Chapter Text
i
Charles Rowland.
That’s the name, written in red, curled around the entirety of his son’s chubby wrist: Charles. Unmistakably masculine. The nurses wouldn’t meet John’s eyes as they noted ‘Charles Rowland’ on the birth certificate. As though there was something to be ashamed of, as though anything about John’s son was less than perfect.
Of course, there were many same-sex soulmates. Had been throughout the entirety of history, and it was utterly ludicrous to claim otherwise, but that had not stopped homosexuals from being classified as second-class citizens up until John was three. In his own lifetime! Thank goodness the law had changed in time for Edwin’s birth but society still had some (or a lot of) catching up to do.
John held his precious son in his arms as Beatrice slept (good, she deserved it) beside him, and prayed that he could be enough to protect him.
He was not.
ii
Soulmates are an extraordinary and fascinating magic. As if the name bands are not incredible enough, there is also the Summoning.
One moment, one moment before you meet your soulmate when you need them most, where you can summon them to your side.
Edwin’s seven-year-old father had summoned the twenty-six-year-old version of Edwin’s mother (who had not even been born yet) as he recovered from polio. No longer infectious, no longer delirious, but still weak, confined to his bed and informed that the disease had paralysed his leg. Edwin’s father had listened in his bed, shaking and sobbing, as John Payne Snr shouted at the doctors that his son would walk again “come hell or high water”.
And then, like an angel, Beatrice Payne had appeared.
She had stayed for a few hours. She had told the young boy, who would grow to be her husband, that he was perfect as he was. That he was clever and kind and a better father than his own. She made him smile, made him laugh. She shouted at her future father-in-law when he came back into the bedroom.
A fourteen-year-old Beatrice summoned a sixteen-year-old John after the death of her mother. The funeral had been brutal. John had held her through hundreds of tears, running a hand through her hair and murmuring apologies into her ear.
There are many times in Edwin’s life when he thinks this will be it, this will finally be the time I summon my Charles.
But his Charles never comes and Edwin realises life is only going to get worse.
And, then, Charles calls him.
iii
Edwin is sat in Latin. The class is silent as they work on their translations under the careful eye of Mr Richards. A quiet classroom is the most content that Edwin ever feels at St. Hilarion’s.
He begins to feel a curious tugging at his heart. It starts off small, nearly unnoticeable, but grows to something sharp and insistent. Edwin drops his quill with a high gasp and clutches his chest in blind panic.
“Payne, what are—”
But before Edwin can hear the rest of the sentence, the classroom of boys contracts and disappears. He can taste phantom fear on his tongue as his vision glows white and then turns-
black.
Edwin is suddenly standing (which is an entirely discombobulating sensation) in a pitch-black room filled with the sound of quiet, frenzied sobbing. This must be his Charles’ Summoning.
For a moment, Edwin hardly knows what to do; the phantom fear he feels is replaced with a very real and immediate anxiety. He has waited so long for his Charles and he does not want to make a bad first impression— but Charles is crying and, more importantly, Edwin’s realising that these are the sobs of a small child.
“Charles?” He calls softly.
The sobs stop, though Charles hiccups a couple of choked gasps.
“Who’s there?” Charles asks in a small, scared voice.
“I’m Edwin,” Edwin says gently. “Edwin Payne? I am your soulmate.”
“The Edwin on my wrist?” Charles asks, still small but hopeful.
“Indeed,” Edwin says, “as you are the Charles on mine.”
“I wish I could see,” Charles says.
“Yes, why is it so dark?” Edwin says, looking around at the small room they are in. “And crowded. Where do we find ourselves, Charles?”
Charles sobs again. “Cupboard.”
“And why are we in the cupboard?”
“Dad— Daddy put me in here.”
Oh. That is unfortunate, but Edwin has certainly heard of worse punishments for wrongdoings. Not that Edwin’s own father has ever done something so crude. “What happened, Charles?” Edwin asks carefully, feeling the walls so he can try and sit down.
Charles sobs yet again and the sound shoots through Edwin’s heart. “He… doesn’t like my name band.”
Oh.
Edwin sits, holding his knees to his chest in the tiny, cramped space. The cupboard is small enough that Edwin can reach across and take Charles’ hand in his own. Charles’ hand is so small.
“My sincerest apologies, Charles,” Edwin says. “It is hard, sometimes, having another boy as your name band, isn’t it?”
“Mummy says there’s nothing wrong with it,” Charles mumbles. “Lots of people have it but Daddy… gets so angry. Does your Daddy get angry?”
“No,” Edwin says gently. He cannot imagine his father angry, nor can he imagine John or Beatrice Payne being anything less than entirely supportive of him. “But the boys at my school… they get angry. They do not like my name band either.”
Charles sniffs. “Why?”
Why indeed? “Some people believe it is wrong or unnatural for a boy to love another boy as we will come to love each other… but we are soulmates, Charles. There is nothing unnatural about that.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what, Charles?”
“Love me?” Charles asks, voice small.
Certainly, soulmates are not a guarantee of a happy and loving marriage, Edwin has seen that for himself at his parents’ annual Christmas parties, but Charles is so young and scared and sad. “Of course I will,” Edwin says, squeezing Charles’ delicate hand. “I promise.”
Charles scrambles forward and tucks himself next to Edwin, underneath his arm. Edwin feels tears spring up in his eyes, surprised at Charles’ obvious and easy affection, his trust.
“Will you stay with me?” Charles asks and Edwin can feel Charles’ head look up at him, even if he cannot see him.
Edwin runs a hand through Charles’ hair and finds an explosion of tight, springy curls. Charles leans into his hand and snuggles up closer to Edwin’s side, holding him tight with cool and trembling arms.
“As long as I am allowed,” Edwin says, twisting his body as best as he can to drop a kiss to the top of Charles’ head. His hair does not smell like any shampoo that Edwin’s smelt before, like strawberries but unnaturally strong. It is not unpleasant, sweet, and it suits Charles somehow.
“Do you know any stories, Edwin?” Charles asks. His trembling is slowing down, his breathing evening out.
“I most often prefer detective stories,” Edwin says, “but I am afraid that I cannot remember any of them presently… I do know some fairytales if you should like to hear them?”
Charles nods and so Edwin recites the story of Cinderella as best as he can, remembering the beautiful volume of Perrault’s fairytales that his parents gifted him for his fifth birthday. Perhaps when he was not so different in age to Charles now.
Edwin tells Charles a story of a girl with a prince’s name on her wrist and an evil stepmother determined to keep that knowledge from her. Charles seems to take much comfort from Cinderella’s fight to go to the ball, a ball intended to find her, and the prince’s subsequent search for her. I will save you, Edwin thinks, aware that it’s a pipe dream. Edwin cannot even save himself most days. And then, even when they become men, the battlefield and the trenches will be waiting.
“… and they live happily ever after,” Edwin finishes, eyes burning as he clutches Charles a little tighter.
For a short while, Charles says nothing and Edwin begins to wonder if Charles has fallen asleep but then he whispers, “I like your voice.”
“Thank you Charles,” Edwin says, warmth blooming in his chest. His voice has always caused him so much trouble— too high, too prissy, too effeminate. “I like yours too.”
“I wish I could see your face,” Charles says. “I bet it’s real nice.”
“Not as nice as yours, I should think.”
Charles crawls into Edwin’s lap, startling him, and clutching the front of Edwin’s uniform with his small, tight fists. Edwin wraps his arms around Charles tightly. Charles is quite cool to the touch, especially with how awfully thin his clothes are. This goes beyond any mere punishment, Charles could become seriously ill with how cold it is.
“Hold steady, Charles,” Edwin murmurs, letting go of Charles so he can wiggle out of his blazer as best as he can. He wraps it around Charles, who snuggles into it almost happily.
“Thanks ‘win,” Charles says. “Won’t you be cold?”
“Don’t you worry about me, Charles,” Edwin says, holding this precious boy closer to him. “I shall be fine.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“Neither do I,” Edwin says. “I was in the middle of Latin and this is a significant improvement.”
Edwin is surprised by how little he is lying. Whilst he is mostly saying this for the benefit and appreciation of Charles, Edwin finds he that he would, indeed, much rather be sat in this freezing cupboard, offering his soulmate comfort than sat in a classroom at St. Hilarion’s.
“What’s Latin?”
“It is a language I am studying, a dead one.”
“How can a language be dead?”
“It means that there is no one alive who speaks it— but there are some people who can read it.”
“Like you?”
“Like me.”
“Wow,” Charles breathes, awed. “You must be super smart.”
Edwin reminds himself that children are easily impressed. “Why that is very kind of you to say, Charles.”
“I’m not very smart,” Charles says, sadly.
Edwin looks at him sharply, wishing he could see Charles’ small face for guidance. “Who on Earth told you that?”
“That’s what they all say,” Charles says, squirming awkwardly in Edwin’s arms. “Teachers… Daddy.”
“Well that is simply not true,” Edwin declares. “You are clearly a very intelligent child.”
Charles shakes his head furiously and Edwin’s heart breaks, a jagged fissure down the centre. “Even if it was true,” Edwin says, painfully, “which it is not but even if it was, it would not matter one jot to me. You are kind, Charles, and I rather think that kind is superior to clever.”
Charles begins to sob again but he holds onto Edwin tightly, so Edwin hopes that he said something right. He is not used to saying the correct thing to anyone but his parents.
“You are safe, my darling,” Edwin says, rocking Charles in his arms. He wishes he could guarantee Charles’ safety outside this cupboard.
They are trapped there for a few hours, Edwin would estimate. Most of the time, Edwin holds Charles while he sleeps, tucked in Edwin’s blazer and clutching his sweater vest tightly. Charles is woken by the sound of his own stomach rumbling and, though this is a fairly standard form of punishment, Edwin cannot help but be struck by the unnecessary cruelty of it. His grandfather, before he passed, often called Edwin’s father ‘soft’ for John’s reluctance to punish Edwin. Now, sat here with his cold and hungry soulmate, so impossibly young, Edwin cannot imagine how anyone can do this to any child.
Edwin is telling Charles more stories when the door suddenly and violently opens. The light that pours in is blinding, sharp, unnatural. Edwin sees very little of the man that opens it, and hardly any of the small boy in his arms, before he is violently pulled back to St. Hilarion’s.
He falls onto the floor to the jeers and laughter of his classmates. It doesn’t seem as though he has been gone for long, mere minutes. Edwin’s face flushes red as he climbs back into his seat and tries to curl inwards on himself. It does not make any difference. The other boys still whistle and shout names across the room.
Edwin wraps his hand around his wrist as though he can protect Charles’ name from them all.
“Settle down,” Mr Richards snaps. “Mr Payne, where is your blazer?”
Edwin looks down at himself to find that, yes, his blazer is missing. He wraps his arms around himself. “My… they were cold.”
Mr Richards sighs. “See to it that you retrieve a blazer before your next class, Payne.”
Edwin nods and, when Mr Richards turns back to the chalkboard, sighs himself with relief.
That relief vanishes when he catches Simon’s eye before he looks back at his translation; the seething mouth, eyes full of loathing… Edwin’s heart picks up speed like a startled rabbit as a cold sensation races down his spine.
iv
Edwin wakes to rough hands clamping his mouth, pulling his limbs, dragging him out of his warm bed and into the cold. He tries to scream, to shout, as he is pulled down the school hallways. When it becomes clear that intimidation will not keep him quiet, someone roughly gags him.
As he is held down with belts and hands onto a table in one of the basements, Edwin cannot help but wish his Charles was here.
But Edwin does not really want Charles here. He wants Charles safe and waiting for him in the future. A shining light in the darkness, waiting to welcome him home.
A demon is summoned instead, standing over Edwin with an almost apologetic expression.
Edwin feels his future disappear, the light is extinguished, and Charles (thank God) still does not come.
Edwin’s last thought before he starts screaming is Charles, forgive me.
v
Edwin curls against the wall, trying to hide. He cannot hide for long. Hiding is not true safety, merely the illusion, the trick of it. He has been running for so long, though, and he is so tired.
It’s an exhaustion unlike anything he has ever felt, like anything he or anyone could conceive of. An exhaustion with its own gravity.
He has to run. He cannot let the creature catch up... but it always catches him. It always chases, as long as Edwin runs, it’ll catch him, it’ll catch him and rip him apart, tear into him, consume him, kill him in blistering white-hot agony—
— he’s so tired of the running, of the chase, of the pain. He wants nothing more than to try and hide, or to sink into the hot metal floor and never rise again.
Edwin sobs (quietly, of course).
He is so tired of being strong. He is so tired of trying to survive.
“— and we can whoa.”
Edwin looks up to see a youth, standing in front of him, whirling around in confusion. “Wait. Is this—"
The boy turns, gorgeous eyes widening when they land on Edwin. He asks, softly, “Edwin? Sweetheart, is that you?”
Edwin can only stare. The boy in front of him is dressed scandalously in a pair of tight trousers that end just above his ankle, a vest that fully displays his wiry strength and jewellery that, somehow, does not look ridiculous. What Edwin cannot truly wrap his mind around, however, is the boy’s delicate beauty. Even if Edwin had not been trapped in Hell for goodness knows how long, he would still be stunned by how beautiful this boy is. Right now, it is practically overwhelming.
The boy crouches. “Baby, are you—"
“Who are you?” Edwin asks quietly, shrinking back. “How do you know me?”
The boy blinks, briefly hurt, before the confusion on his face clears. “Oh, ‘course,” he says. “This is your Summoning, yeah?”
Edwin blinks. “You… you’re my Charles?”
The boy smiles. He reaches out and wraps a finely boned hand around Edwin’s wrist, around his name band. “Your Charles,” Charles confirms, gently. “Always.”
Charles rubs a thumb over his own name for a moment, grounding Edwin, before he holds out his wrist so Edwin can clearly read it.
Edwin Payne
A different kind of sob chokes Edwin’s throat as he traces his own name on his soulmate’s wrist. When he looks back up, Charles’ eyes are looking at Edwin with so much undisguised love that it’s almost painful to keep eye contact.
“How long have you been here?” Charles asks, softly.
“I do not know,” Edwin admits, voice thick. “It feels like an eternity.”
Charles’ eyes flutter shut. He swallows hard and then opens up his eyes again. “You’re incredible you are,” he says, eventually. “Look at you. You’re a fucking miracle.”
“I do not feel it,” Edwin admits. “I… Charles, I am so tired.”
“I know,” Charles whispers. “You’ve been so brave and so strong… it’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair.”
Edwin begins to sob again but it feels good, like crying into a mother’s arms.
(He can’t remember his mother anymore.)
No sooner does he think this then he feels Charles wrapping his arms around Edwin’s shoulders, pulling Edwin into his lap. Without thinking, without considering how incredibly improper it is to be clambering all over his soulmate within the first few minutes of meeting him, Edwin wraps his arms and legs around Charles’ torso. Charles does not seem to mind though. He clings back just as tightly and murmurs, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Charles turns his face and presses gentle kisses to Edwin’s face. “I love you,” he adds, “I love you so much.”
Please don’t leave me, Edwin thinks. Instead, knowing Charles must leave him and knowing that he actually wants Charles as far away from Hell as possible, Edwin turns his head and kisses him.
It is Edwin’s first kiss.
He cannot say that he ever dreamed of having his first kiss in Hell but the boy he is kissing is beyond Edwin’s wildest dreams. He could never have conceived of Charles because he never would have dared dream for so much.
Charles, who is the most beautiful boy that Edwin has ever seen. Charles, who holds Edwin so tenderly in his arms. Charles, who tells Edwin that he is a miracle and looks at him with pure devotion. Charles, who makes Edwin feel safe in the deepest part of Hell.
Truly, it is Charles who is the miracle.
Charles kisses beautifully, his mouth moving with Edwin’s with a confidence and skill that Edwin himself lacks. Edwin likes to think, however, that what he lacks in experience he makes up for enthusiasm. He threads his fingers through the tight, soft curls of Charles’ hair (less unruly than when he was a child) as though he can tether them together. Charles hums into Edwin’s mouth before parting Edwin’s mouth with his tongue.
Edwin moans in response. God, he wants Charles to consume him. He wants to crawl into Charles’ chest and hide amongst his ribs.
It is remarkable, addictive even, to feel something that brings Edwin joy and pleasure for once. He didn’t think his body still knew how to feel this. That is the only excuse Edwin has for what he does next: chasing the high, he grinds down into Charles’ lap.
The friction is delicious. It sends heat unfurling along Edwin’s spine and he gasps with the surprise of it. Charles groans, his hands tightening around Edwin’s ribs.
“Baby—"
(It is a strange endearment, at least Edwin assumes it’s a term of endearment, but the way that Charles says it is perfect)
“— I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Charles gasps. “This is your first time, right?”
“Please,” Edwin pleads, voice needy and desperate. “Please, Charles.”
Charles stares at him, his eyes dark and intense as he searches Edwin’s face carefully. It allows Edwin to stare back, to drink Charles in. God, he is truly beautiful. The bones of his face like glass, his brown eyes large and lined with dark make-up, his mouth kiss-swollen and pink. And he’s Edwin’s— as much as Edwin is his. For the first time in a very long time, Edwin is overwhelmed with the realisation of how lucky he is.
Please, Edwin thinks, let me feel you, let me feel something good for once.
Charles must hear him or, perhaps, he just knows Edwin that well (and isn’t that utterly remarkable?) for he leans up and recaptures his mouth. Charles’ mouth is divine, exquisite, as he teases Edwin’s lips apart. As Edwin sighs happily, Charles slips his tongue inside. Edwin’s heart races but it’s glorious, it’s intoxicating, he can’t get enough…
Edwin tilts Charles’ head to change the angle of their kiss (their kiss— a thing they own collectively, that they created together, that could not exist without them. How brilliant, how utterly wonderful). Charles smiles a little against Edwin’s mouth before kissing him more fiercely and rolling his hips.
Edwin begins grinding back down in Charles’ lap, rocking his hips back and forth with a frenetic energy. He feels the heat of Charles beneath himself. Edwin feels the strain of his underthings to accommodate him, suspects the same thing is happening with Charles’ sinfully tight trousers. Edwin feels sparks ignite where they are pressed against each other. Charles moans as Edwin’s mouth parts with the little gasps he makes. Their mouths are misaligned now and yet it feels entirely erotic, that their desperation and their passion is too great, too overwhelming, for their bodies to co-operate. Their lips brush as they breathe against each other wildly.
Charles thrusts up and Edwin almost whines, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck,” Charles breathes. “You’re gorgeous, you know. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Edwin shakes his head, feeling entirely too much, and buries his face in the crook of Charles’ neck.
“You’re everything to me,” Charles continues.
Edwin mouths at Charles’ neck to prevent himself from crying out. He hears Charles hiss and tense up as Edwin begins to suck on his neck. Edwin has no real idea what he’s doing. But he feels good and he wants to keep feeling good and wants to make Charles feel good. He grinds down again, harder, as he tightens his thighs around Charles’ waist.
Charles thrusts again, harder. Edwin blinks back tears.
“Come on,” Charles whispers into Edwin’s ear, voice low and rough and perfect. “Come on baby, let go. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Edwin nearly sobs. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
“Please,” Charles pleads. His hands leave Edwin’s ribs; one guides Edwin’s face from Charles’ neck, holding him gently in front of Charles’ eyes so that Edwin cannot hide away. The other hand slips between them and… good God.
“Let me see you,” Charles begs, voice hushed as Edwin's breath hitches into soft gasps now that Charles has him in hand. “Edwin, baby, please.”
Edwin comes undone. In the deepest part of Hell, where mere minutes ago he was screaming in pain, he blisses out. Pleasure suffuses his body, blanks out his mind, and for a split second Edwin forgets where he is. He remembers nothing but the boy beneath him.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Charles is babbling when Edwin begins to come to. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re beautiful sweetheart. Hell can’t touch you.”
Edwin trembles in Charles’ arms but just about manoeuvres his weak limbs into holding Charles back, as Charles cradles the back of Edwin’s head.
When Edwin’s trembling has mostly abated and his breathing is back under control, Charles presses a sweet kiss to his temple. “Edwin,” he whispers, stroking through his hair. “I know you.”
“Well yes Charles, that was fairly obvious,” Edwin says, immediately regretting it. Too sharp, too superior. He’s only just met Charles and Edwin’s already shown his true colours, he’s going to chase Charles away…
But Charles just snorts, sounding almost charmed. “Maybe but you know what that means?”
“Hmm?”
“You get out.”
Edwin freezes and then untangles himself from Charles enough that he can look into his eyes. Charles is smiling proudly at him, tears in his eyes. “You get out,” he repeats. “You escape.”
“I escape,” Edwin says, faintly.
“You do,” Charles says, pressing a fierce kiss to Edwin’s mouth, “because you’re proper brilliant and strong. So please don’t give up. I’m out there waiting for you.”
“You are an incredible incentive,” Edwin says, reaching out and running his fingers along Charles’ exquisite cheekbone. “Beyond anything I could have hoped for, my Charles.”
Charles beams. “You know I feel the same way, right? Nah, course you don’t, not yet but I do. You’re aces, you are.”
“Aces?” Edwin questions.
“Yeah, you know, top notch.”
“Oh,” Edwin says, blushing. “Well then so are you. Aces.”
Charles grins.
“Charles?”
“Yes, love?”
“When I escape… it is no longer 1916, is it?”
Charles swallows. “No.”
“What year will it be?”
Charles sighs. “1989.”
Edwin tenses. 1989? It hardly feels like a real year, more like something Edwin would have read in a penny novel, but it must be true, that must be where men can wear jewellery and make-up and produce miracle boys like Charles…
Charles’ hands return to Edwin’s ribs lightly, stroking them lightly. “I don’t think I get long down here,” he admits, sounding pained by the thought.
“I am not surprised,” Edwin swallows. “Hell does not afford mercies.”
Charles tilts his head and smiles, charmingly, “I’m a mercy, am I?”
“Quite.”
Charles hums, pleased, but he does not stay pleased for long. His face falls back under the weight of his sadness. A sadness that is Edwin’s fault. “I hate the thought of leaving you down here…”
Edwin shakes his head and takes Charles’ gorgeous face between his hands. “It means so much to me that you came here, Charles. I thought… well, I believed I would never have the chance to love you.”
“Nah,” Charles says, firmly. “Me and you? We’re meant to be. It’s destiny, innit?”
Edwin smiles, his face aching from where the muscles haven’t moved that way for some time. Charles beams. “There you are,” he whispers. “Can I kiss you again?”
Edwin nods enthusiastically making Charles’ smile widen. Who needs the sun when Charles Rowland is smiling at you?
Charles kisses Edwin once, then a second time for good luck.
Edwin climbs off Charles’ lap and they sit beside each other, in Hell, for no more than half-an-hour before Charles is taken back to his own time. They hold hands, Charles’ thumb rubbing the back of Edwin’s knuckles lightly, as they talk; Charles is careful not to spoil too much about their personal future on Edwin’s request, but he talks about a perfectly average day they spent in London. Edwin listens, enraptured, to Charles’ careful description of bookshops, museums, and record stores.
“Music’s moved on a bit,” Charles explains. “Most songs have singing now.”
“And you like music?” Edwin asks.
Charles’ face lights up. “Oh yeah. I like most things but Ska’s my favourite.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a music genre that doesn’t get invented until, like, the sixties I think.”
“Have you a favourite song, Charles?”
Charles frowns in concentration, it’s ridiculously endearing. “You know,” he chuckles, “the only song I can think of isn’t even Ska, it’s rock; it’s called ‘Under the Milky Way’. It came out the year before I d- before we met.”
“Can you sing it to me, please?”
Charles begins to sing, his voice particularly lovely, but is in the middle of a word that he vanishes. Edwin inhales, shuddering with the breath, tears spilling from his eyes.
His empty hand is left wanting.