Rain (Soulmates)
So soulmates got the most votes by far in the last chapter soooo
👉👈
"I'm heading back to the apartment."
"What? Oh come on Cross- don't be such a spoil sport bruh, the party has just started!"
"I'm serious Epic, I've had enough." Waving away another response from his friend he pushed his share of the bill onto the table and stood, downing the last of the burning amber liquor in his glass. It stung his throat and made him shudder, but he didn't mind.
Around the table his friends looked up and either gave drunk protests or waved him goodbye, all sipping from their own small shot glasses while giggling over the slightly bent fork in the middle of the table.
They were on vacation, taking a gap year from college to come out to Britain (mainly for the culture) all as a group for a few months. The apartment was only a few streets down from the pub they were gathered in. It was nearly midnight and Cross was tired, all the constant partying having worn him out.
Their reason for being at the pub was a celebration party for one of his friends - a constantly tired and moody skeleton called Geno. He lived on coffee and energy drinks to stay awake; the sort of guy that stays up till 5AM in the morning writing an essay the very night it was set. Geno was twenty three, having just earned his landscape designer degree.
It was his one year anniversary of finding his soulmate. They'd met on the tube in London one day, Geno having stumbled right into his soulmate on the crowded tube. His tattoo had been short, but the flirty words inscribed across his wrist had always made him feel sick, the skeleton firmly claiming after he'd received it that he was asexual. But as the magic of soulmates work, that soon changed.
Reaper was the name of his soulmate, a twenty five year old skeleton that worked at a morgue. He was a forensic anthropologist, working out how people died in murders, what the weapon was and all the epic stuff you see on TV shows. Geno, being very fearful of the mere idea of dying had at first refused to even touch Reaper, saying he was unclean and stank of death. But they worked it out.
Geno was still very fickle about Reaper's job and hated public affection from him, always hissing and swatting him away as if he were an annoying bug. But he loved him really. So Reaper says anyway.
Currently the two of them were drunkly arguing over the fork in the centre of the table, Geno claiming that Reaper had ruined it while the darkly dressed skeleton only shrugged and denied his claims. Silly arguments like that were increasingly common between the two and it was quite a performance to watch.
Giving one last wave Cross pulled his coat on, the fluffy hood slipped over his skull to cover the majority of it. Pushing his hands into his pockets he sighed, starting to weave his way in and out of the many dark oak tables that filled the pub. The atmosphere was still light and cheery despite the time of night, soft yellow lighting pouring down from thick wooden beams that jutted from the ceiling rustically, faux ivy twisting through the cracks and bumps. It made the interior look soft and inviting, most likely a marketing ploy to get you inside and spend your money.
But Cross had been careful. Saving money was hard when you lived the life of a college student, and he was trying to build up every penny he could to buy his own apartment. There was nothing deeply wrong with living with the others, it's just that they were too messy and the house was too crowded for his taste. Originally he'd planned on buying one to share with Dust, but he wasn't sure if the silent skeleton was still up for the idea. The guy was in a constant state of anxiety, not particularly looking forwards to meeting his soulmate who - by looking at the length of his tattoo - seemed very talkative. It looked like they'd talk more in one sentence than Dust would in an entire day.
Stepping outside he frowned, the air feeling thick and tense with moisture. He reached a hand out and his fingers twitched, a droplet of rain splashing down onto the white bone and breaking apart, running down the pointed finger to his wrist. England may have some really nice culture and incredible historical sights, but the weather was shit compared to the hot Nevadan sunlight he was used to at home.
Of course he hadn't brought an umbrella either, having been in too much of a rush to leave all those hours ago when they'd left for the pub. He'd meant to take one, but they'd already been late for their booking after touring The Tower of London and learning just how many royals and traitors were executed at the very spot where Epic had stood eating a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. It was fascinating, really, and being a history degree student, every word captivated his interest.
He loved history really, mainly the past's old relics. Medieval weapons, torture devices, instruments. He was particularly engrossed by knives, all shapes and sizes. Through legal claims he had his own collection back at his family home (of course they weren't allowed in his college dorm) and he'd forever riffle through old antique shops for any new old models. He also shared a love for knew knives, one of his favourites of the modern collection being a jet black butterfly knife with a red tint, the blade sharp and sleek. But his irreplaceable favourite was the Kris dagger. It was unique by its waved blade, the sharp weapon having been formed through alternating laminations of iron and nickelous iron for strength and swiftness. It had its own special box to be kept in, and he'd forever find himself dragging his fingers along its smooth and dangerous surface.
Three more drops of rain hit his nose ridge and Cross sneezed, his conscious dragged from the past and back to the present, where the dark nights sky was starting to cloud over. Thick grey clouds flooded the sky like a stain, ashen mountains with glowing snowy highlights cast from the moon. It was a full moon. The skeleton still held his love for astronomy and astrology, but History had been a sudden sparking passion that had grabbed him by the reigns and cantered off like a feral horse, giving no chance to let go.
His footsteps felt loud against the concrete pavement, starkly standing out of harmony with the forever rumble of London's endless traffic. It never seemed to stop moving, eternally moving and shifting like a slumbering beast. Street lamps cast sharp beams of light down onto the damp concrete, wavering speckled of light dancing off the gradually forming puddles that decorated the roads in abstract splatters. Raindrops bounced off of them slowly at first, a melancholy dance that soon spiralled into a tribal display of passion as the weather got heavier.
Grumbling under his breath Cross started to walk faster, his hood being tugged further over his skull. The fluff quickly became soaked and stuck to his face in matted clumps, rivers of rain streaming down his forehead and dripping into his eyes which resulted in the repetitive action of swiping his brow with his coat sleeve - a feature he quickly found would get very soggy very quickly.
Claps of thunder struck overhead and the sky was for a moment alight with electricity, jagged twisting bolts of lightning shooting towards the ground like demons unleashed from their cage, always seeming so close before they vanished within a second. The rain now came in waves, torrents of it slashing down through the night sky like thousands of needle sharp daggers.
Stumbling, Cross broke out into a run, a sodden arm shielding his face pathetically from the downpour. The plastic of his shoes slapping against concrete rang out harshly in his non-existent ears, melding with the crashing thunder. Curse England and it's damn weather.
Spitting out rain he cursed, skidding to a stop at the large and impressive twisted iron gates to Hyde Park. It was a set of many, the incredible park having many entrances to give access to the public. Through the blurry rain he could see it was empty, raindrops slamming into the concrete paths and saturating the soil beside it, flowers and grass all bending over from the intensity. Hyde Park was big, but could prove an effective short cut to get back to the apartment.
Rubbing his eye sockets furiously the skeleton took a bold step forwards, his soaked trainers crossing the threshold into the 350 acre park. Breaking off into a run was natural, his clothes clinging to him in a sticky manner as he rushed through the twisting pathways.
On other days he might have taken his time to look at the pretty displays of flowers, paused to watch children feed the fat geese that waddled around like they owned the place, or stopped to take a picture of the glorious lakes. But he didn't think of any of those today, his sole goal now being to make it back home without drowning in England's dismal weather. Maybe he'd have been better off staying in the pub.
It only took a few minutes for the water to properly reach his bones, his body rippling with deep shivers as he staggered onwards, shoes slipping in the mud as he attempted a short cut across the grassy fields. He quickly learnt to regret the idea, his white trainers - now brown and caked with mud - unable to seek purchase on the flooded ground. He slipped and tripped, probably looking incredibly drunk as he continued his pathetic excuse of a run.
But as drunk as it was, he was making progress, another set of tall black gates blurred in the distance, like a freshly made oil painting, the canvas still wet and easily smudged. His breathing was harsh and ragged by now and he started to wonder why he hadn't just called for a taxi. Surely that would have been so much easier.
Too late to reminisce on regrets, he pushed onwards, the gates coming closer and closer until he could practically reach out and touch them.
He hadn't noticed the tree roots.
Foot colliding with rough wood he stumbled, a silent cry of surprise unable to leave his mouth as he tumbled forwards, his body colliding with the sodden grass.
It was all over him in seconds, mud smeared across his chest, legs and face, the moist brown liquid trickling down his neck and wriggling into every crack and crevice possible, his bones grinding. For a moment he simply lay there in shock, the rain beating down on his back like drumsticks on a snare, face deep in the mud.
But then the soft squelch of footsteps rang out coming towards him, silence following.
Spitting the mud from his mouth Cross gagged, his eyes blearily resting on a pair of black trainers stood no further than thirty centimetres from his face. Their sides were lightly covered with mud, but probably looked pristine in comparison to himself.
After a moments realisation he noticed the rain wasn't falling on his face any more, the rolling waves of rain having been blocked by what he could only assume was an umbrella.
Pushing his hands deep into the mud he pushed himself up a little, eye sockets blurred with soil as he looked up at whoever had found him.
A low chuckle rang out from them and he instantly confirmed they were male. They slowly crouched down, something cold pushing his chin up further so they could see him better.
"You look like a fucking mess."
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OOOOOOOOOOOP-
Finally got my lazy ass to write something lmaoo 2,000 words for your pleasure
I'm actually quite happy with this tbh, it was fun to write :D
Hope you enjoyyyeddddddddd
And aha this update was in under a month like I promised-
Aren't I so cool? 😎
-Jess-
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