IMPORTANT A/N:for whatever reason, when i uploaded the last chapter the first time, the whole thing didn't publish. please make sure you've read the full, updated chapter before u proceed with this one. thank u ily.

chapter eleven

nerve by the story so far

How to make your soulmate hate you: a three-step guide by Paul Lahote.

Step one: insult them. Really get under their skin. Offend them. Don't even let them say anything. Do it right when you first meet. Make the first image of you in their mind one of contempt. Try to strike a nerve, if you can. If you're lucky, like Paul, you'll strike a nerve without even trying. Watch the way your words hit their face. Watch their expression shift: awe, confusion, hurt, indignation. Savor the way it makes you feel. Remember the way the knife twists in your gut at the realization that they hate you and it's your fault. Let that feeling fester. Let it rot your brain. Let it drive you insane.

Step two: attempt to befriend them. Pretend like step one never even happened. Show up at their house. Make fun of their boyfriend. Make fun of the things they like and the things they do because that's the only way you know how to be. Bother them. Text them. Call them. Worry about them when they're not around. Worry about them when they are around. Try to befriend their friends. Show up at their birthday party, uninvited. Smile. Smile so big it hurts. Be confident. Be assured. You're soulmates, after all, they can't really hate you?

Step three: fail. Realize that they hate you. Realize that you fucked up. Realize that you're stupid, and that you suck. Leave. Stop thinking about them completely. Fail at that. Stop opening up their contact to type out a long message you'll never send. Fail at that. Stop talking about them. Fail at that. Stop bothering their brother about them. Fail at that.

Paul's fantasizing about hating Tatum. He is fantasizing about hating Tatum while he watches their band's Instagram live stream. He is fantasizing about hating Tatum while he watches their band's Instagram live stream from an Instagram account he made just to follow them (they didn't follow him back-his username is user472dk86bkk, of course they didn't).

It would be easy, so easy, to hate them. In any other world, in any other reality. He thinks about it while he watches them, with their stupid red hair and that stupid little white streak and that stupid way they bite down on their tongue while they play. Everything about them, from their slogan t-shirts ('my other ride's a cowboy,' 'hot person at work,' 'I am a 2004 type bitch) to the way they speak, ('okay like actually, you're like, literally actually literally the most literally actually annoying person, actually') pisses Paul off. It really feels like some sick joke that the universe would pair him up with them.

He did hate them, before. Before he had any fucking clue. Tatum's reputation of being a stuck up tight ass didn't sit well with him. The stories he got from their brother didn't sit well with him either. Tatum was the Regina George, the Jennifer Check, the Jeff Winger, the Scott Pilgrim, the every character in Cruel Intentions. And maybe he had dramatized it in his head, sure, but Paul couldn't stand people like that. He wouldn't stand people like that.

Not fucking you. What a dumb fucking thing to say.

Paul's been trying, nonstop, to not care about Tatum. To not think about them. To fill himself with indifference. When he's away from them, it's easier. He can just pretend that he still hates the idea of them and he can ignore the aching in his chest and it's fine. But the memory of them always lingers and eventually he finds himself looking for an excuse to be around them, scrolling through their Instagram, asking Embry about them. And he has this idea, every time he sees them, that he's gonna play it cool. He won't be grinning, overly enthusiastic, giddy and ridiculous. But, fuck, he really just can't help it. The things he used to imagine he hated about them are things that make him feel like he's floating on air now.

The screen is blurry, lagging. Tatum lays down a bassline while the tall one with shaggy hair argues with the other tall one with shaggy hair and Wes, (the only one without an absolutely insane name) plays the drums, matching Tatum's improvising. Tatum looks cute. Tatum looks so goddamn cute. It affects him. It makes him feel giddy. He giggles. Giggles. Even the sight of them melts him. Embry throws a pillow at his head. "Hey, dipshit, what the fuck are you doing?"

His defenses are up, immediately. Because he's not about to get caught giggling at how cute Tatum looks by their little brother in Jared's basement. No fucking way. "Mind your fucking business," he snaps back.

Embry stares him down for a second before he lurches. There's a light squabble between the two of them, a bunch of twist and grunting but Embry comes out on top, phone in his hand, victorious. Paul averts his gaze while Embry stares at the screen. "Dude, seriously?"

Paul gives him an easy shrug. Like it's no big deal, like he's just a casual fan. "I like their band."

"Their band sucks," Embry deadpans, tossing Paul his phone back. It lands in his lap, screen up and he sees Tatum smiling a smile he feels like he doesn't deserve to see.

Their band does suck. Not in a 'a whole bunch of heart but no talent' type of way, but more of a, 'a whole lot of talent but too much ego and zero coordination,' type of way. "That one song was good!"

Embry rolls his eyes. "You need to get a life, honestly."

"Fuck off."

Jared, the only person paying attention to Sopranos reruns while it plays on his very outdated television, decides that this would be a good time to chime in with the question, "So, Tatum's not a girl, but they're also not a boy either?"

Paul clenches his jaw, and spits out, "They're non-binary. You don't have to be one or the other. Gender is a spectrum, dumbass." He doesn't like how many times he's had to answer this question. And maybe he'd be a little bit nicer, a little more receptive to that question, if Jared hadn't almost killed Tatum with his little street hopping stunt.

"Whoa!" Jared exclaims, brows furrowed and hands in the air.

"Holy shit, Paul, he just asked a question."

"Just asked one goddamn question."

Embry leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "How's he supposed to learn if he doesn't ask any questions?" he poses, eyes critical of Paul.

"Google is free," he grumbles, leaning back into the loveseat. And he knows he probably doesn't have the ground to stand on here because Embry was the one to explain it to him in the first place but he would do anything for people to just understand, or at least pretend to, without playing a game of twenty fucking questions.

"You're my friend!" Jared counters. "I can't ask my friend a question?"

Now Embry's has this shit-eating grin on his face again that makes Paul irritated because he knows what that stupid fucking look means. "He's just all pissy cause Tatum kicked him out of their birthday rager last night."

He's ignoring them now. His attention is back on his phone and he's looking at Tatum's post-birthday post. 'shout out to the c*ll*ns for leaving so i could turn 18 in style.' There's pictures of them, laughing, with this big stunning smile Paul's never seen in person and their outfit is ridiculous. The first picture is them and that brunette they're always with, faces pressed close together, flash washing them out, then another with them on Wes's back, a band picture, and one that makes Paul's stomach sink. The boyfriend. He hates that guy. He fucking hates that guy. And it's not even that he's Tatum's boyfriend, because there's something about him that feels wrong. Like he's a person that needs to be kept the fuck away from Tatum. Paul has a gut feeling. An unintelligible, knotted, gut feeling. "Who-who the hell even is this guy?" he questions, holding up the picture of the boyfriend, standing behind Tatum with his arms around their waist, beer bottle in his hand. "Who's jaw looks like that? What is he fucking, fucking Timothée Chandelier?"

Embry flinches. "Timothee Chandelier?"

"Don't act like you don't know his name," Jared chides. "You know his name is Timothée Chalamet."

"You're gonna bite off Jared's head for asking a question but you're gonna pretend like you don't know Timothée Chalamet's name?"

Paul is still dutifully ignoring everything they're saying like they're fucking NPCs. "I mean, look at this guy? Look at him."

Embry shrugs. "Tatum has bad taste."

"That's why they're your inmate," Jared teases, big grin on his face like he nailed it.

"What did you just say?" Embry asks.

"You guys suck, you know that right? You know that you suck?" Paul questions, fed up and tired and wanting so desperately to be wherever Tatum was and not getting literally bullied by their sibling and his sidekick.

"We suck? Us?" Embry questions in indignation, scoffing. "You haven't shut up about anything but my sibling since the day you met them and, by the way, it's a total mood killer."

Jared nods severely. "A for real serious bummer."

"And like, I tried to wingman for you to get you to shut up but like, Tatum for real hates you. Negative all the way through. No good thoughts. And they are not a good liar."

This makes Jared tilt his head. "What do you mean they're not a good liar? They're like the fakest person in the universe, according to you."

A heavy sigh, shoulders rising and falling with it, comes from Embry. "Tatum says there's a difference between lying and make believe. They make believe that they like people so no one can say anything bad about them."

This makes something in Paul's stomach churn. He drops his face in his hands and rubs his eyes and he cannot believe that that is his person. Someone so dishonest and plastic and so unaware of it. "Oh my god, I can't stand them."

"Dude, that's your soulmate you're talking about," Jared scolds.

"Yeah, dude you're kind of a dick."

"Yeah no wonder they hate you."

"Fuck off," Paul says for what feels like the twentieth time that day.

"Y'know what you should do?" Embry offers, smirking, "You should try to make them jealous."

Even the idea of it makes Paul feel kind of nauseous. "Why would I try to make them jealous?"

"Because Tatum is controlling and self-centered," Embry explains like it's simple and foolproof. "If they think for a second that they have stopped being the center of your universe, they will pitch a fit until their attention quota is met again."

There's something about the way that Embry's talking about them that doesn't sit right with Paul and even though he agrees with Embry and has thought all of those things there's this need to protect them and defend them that just takes precedence over everything else. "Does Tatum know you talk about them like this when they're not around?"

Embry leans forward. "I talk like this about Tatum to Tatum's face."

"I'm not gonna try to make Tatum jealous," Paul insists, a tone of finality in his voice. "Can you name one instance in which that has ever worked out for anyone, ever? Name literally one movie where that happens and it didn't result in some sort of shenanigans."

Jared looks at Paul. "Shenanigans?"

But Paul is looking Embry dead in the eye when he says. "I'm not gonna play around and emotionally manipulate my way into their life."

"Alright dude. Whatever you say."

Paul's tired. Advanced healing does nothing to help with the exhaustion. He misses when there were no sneaky redheads he had to chase around constantly making him ache like this. He can barely handle one at a time, never mind two. And of course, there's Pam.

"You take your pills?" he asks of his mother as he walks in the kitchen, toothbrush in his mouth fighting against the sweatshirt he's trying to pull over his head.

She's seated at their kitchen table, chair pulled up as close to the edge of it as she could, working diligently on a piece of burnt toast. "Course I took my pills," she answers, voice gruff and low.

Paul takes the toothbrush out of his mouth, foamy white bits of his toothpaste falling to the ground. He brushes it away with the bottom of his sock. "Then why are they right there, sitting on the table?" he asks, pointing to the small pile of untouched pills in front of her toast.

Pam stops, hands shaking over plate and she gives her son a harsh glare. "How'd I end up with a jail warden for a son?" she questions, dropping her breakfast and scooping up the piles, one by one, and plopping them all in her mouth.

He's dragging his feet towards the kitchen sink and he spits, splashing the water on his face. "There are worse things I could be doing than, y'know, making you take your life saving medication," he tells her, and moves to stand beside her chair. "Open."

She opens her mouth wide, raising her tongue and moving it side to side to prove that, yes, she did in fact swallow her pills and no, he will not have to force them down her throat. Paul pats her shoulder and when she closes her mouth he wonders if this is embarrassing for her like it is for him. "I know. They just make me feel like shit."

"'M sorry, Ma." He bends down and places a kiss on her forehead and she coos at the gesture.

"Oh, come here." She has her hand, ice cold to the touch, on the back of his neck and she's petting him like she did when he was little. "Do you think, that maybe, you could get me some cigarettes on your way home?"

"What?" he exclaims, standing up straight. "No, no you obviously cannot have cigarettes. No, Mom, you're on oxygen. It'll explode"

She snorts, sweetness gone. "You're just like your dad, you know that right?"

Paul is moving quick around the kitchen, grabbing stale granola bars and refilling plastic water bottles and she is back to working on her slice of toast. "Dad would buy you the cigarettes just to see you blow up."

"Ha, ha. When will you be home tonight?"

Paul shrugs. "Dunno yet."

"Try not to stay out too late, alright baby?"

He stops, turns to give his mother a big bright smile, and lies. "I won't. And put a jacket on. It's freezing in here."

Paul is waiting for Embry. He is waiting for Embry and he is sitting on his couch and he is not thinking about how he can hear Tatum playing their acoustic guitar for their stupid boyfriend and he can hear them both giggling over the sound of it and even worse he can hear when there's no sound and he's doing a very good (bad) job of not thinking about what's happening in those moments of silence. He feels like he's going to throw up or pop a blood vessel and he's doing very well right now.

He doesn't think that anyone in the history of people has ever taken this long to get ready and he thinks that Embry's probably doing it on purpose and he's half grateful and half planning his death.

And he's nervous. Because Paul has a game plan. Because he is going to take Embry's advice, kind of. He's going to sit and watch the Evil Dead in Embry's living room, and he was going to ignore Tatum. He's going to be completely unaffected by their presence, or, at best, he's going to pretend he is. Because, actually, they're not even in the same room as him and he's completely affected by them. It's ridiculous. He tells himself, over and over, that he's being really fucking stupid.

Loud footsteps upstairs make his heart hammer. No one had ever made him feel like this before and he doesn't know what to do about it. There's laughter, theirs mixed with his and Paul tightens his hands around each other so they don't shake so visibly. Tatum bounces down the stairs, the boyfriend behind them, and Paul watches from his peripherals, careful not to turn his head even an inch, as Tatum's laughter dies down at the sight of him. They side eye him. They roll their eyes. Paul says nothing.

They disappear from his sight for a while. He hears the door open, whispered goodbyes and kisses and the boyfriend says 'I love you,' but Tatum doesn't and that's a real point of pride for Paul.

Tatum returns, and they stand still at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed as they stare down Paul. He's trying so goddamn hard to not notice. He's watching the gore onscreen and he doesn't look towards Tatum until they say, with such a desperate attempt at an authoritative tone, "What are you doing here?"

All he lets himself have is a quick glance. His mouth is a thin line and their hair is straightened and their jeans fall low on their hips and there's a bit of skin between the crop of their shirt and the waistline. He turns back to the violence before his face gets hot. "Waiting for Em," he answers, seriously, quickly, nonchalantly. He repeats, in his head, over and over, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

"Really?" they question, leaning against the arm of the other couch, scowling. "You're really just here for Embry?"

Paul doesn't look back at them. He won't let himself. "Yeah. He's in the shower, I think." And he's proud at how lax his answer is, how casual his tone is. Paul's really patting himself on the back with this one.

Tatum doesn't roll their eyes and stomp back up the stairs like he thought they would've by now and he's proud and he's thinking that maybe, maybe, Embry was kind of right. "Right, and it just so happens that the one day a week I'm not busy, you're just casually hanging out here after like, weeks of borderline stalking me."

He counts to three before he replies. "Yeah, guess so."

They scoff. "You know we're not friends, right?"

"Yeah," he answers, easy, biting back the sarcasm he wants so desperately to indulge in, "you made that clear."

He won't let himself look at them but he can feel their stare burning into the side of his face and they move. "So what are you actually doing here?"

"Uh, waiting for Embry, like I said."

"You seriously expect me to believe-"

"Look," Paul cuts them off, turning his head and letting his eyes meet theirs and he feels, for the first time he met them, that he actually has the upper hand here, "you've made how you feel extremely clear. I'm not here for you, I'm literally just waiting for my friend. I don't have anything to say to you, and now you're the one not taking the hint."

His words make them flinch. His gut churns. He does what he can to remain indifferent when Tatum opens their mouth. He thinks they might snap back at him or say something in their defense but the sound of Embry's footsteps rushing down the stairs makes them stop. "Paul, you ready?" Embry calls.

And Paul doesn't say anything as Tatum pushes past their bother and rushes up the stairs. Embry frowns. "What's up their ass?"

i couldn't NOT write a paul pov...

also: who do u think would win in a fight teeth embry or cryptid embry

i've been trying to upload once a week, on the weekend, but i for sure will not be uploading next week because its halloween and im going to be dressed up as a malewife completely obliterated so apologies. happy halloween!

incorrect quotes!

paul: tatum has dreamy eyes
embry: if you're still saying 'dream eyes' we have more work to do than kings of leon
paul: ...
embry: they're a good band i just feel like they're stuck in one place musically

paul; this dynamic between the two of you is very annoying to me
embry: hi hater
jared: bye hater

embry: i'm pretty sure im having a heart attack and i havent arranged for anyone to clear my internet history

jared: what time is it?
embry: i don't know; pass me that saxophone and we'll find out
embry: *plays sax loudly and extremely out of tune*
taum: WHO THE FUCK IS PLAYING THE SAXOPHONE AT TWO IN THE MORNING
embry: it's 2 am

embry: i trust paul with tatum
jared: you think he knows what he's doing?
embry: i wouldn't go that far

jared: hey paul?
paul: yes?
jared: can a person breathe inside a washing machine while it's on?
paul:
paul: where's embry?

paul: what is your biggest weakness?
tatum: i can be uncooperative.
paul: okay, can you give me an example?
tatum: no.