Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a simple segment. Chop some herbs. Flash a charming smile. Say something vaguely sensual about olive oil.
Francis was good at this. People liked it when he talked with his hands, flipped his hair, and claimed that garlic was the true language of love. He’d done a dozen shows like this before, and not once had it ended in actual bloodshed.
Until now.
“Et voilà, ” he said, gesturing toward the pile of thinly sliced shallots on the cutting board. “You want them delicate, not butchered. Let them melt into the sauce.”
He reached for a sprig of rosemary to demonstrate, still speaking to the camera, still smiling—when a sudden cut appeared, as if he had dragged a knife’s edge across his ring finger.
The smile didn’t even have time to fade. Pain flared hot and immediate.
What the…
He flinched, cursed under his breath, and dropped his knife—which hadn’t even been near his now-injured finger—with a clatter. The crew froze, the cameraman lowering his rig as someone offscreen let out a gasp.
“Are you alright?” asked the producer, stepping forward with a look that was equal parts concern and deep network fear.
Francis held up his finger. A bright red line ran across the pad. Blood was already beginning to bead.
“Just a cut,” he said lightly, trying not to wince. “No need to panic. I think I still have a few pints left in me.”
The crew gave a few uneasy laughs. A PA rushed forward with a Band Aid and some gauze. Francis wrapped his finger with practiced ease. This was not the first time a delicate herb had betrayed him.
Still… something about the sting lingered. Not just the cut, but the strange way it had appeared. There was a tightness in his chest. A faint whisper of unease curling in the back of his mind.
He brushed it off.
After all, it was just a small cut.
✦ ✦ ✦
Francis found himself scrolling on his phone when he should have been getting ready. He had a date later that evening. And he was not the type of person to be late. He had many questionable qualities, but tardiness was not one of them.
He was sprawled out on the couch, phone propped against the armrest while he lay on his stomach. It wasn’t the most graceful position, but it was comfortable, and Francis didn’t feel like moving.
He’d Googled, why mysterious cut appear? Grammar wasn’t a priority at the moment. He was more concerned with the growing possibility that someone might actually be doing voodoo on him.
Most of the results were exactly what he expected: articles, blogs, and Reddit threads about small cuts and bruises you don’t remember getting. The consensus? You probably brushed up against something sharp and didn’t notice. Maybe a bug bit you. Maybe you're clumsy.
But one headline stood out.
Soulmate Connections: Can Pain Be Shared?
Francis stared at the screen for a second longer than he meant to.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of soulmates. Hell, he even had a friend who’d found theirs. Lucky Spanish bastard. But they weren’t exactly common. And even if, somehow, Francis did have a soulmate, the pain thing made no sense. Soulmates were supposed to share dreams or feelings, not bodily injuries.
Still, the thought lingered.
Francis had always had phantom aches. Random pains. It wasn’t until the last few years that they started coming with visible injuries. Little things—scratches, bruises, cuts—that he couldn’t explain. He’d always assumed he just didn’t remember bumping into something. But actually seeing the cut appear earlier… that was new.
He stared at his phone a moment longer before sighing and saving the article.
He wasn’t planning to read it. Not yet. But maybe it would be useful. Just in case.
For now, he had a date to get ready for.
✦ ✦ ✦
By the time the appetizers had been served, Francis knew the date wasn’t going to end well.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like his date. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The woman sitting across from him was drop-dead gorgeous. She had the kind of face that could make men fall to their knees like she was some kind of goddess, and a body that might just send them to one from blood loss. So no, it wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive, per se. It was a gut feeling. Something was going to go wrong.
Francis silently ate a stuffed mushroom as he half-listened to whatever the woman was saying. From what he’d gathered, she was a model from Milan and her name was Annabelle. Or was it Annalise? Annabeth? Whatever—it was something Anna. It wasn’t Francis’ fault she wouldn’t stop talking. He could barely process anything.
His zoning out was interrupted by an impromptu question. “But that’s enough about me, how about you? You’re a prime-time French chef. Tell me all about that!”
Francis quickly registered the question and put on his best charming smile—it was one of his trademarks, after all—and gave a classic media response.
“Well, my father was the one who taught me how to cook. And my love for the craft grew steadily over time. I enjoy being able to do what most would consider a hobby for a living.”
Anna-something seemed satisfied with that answer. He honestly felt a little bad for her. Francis had been set up on the date by one of his managers. Said it would make his “image” look better. And yes, that made sense, he just didn’t understand why it had to be with a girl most would categorize as a stereotypical blonde—ditzy and all.
They were both silent for a moment. Francis worried she might prompt him to elaborate, but luckily she just kept eating her plate of appetizers.
While Francis was grateful for the break in conversation, the silence was starting to lean toward uncomfortable. He kind of hoped she’d launch into another tangent. It was more bearable.
He quickly tried to scrounge up a question—anything to get things moving again. As he searched for inspiration, his fingers fidgeted with the Band-Aid wrapped around his ring finger. A souvenir from the cut earlier that afternoon. A random thought flashed across his mind and, before he could stop himself, he blurted it out.
“So do you think soulmates are real?”
Francis immediately wanted to crawl under the table and die.
The woman blinked, then looked oddly flustered. Maybe even happy?
Shit. She thinks I’m flirting.
She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, cheeks tinged with a soft pink. “Well, yes, I do.” Her eyes flicked downward, searching the floor as if it might have a better answer waiting.
When Francis didn’t respond right away, she rushed to clarify.
“It’s not that I’m insinuating anything about you and me!” Her hands flew up, fingers waving like she could literally dispel the implication. “Just, you know, there have been a lot of stories. People ending up together. Matching dreams and emotions and stuff.”
Francis gave her a slow, sultry grin, pretending the comment had been flattering rather than awkward.
Why the fuck did I say that?
Thankfully, he was saved from further humiliation by the waiter arriving to clear their plates. Francis offered a silent prayer to whatever god oversaw restaurants and romantic misfires, begging that his luck didn’t get any worse.
He wasn’t sure if the universe had heard him, but his pinkie finger suddenly throbbed, like someone had poured alcohol straight onto an open wound. And it hurt.
Badly.
He winced.
So did his date.
But only one of them was in pain.
Their entrees arrived not long after, delivered with a flourish by the waiter who seemed far too chipper considering the Friday evening rush of customers. Francis offered a charming thank-you and turned back to his date, relieved to see her smiling again.
To his surprise, things were going better.
They talked about art. She liked impressionists. He pretended to hate them, just to see the way she argued. It was easy conversation, light and warm like the candle flickering between them. She laughed when he said Renoir had no understanding of hands and nearly choked on her wine when he made a terrible pun about Monet. For a moment, he relaxed. Maybe the weirdness had passed.
Then it hit him.
A chill swept down his spine, sudden and cold like someone had opened a freezer behind his back. The restaurant was still warm, still softly lit, still humming with quiet conversations. Nothing had changed, but the dread coiled in his gut anyway. Like a warning.
His grip on his fork tightened.
And then the pain came.
It exploded across his face, sharp and burning. His cheek, his jaw, even the bridge of his nose. He flinched so hard he nearly knocked over his glass. His fork clattered onto the table.
“Francis?” she asked, startled. “Are you alright?”
He barely heard her. One hand pressed to his face, trying to make sense of the sudden ache, the burst of stinging heat that felt far too much like a slap.
Or a punch.
He blinked at the tablecloth, eyes watering.
“Sorry,” he managed, voice strained. “Bit of a headache. Came out of nowhere.”
She frowned, concerned, but nodded slowly.
Francis sat back in his chair and tried to breathe through it. His cheek throbbed like someone else’s anger had landed on him by accident.
He lifted his head to look at Anna, forcing a reassuring smile. But instead of her face softening, it twisted—slowly, deliberately—into horror.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted like she was about to scream. One trembling hand reached for her wine glass but missed it entirely.
“Francis,” she breathed. “Your face…”
He blinked. “What about it?”
She didn’t answer, just pointed. Wide-eyed. Frozen.
Francis reached up, fingertips brushing along the curve of his cheek. He hissed. It was wet. Sticky. He pulled his hand back and stared at the smear of blood across his fingers.
“What the hell?”
The left side of his face felt raw. His eye burned. It was starting to swell. He grabbed his phone, flipped the camera, and nearly dropped it.
There were angry red scratches along his cheekbone, like someone had clawed him. His lower eyelid was already puffing, the eye itself bloodshot and beginning to swell shut. It looked like he’d been in a bar fight, and lost.
“I—I need to go to the restroom,” he muttered, standing a little too fast. The room tilted. Anna pushed her chair back with a screech loud enough to turn heads.
“Oh my god,” she said, loud and shrill. “Did someone attack you? Are you having a stroke? Wait—wait, are you cursed?!”
The waiter, coming to ask if they wanted refills, froze mid-step.
Francis tried to laugh, which only made his face throb worse. “I don’t think I’m cursed. ”
“You’re bleeding !” she cried. “You were fine, like, just a minute ago! What is this, some kind of prank?”
She stood now too, panicking properly. Her purse hit the floor with a thunk. A couple at the next table scooted their chairs away. Francis could feel the entire restaurant watching him.
“It’s not a prank,” he said, trying to sound calm, which wasn’t easy with blood trickling down his jaw.
“Do you have some type of disease? Are you contagious?! ”
That did it.
The date, already hanging by a thread, snapped clean in two. Anna backed away like he had sprouted horns. The waiter looked like he was about to call security. Francis, humiliated and sore and still trying to process the pain in his eye, grabbed his coat and a napkin and booked it toward the restroom.
As he passed the bar, he muttered under his breath, “Perfect timing.”
He managed to make it to the bathroom before collapsing against the wall and sliding to the floor. The cold tile pressed against his spine. Francis honestly felt like just staying there. It was a nice enough restaurant, after all. Probably not that much piss on the floor.
But even the floor wasn’t helping the pain.
With a low groan, he grabbed the edge of the sink and hauled himself up, arms shaking a little under the effort. When he looked in the mirror, he immediately regretted it.
His blonde hair was matted down with blood near his temple, the strands sticking together in messy clumps. The scratches along his cheek were still bright red, a few of them starting to scab over, while others kept oozing. And his eye—God. It was bloodshot, the kind of angry red that looked like it was ready to burst. The skin around it had begun to puff, turning a sickly purple near the socket. He looked like someone had taken a swing at him with a brick and a grudge.
He splashed cold water on his face. It stung like hell.
“Fantastic,” he muttered, dabbing at the worst of the blood with rough paper towels. It didn’t help much. He still looked like a Victorian ghost who had died from either a deadly plague or blunt force trauma.
Francis leaned against the counter and stared at himself. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just breathed. Watched the slow drip of blood trace a path along his jaw and fall into the sink.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. Not a headache. Not stress. Not a rogue eyelash or sudden onset nosebleed.
This was something else entirely. And it was high time he did something about it.
He was just about to splash his face with more water when a sharp knock echoed through the bathroom.
Followed by a voice, “You good in there?”
Francis let out a sigh. “Yes, just had a bit too much to drink.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door. Then, “We’d prefer if you left once you’re done. We don’t want more of a commotion.”
Francis groaned. He had expected as much. Honestly, he hadn’t even planned on going back to the table. But being personally asked to leave? That was a bit too embarrassing.
He dabbed his face dry with a paper towel, trying not to flinch at how tender the skin felt. His eye was still puffy and red, and a smear of dried blood lingered near his hairline, no matter how much he tried to wipe it away. He took one last look in the mirror and winced. Not his best exit.
Straightening his shirt, Francis ran his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to fix it, then stepped out of the bathroom and into the awkward stares of a waiter and a man in a cheap blazer who looked like he was in charge of things.
Neither said anything. They just silently stepped aside to let him pass.
He didn’t bother stopping at the table. He doubted Anna was still there, anyway. He kept his head low as he made his way to the front door. A part of him wished he had something clever to say on the way out, something to reclaim a shred of his dignity.
But he didn’t. He just left.
The cool night air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, and Francis let out a long breath.
He was bleeding, humiliated, and vaguely traumatized.
So why, then, was his first thought: I wonder if that article had a comments section.
✦ ✦ ✦
As soon as Francis made it back to his apartment, he showered, changed into sweats, and buried the night somewhere deep in the back of his mind. The cut on his finger still throbbed. His eye was a little less puffy, though still red enough to make him look like he’d been in a bar fight.
He sat cross-legged on his couch, nursing a glass of wine he didn’t really want, with his phone resting on his knee.
The article was still there in his saved tabs. Soulmate Connections: Can Pain Be Shared?
He tapped it open. Just to skim. Just to see. Not because he believed it.
Definitely not because it was the only thing that made even a little bit of sense.
Francis scrolled past the ads and fluff at the top of the page, eyes scanning the bolded headings like he was skimming a menu he had no intention of ordering from. It was late, and his wine glass was half-empty. Or half-full. Depending on the level of denial.
The article wasn’t from a scientific journal or anything reputable. It was some mix between a wellness blog and someone’s personal soulmate diary. But Francis kept reading anyway.
“While most soulmate connections manifest through shared dreams or emotional synchronicity, there have been rare cases reported where physical sensations—like pain—are transferred between bonded individuals. This phenomenon is not widely documented, but anecdotal evidence persists…”
Francis frowned. He remembered the weird ache in his shoulder that showed up last week while he was reorganizing his spice rack. It hadn’t gone away until the next morning. He hadn’t even lifted anything heavy.
He took another sip of wine, brow furrowed.
“These cases often begin with phantom injuries when a pair is young—minor bruises, scratches, or aches. Most bonded pairs are unaware of the connection at first, particularly when the pain experienced doesn’t align with any visible cause.”
Francis looked down at his bandaged finger. The paper cut had bled more than it should have. And the sting? Way too sharp for something so small.
He rubbed at his temple.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, even as he clicked the next link embedded in the article. It led to a list of signs you might be feeling your soulmate’s pain.
He read through them in silence. Random bruises. Sudden throbbing. Injuries without memory of how they happened. Check. Check. Check.
A small voice in the back of his head, the one that usually made fun of people who believed in crystals or fate, was a little quieter than usual.
Francis leaned back on the couch, exhaling through his nose.
There was no way this was real.
But… if it was?
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then finally whispered, “Who the hell are you?”
Francis didn’t exactly know what to think. He needed somewhere to put all the thoughts running through his head.
A journal wasn’t a bad idea.
Yes. That was it. He’d go full teenage girl and write about all his feelings surrounding soulmates and romance. That was the perfect solution. Way to go, Francis.
Still… if he thought about it for more than a second, it wasn’t the worst idea. It might actually help to lay out what he knew so far. Maybe he’d figure out if he really had a soulmate—or if he was just cursed.
Francis dug through his junk drawer until he found a mostly empty notebook. The front was bent, the pages curled, and it had some very suspicious water damage in the corner, but it would do.
He flopped onto his couch, flipped to the first blank page, and clicked his pen. At the top, in the biggest letters he could manage, he wrote:
Soulmate?
He circled it. Twice.
Below that, in a much messier scrawl, he started listing what he knew.
- Shared Pain = Soulmate?
- No emotions. No dreams. No thoughts. Just… pain.
- Sudden injuries.
- Phantom pain when younger? → Ask Mom.
- Cut appeared out of nowhere.
- Random bruises??
- That one time with the ankle?? (Revisit that memory—was that really a misstep?)
- No patterns in time/location.
He stared at the page for a while, chewing on the cap of his pen.
- Could be curse.
- Could be brain worms.
- Could be soul-bonded with a masochist.
He sighed, tapped the pen on the notebook, then underlined the first line again.
Soulmate?
It was a ridiculous theory. But at this point, it was the only one that didn’t make him feel like he was going insane. And that had to count for something. Right?