I have been absolutely loving Bookstore Cryptid Dream! Offline life got rough for a bit there, but this little universe never failed to make my heart happy. Thank you - and I hope you're planning on more!
i've indeed had one in my drafts so i finished it up for you :)
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Hob has been waiting with equal parts anticipation and trepidation to find out exactly what ideas Dream will pull from his romance novels. He still hasn't figured out why he picked romance novels as his manuals. Maybe he needs his sex positions to have narratives. Maybe he's into roleplay. God.
But Hob doesn't get to find out.
He's been busy for a few days--new term at the local uni starting up means the cafe's suddenly gotten busier--and while Dream's popped in and out a few times, they haven't had the chance to spend much time together. It's probably good, Hob tries to convince himself. Puts the brakes on things, just a little.
But when he finally gets a break, hands the reins over to his staff for an evening, he heads to The Library. Even if Dream is busy with his own tasks, Hob's content to just sit in his space. Listen to his stories. It's not something the busy cafe environment usually allows, but The Library is like an alternate world, cool, quiet, and timeless.
Hob strides up the steps and opens The Library door.
And there's nothing inside.
It takes several moments for his tired brain to comprehend what he's looking at, and several more for him to decide that no, he's not dreaming. He steps through the doorway into a dim, empty room, old wood-paneled walls and dust gathering in the corners, and no infinite winding paths of shelves like in Dream's bookshop. Just a shell.
Hob presses his palm to the wall. It's cool, and smooth, and very much real. Not some mad hallucination of his, this empty room.
Blinking hard, Hob steps back outside, closes the door again, as if that might change things. Opens it again. Same room. Does it again. Same room. He calls out into the empty bowels of the once-Library: "Dream!"
No answer, of course.
Hob had known that The Library had a sort of magic to it. But just vanishing into thin air...
And Dream wouldn't...
...would he?
Hob spins in place on the stoop, looking out on the darkened street which suddenly feels so much more eerie. He steps down to the road in a daze, looking around as if The Library might suddenly appear in another doorway. Resists the urge to yell Dream's name into the darkness.
And then, well, fuck it. "Dream!" he calls. All that echoes back to him is his own voice.
Hob sits down on the stoop, defeated. If he hadn't seen Dream just yesterday, kissed him on his way out of the cafe not twenty-four hours ago, he really might have started to think he'd hallucinated all of this. Invented someone he'd wanted to know.
But he didn't invent Dream, he swears he didn't--so then where is he?
Hob doesn't sleep much that night. He doesn't do much of anything else, either--it's not like Dream left a note to track him down, or any evidence of his existence. It's not like Hob can put up missing person posters: have you seen this bookshop? Or force it to reappear.
He's having a very sleep-deprived, very over-caffeinated morning shift in the cafe, contemplating how long one's not-quite-human not-quite-boyfriend needs to be not-quite-missing before it's reasonable to start finding out which parts of London harbor demons and sorcerers--when a man he's never seen before stops at the counter, hands folded before him, and says, "Excuse me, but do you know if there's a bookshop around here?"
Hob has never seen anyone else ever go into The Library or even acknowledge its existence, and Hob's anxiety is so high that he almost leaps over the counter to grab this man by the collar and demand, what do you know about Dream?! Fortunately he belays that impulse. This stranger really does look almost laughably harmless and definitely not like a demon or sorcerer, not that Hob's seen one--and getting arrested for assault is not going to help anything.
"I tried the door," continues the stranger, as Hob just keeps staring at him, conflicted, "only, well. It seems to have vanished."
Well, at least Hob's not hallucinating. Not that a disappearing bookstore is helpful to his sanity.
After what was surely a conspicuously long silence, though his visitor just waits patiently, Hob says, "Have... you been there before?" He feels weirdly defensive of The Library, even if it's currently AWOL. He doesn't know if he wants random people to be able to find Dream.
Or maybe that's just jealousy.
"Oh, no, this is my first time coming this way," says the man, apologetically. "I'm just looking for a certain book."
Damn odd timing for it.
Hob comes out from behind the counter and waves him over to a table. He should probably get some tea. Proper hospitality and all. But he's too worked up and way too sleep-deprived.
His guest sits down primly at the table as Hob slouches against the back of his own seat. "Sorry," Hob finally says, "if I'm--" he waves a vague hand. "Dream's had trouble before, that's all." He holds out his hand to his guest. "Hob."
The man shakes his hand. "Hm. A pleasure. I am Aziraphale. To any associate of--" he tastes the name, "Dream's, that is."
It's interesting that The Library's reputation carries further than knowledge of Dream himself, despite how deeply Dream seems to be tied to the shop.
"Is it meant to be there, then?" asks Aziraphale hopefully. "I wouldn't blame him for moving around to protect the collection; I certainly wouldn't want all and sundry picking through the shelves!" He shudders. "Though I was hoping to find that book."
Hob doesn't bother asking what book. Whatever it is, Dream will certainly have it. What's more important is--
"'Moving around?' Do you know how?" And then, realizing if he wants a chance at info he's going to need to offer some of his own, adds, "You just missed him, it's only today that The Library's been... gone."
"Oh, dear," says Aziraphale, now looking troubled.
"Not sure what pointed you towards this place, but if you've heard anything..." Hob continues, "Dream is my--" what is Dream, anyway? They haven't established it, "...friend."
Looking contemplative, Aziraphale says, "Well it is odd timing, now that you mention it, because--"
That's when the door to The Library flies open.
A lanky man comes hurtling down the steps, limbs akimbo, yelling something over his shoulder that Hob can't hear from within the cafe. "Oh dear," says Aziraphale again, with a mix of concern and consternation. "Crowley!"
Dream storms out of the doorway next, expression thunderous, his hair sticking up in all directions like he'd been struck by lightning. That has Hob lurching to his feet, which Aziraphale does as well, and they both rush outside, just in time to hear--
"Look, it's just one silly book, okay?" The unfamiliar man--Crowley, presumably--says, stopping in the middle of the road and turning towards Dream. "Don't overreact."
Dream is, in fact, clutching a singular heavy book, and looks like he's just about to hurl it, except that Dream would never do something so undignified as that, Hob thinks.
Dream hurls the book at Crowley.
Or not.
Crowley catches it against his chest, stumbling back with the weight. "I do not accept," spits Dream, each word the strike of a nail, "surreptitious rummaging in my library."
"Oh come on," says Crowley, tossing the book to Aziraphale, who's just caught up to him and who catches it with a surprised little umph! sound. Crowley makes a shooing sort of go on, run gesture to Aziraphale, which he doesn't heed. "It's not like I was going to burn the place down. You're just prejudiced against demons."
"I am prejudiced against thieves," hisses Dream. Hob finally reaches his side before he can throw another book or something, lays a hand on Dream's arm. Though all he's really thinking is, demons?!
"Crowley," Aziraphale admonishes. "Please tell me you did not." He finally looks at the cover of the book, and gasps. "Crowley."
Crowley shrugs. "You wanted it, he had it."
Hob frowns, confused. "You don't need to steal from The Library. It's not a museum. Just go in and buy it." Not that Hob's ever actually paid for any of Dream's books.
Both Crowley and Aziraphale turn to him. "One could not simply give away such an artifact," says Aziraphale, caressing the book's leatherbound cover.
"Least not for a steep price," says Crowley, which evidently justifies his trying to swipe it. "I won't be beholden to the likes of you." He points at Dream.
Dream looks affronted. "Now who is prejudiced?"
"Let's back up," Hob says, unsure how he became the voice of reason here. He still has a hand wrapped around Dream's arm, it's grounding after the way Dream had just vanished on him. "What happened? Dream-- I tried to come over and you were just gone." The empty room past The Library doorway is going to continue to be nightmare fuel.
Dream makes an apologetic little sound. "I apologize. I closed all access to The Library for its protection. As it turned out, my assessment of the threat was overstated." He glares at Crowley and adds, darkly, "I thought you were from the school board. Breaking in in the dead of night like so."
Hob momentarily gets stuck on the fact that Dream considers the local school board a greater threat than an actual demon from hell.
"Which," Dream continues, "was utterly unnecessary. You could have simply come to The Library as a visitor and sought out what you were looking for. It would have been granted."
"Oh, so I was just supposed to know you actually sell your books?"
"The books will find their rightful recipients," Dream says stiffly.
"Crowley, you have been very rude," says Aziraphale, though he hasn't given up the book, "I think you should apologize."
"Eh," says Crowley, waving this off. Hob supposes it wouldn't really be given to demons to apologize for things. "You apologize if you really want to."
Aziraphale turns to Dream with a sigh. "I am sorry for my companion's behavior. And... grateful for the book."
Dream nods solemnly at him. It seems his ire does not extend to Aziraphale.
Crowley leans back on his heels, closer to Aziraphale. "Mayyybee we should go now."
Aziraphale nods. "Quite." He tips his head at Dream, and then at Hob. "Thank you for your hospitality, Hob."
Then he turns and hurries away, Crowley slinking along beside him. As they leave, Hob hears Aziraphale admonish, "Do you know how few booksellers there are with truly rare volumes? We cannot afford to make such enemies."
"Yeah, you're welcome, angel."
"...Thank you."
Hob shakes his head in bemusement and turns back to Dream. He takes both of Dream's arms in his hands now, holding onto him, looking him over. Unable to fully vanish the lingering panic of The Library just being gone. "Are you alright? I was... worried. When you disappeared."
"I am annoyed," Dream huffs, like it's a greater point of suffering than any actual injury. Then he leans in close to Hob, pressing a hand to his chest. "I apologize. I did not intend to cause you distress. I had to shut the doors rather quickly, but I hoped to resolve the issue before you had cause to visit The Library."
"It's alright, love. I'm just glad you're okay." He kisses Dream, tentative for how new this all still is. Tastes lightning on his lips. Dream hums with pleasure.
When they pull apart, Hob wraps an arm around Dream's back, starts leading him back towards the cafe, or perhaps just to Hob's flat above. Tea solves everything. "So. The school board, eh?"
Dream sighs with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "They are enthusiastic about banning books."
Hob pulls him against his side, kisses his temple. "Dream against the world."
Dream grumbles, but leans his head on Hob's shoulder, and despite the many strange things of today Hob is going to have to internalize, he feels all soft inside at the gesture.
"Don't worry," he says, "next time your many enemies come calling, just yell and I'll create a diversion."
"And be waiting with tea after I've dealt with them?"
"Got it in one."
As they reach the door to the cafe, Dream turns his head to kiss Hob's shoulder. "You are good to me, Hob Gadling."
And Hob will keep being so. Even when the next strange thing happens.
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Stars and the Slapping Thereof
If the last spaceport had been a flat parking lot kind of place, this one reminded me of a hollow skyscraper made for birds. I don’t know how the whole thing stayed up, honestly; the walls were more open air than anything else. Spaceships parked at every level. Elevators and gravity tubes zipped around vertically, while moving sidewalks spun in opposite directions.
From where our ship sat, I had a fine view of a mixed-species group in teal uniforms all trying to crowd onto the inner sidewalk ring at the same time. They moved off to the right with only minor awkwardness. Behind the ship, I heard the unmistakable sound of a human falling over and swearing about it, most likely after stepping on the other ring accidentally.
Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Nooooo, not a bit of personal experience with undignified pratfalls.
“Is that— No, that isn’t them,” Paint said, paying attention to something completely different. “I hope there will still be a spot near us when they get here.” She rubbed her knuckles together in agitation, orange scales clicking.
Zhee flicked an antenna. “Kamm is always punctual,” he said. “It will be fine.”
I leaned out of the ship’s shadow to count the empty spots. “We can always go stand in one to reserve it for her.” I reconsidered. “Right? Or do the pilots land too quickly here?”
Zhee was saying something disparaging about the general population’s safety awareness when a hoverchair separated from the crowd and whirred up to us. The driver was a pale human with glittery star crystals in his dark hair, thin legs that clearly didn’t get much use, and bare feet. The toenail polish was even more galaxy-patterned than his hair. Stylish. He called out as soon as he was within polite speaking range.
“Is this the Unflattenable?” he asked, pointing at our ship.
I looked up and back. “Oh! No, but it’ll be here soon. We’re waiting for it too.”
“Ah,” he said. “Sorry. Your ship looks a lot like it.”
Zhee didn’t move, looking in both directions with his big bug eyes. “Same manufacturers,” he said.
Paint was more enthusiastic. “We haven’t seen them in forever!” she told the man. “They’re going to help us deliver a bunch of stuff in one trip.”
The man nodded. “They’re bringing cargo for me. I hoped they’d be here by now.”
“Should be soon,” I said, peering around at the many directions a ship could approach from. No sign of another lemon-looking craft with solar sails.
He nodded again. Everyone was awkwardly silent for a moment. A distant ship landed with a thump of faulty thrusters. Pedestrians on both sidewalks held loud conversations as they slid past.
“So what’s your ship called?” the man asked.
Zhee straightened up. “This is the good ship—”
Paint beat him to it. “Slap the Stars! Isn’t that a great name?”
The man burst into laughter, then apologized at the angry tilt to Zhee’s antennae. “Sorry. I love it. I’m not much of a spacer, and I keep being surprised by some of the names that ships have around here.”
“That is a perfectly normal name,” Zhee told him with an abrupt motion of one pincher. “Strongarm manufacturers. It is human ships that have the truly absurd titles.”
I grinned at him. “You’re still not over the droid jousting ship Hold My Beer, are you?”
Zhee’s tone was extremely dry. “I will never be over that.”
“I saw some great ones earlier!” Paint said, unfolding a screen and connecting to the port’s public information hub. “Let’s see, there’s the Glorious.”
“A fine Mesmer name,” Zhee put in.
“The Deep Thrum; I like that. Might be Frillian? Oh, and there’s the human warship Funwrecker.”
I laughed. “Yup, definitely human.”
“And the Better Than You.”
“That could really be either human or Mesmer,” I said with a look at Zhee.
Zhee flexed his pinchers, looking haughty. “It all depends on whether it is true.”
Paint kept reading. “What about the Solar Flare? That could be anybody.”
“Heatseeker,” Zhee said. “Solar flares are hot.”
Paint, a Heatseeker herself, scoffed quietly. “Not everything is about heat.”
“Don’t most Heatseeker ships have food names?” I asked with a glance at the other human, who was following all this with open curiosity. “Pretty sure Captain Sunlight has family with a ship called the Worm Jerky.”
“I guess they do,” Paint said thoughtfully. “It’s a good luck thing. I didn’t realize it was that common.” She looked back at the screen. “Oh, and that might explain this other ship called the Raw Flesh.”
The human spoke up at that. “The what?”
I held up both hands. “It’s got to be a translation issue. A food thing. Some specific uncooked dish. Like sushi?”
The human just shook his head and made a face like he’d tasted something unpleasant.
“There’s also the Conqueror of the Next Ocean,” Paint offered. “That one’s probably Strongarm.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” I said. “They’re so proud of crawling out of their first ocean.”
“Strongarms are the ones with tentacles, right?” the human asked.
“Right,” I told him. “They look kind of like an octopus or a squid.”
“You said your ship was designed by Strongarms? What was it called again?”
“Slap the Stars,” I said. “Strongarms do slap a number of things with those tentacles. It’s a fun bit of sass in a ship name.”
“It’s not sass,” Zhee said scornfully. “It’s an intent to master all things, whether the things want to be mastered or not. Very admirable confidence.”
Paint looked up in distress. “I thought it was a game!” she said. “Something with pebbles on a table, right? Isn’t that a thing?”
The door to our ship opened to admit the scaly yellow form of Captain Sunlight. I turned to her for answers. “Hello, Captain! Can you tell us what the name of our ship actually means?”
Unflappable as ever, the good captain barely quirked a browridge as she walked over to join us. “Something about slapping stars, I imagine,” she said. “I always thought of it as a nod to the way damp tentacles can put out sparks of flame without getting burned.”
I threw my hands skyward in mock exasperation.
Captain Sunlight kept talking. “But then, I’m not a Strongarm. Let me ask one.” She spoke into her communicator, addressing the pilot on duty. “Wio, what is the Strongarm association with slapping stars?”
Faint and tinny, Wio’s voice said, “Pretty sure it’s something about gathering food. Spiky ones. I don’t know; I’m from a different planet.”
The human was chuckling quietly to himself at this point, while Zhee looked grumpy and Paint scrolled through more names for clues. Captain Sunlight glanced at me.
“Looks like we’ll just have to ask someone who was actually there when the ship was named,” she said, nodding toward the next dock. “Here she is.”
A bright yellow ship with folded solar sails came in to rest beside ours, remarkably stealthy when I wasn’t paying attention. The other human said a quick goodbye to us before scooting over to wait for the hatch to open.
As eager as we were to see the crew again after long last, we kept a professional distance while they did business. A pair of Heatseekers brought out the human’s crate — a fancy model with its own hover engine — and a Strongarm tactfully proffered the payment tablet.
Then Captain Kamm herself appeared, in all her deep green glory, with a polite greeting for the human and an enthusiastic wave of several tentacles toward us. “Hello over there! It’s been too long!”
“It has!” Captain Sunlight said, strolling over while the human handed back the tablet and hitched the crate to the back of his chair. I followed, with Zhee and Paint right behind. Captain Sunlight continued. “We’ve got a burning question for you. What was the original meaning behind our ship name? We seem to have come up with several. I’d ask Pockap, but…”
“But he’s far away, and also an idiot,” Captain Kamm finished, speaking about her cousin with complete honesty. He’d only been in charge for the very beginning of my time on the ship, and “idiot” was generous.
“As you say,” Captain Sunlight agreed.
“Well, if I recall correctly, it was actually inspired by a human thing,” said Captain Kamm.
“What?” I blurted. In my peripheral vision, the other human paused before going on his way.
“That thing you do,” Captain Kamm said, waving a tentacle. “Slapping each other in camaraderie.”
“We what?” I repeated, sharing a baffled look with the other guy.
Captain Kamm waved the one tentacle again, then flopped two against each other, making a wet sound. “You know,” she said. “You slap hands. Very friendly. The idea was to bring that kind of cheerful energy to the stars.”
I held my hands apart, thinking of applause, then it hit me. “Oh! Do you mean a high five?” I turned and demonstrated; the other human matched it perfectly.
“Yes!” Captain Kamm said. “That! That’s what your ship is named for!”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Zhee made an opinionated hiss while Paint exclaimed that that was much better than the game explanation.
“Glad I could be a part of this,” said the human. “See you around! May you slap many stars.”
“The same to you!” I said, waving as he steered onto the walkway. “Hooray for solving a mystery that we didn’t realize needed solving.”
“Those are the best kind,” said Paint, and I had to agree.
~~~
The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!
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Hello Katie 👋🏼👋🏼 :D
For the 50 romance prompts ask meme, I'll like to request for 44: soulmate AU: timers <3
but if possible... with a twist...? (you don't have to include a twist if it's too difficult to work it in!)
The twist being, for whatever reason, their countdown timers for each of them to the time they meet their soulmates doesn't match, so they think "we're not each other's soulmates. that's cool. (no it's not)" but it turns out that they're each other soulmates anyways. or they choose to be with each other in spite of not being each other's soulmates. idk. *nervous laughter*
hiiii charlotte 🥰 first off, i am SO sorry for the incredible delay with this answer!! i saw this prompt and i absolutely LOVED IT (and the twist!! 🙏 *chef's kiss*) but unfortunately i got struck with a horrible case of writer's block/work deadlines, and just couldn't get to it at all.
until yesterday: i decided to just open my inbox and see what came to me. no thinking, just following the vibe of a prompt and writing. and uh. this happened... not only did it get ridiculously long (oops?) but it also somehow became a mini "investigate montreal" fic?? so in that vein, i'm tagging @1016week and submitting a belated entry for Day 6 "Montreal"... ❤️
i love this one. hope you love it too!! 👀⌚
~
Charles' soulmate timer stops when he is seven years old, and he meets the boy with the bluest eyes he's ever seen.
He's been vibrating with excitement all weekend - not just because it's a karting cup, but because his soulmate timer has been ticking down to this day for months now. Well, not just months, not really. It's actually been his whole life, but Charles doesn't remember all of that. He only remembers the past few months, when the little numbers had been getting smaller and smaller, until there were only ten days left and Charles gasped when he realised that the day would fall on the same day as the Bridgestone Cup.
"Of course the girl I marry is going to like racing, too," he'd told Maman and Papa, confidingly. Not a lot about soulmates made much sense to him, but this did.
His Maman had tried to smile, and Charles had hugged her tight to let her know it was going to be okay. He would find his soulmate, and then everyone would be smiling, because that's what people do when you meet your soulmate.
(Later that night, when Charles had been too excited to sleep and he'd gone to the bathroom quickly, Charles had heard his parents having an argument in their room. The door was closed, so their voices were muffled, but Charles could still make out his Maman saying "I just don't think it's a good sign, to meet your soulmate so young!" But Papa had countered, "Many people do, and they have beautiful stories. You have to trust that our Charles will meet his perfect match tomorrow." And then there had been an icky noise, like kissing, and Charles had flushed the loo quickly and ran back to his room.)
Now, with the beautiful blue eyed boy standing in front of him, Charles thinks of Papa's words again. Our Charles will meet his perfect match tomorrow.
Charles thought it would be a girl who really liked karting, but this is even better. This is a boy who wins at karting, because he's holding a trophy in both hands and grinning like he couldn't be happier.
Of course Charles' perfect match would be someone who wins at karting. It's only right, because Charles also wins at karting.
Charles clears his throat. "Hi," he says shyly, and the blue-eyed boy jumps.
"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," he says apologetically, and then he laughs. He has a nice laugh, Charles thinks - like he knows how to have fun. "You are a bit short," the blue-eyed boy adds, and hey.
"Hey," Charles protests. "I'm tall for my age. I'm seven."
"Well, I'm nine," the blue-eyed boy says, like that's the most impressive age in the world.
It is a bit impressive, but not very, because Lorenzo is much older than that. Still, it is a little scary - Charles is only seven. What if this blue-eyed boy doesn't like him because he's only seven? Older kids can be mean like that.
No, he is your perfect match, Charles reminds himself. This blue-eyed boy won't be mean to him, because that's not how perfect matches work.
Charles takes a deep breath, then he sticks out his hand. "I'm Charles," he says.
The blue-eyed boy takes his hand, and it feels... weird. A little bit like when you get shocked by static electricity.
Charles giggles, unable to stop himself, and the blue-eyed boy smiles, as though he likes that.
"Hello, Charles. I'm Pierre," he says, squeezing Charles' hand. His eyes widen a moment later. "Oh! You've met your soulmate?!"
Charles doesn't understand what he means. "Well, yeah," he says. "It's y-"
And then he notices it.
Pierre's soulmate timer, right there on his wrist, right above where Charles is gripping his hand - it's still ticking.
Now, Charles doesn't know a lot about soulmates yet, but he knows that that's not good. Not good at all.
"I, um," Charles stammers, and then he does the one thing Maman and Papa said you should never do to your soulmate. Charles lies.
"I met so many new people today. I don't remember who it was."
Pierre's face falls. "Oh," he says, and he sounds unbearably sad for Charles. "But..." He chews his lip, shaking his head with a deep frown.
Then, mid-shake, Pierre's expression changes to one of determination. "I will help you find them," he says, with the kind of confidence Charles can only dream of when he's not on the racetrack.
He tugs on Charles' hand - which he still hasn't let go of - and Charles is helpless to do anything but follow.
~
They don't find Charles' soulmate anywhere, of course, and then Charles has to go win his race - but Pierre makes him promise that they will find each other at the next French karting event, and Charles will tell him all about his soulmate.
Charles promises, even though the idea makes his stomach feel all funny. I shouldn't be lying to my soulmate, he thinks, guiltily.
But Pierre's soulmate timer didn't stop ticking, and... that's not how soulmates are supposed to work.
The moment he's in the car with his father after the race, heading back home, Charles asks him about it.
Papa is quiet for a long moment, then: "Are you sure there wasn't someone behind Pierre, Charles?" he asks, in his careful, kind way. "Someone who's timer stopped at the same time as yours?"
Charles thinks about it for a moment, but even the idea of that feels - wrong, somehow. Like going into a corner and knowing you braked too hard, and you're going to flip the kart.
He shakes his head decisively. "No," he says. "It's Pierre."
He hears rather than sees his father blow out a soft sigh. Charles catches his eye in the rearview mirror, feeling confused and a little shaky inside.
When Papa sighs like that, it's never good news - it's usually something about sponsorship, which is a word Charles is already coming to dread.
It doesn't make sense how this could be about sponsorship, though. It probably isn't.
Charles waits for his father to gather his thoughts, like he needs to do sometimes to make sure he says exactly what he means. (It's something Maman keeps telling him he should try doing as well, but he's not so good at that yet.)
"You know how even the greatest racing drivers make mistakes sometimes?" Papa asks.
Charles frowns, but he nods. "Yes?"
"Sometimes the universe is like that, too. Sometimes the universe makes a mistake, and stops the timers too soon," Papa explains.
Charles frowns. He hasn't heard about that before, but he guesses it makes sense. It's true what Papa said - not even Senna was a perfect driver who never made mistakes. It makes sense that the universe is the same.
"But this doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate, okay, Charles?" Papa says before Charles can spend too much time thinking about the whole thing. His voice is firmer than Charles was expecting, and he reaches up to tilt the rearview mirror to see Charles better.
"It doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate," he repeats, like he doesn't want Charles to ever doubt that. "It just means it's going to be a little harder to find them."
Charles frowns, and he can't help but be a little annoyed. Isn't the whole point of soulmate timers to make it easier to find your perfect match?
It's just his luck that his soulmate timer doesn't work properly.
"I understand," Charles says, though, because he can tell it's important to his father.
Papa nods, but he keeps watching Charles in the rearview mirror for the rest of the drive, like he sometimes does after a race where Charles crashed the kart badly and he needs to keep making sure that Charles is fine.
Of course Charles is fine. He doesn't think this is comparable to a bad race at all! It's a little annoying, yes, but it's not that bad. It's just a bit of extra work, isn't it?
Charles shrugs his shoulders, glancing quickly down at the stopped soulmate timer at his wrist.
Whatever. Racing is more important than soulmates, anyway.
~
Almost twenty years later, Charles still says that to himself almost every day, even if he doesn't believe it with nearly the same careless seven-year-old confidence anymore: racing is more important than soulmates.
It is, because it has to be.
The thing is this: his father's explanation to Charles' seven-year-old self had been true - if a little oversimplified, and painted with an overt layer of kindness.
The truth Charles knows now is that there are two reasons, two categories, for people whose timers stop when the other person's keeps running.
One is, like Papa had said all those years ago, a simple case of mistaken timing - cases where the universe or fate or whatever controls it all stopped one person's timer a little too soon, or the other's a little too late.
It's harder to find each other in those cases, but it's still quite possible.
And then there's the second category. The unrequiteds. People whose timers stopped at the right time - when they met the person who would be their perfect match - except that they are not that person's perfect match in return. It only goes one way.
It's rare, but it happens sometimes. No system is perfect, after all - not even a system of soulmates.
For years and years, Charles tried to convince himself that he fell into the first category. His soulmate timer simply stopped too early, by some cosmic accident - but it's okay, Charles insists to everyone who asks and to himself as well, because what it's done is given Charles more time to focus on his racing instead. He's not constantly glancing down at his wrist and wondering when his timer is going to stop ticking - he can just get on with the racing.
He'll find his soulmate eventually, but on his own terms. There's nothing bad about that, surely.
Charles believes that. Really he does.
Except.
Except, if it's true and Charles falls into the first category - the mistaken timing category - then it would mean Pierre isn't his soulmate.
Pierre, who kept the promise he'd made to a seven-year-old who wasn't even his soulmate (because, yes, he had found Charles at the very next French karting cup, and he'd asked to meet Charles' soulmate - and when Charles had to admit that he still hadn't found them, Pierre had hugged him and told him not to give up and that he would find his soulmate someday. Pierre had held Charles' hand and explained that his parents almost didn't find each other, but they did. So it might take Charles some time, but that was okay, because it had taken Pierre's parents some time too, but now they were happier than ever. He'd been so convincing, firm but kind and absolutely sure of himself, and he'd made Charles believe it. He also made Charles smile, genuinely and truly, when he promised he'd stick by Charles' side no matter what anyone else said or whispered about his stopped soulmate timer.)
Pierre, who kept that promise about sticking with Charles, too. Pierre who never stopped being kind, and loyal, and the best friend Charles could ask for, whether he was seven or thirteen or nineteen or twenty-six.
Honestly, how was Charles supposed to not fall hopelessly in love with him?
He tried to deny it. For years and years, Charles tried to deny it - I will find my soulmate someday and it will all make sense, he'd tried to convince himself - but the thing was, what made more sense than Pierre being his soulmate?
It was roundabout the time of Pierre's first win (when Charles was standing under the podium in Monza with an aching back but a heart soaring with joy for his best friend despite the disaster of his own race) that Charles resigned himself to the truth: Pierre is his soulmate.
He has to be. Isn't a soulmate meant to be your perfect match; the person who understands you better than anyone and makes you happier than any other person in the world?
There's nobody else who could make Charles as happy as Pierre does. Nobody, nobody. There's no point in even trying to deny it anymore.
Pierre is his soulmate. But he is not Pierre's.
And that's okay. It's okay.
It has to be.
~
It isn't okay, not really, but that's true of a lot of things in Charles' life, and he's learned how to deal with them. He can deal with this, too.
On the whole, Charles thinks he does a pretty good job of dealing with it. He gets to be Pierre's best friend, after all - isn't that just a different kind of soulmate? True, Charles might want more, but it isn't like he has nothing. He has Pierre, and he will have Pierre for the rest of their lives.
Not in the way he wants, but - at least he will have Pierre.
The one thing he tries never to think about is Pierre's actual soulmate. Because Pierre has one, he knows, and he will meet them at some point.
Charles doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to look at some soulmate of Pierre's, and smile at her, and not be hopelessly, heartbreakingly jealous.
(He will do it, though. He will learn to smile at Pierre's soulmate - for Pierre's sake. He'll do it for Pierre.)
But that's a bridge he will cross when they get there. He doesn't have to worry about it yet (or at least, that's what Charles keeps telling himself even as the months tick by, and he knows there aren't year figures left on Pierre's soulmate timer anymore. Just months now, and then... weeks.)
Charles isn't thinking about it. He's put it out of his mind completely - which is easy enough to do, thankfully, given everything that's been happening on-track this season.
That's probably why he accepts Pierre's invitation to dinner in Montreal without thinking twice about it. (Even if he had realised, though, Charles doesn't think he would have been able to say no, either. He would give Pierre everything, if he only asked.)
So they go to dinner in Montreal, and it's perfect, and wonderful, and laughter-filled, and all in all exactly what Charles needed to distract himself from the fact that he has yet another engine penalty, and the sinking feeling that the championship is beginning to slip out of his reach.
Pierre seems to realise it, because he's in even finer form than usual - teasing Charles and tickling his ribs playfully and making him laugh at every possible opportunity.
Even on the drive back to the hotel: they stop at a red light, and Pierre steals Charles' cap, and Charles is giggling and filming it while Pierre is giggling back, and he's pretty sure neither of them are thinking about it at all, until-
Until Pierre's face changes from laughter to something almost ashen. "Charles," he says, and for all the years Charles has known him, he's never once heard Pierre's voice like that. "My soulmate timer just stopped."
For a few seconds, the words don't even register in Charles' mind.
Then they do, and Charles can feel his heart drop. "What?" he breathes.
His hands shake, and he doesn't even register the fact that the light has gone green as he glances all around them, craning his neck to see if there's anyone behind the white Ferrari, or around to the side.
Just a few minutes ago, their car had been surrounded by fans on all sides, all jostling to try and get pictures of them. But now, somehow, they're all alone in the Montreal night.
(The irony of it all is not lost on him - is this how Pierre felt all those years ago, when he was trying to look for Charles' soulmate at a karting cup, but not finding anybody it could be?)
"Are you sure it stopped just now? And not earlier?" Charles asks, willing his voice not to shake.
"Yeah," Pierre whispers. He sounds... devastated.
"But," Charles says, and then he has to take a deep breath. "But there's no-one else here, Pierrot."
"I know," Pierre says, somehow even softer.
Charles' fingers clench reflexively around the steering wheel, and he's moving in blank autopilot as he puts the car into gear and starts driving forward again.
He doesn't even realise he's shaking his head until Pierre says softly, "Charles." There's something wounded about it.
Charles stops shaking his head and slams on the brakes instead, jerking the car into something he hopes is a parking space at the side of the road.
"I don't understand," he says, far more calmly than he feels. "You can't - I can't be your soulmate."
Okay, maybe he's not so calm after all. But he doesn't think... he doesn't think anyone would be calm, in this situation.
Pierre makes a sound that could almost be a laugh, except that it sounds too strangled. "Do you know," he says, "that I have spent half my life wondering if the soulmate system got something wrong in my case? Because if you're not my soulmate, then who is? Who could possibly..."
Pierre does laugh this time, shaking his head. "You know, I asked to go out with you tonight for a reason. I knew - I knew it would happen tonight, so I needed to..." He swallows. "I needed to see you, one last time. Before I wouldn't be allowed to love you anymore."
It jolts through Charles then, what Pierre is trying to say. "Pierre," he breathes, and now it's his turn to say his best friend's name in a way he doesn't think he's ever said it before.
But Pierre's not finished yet. "I thought I could have one last night with you," he says. "One last night, before I had to say goodbye to my feelings, and try to love someone else."
My feelings. Try to love someone else.
Charles Leclerc is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them. He knows what Pierre is saying. He's...
Pierre loves him too. All along, Pierre has loved him too.
Only, he never had the option of thinking we're soulmates, Charles realised, and his heart twists in his chest.
Because Charles, for all that he accepted his soulbond toward Pierre was unrequited - at least he'd had the option of them being soulmates. Yes, it was in a twisted way, but at least he'd had that.
Pierre didn't. And he still fell in love with Charles.
The thought hits him like a shell-shock, and it's enough that Charles can only sit there for a moment, staring blankly, as Pierre continues talking beside him.
"I meant for tonight to just be a quick dinner together, something fun but normal for us," Pierre is saying, wringing his hands. "But I lost track of time. I always lose time when I'm talking to you, Charlito, I could talk to you forever - but the point is, I forgot to tell you I need to go back. I forgot that I was meant to meet my fucking soulmate tonight, because I was spending time with you, and - "
He takes a deep breath, and then he laughs again, leaning forward to drop his head into his hands. "I felt it happen, you know? I knew exactly when my soulmate timer stopped, because I could feel it, and it's - it was when I put that fucking cap on my head, Charles."
The cap that he's still wearing. Charles' 16 Ferrari cap.
Charles' hands shake as he reaches out to touch it, just the brim. "Your soulmate timer stopped when you put my cap on," he says, because a part of him still can't believe that this is real, that he's not living in some kind of heartbreakingly wonderful dream.
Pierre straightens up so fast that Charles is left with his fingers dangling awkwardly in mid-air. "Yes," he says, suddenly looking wild, "but this doesn't have to change anything, Charlito, I promise. I will still help you find your soulmate, and I will - I'll learn how to live with an unrequited bond, it's -"
"No!" Charles interrupts, half-throwing himself across the car to catch hold of Pierre's hands. "No, no, no, no. No more unrequited bonds, Pierrot."
Pierre starts to shake his head, but then he stops in the middle of the movement. "What do you mean," he asks, very carefully, "no more?"
And suddenly, Charles feels giddy, of all things. "I mean, your timer didn't stop when mine did. So for years, I have thought that we can't be soulmates, or at least that you couldn't be my soulmate. But now your timer stopped when you put on my cap, so -"
"Stop, stop, stop," Pierre says, squeezing Charles' hands tightly. "What do you mean, my timer didn't stop when yours did?"
"Oh," Charles says, and then he winces, the weight of the only real lie he's ever told his best friend (the only real lie he's ever told his soulmate) settling onto his shoulders with uncomfortable heaviness. "Um. Well. Do you remember when we met, and you thought I already met my soulmate?"
"No," Pierre breathes, but it's not the kind of no that says "no I don't remember." This no is more like "no way."
"Yeah," Charles says, and he can't help but look down at his own wrist, where the soulmate timer has been stopped for years and years. "My timer stopped the moment I met you, Pierrot."
"You..."
Pierre doesn't look like he knows how to finish that sentence, but Charles understands him anyway. "How was I supposed to tell you? I was seven, Pierre, and your timer didn't stop. I thought it was a mistake for years."
"But?" Pierre asks, like he can tell there was a but.
Charles beams at him. "But, I realised that there was nobody else who could be my perfect match. So I thought you were my soulmate after all, but it was unrequited."
"Never," Pierre says with a fierceness Charles doesn't expect. "Charles, never. If I knew... if I thought I had even half a chance, I would have been with you anyway."
Charles tries to laugh, but it comes out all breathless. "No you wouldn't."
"Yes, I would," Pierre argues, and his voice is heartbreakingly sincere. "I don't care. I would have chosen you."
Charles hears a punched-out noise, and it takes him a moment to realise it came from him. The next moment, he's unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing awkwardly over to sit on Pierre's lap.
It's not quite comfortable, because for all its luxury, the white Ferrari does not have a lot of leg space - but Charles doesn't think either of them give a single fuck, in this moment.
"I love you," he tells Pierre, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I've always loved you, but I never would have stood between you and your soulmate."
"Funny," Pierre says, his hands coming up to grip Charles' hips, "because that's exactly what stopped me from kissing you senseless."
"Well," Charles says, and if he grinds down just a little on Pierre's lap, he'll swear to everyone who asks that it was accidental. "It doesn't have to stop us anymore."
"Never again," Pierre agrees, tightening his grip on Charles' hips. "Never."
"So kiss me senseless, please," Charles whispers, and then he adds "soulmate," and that's what does it. Pierre surges up and kisses him, wild and desperate and more than a little clumsy, but without question the best kiss Charles has ever had. His own cap digs into his forehead a little, but Charles can't even bring himself to care about that - they owe too much to this cap now, honestly.
Maybe the universe does know what it's doing after all, Charles thinks. Maybe the universe just wanted to write a good story for them. A story that goes like this:
Charles' soulmate timer stopped when he was seven years old, and he met the boy with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.
Almost twenty years later, Pierre's soulmate timer stopped in a white Ferrari in Montreal, and Charles finally got to kiss the boy with the bluest eyes he's ever seen, the man who is his best friend and his soulmate.
The odds of it working out this way have to be... a million to one, probably, or maybe even less.
But then again, what are the odds that two boys who met at a French karting cup and became friends with a shared dream would both make it to Formula 1?
Maybe the answer is just that Pierre and Charles have always liked beating the odds.
~
(50 Romance Prompts Ask Meme) <- not currently taking more prompts, sorry!
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