Lucien catches glimpses of her in the mirror, sometimes. There are some soulmates who claim that the stronger the bond, the more intense the love, it is possible to catch glimpses of your soulmate's life, to share their vision as surely as it was your own.
Most days, Lucien wakes and finds himself peering in the mirror. His own blue eye sparkles back at him as if in waiting, as if to say Soon. On the other side of his face, though, there is a pale green, sometimes hazel eye.
Lucien has studied this eye more than his own–knows the slope and curve of the pupil; knows that when his soulmate is angry it shifts into a stormy, dark green; that when his soulmate is sad it reddens and waters but tears never fall; that when his soulmate experiences an adrenaline rush–desire, fear, excitement–the pupil blows wide and the shade of green lightens to an almost translucent state.
(He wonders every time he catches sight of a wide pupil if she is making love to another man, if she is touching herself and thinking of him–her future soulmate–, or if she is scared and in need of him. All three possibilities make him shake with an untouchable ache.)
But he knows their love will be one for the ages because there are times Lucien feels transported and suddenly his vision is flooded with what she sees: a young man taking her by the hand and leading her down to the lake or a glimpse of her–just a glimpse–in a reflective surface. All he sees is the gentle curl of brown hair and red polished nails before the vision is gone.
He sees the same boy from the lake on bended knee, an engagement ring in his hand, and he wants to shout, wants to knock the ring from this boy's hand and claim his soulmate. He wonders if she saw the dread in his own eyes, wonders if she returned home and his matching blue eye upon her face was red and swollen with tears of frustration and despair. He dreads the next few weeks, dreads catching a glimpse of a ring on her finger.
(He doesn't see a ring and he can finally fucking breathe again.)
Lucien becomes obsessed with her eyes and there's an ache in his bones, a need to find her and complete them both. He wonders if she feels as empty and incomplete as he does?
The years pass and he continues to learn about her as the visions come in flashes and every few hours he pulls out his pocket mirror and checks on her eye to gauge her temperament. For the most part, his soulmate seems to be incredibly happy, living her life as surely as he is.
Then, the war comes and for the first time in his life, at the bottom of a musty hole in the middle of a POW camp, he prays his soulmate won't ever share his visions with him; prays she will never find herself face to face with an enemy soldier brandishing a pistol and bashing the butt of the gun into his face.
(But he clings, however selfishly, to the moments in the camps when he shares her vision: bright sunshine, flashes of her face and body as she passes a mirror–always, always out of sight. When he finds her, he will kiss her deeply, drop to his knees and thank her for keeping him alive, keeping him sane in this hellscape.)
Later, when Singapore falls and he sits huddled on a plane back to Australia, back home, he is assaulted with the longest vision he's ever had, as if their bond knew exactly what he needed to make it the last few miles to her.
He watches through her eyes with his heart in his throat as her hands hold a feather duster, the feathers brushing dust off of a sign: Dr. Thomas Blake. There's a pause and then she turns and he sees his own father through her eyes and he gasps as the vision ends.
At twenty thousand feet in the air, Lucien feels like he's floating away into the atmosphere, his head spinning, his heart racing.
His soulmate is at his home, waiting for him like a welcome home present from the universe and he can almost hear Her in his ear: You've suffered enough. Come home. Come to me. I'm waiting.
When the plane lands, he foregoes the bus and hikes his pack on his shoulder and runs home. He wonders if she's seen him coming, too. Has she seen glimpses of Ballarat through his own eyes, his bobbing vision narrowing in on the Blake household at the top of the street? Can she can see his trembling hand lifting to knock at the door, the sheer want rumbling through him?
The answer is yes.
The door is open before he can knock and she's standing there before him, his own blue eye twinkling back at him. There's a moment where they simply look at each other and it is she–so much braver than he–who breathes out You first and steps forward into his waiting arms.
He doesn't know her name–not yet–but he knows her. This is his soulmate and she is in his arms and everything seems to click into place: the warmth of her pressed against his chest, her arms wound tight around his neck, her breath puffing warmly on his skin, the scent of her–floral and sweet–wafting up and enveloping him.
Their hands wander over the other's body and Lucien distantly hears her gentle muffled sobs and he pulls away, cupping her cheeks and wiping away her tears. She raises her own hands and returns the favor. He hadn't even noticed his own tears.
He offers her a watery smile. "Hello, there. I'm Lucien."
She mouths his name silently before smiling brightly. "I'm Jean." She reaches up and traces the lines beneath his eyes, biting her lip. "You have my eye."
Lucien nods, pressing her hand closer to his face, savoring the touch. He fights the urge to lean forward and kiss her eyelid, instead agreeing, "And you have mine. For now at least."
They smile at each other, knowing the last step to complete the soul mate bond: a kiss.
And then a thought chills him: she's seen him at his absolute worst–at the bottom of a hole (literally) rolling around in the dirt for his own survival. Perhaps she didn't want him, perhaps she wanted a soul mates whose soul was whole.
He takes her hands in his and presses a kiss to the back of them, taking a deep shuddering breath. It will kill him to lose her, but he will do it for her, for her happiness. "Jean, if you've seen what I've been through, what I've done, I'll understand if you don't want me; if you want someone better, someone whole."
Jean stares at him for a moment, the mismatched eyes–his and hers–evaluating him, measuring him up. Lucien takes a deep breath, straightens to a soldier's stance and prepares himself for the final blow that will break him. He's survived a lot but this, this he may not survive.
But he needn't worry. Jean steps forward and he marvels at her height, that she fits so snugly beneath his chin, that he can hold her close, like two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place.
She kisses the underside of his jaw like it's absolution and he melts. "Someone else? My soul mate is one of the bravest men I've ever seen. He's a survivor and a hero. And I've waited for him for such a long time."
He hooks his fingers beneath her chin and lowers his face to hers, whispering against her lips, "Oh, Jean…"
Their kiss isn't a kiss of lust. It's a fresh beginning, a welcome home, a union of two souls. Lucien's lips caress Jean's, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, teeth grazing the flesh slightly. She deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling herself up against his body, mouth opening beneath his, letting his tongue sweep in and taste her.
They break the kiss and Jean falls back onto her heels, arms still wound around his neck. Their eyes are still closed and Lucien leans forward to blindly place another kiss on her lips, catching her top lip.
"On three?"
"On three."
"One–"
"–Two."
"Three."
They open their eyes and grin at one another, the evidence of their completed soul mate bond on their faces. Jean's eyes–both of them–are the same stunning shade of green Lucien has peered into every day of his life and will continue to do. Jean beams at him and raises herself up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his eyelids.
She takes his hand and drags him inside, over the threshold, and he realizes that he's home. His father is waiting for him inside, his soulmate–who he still has so much to learn about–is holding his hand.
He's home.