This fic is dedicated to Chameleon Incognito (on this site) who asked about a rusame followup to The Thought of Having You Around, and to TomatoGilbird (on AO3) who asked about GerIta. (Please note, however, that this fic does not need to be read along with Not With Haste or The Thought of Having You Around, although they take place on the same timeline.)
In Not With Haste, I wrote about two people who were emotionally ready to build a life with their soulmate by the time they met. In The Thought of Having You Around, I wrote about one person being ready, and the other slowly warming up. In this story, I wanted to write about two people who - no matter what Alfred might tell you - were NOT ready to meet. I feel like I owe somebody an apology for starting with fluff and getting into angst. I guess that comes with delving deeper into the fucked-up system that the soulmate universe actually is.
The title comes from "Let Love In" by the Goo Goo Dolls, my go-to inspiration song as I brainstormed this fic. It will be four chapters long.
NEW: find this story on AO3 under the name snark_sniper.
As he sets foot in the parlor, Alfred adjusts his rough cotton tunic. He hasn't had new clothing in about a year, and his mother—his heart exhales to remember her voice—predicted he would need something to cover the growing lankiness of a ten-year-old boy. She was right.
The parlor he enters is lit by the clear sunniness outside the bay windows. His footsteps, which echoed in the hallway, are dulled by a wine-colored rug leading to the armchair beside the window.
The man he's visiting looks up from his book. He wears spectacles, something Alfred has seen only on the tailor and on people who buy the most expensive meat at the butcher's. He has golden hair, like Alfred's, but his brown eyes contrast with Alfred's blue.
"Yes?" asks the man.
Alfred feels like he should clear his throat. Or bow, or something. He doesn't. He simply hands out the folded paper in rough parchment. He can't read it, but he's opened it many times to examine his mother's handwriting.
The man looks at the paper in Alfred's outstretched hand, then nods. He reaches to a purse on the table beside him and emerges with two silver coins. "For your troubles," he says, setting the coins on the table where Alfred can easily reach them.
Alfred places the paper on top of the coins. He doesn't touch them, but steps backwards and holds his hands behind his back.
The man raises an eyebrow bemusedly. "Are you to stay?"
"I think so. Mom said so. Her name was Sarah, and she said you'd know her."
The man's light smile disappears. Before Alfred can register it, the man has snatched the paper from the table and is reading it. He reads it multiple times, based on how his eyes scan up and down the page. Alfred holds his breath. He may not be able to read that letter, but he knows what it says. He also knows how cruel nobles like this man can be.
The man looks up sharply from the paper, his jaw undone and his composure with it. Alfred straightens his back and throws back his shoulders.
The man stands. Crouches on one knee before Alfred.
"You have her eyes," he whispers. And then he's hugging Alfred.
Alfred remains still. And then—he doesn't know which happens first—he wraps his arms around his father and begins to laugh.
The man—his father, Lord Williams—chuckles too, and pulls apart. "Why are you laughing?"
"I'm happy to finally meet you! Mother said I had to be good, because maybe you couldn't take me." Alfred's smile dims slightly. "You, uh. Can take me, right?"
"And abandon my own son? I could never."
Alfred gasps. "And—and I'll get to have my own room? And we can eat supper every night?"
"Yes, yes, Alfred." Lord Williams cups Alfred's cheek. "You'll never want again."
"And I'll get to be a lord one day!"
"Ah." A choked sound from Lord Williams.
"And I'll start programs for everybody who lives in the city, and I'll make new laws so that soulmates can marry, so then nobody will have to hide their soulmates like you and Mother did, and everybody will learn how to read so then Mom won't be afraid to teach me, and—oh!" Alfred rolls up his sleeve to show his father, whose face has grown grimmer with every word Alfred says. "We can get help from my soulmate!"
He bares his arm for his father to examine. He got the words around his seventh birthday. It prompted his mother to not only explain the concept of soulmates—how, since Alfred's soulmate learned to read and write, the first words his soulmate will say to him appear directly on his left arm—but to explain who Alfred's father was.
Alfred's parents were soulmates, but Lord Marcus Williams had no words on his arm to indicate an upperclass, literate soulmate. Sarah Jones, on the other hand, had the cursive handwriting of a noble. While applying for work she was found by the registration service, and the Williams family elected to provide her a small fund to stay away from their son and heir. Marcus Williams, three years after marrying another noblewoman, found records of the deal and managed several visits with Sarah until his family discovered his absences.
Alfred is the result. His mother called him a hero, for saving her from sadness every time she thought of the soulmate she'd sworn to avoid. Alfred promised her at her deathbed to carry on his services. And he's not about to let her down.
Alfred has everything planned out. He knows his soulmate is a noble, so he'll meet them and marry them using his own status as heir. And then he'll use his status as husband to a noble and the next Lord Williams to make it so that not one more person smiles as wistfully as his mother did—that no mother smooths her child's hair when she thinks he's asleep and sighs with the pain of a final breath.
Alfred can't save his mother. But he can save his life with his own soulmate, and he can improve the lives of people like his mother who are forbidden their soulmates, and it's all thanks to the fact that Lord Williams is going to name Alfred his—
"Alfred, you cannot be my heir."
Alfred's smile freezes. "What?"
"These words are…" Lord Williams pushes down Alfred's arm to rest at his side. "Obviously noble. But they change nothing. You are a bastard, Alfred, and my heir must be a pureblood."
"But—but you don't have anyone else—"
"I have another son," says Lord Williams, placing his hand on Alfred's slumping shoulder. "Matthew, born of the woman I married before she passed. Your mother asked me only to take you in, and I will do her one better because in my heart I will have two sons. But Alfred, I cannot claim you as my heir. The Williams family would lose everything to have a bastard for a lord."
"So what do I do?" asks Alfred quietly. His ideas sink from his brain, adding to the pit that grows in his stomach and pulls down on his aching heart. It's not that he's upset about not being an heir; it's that the one plan he clung to after his mother died is being pulled out from under his feet. "Do I—do I get to learn to read? Am I a servant now? Or a ward?"
"You are my son," says his father firmly, now standing. "And the son of my soulmate. I have two sons now, both fine young lads."
"What about my words?"
His father pauses. "Matthew does not have his words yet. But Alfred, while I intend to give you every luxury I can, I can do little without drawing attention. Your mother kept you from me—not just herself, but you—for fear of harm to my family. She understood that."
"No she didn't." Alfred rubs his eyes as he thinks of his mother, willing the welling tears to dry up. "She never did. She always said, 'Alfred, if I could go back in time and refuse the bribe—'"
"Alfred," says Lord Williams in the sharpest voice he's yet used. He turns to look back out the window. "We will speak of your place here later. Please step outside and find the butler who let you in. Tell him I mean to give you any chamber you want. It will be yours. Choose wisely."
Lord Williams, Alfred's father, sits down in his chair. He opens the book he was reading, but his eyes stay on one spot.
Alfred swallows around the lump in his throat. He takes a few moments to breathe until he can do so without the weight of disappointment crushing his chest. Then he turns around and speed-walks down the carpet he came from, slamming the door behind him.
"Mattie, I can't let you do this."
"You don't really have a say in it, Al," his brother sighs. Alfred and Matthew are waiting in Matthew's bedroom. Alfred's seventeen-year-old body is splayed across Matthew's bed, while twenty-year-old Matthew sits ramrod straight at his writing desk beside the window. They're waiting for the carriage that will bring Matthew's doom.
"Sure I do," continues Alfred. "I told you when I first saw you that we were going to be friends, and I was right then."
"I still can't believe you thought barging into a thirteen-year-old's bedroom was a good idea."
"Then I told you when you turned eighteen that Dad was going to notice your words if you cut the birthday cake yourself, and—"
"And we don't need to revisit that." Matthew swivels in his seat to face Alfred, who immediately presses his lips together. Matthew's nostrils are flaring, and Alfred knows after six years of being Matthew's brother that now is a good time to stop whatever he's doing.
"I just wish—why can't you be one of those nobles who runs away?" asks Alfred.
"A Williams doesn't run."
"I'm a Williams. I would run."
"Heroes don't run either."
"No, heroes intervene!" Alfred sits up on the bed. "Mattie, what if I brought Lars over? He could walk in, stop the whole thing, and then you wouldn't have to marry a woman who's a year older than you."
Alfred honestly has nothing against Yekaterina Braginski; from Matthew's account, she seemed nice enough at the dinner the Williams and Braginski families shared, when they entertained the notion of their children staging. Alfred couldn't attend because his father was doing well enough, but because Lord Williams's health is failing, Alfred will attend today's staging and pretend to be his father's servant and nurse. He will watch Yekaterina Braginski say the words on his brother's arm, thus forcing a bond that mimics a soulmate's. But isn't quite.
"First of all," says Matthew "it doesn't matter to me whether she's a year older than me. She has no words, and I have the wrong words, and it's a convenient match."
"Oh yeah, Mattie, that sounds exactly like what you want—a convenient match. Not romantic, not what you would have with your soulmate—"
"Second of all," says Matthew so harshly that Alfred slinks back a little in the bed, "even if I wanted Lars, how could we make it work? I don't—we can't have children, and he's running so many illegal side businesses that we'd be ruined if he brought them here, and—"
"And he's your soul. Mate."
"And he doesn't. Want me."
"I mean, he does want you, he just—"
"He doesn't want the idea of me. He doesn't want a noble life. Al, why do you think he's selling records of people's words and handwriting, and teaching people to read without registering them, and smuggling between the ports, all of which are illegal—when I saw him five months after our first meeting, after we first said our words, at a gala?" For the first time since he sat, Matthew's posture slumps. "He may be a noble too, but he thinks I'm insane for wanting to stay one. He thinks I rely too much on the family title, and you know what? He might be right."
"But Mattie," says Alfred, climbing to the edge of the bed to better look his brother in the eye, "you don't have to. You could…I don't know, prove him wrong?"
"Al, I did exactly one illegal thing in my lifetime, and that was asking him to see the records." Matthew subconsciously tugs at the edge of his left sleeve, hiding the words May I help you? According to Matthew, when he'd said the countering phrase—I was hoping to look through your records—Lars stood still for a good fifteen seconds before surrendering two tomes and leaving the room. "And that," adds Matthew to Alfred, "was at your encouragement. I don't…I don't plan to go breaking any laws. Not even for him. And I don't think he's going to respect my way of thinking, either."
"And what's your way of thinking?" asks Alfred. He thinks he can guess it, but he's almost nervous to hear it.
"That…I don't know. That between a huge risk like Lars and a safe bet like Mistress Braginski—well, I'm tired of risking."
"Mattie, if there were any time to risk, now is it! There's still time, you can go find—well, okay, maybe don't find Lars, but at least you can avoid the staging right now. Give yourself some time, think about this, make sure this is right."
"With all I was talking with Lars," says Matthew, standing, "I've given myself enough thought. He's…handsome. Yeah. And good to talk to. But I just…"
Alfred stands and grabs Matthew by the shoulders. Despite that he's three years older than his brother, they're almost the same height. Alfred tries to use this to his advantage. "Are you sure, Mattie? Because it sounds like you like him."
Matthew exhales. "Of course I like him. That's what my heart says. But you know what my mind is saying? Don't choose him. I can't abandon this family, Al, no matter how many times you offer to be heir, and I don't care if you're joking. Even if I didn't care about the title, Father would be heartbroken." Matthew places a hand atop Alfred's and squeezes it. "I think he found a good person in Mistress Braginski. And…so what if Lars is handsome and smart and interesting, and so what if we get along well? He's not the only one I can get along with, and he's certainly not interested in building a life with me. So I won't choose him."
Alfred examines Matthew up and down. "I'm just worried that you're making a huge mistake."
"I can tell," says Matthew. "But I've thought about this, I promise." He gently lifts Alfred's hands from off of his shoulders, and walks towards his wardrobe to put on his best waistcoat.
Alfred stands watching him, wearing only his loose cotton undershirt. He hasn't even bothered changing. A recently unearthed part of him hoped that he would convince his brother to let the soulmate bond mean something.
But he's already meddled enough, encouraging Matthew to meet Lars and trying to be his brother's hero. He's distracted their father from Matthew's absences. Recently he's wrapped his arms around Matthew as he cried, embarrassed and disappointed and heartbroken by a soulmate who rejected his match.
Alfred believes as firmly in the necessity of soulmates as he did when he was ten. But if his only brother has tried and failed to find happiness with his own soulmate—no matter how much it wounds Alfred to see—Alfred needs to accept his choice to leave him. A hero knows when he's doing more harm than good.
Alfred sighs and makes his way to the door. "Wear the blue coat. It looks good. And I'll wear some blue too."
Matthew throws a somber smile over his shoulder. "Thanks, Al."
"Alright there, Dad?"
"Perfectly fine, Alfred." Despite himself, Lord Williams heaves a rasping cough to punctuate himself. Most of the wedding reception doesn't notice; only Matthew turns his head from the ballroom floor to frown.
Alfred sighs. His father is as well as he can be, anyway. "Well, then let me at least keep you company." He pulls out a chair beside his father's and makes to sit. His seat, however, has a prime view of the servants' entrance.
Alfred's eyes narrow.
"Actually, let me go get you some tea." Alfred stands even before he can fully sit.
"My boy, it's really not necessary—"
"I'll be right back."
Alfred sweeps through the mingling nobles, unseen due to his clean but plainly-stitched clothing marking him as a high-rank servant. Uncharacteristically, the man he's chasing down wears the richly embroidered clothing of the class he scorns.
"Leave," says Alfred when he approaches the corner of the ballroom near the servants' entrance. No nobles are within ten feet of the two of them, so he can speak as freely and as harshly as he wants.
Lars eyes him. He's several inches taller and years older than Alfred, and Alfred tries to puff himself up to accommodate the difference.
"I was invited," Lars counters. He reaches for his collar as if by habit, and then stops himself. He isn't wearing the white and blue scarf Matthew always described him as wearing, which is perhaps Lars's saving grace—Matthew would have spotted him instantly if he'd worn it.
"Your father was invited," says Alfred. "You were invited because it'd be an insult not to include you. But we couldn't write on the invitation that Mattie doesn't want you here."
"Then he should have told me himself," says Lars. He sets his gaze away from Alfred, out to the dance floor. Matthew is attempting to twirl his bride, Yekaterina, who looks too embarrassed to move. Alfred feels awkward for them both.
"He was busy," says Alfred. "He told me to pass on the message."
"I got the message," says Lars. He jams his hands in the pockets of his coat. Another defensive move.
Alfred pauses at the bitterness of his voice. His eyes wander to Lars's left arm, hidden by his coat's sleeve.
"They're not gone," says Lars suddenly.
"What?"
"His words. They're still there."
Lars is addressing the misconception that words disappear when a soulmate stages. The idea is spread largely among the noble class, to reassure staged children that their soulmates won't have to live with the reminder of lost love. However, commoners like Alfred and his mother—more often than not the true victims of staging—know much better.
"I know," says Alfred more quietly. "But did it hurt?"
"It burned. Like somebody rammed a fire poker into every letter."
Alfred is silent. His mother never told him.
"My client noticed me stop suddenly. It couldn't have happened at a worse time for business—he was one of my students. Learning to read to give words to his soulmate. He ended the lesson early because he thought I needed to be alone. But I think he was scared the same would happen to him.
"That's not the worst part, though," Lars continues, now almost murmuring. His eyes remain trained on Matthew, but his gaze is unfocused. "The worst part is that the words are still there. He can lie to himself and say he has his wife's handwriting. I can't."
Alfred suddenly understands why Lars's hands are very intently in his coat pockets. Alfred is assaulted with the strongest urge to stare at his own words, regardless that he never learned to read them. He doesn't know what comfort they'll offer him—they serve only as a reminder that he has something to lose.
"Matthew doesn't want me here?" Lars says. "Fine."
"…Look, Lars, I'm sorry. I'm just passing on what he told me. It's nothing personal."
"It's not your fault, Alfred. You can't fix this broken system." Lars straightens himself from the wall he was leaning on. He raises an eyebrow at Alfred's surprised expression. "Of course I know who you are. Your brother told me when I told him I have two bastard cousins. My question is," he says, his eyes flickering to Yekaterina on the dance floor, "has he told her?"
"We—we were planning on it tomorrow at breakfast," says Alfred.
"Mm." Lars nods. "Alfred, consider this. You're lucky to have been born outside of—this." He waves vaguely to the nobility in attendance. "Frankly, I don't understand why you're so determined to work yourself in. You'd be freer out of it."
Lars leaves before Alfred can think of a response.
Alfred stands against the wall, staring at the mass of well-adorned nobles and thinking. He certainly values freedom. In his boyhood he cherished his ability to go anywhere his feet could take him. As he began living with his father, he learned to enjoy slipping between the roles of servant and confidante and well-off peasant and secret noble. He's afforded certain luxuries as a lord's son, but he avoids certain responsibilities.
Alfred only recently became aware that the freedom he has is denied to Matthew. With every year away from boyhood and especially this past year, Matthew becomes more the public son, the well-behaved young man who can no longer afford to stay up late with Alfred or explore the woods or take up messy baking lessons. Matthew is the rightful heir, and until their father's health declined and Matthew needed to take the role more seriously, Alfred fervently believed that his brother could at least balance his soulmate with his other responsibilities. It was why he encouraged Matthew to find Lars—if he knew his soulmate, he could make plans.
But now Matthew has met Lars—multiple times and with much more intimacy than Alfred expected, for Lars to know Alfred's name—and has chosen not to marry him. Alfred came around to Matthew's way of thinking because he had only Matthew's account to go by: Lars didn't want a noble life, and Matthew did. Matthew chose freely.
But now, having met Lars, Alfred's stomach sinks to think that his brother made a huge mistake. Lars doesn't care about nobility, but he does care about Matthew. Alfred sees it in every hint of pain in his arm, in his speech, in his gaze. And Matthew has cast him aside.
And, Alfred ponders morosely as he meanders back to his father's table, Matthew isn't the only noble who can purposefully cast aside his soulmate. Alfred has all the freedom he wants—he only wants it for his brother, and for the soulmate he'll one day meet.
Something bumps into Alfred's side, and red liquid spills all over the left of Alfred's white tunic.
"Excuse me. I did not mean to cause such a mess."
Alfred's eyes narrow. Those words—he made Mattie read them to him every day since the day they met.
Is this…?
His mood brightens instantly, and he beams. "It's okay—a hero can fix anything!"
Alfred almost immediately cringes. He hasn't referred to himself as a hero since his father first fell ill. He hasn't felt like much of one. But, putting himself back into balance and letting his eyes fall over the person who spoke his words, he feels invincible.
His soulmate is taller than him by a good foot, but about the same age as him at seventeen. Unlike Lars, he has decided to wear a scarf to this occasion—a worn grey one peering out from beneath the collar of his shirt. His face is pale and wide, with a square jaw and a regal nose and—
Alfred almost drops his jaw at the eyes. They're blue pale enough to border on violet, and they're staring at him with increasing interest.
"May I—ah, may I offer you a napkin?" The young man starts feeling at the pockets of his jacket, but then looks back at a table, probably his, with a helpless expression. Alfred wants to laugh—not just from the way his soulmate looks so lost, but from surprise (to meet his soulmate at his brother's wedding of all places) and from awe (of course his soulmate is a man) and from relief.
"I already said I could fix it, didn't I?" he says. The young man's attention returns to him. "It's a quick wash, no problem. I'd take your name, though."
His soulmate's expression looks at him quizzically. Alfred wonders what's so strange about his question—wouldn't he want a name for his soulmate?—until the young man speaks. "I am Ivan Braginski. Brother of the bride, and brother-in-law of your employer's father."
"Oh. Oh. Yeah, I remember you," says Alfred. The fog of his words being spoken is lifted, and he remembers his brother's staging with more clarity. He'd been focused on Matthew, wondering if he would actually go through with the words, and on his father's comfort at all other times. But staging involves two families, and Yekaterina's younger brother and sister were in fact present. Silent, obedient, but present.
"I confess that I only barely remember you," says Alfred's soulmate—Ivan, he thinks, or is he Master Braginski to me? "My sister's…engagement was of high interest to me."
"Really?" Alfred grabs his soulmate's wrist without thinking, and pulls him a few steps away and into the servants' entrance. It's the most thought he puts into hiding their conversation, as enthusiasm has taken hold of him. Once inside the corridor, he leans in with a growing smile. "Thank the fates, me too. I really wondered if Mattie was going to do it, I was so nervous for him, but he insisted he had to—"
"Mattie?" asks Ivan, cocking his head.
"Oh. Yeah, um. Your brother-in-law is actually my brother. Just so ya know," says Alfred. His smile grows slightly nervous. His soulmate is also technically his brother-in-law. But worse things have happened, he reasons. He'll take any reasoning he can get at this point to justify the fact that his soulmate is standing before him, handsome and breathing and actually existing and slowly becoming more confused.
"But you are a servant of the Williams household—"
"Nah, that's what we tell everyone so I can listen in sometimes. No, I'm Lord Williams's bastard son." He thrusts out his hand to shake. "Alfred."
Ivan looks between the hand and Alfred's beaming face. He's thinking hard about something, and Alfred wills him to smile back. After a few seconds, he doesn't, but he does take Alfred's hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, brother-in-law."
Ivan makes to let go of Alfred's hand, but as he does, Alfred takes the chance to hug Ivan. He can already imagine himself curling up with this body, pressing against him as they sit together somewhere comfortable. His manor, Ivan's manor, Alfred doesn't care.
Until he senses Ivan stiffening between his arms.
"What's wrong?" asks Alfred, looking up but still hugging him.
"Please let go."
Alfred does, and furrows his brow. A quick glance confirms that Alfred's wine-stained shirt has pressed only to the dark parts of Ivan's jacket. That doesn't seem to be Ivan's main concern.
"Why did you do that?" Ivan asks, his gaze more curious than accusing.
Alfred sorts through his mind for a response. Because I'm happy to meet you. Because I've been waiting for you. Because you're even more handsome than I expected. Because you were worried about your sister's staging. Because maybe you disagree with stagings too. Because now you don't need one. Because now you're here. Because—
"Well," says Alfred, and he pulls up his left sleeve. "Because aren't you my soulmate?"
He holds out his arm for Ivan to see the handwriting as well as the words. Ivan doesn't stiffen any further, but in the dim light of the servants' corridor, Alfred watches his face slowly pale.
"Ivan?" he asks cautiously. "You alright?"
"I—" That seems to be a statement in and of itself. Ivan's eyes flash as more and more revelations cross his mind, as he reaches conclusions that Alfred's not sure he wants Ivan to reach. They're at the wedding of their staged siblings, Alfred has just been forced to chase away his brother's actual soulmate, and now his own soulmate—
No, he can't—
"I must leave," says Ivan. "And—and you must"—Ivan yanks Alfred's sleeve down before Alfred can even move his arm—"and you must not speak to my parents, and you must not call me 'Ivan', and…I must leave," he says again, fainter this time.
"Wait a second, you can't just—"
"I can," says Ivan, and for a second he looks so lost that Alfred's arms ache to wrap around him again. He looks at Alfred as if he is simultaneously pulling Ivan out of the sea and pushing his head under the waves. He looks at Alfred like one would look at a walking sin.
He bursts out of the servants' entrance and back into the ballroom.
Alfred stands there, his left arm dangling, covered. Like every other day of his life.
He swallows. First things first, he needs to go upstairs and change his shirt. Then he needs to not cry. Then he needs to return with a belated drink for his father. Then he needs to not cry. Then he needs to stand at attendance as his father and brother bid goodbye every wedding guest, including Ivan Braginski whose violet eyes won't meet his, just like every other noble who comes into contact with the servant—the bastard—Alfred is. The fact that even a soulmate can't overcome or even overlook.
Only after the guests are gone and the fire is low and the manor is silent but for the whispers of his brother and his sister-in-law, can Alfred let himself cry.