muggle!au, soulmate!au where people stop aging at 18 so they can find their soulmate and grow old together (thanks, tumblr!)

warning for homophobia

prompts at the bottom

2114 words, by gdocs

(sophy, if you read this: i'm sorry)

Edgar has been eighteen for over eighty years.

Literally.

He knows that a lot of people don't age after eighteen — most people don't find their soulmate before they turn eighteen — but usually people find their soulmates fast and begin to age.

Edgar?

Edgar is about to turn one hundred and he still hasn't found his soulmate. It's increasingly frustrating, watching everyone around him come and go and him just… staying. Whoever made up the universe was pretty messed up when they decided that people would stay eighteen so they could age with their soulmates. It's a nice thought, but Edgar hates it in practice.

Edgar's one hundredth birthday is spent in a bar. He spends a lot of time in bars. Modern bars are a brilliant invention. Edgar gets to go and sleep with whoever there and try find his soulmate. It hasn't worked yet but…

Maybe someday.

"What happened to you, mate?"

Edgar whips around, coming face to face with a redheaded man, ogling at the scar along the side of face. He remembers that scar really well. He was around twenty mentally, still eighteen physically, and World War I was well underway. The army called for more men.

Edgar signed up.

He got hurt on the first battle he was in — a bayonet down the side of his cheek. Whether it was from an opposing side or his own, he doesn't know. Too much was happening. Only the scar remains, even now.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Edgar replies to the stranger, sipping his beer. He can smell the alcohol on this person, almost attacking his nostrils. Another thing about modern bars — so many drunk people.

"I want to hear your story anyway," the ginger insists. He takes a spot on the barstool next to Edgar, ordering a beer from the bartender. Edgar snorts. "What?"

"I feel like you're drunk enough," Edgar says, eyeing the fresh drink in his hand.

"Oh, I'm not — I'm actually at a party and my brother slipped this over me and — whatever. I'm Fabian," he says finally, running a hand through his light hair. "Just tell me your story."

Edgar raises an eyebrow, taking a deep breath.

"It's from World War One."

The statement sits in the air for a moment.

Fabian clicks his tongue and Edgar can almost touch the awkwardness. Sure, there are a lot of people who haven't found their soulmates for several years. Edgar has failed to meet anyone older than him.

"Oh," Fabian notes. He sips his drink, something dark. "What's your name?"

"Bones," Edgar says, still thinking of the war and holding out a hand. "Edgar Bones."

Fabian laughs and Edgar isn't sure why…? They shake hands anyway and Fabian calls over two shot glasses filled with a bright red drink from the barman. He slides one to Edgar, raising his own.

"To the Allies winning World War One, I guess," he says with a grin, a nice dimple appearing on his left cheek. He tips back the drink into his throat and Edgar copies the motion, the drink burning his throat.

Edgar coughs. Loudly. That is not a good drink.

"Sorry, Mate," Fabian says with a laugh, clapping Edgar on the back. "I thought you had been eighteen for a while?"

Edgar coughs out the last of the awful drink and glares at Edgar.

"I know how to hold my alcohol," he says stubbornly. "I just don't know how to drink fire." He gulps some beer to try and sooth his burning throat. It doesn't work. Fabian's still grinning.

"I've only been eighteen for" — Fabian glances at a watch on his wrist, the gold of his watch reflecting — "three hours and I'm fine."

Edgar hums at him, letting out another cough.

"So tell me about World War One," Fabian says, nursing his original drink. "That must've been exciting."

Fabian leans towards Edgar, forcing Edgar to look at him at an angle that makes Fabian's chin look thinner and his eyes to look bigger.

"It was a war. It was frightening. Not exciting," Edgar says shortly, turning away from Fabian.

"Been in any other wars?" Fabian asks. Edgar sighs, looking out into the crowd of people there. There's a brunette that looks like she's sitting by herself. Maybe her…?

"World War Two," Edgar replies to Fabian, still looking over the people there. He's gotten quite good at picking people out. Not good enough, apparently; he hasn't found his soulmate yet.

"Are the little wars not good enough for you, then?" Fabian asks, letting out a little chuckle. Edgar can't help it — he lets out a little laugh too. Fabian, as much as he's bugging Edgar as this moment, is witty. He's not too bad. Maybe after tonight they could talk more. Maybe Fabian could help Edgar find his soulmate, because Edgar is sick of not having one. Call him one-minded. He just wants a soulmate, someone to grow old with. Fabian probably knows more people Edgar can meet.

"Something like that," Edgar replies, looking at the brunette. Yes, she seems like a good choice. He'll have to butter her up first. Maybe Fabian could be his — what's the word — wingman.

Absurd meaning of that word, really.

He starts to gets up. No time like now. If another guy comes and is her soulmate… That'd suck. That'd really suck. At least then Edgar would know that she's not the one for him.

"Where are you going?" Fabian asks. Edgar is half-off the seat and he pauses, looking at Fabian.

"I'm going to go get a date for tonight," he says, trying to form his sentence in the nicest way possible. Oh, I'm going to go and sleep with a stranger to see if I feel any older with her. That doesn't paint Edgar in the best light, but he means well, he really does. He just wants to age already. He's heard of people, serial killers, who continues to kill their soulmate to live forever. He can't understand why anyone would want to live forever; he's already lived to see his entire family die. It's not fun.

"I thought —" Fabian starts, hesitation laced in his voice.

"What?" Edgar says, turning to him while trying to keep a subtle watch on that girl. It's a difficult task to watch them both but he'll be damned if he speaks to someone without making eye-contact. He's already done it enough tonight. His mother would twist his neck to face whoever he's talking to.

"I thought we were getting along," Fabian says. Edgar notes that he looks slightly disappointed. Fabian might be a good friend for Edgar; they could find out who their soulmates are together, maybe. Tonight, Edgar has one goal. He squint, still peering at the girl, and his heart plummets when someone sits down next to her and kisses her. Well, not her. There's a lot of things that make Edgar's stomach squirm about modern day dating — couples kissing in public, for instance, not caring about who's looking — but it makes it easier to find out who's taken and who's single.

"Yeah, you're a really nice guy," Edgar says, turning his full attention to Fabian. He has nothing else to look at now. Might as well finish this conversation. The thing about Edgar, though, is that he can never hold onto friends. He keeps on outliving them. So Fabian seems a little bit headstrong, but he seems fine for a friend. Edgar just doesn't want to live to see him die.

"A nice guy," Fabian echoes. He looks slightly taken aback. Edgar doesn't know why. "I thought we had something more?"

"Something more?" Edgar asks, feeling wary. More? More? What does that even mean?

And then it hits him —

Edgar has a huge need to get away from Fabian. His parents were good Christians; they taught him about men who liked other men. Men who would get damned to hell. Homosexuals. Edgar was grown up with a sense of hatred towards them, but he's slightly feared them.

He's never met one.

Except Edgar thinks that Fabian is one.

Maybe his fear shows on his face, because Fabian slaps his own forehead.

"Shit. You're old," Fabian says. Ha. Edgar wishes he was old.

"What?" Edgar asks, slightly wary. What does he being 'old' have to do with anything?

"Well, not old," Fabian says, looking Edgar up and down. Edgar shifts, uncomfortable. "But you're old-fashioned. Well, while you were fighting wars, a lot of people decided that it was okay to be gay. A lot of people don't think so, of course, but a lot of people do."

Edgar squints.

"But that's just…" he trails off, not even sure what to say. Fabian is so on the nose. It's startling. "I can't do anything with another male. That's just wrong."

Fabian snorts. He actually snorts at Edgar, clapping him on the shoulder. Edgar flinches.

"What?" Edgar demands. It's not as if they're soulmates; the universe wouldn't be that cruel, right? Right?

"Have you ever even kissed another guy? It's not that wrong. It's what the universe decided."

"The universe can be wrong," Edgar says with a tsk.

"Can it?" Fabian challenges, one eyebrow raised. Oh, Fabian can't actually think —

Edgar shakes his head. "I feel like you're insinuating that we're soulmates. Because that can't be true. Two men can't be soulmates."

"You're right; my best mates — who are both male — aging together is just a fluke," he deadpans, looking unamused.

"I don't know…" Edgar says. His heart is beating so fast, almost as if it wants to jump out at Fabian. Edgar won't let it.

"So don't know," Fabian says, frowning. He takes a step forward, closer to Edgar, and Edgar's heart is pounding in his throat. "Just feel."

Fabian presses his lips to Edgar's and Edgar explodes. He hates this. This wrong. He's not supposed to kiss a boy. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Edgar leans in anyway, his heart pulling him closer.

Fabian's lips are rougher than those of any girl Edgar has ever kissed. There's alcohol on his tongue and Edgar has the need to pull back and cough as he tastes the fireball drink Fabian drank earlier.

Fabian pulls away first, something glittering in his eyes.

"Um," Edgar says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Fabian asks, breathing hard.

"Um," Edgar repeats. That's all that's going through his brain. Fabian winks and grabs Edgar's hand, leading him through the crowd of people and outside.

…

Edgar wakes up in the middle of the night next to a still-sleeping Fabian. He's nice to look at — freckles line his nose and there's visible laughter lines on his forehead, as if it said 'screw it' to the world and decided to age anyway — but some part of Edgar screams at him. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. He's going to go to hell for this. The universe and its stupid plans are going to damn him in hell. What would his mother say if she knew that he slept with another man?

It's been so long, though. He really does hope that Fabian is his soulmate, that he's finally found his freaking soulmate. It's been far too long.

Now that he's next to Fabian, Edgar doesn't know how he's ever been without him.

Him. That doesn't sound right. He was supposed to find a nice girl and settle down with her and have children. He not supposed to love a boy.

He's waited for this all his life. He thought it'd be more. Maybe some fireworks.

He didn't expect to not love his soulmate. There's not love with Fabian. Edgar's scared it'll never grow into love. It has to grow into love. Edgar has waited for too long for his soulmate to come. He's not going to give that up — he'll be messing up Fabian's life, too. Fabian can't age without a soulmate either.

He has to try, right? Fabian must be his soulmate. It's him, Edgar knows it. The more he thinks about it, the more he knows it, despite every moral he's ever had saying no.

But already, his bones ache. He feels older. He hates this feeling. Something in Fabian's sleeping face seems older, too.

Maybe in the morning Fabian will wake up and they can just talk. Talk about everything and nothing. They only met a few hours ago. They have a lot to catch up on.

They'll have to catch up if they're soulmates.

for:

the houses competition [gryffindor, prefect 1, themed - hate]