Chapter Text
On your 13th birthday, the voice in your head goes from your own to your soulmate's. Race was quite the unlucky soul.
Race had woken up on his birthday, immediately ready to take on whatever challenges New York left lying at his front door. While playing with coins on his desk, he looked towards his open apartment window and back to the pennies scattered around. Just a little flick out the window wouldn't hurt, right?
The fuck are you doing?
He paused with his hand frozen over a slightly oxidized coin. That wasn't his voice.
Stop that, you're gonna break something.
Race had the realization that it was in fact his thirteenth birthday. Well, dang. That was definitely not his voice, then. Even better, or worse, it was a guy’s voice. Race himself was fine with it, but his parents may not be so welcoming.
Reluctantly, he dropped the coin back down on the table and let it roll for a second. God, their voice was gonna make it complicated, wasn't it? At least it wasn't a bad sound. It had a slight Brooklyn drawl behind each phrase and was deeper than it would be for someone his age. He assumed it would sound the same as when you finally meet your soulmate, but for now it just felt like a demanding parent telling him off.
For years after that, he listened to the voice demanding better actions of him. Honestly, how could Race deal with it?
By complaining, of course!
His friends were blessed to get the brunt of the complaints, mainly about not being able to be himself. According to Jack, he was being dramatic.
Race was entering his sophomore year of college, now fully prepared for a battering of scolding from his Brooklyn match and his impulse control. Last year, he had no idea what would be coming for him. The copious amounts of parties thrust at him was death to his brain.
Being summer, Race had all of the freedom to do whatever wild shit he wanted and not have to worry about what school was hiding the next day.
Out of the sheer will and urge to embarrass himself, he decided to ignore the call in the back of his mind for the entire day and get destroyed with Jack. But not with liquor, no. With idiocy and brotherly bond.
He called Jack to find something to do and they decided that they were going to attempt to roll an office chair down a hill and into the river bank without falling. The voice was nagging him so much.
Dumbass, you’re gonna break ya neck at this rate. Don’t.
“Shut up.” Race groaned. The voice on the receiving side of the call paused.
“What?”
“No- no, not you Jack. It’s my fuckin’ soulmate.” He heard a low giggle sound from his phone followed by a slap on cloth. He figured Davey was with him.
“Don’t laugh Jack, you know you did it too.” Davey told Jack and Race could only imagine the scene in his head; Jack letting the phone lay on the counter as he listened to his soulmate tell him off once again.
"Has it been getting any louder?” Jack asked, his voice higher from holding back laughs.
“Not very, I’ve actually been trying to control myself, thank you very much,” he smirked even though no one could see. “But this time, I’m winning this battle and that river bank won’t be still for long.”
Idiota.
Did he mention he must know Spanish?
“We’ll meet tomorrow, alright Race?”
“Two o’clock at the bank.” He smiled excitedly. He hadn’t had much thrill on his mind recently and this was finally a time where he would let himself have control.
About to hang up the call, Race hears a small voice in the background. “Jack, you’ll get him killed-” he hung up the phone. They were good for each other, Jack and Davey. Perfect combo, one rational, one not. They kept each other from dying or not loosening up enough. He wondered how he and his soulmate would be. Probably the same. For now he could only wonder. But he really couldn’t focus because of a certain mind-inflicted buzzkill.
You’re gonna die, Race.
Fuck you, he thought, hoping that his anger was radiating far enough for his soulmate to feel in his mind. He took off his shirt and changed into a pair of grey sweats and an old, withering band shirt.
He flopped dramatically onto his bed and shoved his face into his pillow, taking a deep sigh.
Tomorrow was his and he was making sure of it. But first, he needed sleep. He drifted off slowly to his own voice humming along to some random showtunes and a softly fading voice in the back of his mind.
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Race grabbed his bag, phone, and wallet, throwing his shoes on, grabbing his red flannel, and strolling out of his apartment peppily. He was not letting that sweet voice get the best of him today, no sir.
Strange enough, he hasn’t heard it scold him that day yet, even for seeing if he could grab the coffee pot early and stomach the pain. He’s pleased to know that it hurt like hell and he would not be doing that again. Sadistic? Maybe.
He strolled down the streets of Manhattan with a spring in his step, absorbing the bright sunlight and beautiful weather. Minimal clouds littered the blue sky and sunlight poured onto the loud and busy streets, reflecting off of shiny glass panes towering up high into the sky.
He continued along the pavement until he reached the crosswalk. Cars flew past and didn’t seem to want to stop for anything. There were few gaps in between them, but one caught Race’s eye.
I could make that, he thinks to himself. He starts to take a quick step into the road.
What the fuck-
“Stop!” He felt a strong hand grab the collar of his shirt and rip him backwards, causing them to collide and crumble to the ground, Race lying on top of the stranger. He noticed slightly that the voice in his mind and the one that called out blended together, but that was a later problem. For now, he must have almost died.
He leaned up for a second out of the chest his face got buried in and looked at the person’s face–damn. He was built amazingly. His face had a solid frame and the furrow in his brow built on the emotion on his face. His arms were being grabbed by the man’s hands with a firm grip. His eyes were reflecting the sun perfectly into a golden brown spiral– he knew he was blushing.
Race realized he was staring and pushed up very abruptly, almost crushing the poor guy’s ribs where his elbows laid. He rolled to the side and stood up quickly. “Holy shit, are you okay? I’m so sorry about that.” He held out a hand to help him up which he hesitantly grabbed. He dusted off his red shirt and swished out his black zip-up, the sleeves currently rolled up his arms
“The fuck were you thinking there?” The man started. He sounded so confused and also genuinely worried at the same time. Race shifted on his feet at the question, but let his cockiness pull through.
“Aw, come on, I was just gonna see something, it would have been fun.” He whined, putting on a huge act. While it was just like himself to say that, he was definitely still shaken by the near high-five with the grim reaper. He could feel his hands shaking. But who needed to know that anyway?
The man stared at Race with such disbelief and concern for his own stability that someone could give that Race started to feel bad for having got in his way. The man chuckled slowly. “You’re such an idiot, you could have died.”
“Woah, no way,” he drew out sarcastically. “Who knew getting smashed by a car would kill someone? Wild.” The man’s tension lowered slightly and Race watched his shoulders drop a bit. But his face was still put off. And mad. Unluckily for Race, he was a people pleaser and this hurt his soul.
“Besides,” he went on, hoping his words would make him a bit less angry, “I wouldn’t have gotten hit. I probably could have made it. You know it would’ve been fun.”
“Do you have zero impulse control?” Race shook his head jokingly. “I’m shocked you’ve made it this far. This isn’t something you just laugh off– you almost died.” He gestured to the street still flowing with trucks, cars, bikes, and motorcycles combined. He mumbled under his breath pinching his nose bridge. “Dios, eres un maldito idiota.”
Race laughed. “What are you, my mom? You sound like the…” he cut himself short. That's what it was.
Shit.
He was his soulmate.
He had the Brooklyn accent that's been fading for ages, the Spanish insults, the rasp in the back of his throat. That voice he may or may not have been falling for for seven years. And he just noticed now.
He felt his face fall and his eyes were locked on his face. He was shook. He didn’t know whether to crash their lips together or cry out of embarrassment from this meet-ugly.
The man must have started to realize this too, as he dropped his shoulders completely and his face started to fill with shock (less anger, thankfully). They stared at each other without words for a solid second, the people around them grumbling about the blockage.
“What was your name?” The man asked finally, slightly breathless.
“Race, yours?”
“Spot.”
He snickered snidely at him. “Like a dog?”
“Hell no, I’m not a-”
Race lunged forward and grabbed his shirt, pulling him into a fierce kiss, quickly sidestepping toward a wall and pinning Spot to it. He brought himself out of the moment of bliss and looked at his face. It was so fucking confused. Shit, maybe this was a bad idea.
“Sorry, I shouldn’ta-” he was cut off by Spot connecting their lips again with the same energy if not more longing and hungry. They were pulling close together, in the moment forgetting about the world and all inside it. The only thing they cared about was being there, feeling each other's presence and warmth.
After a minute, they pulled apart, trying to catch their breath.
“Cazzo, sei bellissima.” He said lightly, resting his forehead on Spot’s.
“Fuckin’ Italian,” Spot chuckled deeply. “You know how long I’ve listened to that voice tell me to throw a book at someone’s head?”
“Says a lot about me, doesn’t it?” He looks up to Spot’s eyes with a fire of pride and joy.
“You need help.” He started to pull Race toward an empty and shaded alley, away from all of the people.
“I need to feel those lips again, Spotty.” He whispers with lust into Spot’s ear. He sees a slight red hue crawl up the shorter boy’s neck after the nickname.
Spot grabs his wrist and pushes him up against the wall of the alley. “Don’t call me that.” He says darkly, a look of indignation yet passion behind his brown eyes.
“Make me stop, then.” He beckons. Spot leans in and pushes their lips together. Race grabs his waist and pulls him closer. He felt Spot bite at his lip softly. His hand was going through Race’s hair and they stayed like that for a while.
It was just the two most responsible and irresponsible people in the world finding out more about each other and the soulmate they sought for seven years.
The world could wait for a bit.
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“Hey, Spotty…?” he said cutely into the phone, dragging out the name.
“What did you do?” He sighed from the other side of the line.
“Bold of you to assume I did anything,” he put a hand over his heart in mock offense. “You have such little faith in me.”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
There was silence for a minute and Race continued. “So, I may or may not have done something,” he could practically hear Spot’s facepalm. “And I may… or may not… need you to not yell at me, but come to the hospital- anytime you can- and get me… and Jack a ride back??” He finished slowly. There was dead silence from Spot.
“Lo sabía, idiota absoluto– I’ll be there in a bit.” He groaned resolutely.
“Thanks, mi amore!” He smiled and hung up the phone, looking over to Jack and his scratched up face.
“What did the doctor say earlier? I wasn’t listening.” He said sheepishly.
“Concussion.” Jack said monotonely. He was staring at the ground, slightly spaced out. And Race knew exactly why because it was the same reason he himself was dying inside.
Their lovely soulmate voices were chewing them apart in their minds.
Fucking idiot, you knew this would happen. God, you don’t have any impulse at all. You need help. At least you didn’t die.
His head was banging slightly and his shoulder was sore. His shirt was wet from the riverwater and so was Jack’s. They both bit it on the way down the hill, Jack only just tumbling after Race.
Maybe they shouldn’t have done that.
Nevermind that though, that was sick as hell.