There's a slip of paper in their hand, and the street is empty, and he's gone.
Avery finds themself shakily letting out a breath. Their fingers curl tighter around the phone number they've been given and suddenly their legs do not want to work. They stumble over to the sidewalk and ignore how dirty it is to collapse down on its edge. With the state of their own clothes, it doesn't matter how dirty it is. They tug the patchwork of a jean jacket all the tighter around their body and glance down at the numbers again.
Soulmate stories. Everyone has them, once they meet their destined one. Well, some people don't, sure, but the stories are so everywhere it's unbelievable. They hadn't really thought they would find theirs, if they were honest. Sure, they used to be colorblind, and sure that could be a bind between mates, but it was a fifty-fifty chance even if that one doctor friend of Alice's had said nothing looked like it was supposed to be wrong ocular-wise.
But there are leaves flush with color beneath their boots, mingled with brilliantly colored candy wrappers and the dull amber of a bottle catching the light... and there'd been a man with skin stretched gaunt over his cheeks, lips too pale for the rest of his skin.
Eventually, Avery gets up. They head to the closest place they can call 'home', a dingy little apartment in Harlem. Alice is already waiting for them on the street when they get there. The air is thick with ozone, like a storm about to hit, and Avery finds strange sort of comfort in it. It's a dangerous thing to be a woman like Alice, with broad shoulders and an adam's apple, and she knows it. That's why Avery knows that hidden in the pockets of the older woman's jacket, her hands are wrapped in thick brass knuckles.
It's a comfort, even as Avery tells her the news when they're close enough. "He said he's going to come back. When he has his shit together."
It's a reassurance all around, they think, but it's not enough to ward away the thoughts which press down on them when it's lights out and they're curled up on Alice's couch staring at a discarded videotape case. Now that the hours have passed enough for them to get over the disaster that was their first meeting, other thoughts start to invade which have never bothered them before.
He's going to come back, with his shit together, and he's going to realize what a disappointment they are now with his head clear. Maybe he'd been a mess mentally, but Avery has a good eye for the value of things. The kind of suit he'd been wearing? That was expensive.
Them? Every single bit of clothing they own isn't even secondhand. It's more likely twentiethhand, and shows it. Nothing fancy, either. Whenever they've had to look good, they've faked it. Faked their height, too, because they were only seventeen but they looked twelve. Shit, their hair, they never thought they'd meet their soulmate while wearing a goddamn chelsea hawk. And that's without whatever is going on with their gender.
Their fingers dig into the couch cushions and Avery feels sick. Fuck. Their gender. They hadn't even remotely gone into that. They'd given their name and that was it. Would they have it figured out in six months? What if they figured out they were a boy in that amount of time, but he had walked away thinking they were a girl? What if it were the opposite?
Avery curls up tighter. They've always wanted to see color, but it might not be worth it for the most anxious they've ever felt in their life.
And they had to run the hell out of Mexico with gangs after their tail. They'd been anxious and jittery then.
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Soulmate AU Alt
Avery finds themself shakily letting out a breath. Their fingers curl tighter around the phone number they've been given and suddenly their legs do not want to work. They stumble over to the sidewalk and ignore how dirty it is to collapse down on its edge. With the state of their own clothes, it doesn't matter how dirty it is. They tug the patchwork of a jean jacket all the tighter around their body and glance down at the numbers again.
Soulmate stories. Everyone has them, once they meet their destined one. Well, some people don't, sure, but the stories are so everywhere it's unbelievable. They hadn't really thought they would find theirs, if they were honest. Sure, they used to be colorblind, and sure that could be a bind between mates, but it was a fifty-fifty chance even if that one doctor friend of Alice's had said nothing looked like it was supposed to be wrong ocular-wise.
But there are leaves flush with color beneath their boots, mingled with brilliantly colored candy wrappers and the dull amber of a bottle catching the light... and there'd been a man with skin stretched gaunt over his cheeks, lips too pale for the rest of his skin.
Eventually, Avery gets up. They head to the closest place they can call 'home', a dingy little apartment in Harlem. Alice is already waiting for them on the street when they get there. The air is thick with ozone, like a storm about to hit, and Avery finds strange sort of comfort in it. It's a dangerous thing to be a woman like Alice, with broad shoulders and an adam's apple, and she knows it. That's why Avery knows that hidden in the pockets of the older woman's jacket, her hands are wrapped in thick brass knuckles.
It's a comfort, even as Avery tells her the news when they're close enough. "He said he's going to come back. When he has his shit together."
It's a reassurance all around, they think, but it's not enough to ward away the thoughts which press down on them when it's lights out and they're curled up on Alice's couch staring at a discarded videotape case. Now that the hours have passed enough for them to get over the disaster that was their first meeting, other thoughts start to invade which have never bothered them before.
He's going to come back, with his shit together, and he's going to realize what a disappointment they are now with his head clear. Maybe he'd been a mess mentally, but Avery has a good eye for the value of things. The kind of suit he'd been wearing? That was expensive.
Them? Every single bit of clothing they own isn't even secondhand. It's more likely twentiethhand, and shows it. Nothing fancy, either. Whenever they've had to look good, they've faked it. Faked their height, too, because they were only seventeen but they looked twelve. Shit, their hair, they never thought they'd meet their soulmate while wearing a goddamn chelsea hawk. And that's without whatever is going on with their gender.
Their fingers dig into the couch cushions and Avery feels sick. Fuck. Their gender. They hadn't even remotely gone into that. They'd given their name and that was it. Would they have it figured out in six months? What if they figured out they were a boy in that amount of time, but he had walked away thinking they were a girl? What if it were the opposite?
Avery curls up tighter. They've always wanted to see color, but it might not be worth it for the most anxious they've ever felt in their life.
And they had to run the hell out of Mexico with gangs after their tail. They'd been anxious and jittery then.
They don't sleep for the rest of the night.