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A hideous splotch has decorated Robby’s torso for his entire life. Some people have nice, distinctive shapes, flowers or silhouettes, but not Robby. Underneath is nipples, just where his chest hair peters out, sits a beige something. Robby has never been certain what it is. He knows it’s his soulmate mark, but he couldn’t describe it with a gun to his head.
His bubbe said it was a moth, Janey used to tilt her head and say “maybe it’s a pond,” as if that means anything.
On the rare occasion he has to explain his Rorschach Test of a soul mark, Robby says its lungs. “They’ve been flattened,” he jokes. “The ED is my soulmate.”
Sometimes people would laugh, but more than often they’d look at him with excruciating pity, and he would find an excuse to leave with his tail tucked between his legs.
When he was young, he considered having it changed, maybe a tattoo over it. But he’d spent all of his free time in pre-Med reading every study related to soulmate marks, and there were no cases of changes to your own mark affecting your soulmate’s, so it’s advised to leave it in its original state until you meet them.
Although, it’s universally agreed that soulmates can identify each other without seeing their marks. There have been hundreds of reports over the years of soulmates experiencing an “electric shock” and feeling compelled by some sort of “magnetic force” as soon as they meet, but so far there isn’t any scientific evidence to back those claims, so Robby prefers to stick with the tried and true method of laying eyes on a mark identical to his own.
After 55 years of disappointment, Robby’s finished. No one else has ever been cursed with an unreadable mark, and he can’t take much more of anything these days. He’s ready to ride and let the bike take him where it pleases.
The leather of the seat burns hot even through his cargos.
“Put that fucking helmet on,” Jack says. His arms are crossed as he stands in front of the bike with a pout. “You’re not leaving until I see it on you.”
Robby sighs. He thinks about when he first met Jack fifteen years ago and he thought he felt the shock everyone talks about. A decade and a half worth of memories scream by in his mind; every time Jack has been funny, or charming, or looked at Robby like he mattered and he made Robby consider the magnetic tug he’s read about. But then his eyes land on thick black ring that decorates Jack’s hand. It’s not a soul mark, but it’s damn close.
He puts the helmet on. “Happy?”
“No.”
Robby wishes Jack would ask him to stay. He’s not sure he would accept the offer, good things are too far out of reach for him, but he would give anything to hear Jack ask.
“This is as good as it’s gonna get.”
Jack’s frown deepens. “That’s not true. Call me as soon as you get to your first stop.”
“I’ll text.”
“Call.”
There’s no point arguing again. The false tug yanks from Robby’s diaphragm, right through the center of his mark. “Goodbye, Jack.”
“I’ll see you later,” Jack decides.
The start of Robby’s ride isn’t as relaxing as he’d hoped it would be. There’s too much bouncing around in his mind, from today and everyday for the past thirty five years.
The humid summer night blears by as he rides on, happy cheers are muted by his helmet, and the fireworks in his peripheral go unnoticed. There’s a loud screech and a honk, then the dark night transforms into the bright lights of the inside of an ambulance.
Robby turns his head, it’s heavy and throbbing.
“Sir,” the medic says. Robby recognizes her, but the name escapes him. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”
Yes, his own he’s sure of, but Robby is far more concerned with telling them to take him anywhere but PTMC. Not that they care to listen to him.
“We’re on our way to the nearest hospital.”
It goes dark.
When his eyes reopen, Robby can tell immediately his request to go elsewhere has been ignored; he’s being rolled into the familiar wall of PTMC. It’s odd being on the receiving end of the ED’s chaos. Jack is at his side in a second, but his attention isn’t on Robby the way he’s used to. He’s demanding answers from the medics and examining the wounds that peak through his torn pants.
Without thinking, Robby reaches for Jack’s hand. It’s rough and tense, but the weight calms Robby.
“…ack,” his voice is weak and muffled through the oxygen mask.
For a split second, Jack isn’t an attending. All the experience drains from him, and Robby meets a young man he’s only seen in photos. Jack squeezes his hand, “I’m going to take care of you.”
Robby nods. Jack takes care of everyone, including himself, which is more than Robby can say.
They wheel him into Trauma 1, Jack’s hand still in his as they begin to cut his shirt away.
He’s starting to doze off again when Jack’s hand tightens painfully around his own. When he looks up, Jack’s eyes are glued to his chest.
Robby bends his neck the best he can, expecting to see a disturbingly large hole, or his intestines hanging out, but his skin surprisingly intact considering the rest of him. There’s a bit of road rash, and a gash that is in desperate need of stitches, but nothing stands out.
“Get Shen,” Jack rasps.
“He’s with the driver of the car.”
“I can’t— Call someone. See if Al-Hashimi can come back.”
“Dr. Abbot?”
Jack’s fingers card through Robby’s hair. The boy he saw earlier is back. “Call someone else.”
Robby wants to ask what’s wrong, but the room goes black before he can.
He wakes hours later in a private recovery room. Jack is leaning forward, staring at the floor, bouncing his good knee.
“You should take your leg off,” Robby rasps.
Jack’s head snaps forward. “Fuck, Mike.” He’s up and leaning over Robby faster than he can blink. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m alright.”
“You are now.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Robby says. “It wasn’t on purpose, Jack, I swear.”
“I know, I saw the driver, and my lawyer is about to as well.”
“C’mon—“
“Nope,” Jack shakes his head. “He nearly killed my soulmate; I’m gonna let him have it.”
Robby starts to ask what he means, but the words trail out his mouth as he catches up with what’s been said. The monitor sings with the uptick in Robby’s heartbeat.
Jack offers a teary smile, he slides a gentle hand over Robby’s gown, the heat of his palm glows over Robby’s soul mark. “You have no idea how many times I’ve studied that exact shape.”
Robby’s eyes dart down to where Jack’s chest is hidden by his scrubs, “But I’ve seen—“
“It’s not there,” Jack says. “It’s on my leg. Or it was.” He smiles. “Thank God I had the good sense to take a picture when I was in college.”
“Did you?” Robby chokes.
“Yeah. I wanted to stare at it all the time, but was on the back of my calf; I could barely get a good angle.”
Robby places his hand over Jack’s. “What is it?”
Jack shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I always said it was deflated lungs.”
The laugh that blurts from Robby is wet and sincere. He pulls Jack as close as he can; through his sore, aching body a warmth begins to spread, starting in his lungs.