here with me," he begins, falters. Tries again. "I don't think I can handle more than what just transpired. Not... Not yet. But I would like very much to hold your hand. And kiss you, as well."

Aban breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and the tension in Ivo's shoulders fades away. "I look forward to it."

"I should probably take a shower," Ivo says after a moment. "I feel..."

Aban must know he's having trouble jumping over the hurdle that is the word 'dirty', in this context. He doesn't let him flounder. "Drained? Spent?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll let you do that. Give you time to process. But wake me if you need me?"

"I will." He won't, but he's infinitely grateful for the offer.

"And in the morning, maybe we can talk more about next year."

"It's a date." It's a slip of the tongue, but the happy squeak it pulls from his soulmate makes Ivo smile. "Go to bed, you beautiful idiot."

"Your beautiful idiot," Aban answers as always, and context of that endearment has shifted. Yes, he thinks. That sounds right.

Several months later, Ivo finally gets the nerve to to touch himself under the sheets, his explorations feather-light and mindless, as he listens to Aban snore several hundred miles away. He draws his long fingers through the sparse curls on his chest and idly traces a nipple, shivering at just how sensitive they are.

He keeps his touches gentle because only the more intense sensations pass between the soul bond, and he's not sure if he's ready to open himself up to a possible breakdown again. He simply allows his mind to wander where it will, cataloguing the path his thoughts take and his body's reactions to various stimuli. The ticklish way his stomach contracts when he skims over it. The slow fill of his penis to rigidity. The pleasant rasp of wiry hair parting and coiling around his fingertips as they smooth over the soft mound of flesh at the root of his shaft. The way his ballsack fits nicely in his cupped hand, warm and heavy.

He hesitates to dip back behind his balls, as Aban had done. Nagging voice in his head aside, the primary use for that orifice is to dispose of waste. Biologically, it isn't sanitary to touch. But he allows it this once; he can wash afterward, but for now he needs to be thorough in his experimentation. The ring flutters and tenses at his touch. It... isn't unpleasant. But it isn't worth noting either. If he were to be more aggressive in his exploration and push inside it might be different, but that's not the goal for tonight.

He grazes his hands over the inner expanse of his thighs, then starts the slow circuit back up his body until he's caressing his chest again and arching up into it. He pets himself a little more, gradually reducing the fullness of his touch until he pulls his hand away completely and lets them fall beside him to the mattress. Lets his erection fizzle out and settle back down, flaccid between his legs once more.

The earth continues its slow turn on its axis.

He doesn't smell fire and brimstone.

The world doesn't end.

And so he tries again a week later, with Aban awake and aware of his plan to experiment with the concept of self pleasure. He outlines the prior results of his explorations, and the conditions for this new experiment.

This is a solo exploration, because the feedback loop they found themselves in when they mtutually sought their end had been mind-altering in its intensity. He needs an unfiltered, uncomplicated notation of his body's responses. But Aban is his private lab partner in this, and his observational input is much appreciated. He's welcome to guide him through it.

Aban takes to the task with barely disguised delight. He directs him to grab a bottle of lotion before settling in for the experiment to begin, but then he's content to let Ivo's hands roam aimlessly. He can't feel the soft petting, but listens to Ivo's quiet breathing become heavier as arousal builds instead. He whispers encouragement, soft and sweet, and murmurs praise at every faint moan he hears.

When Ivo signals he's ready for more direct commands, Aban coaxes him to collect a dollop of lotion and warm it in his palm. He guides Ivo to touch his own shaft, tells him where to grab it and just how tight. He has Ivo set the pace, but the way Ivo twists his wrist or thumbs over the head is all at Aban's discretion and so is the attention he pays to his sack. Each grasp, each pull, each roll of his balls in his palm, happens only when Aban tells him to.

It's freeing to rid himself of control in this. To allow someone more comfortable in his skin, seemingly more experienced in this facet of self-care, to take the lead. The toxic voice in his head is beautifully silent, replaced by the loving adulation that falls so easily from Aban's lips.

Baffingly, Aban isnt completely unaffected by this endeavor. He never once touches himself but he moans and gasps, lavishes Ivo with plenty of affirmations as he pushes himself closer and closer to the edge of release.

Amazingly, he whimpers and curses and reaches completion completely untouched, only the echo of Ivo's own pleasure for stimulation. This knowledge unlocks something in some hidden corner of Ivo's mind and he follows with a started gasp, taking in deep gulps of air like a man half drowned.

It was a profound and beautiful experience. Ivo feels, dare he say it, hallowed.

The next time is far more of a degenerate affair. He's studying for the fall semester's finals, deep into his seventh coffee and buried behind a desk at the library on campus at ten in the evening, when a bold and intangible hand gropes at his crotch. (More accurately, Aban's crotch, but the result is the same. He sits at attention and after a couple more moment of pawing the little guy in his lap rises to the occasion as well.

"Damn you," he hisses, hurriedly grabbing his study materials and tossing them into his bag. He makes a quick exit, glad that the floor is nearly empty and the few people who are around are elsewise occupied.

"Me?"

"No, my other other half. Yes, you. Where do you get off, feeling me up like that while I'm in public?"

"Hah, technically I'm not touching you. And I currently am trying to get off in my bed. Which is where you should be, too." Cheeky little shit.

"That's a physical impossibility."

"Not my bed, Ivo. Your own. You should rest up for tomorrow."

"I was studying."

"You've been holed up in the library all day. You've been dealing with diminishing returns for hours now, and you know it." Aban sighs, pinches the tip of his dick. Ivo grunts and shivers, his eyelids fluttering in attempt to stay open. "You're going to burn yourself out if you keep going. Come to bed, sweetheart. Let me help you relax."

The temptation in that offer is sinful, a siren call of hedonistic delight. It's so easy to be swayed by his partner's beckoning.

But something wicked— no, he must reframe it— something impish takes hold of him and he rolls the thought in his head for a moment or two. Aban's moan rips down his spine and makes Ivo's toes curl. He decides to give it a shot, at least.

"Expert manipulation tactic; you should be proud." Ivo chuckles. He looks around the open quad and finds no late-night wanderers. Even so, he speed-walks through the dew-slick grass toward the dormitories. "But we both know this little stunt of yours is not simply for my sake."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you really set your mind to it, you wouldn't need to throw yourself at me with your rent boy act in order to get me to put the books down and get some sleep. You've had no problem doing so before."

"'Rent boy'?" Aban giggles and lazily strokes himself. "You sound like an old man. You can just say 'slut'. you know."

The blood rushes to Ivo's face and pools in his cheeks. "Quite. Regardless. There are other ways to garner my attention and keep it, and yet you chose this method. You chose to entertain this lewd impulse of yours while I was in a public space. No, I think you're simply prone to wanton acts of harlotry."

"Harlotry," Aban squeaks, wrestling between laughter and a shaky moan. "Ivo, oh my god."

"Harlotry," Ivo repeats, nodding to himself. "Elsewise, perhaps you have some exhibitionist desire you were trying to live out vicariously through me. Is that it?"

"You're ridiculous." He can hear the fond smile in his soulmate's voice, can feel the pulse of his arousal as he works his length and reaches down to prod at his hole.

"No, I'm confident in my assessment of the situation. You wanted to rile me up, wanted to see how long I would try to stay in my seat, stubbornly clinging to my self-control as you pawed at yourself like an animal. You're pushing the boundary even now, trying to test my patience." He doesn't have much of it in supply. Aban was right in his own estimation as well; Ivo is exhausted and had been running straight toward a mental brick wall. He strides quickly into the dormitory's lobby and to the stairs, hurrying toward the second floor. "Did you think I would squirm in my seat, a toddler ignoring his bodily needs until they became too much? Did you want me to break and give in, touch myself back there?"

Aban's breath hitches and he abruptly applies a harsh squeeze to the base of his cock. His pumping stops. He has two fingers inside himself now, scissoring himself open, and they come to a stop as well. "Fff~ Ivo..."

"Aht, no no, you started this. Why are you stopping? Keep moving, hustler." Aban gasps prettily in his ear and he bites back a groan, grinning. "There we go. Now, what was it you said? You wanted to help me relax?"

"Mm-hmm..."

"You want to take care of me. My needs. I see...." He pretends to ponder this like it's new information as he fishes out his keys and opens the door to his room. "And just what makes you think that you're worthy of that honor right now, after your shameless little stunt?" He shuts the door behind him, leans against the solid wood. He frets his lip and weighs how far to push this false diatribe. He decides to go for broke and hisses, "Slut."

"Oh, fuck, Ivo!" Aban's pace is more frantic now, and he fingers himself with gusto, whining. The ghostly sensations are delicious, and the sounds are music to his ears. He know his partner is close to coming undone without any words to indicate it. He's dangerously close, himself, still trapped in his jeans. "'M worthy, I'll make it so good for you, please, let me— let me—"

"Shh, none of that. I know." He finally relents and palms himself, grinding the heel of his hand into his own aching cock. "Go ahead. Cum."

The sound Aban makes as he falls apart is rapturous. If he could imprint that sound in his memory and play it on loop for all of eternity, he would. As it stands, he settles for the echo of the other man's orgasmic spasms pulling him along, dragging him to his own peak in a fiersome rush.

Ivo rests his heavy head against the door, listening to his soulmate gasp for breath as he slowly returns from his post-coital high. "That was... I think I slipped into another plane of existence for a moment. Goddamn."

"That good, hm?" Ivo chuckles softly, then clears his throat. His soulmate clearly enjoyed himself, but the bliss in his voice does not prevent a bubble of anxiety from rising to the surface. "I didn't go too far?"

"You were perfect," Aban sighs, his voice husky. "As always, everything you do is perfect."

"Easy there, or I'll think you're trying to coax me into another round. I do not have that in me."

"Ha, me either. But it helped, right?"

"It did. Mission accomplished, I'm going to bed."

"Good," he hums, sounding wrung-out but pleased. "Sleep well, sweetheart."

"You as well. Good night, dearest."

Before Ivo knows it, the year is almost over and Aban has two weeks of school left. Another week beyond that before he ages out of the system. There's a day or two of travel after that, and Ivo can finally see his soulmate's face for the first time. He can finally, finally pull him close and crush him with the force of his hug.

The anticipation vibrates through him, energizes him.

"The apartment complex we were considering has an unit coming available next month. It's perfect timing."

"Mmh. About that. I've... been thinking."

"About what, dearest?"

"About what I'm going to do once I'm out of here. About my prospects."

"I've been considering the same. I have a collection of want ads for your perusal after you arrive. The timing isn't ideal for the job market, of course, with school letting out for summer and every Larry, Curly, and Moe jockeying for the same positions, but I think—"

"That's just it, Ivo. Competition is going to be fierce, and there's no guarantee anything worthwhile will be available by the time I arrive. With my checkered history as well, I;m even less likely to be a 'good candidate' for whatever I apply for."

"What are you saying?"

"Well, I've been talking to this recruiter—"

"The military? Aban, you can't be serious. You're leagues above those dime-a-dozen grunts."

"Ivo," he admonished softly, a tired chuckle following shortly after. "I know you hold me in high esteem, but realistically? I'm a brown, penniless orphan with a laundry list of behavioral issues on my record. I have good grades, but those don't mean anything unless I'm pursuing higher education, and I don't have that option. My prospects are slim. This is the sensible option."

"The sensible option is to come to Palo Alto! Come to me. We can figure things out together, Aban. And if nothing pans out or you don't care for your immediate options that's no obstacle. I have money from my patents. I can take care of you. You know this."

"You shouldn't have to take care of me, Ivo." Aban groans, frustrated, before he sighs. "I appreciate it. I do. I know your heart is in the right place. But I'm your soulmate. Your partner. It's important to me that I can pull my own weight. That I'm your balance. You understand?"

"I do." Aban doesn't want to be a burden on their relationship. He wants to be able to stand on his own— not separate by any means, but a second pillar anchored into their foundation. He wants agency. Ivo hates what his soulmate's chosen for himself, hates that he feels the need to take on such a risky career path to prove himself, but he understands the need to self-establish. "I don't like it. But I do."

Ivo eyes the formal-looking letter sitting open on his desk, a black and gold embossed sticker depicting a capital 'G' stylized to look like a shield and bracketed by laurels. He's being courted right now by a branch of the government he's never heard of, and he originally wasn't going to entertain the offer for a developmental contractor position. But if Aban is going to insist on this, then he thinks he might take their offers more seriously and negotiate terms. It would be worth it to be there to keep him safe from the sidelines.

So it's decided. They postpone their meeting for a year and Ivo continues working toward finishing his degree while Aban focuses on basic training. It's not a bad set-up, at least. Military life is all about routine and discipline, so Ivo and Aban have no issues carving out quality time for each other. They still talk at all hours, and Ivo is exasperated by the bullshit his other half is subjected to on the daily but he continues to adore his pithy banter, his snide commentary.

Privately, Ivo loves to hear him grunting with effort through his exercises. (And sometimes he's a bit of an ass and touches himself and whispers absolutely filthy things to Aban while he's in formation, trying to distract him and get him in trouble. Turnabout is fair play, after all, and Ivo's got a very creative mind. His fantasies are lurid affairs, crafted wih an intricacy afforded to him as a pent-up virgin with a long-distance love waiting for him.)

Training draws to a close after three months, and Aban chooses his specialty. He's sent off to receive a more focused brand of training, and another four months come and go.

Ivo has difficultly admitting it, but even if he hates the path Aban chose he's proud of his soulmate for sticking through it all.

Neither of them have any idea where Aban may be stationed, but they hope for GUN's American or European headquarters. Failing that, one of the other permanent deployment stations in Germany or Japan wouldn't be awful. Ivo won't be signing on with them for a few more months and can negotiate his lab location accordingly, then further his education while he designs weapons that skirt terms laid out in the Geneva Convention.

He wishes Aban luck that morning and his partner's cheerful disposition is a buoy of shared hope.

Aban leaves the barracks and head off for a final medical assessment before his briefing. Ivo isn't worried; Aban's always been exceptional. The cream of the crop. The doctors will find him to be in prime condition and whatever assignment he receives, it will be worthy of his skills.

Despite himself, Ivo feels... secure.

But then suddenly and without warning, he is shut out.

He is confused about this new development, worried, but assumes Aban's been told to erect the mental barrier for now. That he has to focus or elsewise filter out any information he might be receiving.

He despises it. Being without Aban makes him itch. But he reasons it should be only half an hour or so. A few hours at most. Like when one of them is asleep and the other is awake, only eerie instead of comforting.

The hours pass by, and there's still no Aban.

Then a full day trickles by.

Ivo is climbing the walls.

After three days with no word from his soulmate, no phantom touches or sensations, he fractures. Did... did Aban decide, after all this time, that he didn't want him anymore? He'd always secretly worried this might happen, but he expected an actual breakup before he was pushed away. Not to just be completely shut out with no explanation! No chance to redeem himself for whatever his failings are. And he's sure there are many.

He wasn't ever expecting to be ghosted.

For the person twined so intricately into his nervous system to just... cleanly cut himself out like excising a tumor.

After a week, he accepts it as truth. He withdraws.

After a month, the soft and quivering mess that Aban left behind hardens. Develops poisonous armor.

Ivo is tucked away in a box, and anyone who dares try to ingratiate themselves to him by using that name are issued a swist and brutal correction.

Only Doctor Robotnik remains.

The new graduates for GUN's field agent program are taken one by one for their final medical assessments and initial briefing. They're called from their barracks and dragged across base, and Aban doesn't really think anything of it when no one returns. They're all instructed to take their bags with them, after all.

"Aban Steadman?"

"Yes, sir."

He sits in the chair, going through the blood pressure test, reflex test, and so on. The doctor starts the sight and hearing tests, and Aban does well.

Just another routine exam.

Cold, latex-swathed hands trace the curvature of Aban's spine, making sure everything is aligned. And then there's a pinch near his scapula. A searing heat.

And then sudden, horrifying silence in his head.

What GUN doesn't tell their agents when they sign up for the program, he learns in that moment, is that the soulmate bond is chemically (and permanently) severed upon deployment to prevent security issues.

How they've kept the lid on the secret to how soul bonds work, let alone their ability to dismantle them, is a mystery. One he has no time to ponder.

The reason no one is sent back to the barracks is because the initial fallout causes so much mental distress for the uninformed that they have to be sedated and monitored.

He learns later on that they view the presence sharing space in their minds is like a drug in itself, in how it rewires the brain and processes everyday input. As such, when a bond is forcefully severed, it is treated with the same course of action. Soldiers are subdued and brought to a secondary location to recover their senses, quaking in a form of detox from the loss of near-constant dopamine.

Ivo once likened their bond to a dental filling— two differing but compatible substances joined together, shaping and supporting the other with a thin filament of space between them. His view of it is safe, clinical, and borne from the notion that he might one day be denied such a supporting structure, popped carelessly from the enamel and tossed aside.

Aban imagines it as a meeting of seed and soil. He pictures growth and mutual exchange, pictures the give and take of a perfect symbiosis as the plant sups nutrients and in turn hosts and feeds the flourishing microfauna scuttling in the ground below. The two are intrinsically entwined, both separate but part of a larger whole and each unable to thrive without the other.

Aban feels the roots of it tear free from his bones, from his synapses, from the deepest parts of himself. The fibrous tendrils cling stubbornly, ripping clumps of fertile earth free in their departure and exposing obligate anaerobes to the sting of the open air, disturbing the earthworms and larvae and overturning the soil. The change to the landscape of his id is abrupt and irreparable.

He screams and thrashes and, with the hard-earned skill and reflexes afforded to him by his upbringing, he snatches an anatomical model from the countertop and clocks the doctor in the temple. The man collapses to the tile with a meaty thump and Aban snarls, bringing his boot to his face again and again and again.

He hears the crash of the door slamming open and terse shouts, but all he can see from that point onward is red, red, red before he sinks to the savaged ground and the world goes dark.

When he wakes in his cell padded room he's sore and there's a patchy garden of violet blooms on his body, but he is otherwise no worse for wear than usual.

(The same could not be said of that doctor or of the three guards he made proper patients of.)

He isn't the same, after that. Even after all the hell he went through as a child— all the blood and tears and broken bones and everything else he kept tucked away firmly in the past— still managed to hold onto his sunny disposition. Cutting sense of humor and tendency toward violence not withstanding.

But this...?

He shuts down. Though he doesn't bleed, he's left a meaty mess with the lifeblood of his bond dripping from guilty palms. It leaves him frained and hollow, ground down to something he can't classify as a person anymore. And this, he realizes, is the point.

He should have been smarter than this. He should have known.

And now he's lost the one good thing in his life with no way of getting it back.

It's not the first death he's caused, nor will it be the last, but it is the most significant.

When the door opens again and he's allowed to step outside once more, he's met with a stern-looking woman with flinty eyes and a jawline so sharp it could be classified as a weapon. She looks him up in down, and judging by the flick at the bow of her lip she finds him wanting.

"Welcome to the world of the living, Agent Stone. Let's get to work."

His assignments become all he knows, just as planned. He's simply an agent, a weapon, nothing more.

He's fantastic at what he does, too. Efficient, brutal. It's easy to tear through his adversaries when he's comprised of jagged pieces and not much else. Stone quickly becomes the one they send in when shit hits the fan and the mess needs to be cleaned up. When a lid needs to be placed on the boiling pot of turmoil and bloodshed.

Stone is the one they plant whenever someone needs monitoring and reigning in, elsewise taken out.

(If that means seducing his targets and making them vulnerable enough to slay in their own beds, well. It's not as if he'll ever be with the one person worthy of him, not as if he'll ever feel that sense of completion or be whole again. It's just another tool in his arsenal. It means nothing.)

Seven years go by.

Agent Stone is pulled from the field somewhere in Bosnia to be placed back on American soil.

Apparently one of GUN's finest scientists is actually a loose cannon. A gloriously brutish weapon that's a little cracked and more likely to explode as time goes on. But the man cannot be cut free from GUN's lashings and retired from service. He knows too much, has seen too much, and has the loaded and packed barrel inverted with forty-two pounds of pitted iron aimed at their kneecaps. What they need is an experienced handler to act as a quoin, keep him focused on the right targets.

This is Stone's task as he understands it, and if he cannot keep the roboticist to task then he is to dispatch him... before the madman ends him first, as he's done to several agents before him.

Blankly, he accepts. It's just another mission.

He can bring Doctor Robotnik to heel one way or the other. It's just a matter of identifying whether Stone will need the stick or the carrot.

Stone, silent and stoic, stands at-ease beside Walters as introductions are made. As this Dr Robotnik steadfastly ignores them both, tinkering at his desk while deadly-looking drones float around the lab.

And Stone knows these things are dangerous. He's seen them on the field before. Worked in tandem with them. Perfect killing machines worthy of deference. They don't scare him as they should. He feels an odd kindred spirit in them when he looks at those large lenses and watches them work. They're eerily beautiful, in a way. Elegant.

Walters finishes his speech and slaps Stone on the shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie and leaving him to his fate.

He stands there watching the doctor work for a few minutes before he realizes he's not going to be addressed. He shrugs to himself, makes his way over to the desk, ignores the drones as they focus their attention on him. They'll be a problem later if he does have to dispatch the doctor, but for now he means no harm and they aren't doing more than observing the new presence in the lab.

"Doctor Robotnik," he says softly, his voice flat and neutral as it's come to be after all this time. "I understand I'm to assist you however you may need. Do you have a task for me?"

"Your task is to eat a bullet, agent," the man snarls, not looking up from his work.

"I'm afraid that's not a reasonable task conducive to a productive work environment."

"Is that cheek I'm detecting?"

"Merely fact, sir," he intones unblinkingly.

"Merely--" Robotnik barks out a laugh, cold and dry. "You want a task? Fine. Pin yourself to the wall."

"Sir?"

"Too difficult for you to understand? I'll say it slower. Pin. Yourself. To the. Wall."

Stone's brows furrow in consternation. It's an odd request with no real purpose, but it's benign enough. He can comply, show a little subservience. He nods and looks around for the nearest wall. Walks up to it. Presses his hand to his chest and leans back until he thumps against drywall.

Robotnik is on him with the striking speed of a viper. Their bodies are close enough that he can feel the buzzing heat of him, the hot rush of his breath against his cheek, and for a baffling moment he thinks the man is about to mount him right there with no preamble, no seduction needed. But then Robotnik snarls.

"You think you're hot shit, don't you, agent silt-for-brains," he seethes. "Well, I can assure you that whatever you think you're here for, whatever lie you've been given to try and spoon-feed me, I'm not going to fall for it. I've done this dance enough times now that I can smell the inevitable knife you're going to try wedging into my back.

"Have you ever been forced to drink your meals through a straw, agent?" He coos, saccharine and acidic. One gloved hand finds its way to Aban's neck, leather creaking in a warning grip. "Because that's childsplay for me to accomplish. Step even one toe out of line, even breathe in a way that doesn't please me, and you'll wish that I decided to toy with you instead of what I'll actually do. You are nothing, and I'll reduce you to nothing before sending what little can be scraped off my boot back to your weeping loved ones-- should you have any, which I highly doubt. You slavering, grubby mongrels have so little going on between your two heads it's a miracle you can breathe, let alone procreate."

Aban's cool contenance falters, eyes widening the longer the doctor verbally tears into him. Something in this vicious assault sounds achingly familiar. Or maybe it's the specific lilt of his voice, the loping quality to it, the way it bounces with energy, rattles through his ear and sounds like....

Like heaven.

Like absolution.

Like the first deep breath after years of being just this side of drowning.

Like the first sip of ice cold water on a desert-dry tongue.

His gazes sweeps over the roboticist's fury-twisted facial features, looking for an ounce of familiarity. Something that lines up with the image he's built in his head. Fiery orange locks and a playful smirk are briefly superimposed over the inky black coiffure and snarled upper lip.

He could be wrong. He's probably wrong. He swallows and whispers, hopefully, "...Ivo?"

The gloved hand pulls back abruptly, the doctor recoiling as if burned.

Stone leans forward, chin tilting up and exposing his neck, instinctively seeking out more of the retreating touch. He shudders. "Is it really you? Ivo."

"..." Robotnik couldn't look more gobsmacked than if the agent suckerpunched him. He reels for a moment before looking vaguely sick, the expression quickly devolving into quiet anger with the rumble of incoming storm clouds rolling over his tight features. "I see. This is the game GUN wants to play."

"What?"

"Oh, don't try to play innocent, agent. If there's one thing I can't abide, it's an insult to my intelligence." He chuckles, though the sound is empty. The grin he gives Stone is all teeth and his eyes are devoid of humor. "They really must be desperate to tighten my leash, after all. How much of a bump in pay are you receiving, my dearest, if you've decided to finally sully yourself and acknowledge my existence once more?"

Something beats frantically against the his ribs, bloodied wings against an ivory cage. What was he implying? "What? I--"

"Honestly, I should have expected this ploy sooner or later," he muses, tilting his head thoughtfully. His gaze roams slowly over Stone, considering him. "It would have been far more effective sooner, of course. Even after a year of silence I'm sure I would have been desperate to have you. Especially given how much of a treat for the eyes you've turned out to be. You really don't disappoint.

"Alas," he affects a casual shrug and waves a dismissive hand, turning away. A small part of Stone notes the theatrical nature of it all, but the majority of his attention swings to the gleaming white drones that have focused their sights on him once more, red pinpoints of light dotting his chest and head. "The time for that has long passed. But you've always been far more stubborn than sense would allow. Hah, pot to kettle, I'm aware, but that's the thing about matching sets."

"Ivo..."

"Don't. You. 'Ivo'. Me."

Stone shuts his mouth.

"Did you really think I'd be pleased to see you after seven years of abandonment, Aban? That I'd roll over and show my belly for you, let you collar me? Or did you just let it slip one day that you were saddled with me, and the higher-ups decided this would be the perfect leverage to keep me in line, finally neuter their feral little pet? WELL, TOO BAD!"

The heated roar is accompanied by a heavy fist on Robotnik's workbench, making the tools there rattle and clang noisily. Stone doesn't flinch. He's too busy trying to force his lungs back into action; he's reeling from the use of a name long unused, for a man who crumbled away years ago.

"It takes two to play this game, and I refuse. I win by default. You lose. You've been eliminated from the bracket."

Robotnik sighs, tiredly falling into his chair, sprawling out in it as it spins lazily. He's faintly trembling, Stone notices dizzily. "Any last words before you're shuffled offstage?"

Abandoned.

Sullied.

Paid.

Saddled.

These words stick out the most, digging harshly into his intrapleural spaces like hooks and yanking at him. They weigh him down, force him heavily to his knees. His breath stays frozen in his lungs and burns in his throat.

As empty as he's been all these years, a hollow shell, he looks upon Ivo and sees the other man's been completely bored through to the other side, left as a sieve.

"I should have listened to you," he whispers, closing his eyes in acceptance. "If I had known.... Well, that doesn't matter. Path to hell, and all."

"Quite."

"It's okay. I understand. I'm just glad I got to hear your voice again. The silence has been unbearable."

Ivo scoffs, twirls his finger, "I'm so sure. Shutting me out was such a sacrifice."

"Iv--" The name catches on his tongue, forbidden to him. Instead he opens his eyes once more, dark and liquid and searching. "Sir. I didn't shut you out. I would never. Our bond was cut."

Robotnik pauses mid-gesture, and the room goes still. Aside from the gentle whir of the air conditioning and the faint buzz of mechanical parts in motion, no sound can be heard for several moments. Fifty pulsing beats against Stone's chest.

"Cute excuse," Robotnik finally grits out, though the heat in his voice is weak.

It's not permission to speak further, and he knows he's walking a thin line, but he sees an opening to clear up this grave misunderstanding. If Robotnik was to hate him, wanted him gone, fine. But it should be for the correct reasons. Then he would still accept the consequences of his mistake.

"When each batch of recruits graduate from secondary, they're injected with something that burns away the connection between soulmates," he shares, licking his dry lips. "For security reasons, I've been told, and that this is why the practice is not divulge beforehand as well. But the strain it puts on you when it happens is..." His eyelashes flutter as he fights to keep his gaze on the sneering roboticist; memories of blood and screaming and the burn of being emptied of everything precious flashes through his mind's eye. Of being locked in a padded room for weeks, clawing at the walls until his nails broke and screaming obscenities until his voice gave out and he spat up red. "It breaks you. Makes you nothing."

('You are nothing,' indeed, he thinks, absurdly wishing Robotnik was still in his space with his hand around his throat.)

"Security is the surface logic, but it's a tool to break you so they can mold you into what they need you to be."

Robotnik's eyes narrow as he chews on that information. Whether it can be trusted. "You expect me to believe this?"

"You have no reason to. But I had to tell you, regardless."

"Mm."

Robotnik drops his middle and ring fingers to his palm in a series of taps, and Stone watches with a serene sense of finality as one of the drones moves into his personal bubble. From the bottom of its hull emerges a thin apparatus reminiscent of a pistol, but the barrel is far too thin and he can't locate a chamber for bullets anywhere. He's never seen the drones use ballistics before, either— only precise laser strikes.

Confused but no less accepting, Stone watches the barrel close in and press against his heart.

There's a click, a sharp but brief pain, and the drone is flying back to its owner. The barrel dislodges from its arm and drops into Robotnik's awaiting palm.

Robotnik twists the barrel in his hands and it cracks apart, revealing a vial of blood. He slides his chair to another desk and pops it into a slot in a machine, watches it greedily drink down the contents. He taps something into the keyboard there and waits, staring intently at the screen before him.

Stone watches with quiet fascination, unbothered by the remaining drones and their steady aim at his vital areas.

Robotnik hums as an array of data shoots across the screen for his perusal. His lips curl and twist, mustache bristling and eyes hardening.

Without turning his head he snaps his fingers, points to the space beside him. It takes a moment for Stone to register the wordless command as being for him, but once he does he's pushing himself to his feet and crossing the distance.

Robotnik taps his fingers against the surface of his desk, studying the data before him. What Stone sees of it makes no sense to him, but there are several boxes that are lit up and flashing red. He catches something about genomes.

Robotnik sighs and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose and run his eyes. "You... beautiful idiot," he hisses.

Warmth blooms in a violent rush, and the cage within the agent breaks. The heat spills over from his eyes, quick and wet. That epithet is blessedly familiar. One he knows the response to, anf only ever dreams he would get to use again. His throat tightens and his voice cracks. "Your beautiful idiot."

Between that breath and the next he's yanked forward by his tie and down again, this time finding himself comfortably straddling a warm lap instead of bruising his knees on the floor. He has less than a millisecond to register the wonderful difference before he's accosted, long and wiry hands threading underneath his jacket as Ivo's mouth descends onto his, each touch and each swipe of his lips bruising in intensity. Ivo is vicious in his exploration of his mouth, with sharp teeth and long plunging tongue, and Stone is quickly dizzy from the assault. Shaky hands slide along the sides of Ivo's neck and up into his close-cropped hair, carding through the soft strands and whining softly.

Ivo, bless him, is a horrible kisser. There's too much tongue involved, and their teeth have clacked into each other moe than once.

It's uncoordinated, harsh, painful.

It's bliss.

When they finally pull apart, the doctor's forehead thumps against his own. "Forgive me," he murmurs, soft and contrite, "for thinking so lowly of you this whole time."

"I don't fault you for it," Stone pants, gliding their foreheads against each other in a nuzzle. "This was all my doing."

"You must think me monstrous--"

"Never," he breathes, cupping Ivo's face in his hands. He slots their lips together once more into something slow and tender, chaste. "Never, never. Nothing you do could ever repulse me."

Ivo shudders beneath him, and Stone knows he's been brought back to youthful boughts of mutual masturbation and soft midnight confessions of devotion.

"Even so. I will make this right, Aban." Stone gently thumbs the crest of his pale cheeks, reveling in hearing that name again. He knows this is a promise he could stake his life on. He aches, but the longing he feels for this singularly perfect man is sweet. After a beat, Ivo adds with a gentleness only reserved for him, "For what it's worth, I don't fault you either. You couldn't have known."

"Bad judgment call, either way," he insists, but relents with a squeak and a laugh when slim fingers dig warningly into the flesh above his hips. He rolls down, his laughter morphing into a groan that is echoed by the man below him. "At least I was correct about one thing."

"And just what, pray tell, is that?"

Stone's laugh is syrupy as he dips down to brush his lips against the other man's jaw, then his neck. "You, Ivo," he croons, infinitely pleased when the other man bares his jugular to him and huffs, his hips twitching with want. The towering, domineering figure from a few minutes ago has chipped away beneath his touch and gone perfectly pliant, and Stone has never felt more powerful than he does in this moment. Ivo surrenders himself without reservations, and Stone wants to devour him. He settles for languidly swiping his tongue up the column up his neck and sampling salt and the bitter aftertaste of cologne. "You are absolutely gorgeous."

"Aban..."

"Beautiful," he whispers, finding a freckle just below the other man's ear and lapping at it, grazing his teeth over it, the little sprinkle of darkness over Ivo's creamy skin stirring his hunger. The man's hands find purchase in the fabric of his shirt and tug it free from his waistband, roaming upward. Metal and leather trace tender paths up and down Stone's torso as Ivo's breath quickens. He otherwise remains perfectly still, as if he does not dare take more of what is on offer. He sits sugar-spun and fragile in his seat, dissolving with each lick and nibble. "Resplendent." Stone grinds down as he takes Ivo's earlobe between his teeth and stretches it like taffy. "Holy."

Ivo splutters and reddens beneath him, his hips snapping upward with a choked whine. It's a cruel kindness to hit upon his soulmate's complicated relationship with religious imagery. It's a gamble he's glad he takes, with the more than favorable reaction and the rigid heat insistently pressing against him. Stone takes him in, marvelling at the glazed-over sheen of his eyes. Ivo stares back at him with moon-eyed enchantment, clearly overwrought. The sight does nothing to abate the desire to consume him whole.

"Touch me, sweetheart," he whispers, arching into his gloves. "Consecrate me."

His soulmate gasps and his eyes flutter closed as his head falls back and his hips rock up, seeking a more solid connection of their bodies. His touch is reverent, smooth and gentle even with the harsh planes of metal on his gloves. The button at the pad of his thumb catches on the peak of Stone's nipple and flicks, sending sparks down his spine and directly to his groin.

"Oh, that's it, just like that," he moans, whorish and unashamed, his hips moving in a slow circle. "Absolutely divi— nmmph!" Ivo's mouth slams over his own, swallowing his words down with a tortured sound. Stone smiles into the kiss and relents, giving in to the push and pull, the sloppy glide of saliva-slick lips and the sensual prod of his searching tongue. He busies his hands instead while his mouth is occupied, parting Ivo's lapels and pushing his coat off his shoulders. He blindly seeks out the delicate line of buttons and works them apart one by one, unwrapping the treat of more skin to behold. To touch, to claim. The liquid pooling in Ivo's eyes spills over and Stone kisses each glistening bead of lacrimal sugar before it can travel too far.

Despite nearly a decade's worth of repressed desire thrumming between them, their union is languid and sybaritic. They grind against each other in unhurried decadence, the desire to consume falling away to the need for consummation.

No more words are exchanged between them. As least, none that are coherent. They lose themselves in each other, two bodies working as one toward a shared goal, each sigh and touch a tap of a connected circuit. They may not have their bond coursing between them, but in the moment it feels similar enough.

To Stone, writhing in Ivo's lap as he finds release feels like coming home.

His other half pulls him closer, pressing chest to chest and clinging as his pacing changes. He frots desperately against the waning bulge in Stone's slacks. His cock is spent and on the verge of overstimulation, each thrust punching out a low keen from the agent's parted lips. Slim, strong fingers dig into the meat of his ass, trapping him in place, but there is nowhere else he would rather be.

"Love you, love you so much," Stone wheezes, pressing his own hands into the other man's back and burying his face into his shoulder, his beard rasping against the smooth expanse of skin. Ivo cries out beneath him and his hips buck up harshly, stuttering into a twitching grind as his own orgasm tears through him.

They return to themselves by increments, breathing each other in. Ivo's hair is damp and limp with sweat, his mustache mussed and slick, his lips swollen and red. Stone is sure he looks just as wrecked. He's too hot in the aftermath of their heavy petting, left sticky and uncomfortable, and judging from the pink flush that covers Ivo from the shell of his ears to the wings of his ribs he's also overheated. Neither of them are in a hurry to part, though.

Ivo chuckles beneath him as he smooths his palm over Stone's backside, gentle once more.

Stone laughs as well, enamored by the man's softening gaze and the way his smile crinkles his eyes at the edges. "What is it?"

Ivo's lips twitch before his expression shifts into something more boyish. Almost shy. "Hello, there," he murmurs, leaning forward to brush their mouths together in a chaste kiss. "My complete name is Ivo Gerald Robotnik. Will you do me the honor of sharing yours?"

His heart leaps in his chest and he gasps, a startled and delighted laugh escaping him. He hadn't thought of this custom in so many years.... He licks his lips, feeling something neglected and raw press wantonly against his vocal chords, ready to be reclaimed. "My complete name is... Aban Lee Steadman."

"Not Stone?"

He shakes his head with grim solemnity, and his soulmate seems to understand. He sucks a breath through his teeth and lets it go.

A conversation for another time.

"Well, Aban Lee Steadman. I am pleased to finally meet you."

"Ivo Gerald Robotnik... the pleasure is all mine."

The rakish grin that instantly spread's over his soulmate's face makes him feel young all over again. The hollow shell that is Agent Stone crumbles away under that perfect smile and he feels light. Ephemeral. New.

Despite the lack of bond, he feels whole.

For all the torment they've been through, it was Providence that they came together once more. What happened to them was unjust but what was meant to be would always be; the demands of the universe cannot be ignored forever.

They are together at last, and the world is just that little bit more right for it.

They have a long, most likely painful road ahead of them but...

Aban has a feeling they will be just fine.