Chapter Text
Edwin Payne rarely drinks enough to fall victim to a hangover, but when he does, he tends to wake up with a nasty headache.
Which is why, before Edwin even opens his eyes, he knows to brace himself for the inevitable consequences of whatever poor decisions he made the night prior.
The first poor decision he notes is that he is not in his own hotel room. While quaint, the standard double-queen Niko had reserved for them for the Halloween weekend pales in comparison to this opulence — walls of lacquered black, floor-to-ceiling windows that he hopes are only visible one way, and modern neon art that casts the spacious room in a red and teal glow. Eventually, Edwin becomes cognizant to the fact that he is sprawled out on a ridiculously-soft, absurdly-round bed in the room's center.
The second poor decision Edwin spots is the gorgeous man curled up on his side next to him. This particular mistake is thankfully still asleep, a vision of golden skin and messy blonde-tipped hair and a muscular upper body, all draped in ebony sheets that leave very little to the imagination. Edwin additionally makes note of his long lashes and the curious little scar running above his lip before he tears his eyes away, blushing furiously.
And third time really must be a charm, because the final poor decision Edwin can tick off his proverbial checklist is the dainty gold band on his left ring finger.
Or perhaps he should amend his chosen proverb for this situation to “three strikes and you're out,” because before Edwin knows it, he is crouched in the adjoining bathroom dialing Niko's number with shaky hands. Further cementing herself as one of his very best friends, she answers on the second ring.
“Good morning, love bird,” Niko sing-songs from the other end of the line, confirming that Edwin's worst-case-scenario assessment is unfortunately spot on.
“He's still here,” Edwin whispers scornfully, though Niko knows him well enough by now to know it's not really directed at her. “In this very room! Christ, I better not have been the idiot to charge this to my credit card. One night here will cost me the entirety of my last royalty check.”
Niko switches him to speaker phone so that she can pace while she talks, judging by the shuffle on the other end of the phone. She asks curiously, now from a few feet away, “Are you hiding from your husband in the bathroom?”
“Do not call him that!” he whisper-shouts. “And I most certainly am in hiding. What in the bloody hell was I thinking last night?”
“Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about,” Niko says neutrally, though Edwin can hear the cheeky little smile dimpling her cheeks. “Maybe even consummate?” Edwin didn't know it was possible for waggled eyebrows to make a sound, but he can practically hear them through the phone.
The longer Edwin spends in the world of the waking, the more he remembers of the night prior. They're in Las Vegas for Charles and Crystal’s joint bachelor(ette) party, which they thought would be fun to hold on Halloween. They had even roped Edwin into a costume, a buttoned-up demon to match Niko’s angelic attire. The soulmates had opted to be vampires, featuring prop teeth left over from the last community theatre show Niko did costuming for that even Edwin could admit were rather impressive.
Edwin wishes his brain was currently firing on all cylinders, because it takes him far too long to really process a few key implications. “Hold on just a tick,” he huffs. “Niko. Did you let me marry a stranger? In Las Vegas?”
“You were adamant that you wanted to marry Thomas,” Niko insists, and Edwin can also hear her innocent little shrug. “Besides, who do you think was your witness?”
Instead of chastising her further, Edwin's liquor-lagged brain snags on another small detail. “Thomas?” He isn't sure why his chest feels heavy, like two syllables have the power to stop his heart in its tracks. It's not hard to connect it, the name to the beautiful human he left alone in the luxurious bed. Knowing his name seems to shake more memories loose, flashes of a dance-floor meeting flowing into a dance-floor make out flowing into the two of them stumbling down the street hand-in-hand.
“Thomas King,” Niko supplies, and Edwin wonders inexplicably if he opted to take Thomas’ last name or not. “I sent you some pics, but those are the last hints I'm giving you.” She’s close by the phone again when she says, “Seriously, Edwin, just go talk to him!”
And Edwin knows that a conversation would be the logical, mature thing to do. But Edwin does not have much experience waking up in a stranger's bed, least of all a stranger he decided to legally bind himself to. And unfortunately for him, the pictures from Niko confirm that Thomas is every bit as handsome done up as he is bare-faced — and bare-chested, for that matter.
He can see why he must have been initially drawn to Thomas, because the man is absolutely striking. He had been clad in a sheer black top and a leopard-print skirt that fell more than a few inches above his knee-high leather boots, all topped off with an oversized fur jacket in what Edwin assumes must be cheetah print. On his screen, a pair of cat ears peek out from his golden mane, complemented by tastefully-done face paint that is alluringly feline.
The photos bring with them an onslaught of more memories, now featuring a low, sultry timbre and a wicked laugh and ruby red press-ons and honeycomb eyes.
“Niko, please,” he whispers desperately, though even Edwin is unsure what it is he's pleading for.
“Just trust me, okay? You should give him a chance!” He's always found it difficult to say no to Niko, even without the imploring visual of her world-renowned puppy dog eyes. “I’ve already excused both of us from brunch with Crystal and Charles, so I estimate you have another hour or so before before they come knocking.” After a moment, Niko suggests coyly, “May-be you could try to enjoy it?”
The thought of pre-anullment sex has certainly never appealed to Edwin before, but it is far from difficult to imagine why pre-anullment sex with Thomas could be worth some consideration.
In every picture, he and Thomas are laughing, or at least smiling — intertwined more often than not, whether they're sitting in the waiting room of what Edwin assumes is some sort of a chapel or splitting a plate of smothered diner chips.
The photo that really gives him pause is the one Niko snapped right after their wedding-sealing kiss, before Thomas had opened his eyes back up. Edwin is surprised to see himself gazing down at his apparent groom with hooded eyes and the slightest of smirks, so content that it makes Edwin's stomach presently twist into knots.
“I shall consider it,” he concedes quietly, much to Niko’s delight, should her ear-piercing cheer be anything to judge by. “Though if you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, you should probably send out the search party.”
Edwin rolls his eyes when Niko exclaims, “I'll make it forty-five!” with a mischievous giggle, though he can't quite bring himself to complain.
What he can bring himself to do is fret, at least for another moment or so. Because although his memories are coming back slowly — if a tad hazily — Edwin has no idea what Thomas might think about their ill-advised nuptials. It's still taboo in a lot of places to marry someone other than your soulmate, despite it being legal for over a decade in the states. And while he can't recall it ever coming up in conversation, Edwin would be remiss to believe he doesn't still have some alcohol-induced blind spots.
After freshening up with some of the complimentary toiletries, which he is amused to note includes decorative little soaps, Edwin takes a final glance at himself in the LED-lit mirror — a plain black undershirt, blessedly new-ish boxer briefs, and messy bleach-blonde hair that Niko had roped him into trying with her about a month ago. Perhaps not his Sunday best, but he has little other choice at present.
It turns out Edwin needn't have practiced his opener in his head on the way out of the bathroom because he finds that Thomas is already awake, waiting and watching him expectantly with a half-lidded gaze.
“Well, well, well,” the man drawls in a tone that is somehow at once both dreamy and smarmy. “Look what the cat dragged in.” Thomas has positioned his sculpted body enticingly, covered from the waist down and subtlety flexing the arms he has draped back over the pillows.
“Well,” Edwin hears himself scathing, “I suppose there's no accounting for tipsy taste, is there?”
“Ouch,” the other man remarks with a pointed raise of his brows. “Good thing I like my partners bitchy, because I was really holding out hope for wedded bliss here, sweetheart.”
Out of all of the reactions Thomas could have had to Edwin’s icy reception, it's this one that starts Edwin out on his back foot. His hackles raise instinctively at the easy banter, the simple acceptance of what sends most potential suitors running for the hills.
If Thomas was anything like this last night, Edwin is beginning to see why he may have thought marrying this handsome stranger was a good idea.
“I apologize,” Edwin tries to amend, though his tone is still notably clipped. “I suppose I should be grateful you're not angry over what transpired last night.”
“Edwin,” Thomas demures playfully, “are you telling me most guys are angry after a night with you?”
He knows it's meant to be a joke, but it's one that hits just a hair too close to home. “The straight ones tend to be,” Edwin counters, sitting down at the very edge of the bed, about as far away from Thomas as he can get.
It’s evident in Thomas’ keen golden-brown eyes that he notices, but he chooses not to remark on Edwin's seating choice. Instead, he taps his temple knowingly. “See, now we're getting somewhere! I was wondering where the repressed, up-tight vibes were coming from, but now that I know you're a certified down-low dick magnet, it's all really starting to come together.”
Edwin’s answering scoff is haughty, though it does little to mask the burning in his cheeks. “What did you just call me?”
Thomas dismisses him with an errant wave of his hand. “Sorry, didn't mean to offend your old-fashioned sensibilities there, sweet cheeks.” He doesn't sound particularly apologetic, should his Cheshire grin be believed. “I’m curious, though. What all do you remember from last night’s little rendezvous?”
Not as much as he would like to remember, though admitting that to Thomas feels like admitting defeat, even when Edwin isn't quite sure what game it is that they're playing. “We met at a costume-only event at a club,” Edwin recalls. “I was there with my friends for their bachelor party, and you are allegedly a local. As I recall, you were dressed as the most audacious cat I had ever seen.”
“Hey!” Thomas pouts, which really shouldn't be as attractive as it is. “You thought it was ‘delightfully camp’ last night.”
“Was that before or after we went to a bloody diner, of all places?” Edwin snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose to try to stave off the headache still pounding behind his eyes. “Or, better yet, was it before or after we made a legally binding decision in front of some—some Elvis impersonator!”
Thomas tilts his head, clearly wracking his brain for the specifics. “After the diner, before the wedding service.” After a brief pause, he explains, “And for the record, it was not Elvis who married us. It was Cher. Did Niko forget to send you the pics?”
Edwin is mildly curious as to which one of them chose Cher to be their officiant, but he is too afraid to ask.
“I’ve seen them,” Edwin replies, terse and defensive.
The other man — his husband, his brain supplies rather unhelpfully — breaks into a grin, his perfectly white teeth on full display. It's closer to the smile Thomas has in the pictures from last night than the contrived expression he's had painted on for Edwin thus far this morning.
It's unnerving, to have it turned on him in the flesh, so blinding that Edwin has to look away lest he get burnt. He clears his throat, but his voice is still tight when he says, “I suppose we have some business to attend to.”
A hum rumbles from the back of Thomas’ throat. “Business, hm?” he purrs, his features sharpened prettily by his amusement. “Well, in my experience, business and pleasure aren't exactly mutually exclusive.”
Edwin curses his libido, so easily, readily stoked by the way Thomas shifts closer to him. Every line of his body is predatory, though Edwin is admittedly rather willing prey. “Pleasure?” he scoffs lightly, both a reprimand and an affirmation.
“Sure, why not?” Thomas asks, his head cocking to one side. “We indulged in plenty of pleasure last night, after all.”
Edwin swallows. He can't recall every sordid detail of their evening, but sordid details are currently making their way back to him in flashes. Thomas’ fingers toying with the back of his hair as they dance, Thomas’ foot running up his calf under the diner table, Thomas’ warm body pressed up against the elevator door, and just — Thomas.
“Dancing’s a pleasure — with the right partner at least.” Thomas tosses him a saucy wink and continues, “Though I suppose that can be said of most things, can't it? Like sharing a plate of smothered fries, of course. I mean, that's a classic,” Thomas seductively monologues as he all but prowls closer on all fours, the sheet long since fallen away, leaving him without a stitch to cover much of…well, anything, really.
And yet it's Edwin who feels exposed.
“Yes, quite,” Edwin allows, cringing internally at the way his voice wobbles. But instead of being met with mockery, he's met with that sun-soft smile of Thomas’ again. “Though it is far from the only classic example, is it not?”
Thomas now lounges within touching distance like a forbidden-fruit salad of temptation, peering up at Edwin through perfectly batted lashes. With a jolt, Edwin recognizes the hungry gaze from when Thomas fell to his knees at the door of this very room. And if Edwin didn't know any better, he might think this man psychic from the knowing glint in his eyes.
“That's right, sweetheart,” Thomas muses, curling onto his side in yet another seductive pose. Edwin has half a mind to tell him that he does not need to lay it on so thick — Edwin is mortifyingly already half-hard from memory and innuendo alone — but it's so much easier to let himself be entranced. “A kiss, too, is only ever as good as the partner you share it with. So what do you say, sweet thing? You feel like sharing?”
“Well,” Edwin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips in a move Thomas tracks with open interest, “I suppose I don't see the harm in one little kiss.”
Thomas chuckles softly, “Good, because I'm fairly sure we can figure something out.”
He scoots closer still to Edwin, using his muscular arms to push himself up as an offering. This close, Edwin notes distantly, Thomas smells of citrus and thyme. It's not until his companion's eyes flutter shut that Edwin allows himself to really look — to soak in every corded contour and golden glimmer, from his skin to the little pearl earring dangling from one of his ears.
Just when Edwin has almost had his fill, something catches his eye. It's a curious curl of black that Edwin realizes belatedly is a few lines of text running along Thomas’ ribs, a classic soulmate mark. He jerks back instinctively, stomach churning at the sudden reminder of what their silly whims may have cost Thomas.
“On second thought,” Edwin murmurs, scooting a pointed distance away from a startled Thomas, “perhaps we should stick strictly to business.”
Thomas blinks slowly, brows furrowed for only a brief moment before he smooths them away with a plastic grin. “Aw, Edwin, what is it that you just told me? That you don't see the harm in one little kiss?” He bats his pretty eyes again, but the honeyed sparkle is gone.
“I changed my mind,” Edwin snaps with all the makings of a wounded animal.
Thomas studies him for another long moment before swallowing what Edwin assumes must be his pride. “Fine. Never say I'm not fair and consensual.” He leans over the other side of the bed and produces a hotel-provided silk robe, which he wraps around himself huffily. “I guess we have plenty of time to figure out how to make your drunken desires align with your sober decorum.”
Edwin has half a mind to kiss the man if only to quiet his incessant talking. But his words leave a little barb in Edwin's side, one that needles his ribs. “Plenty of time?” he asks coolly. “You may have nothing better to do, but I need this annulment processed today. Our flight back to New York leaves in the morning.”
Thomas has been putting on a show of studying his nails — he must have popped off the press-ons at some point or another, though Edwin can't recall when — but at this, his head shoots up in surprise. “Annulment?” he asks guardedly.
“Yes, an annulment,” Edwin repeats, brow raised. “We were both rather intoxicated, so it should be simple enough to argue that the marriage is invalid. Saves us both the hassle of a divorce hearing.”
And Edwin is struck by the distinct feeling of miscalculation by the genuine perplexity in Thomas’ expression. The other man is uncharacteristically quiet, which is jarring in and of itself. It takes him a few more beats to gather his thoughts before he says, “We can't just get an annulment, Edwin.”
Edwin is admittedly a bit miffed at Thomas’ need to be contrarian, especially over something so obvious. “Don't be sentimental,” he scoffs. “Although last night was…pleasant,” he can feel the tips of his ears warming at the understatement of his words, “we made a ridiculous, impulsive decision. There is no reason for us to prolong the inevitable.”
Thomas is now studying him as if truly seeing him for the first time, his handsome features almost fragile in their sharpness. “I, uh, don't think you get it, sweetheart. No judge is gonna let us get an annulment for this.”
It takes everything in Edwin not to roll his eyes. He may not be an expert in law, but he grew up entrenched in the debate surrounding divorce and marriage, forming his opinions on soulmate status at an early age. Unlike most people, Edwin has never been interested in a traditional relationship — not since he woke up on his sixteenth birthday with a stranger's “hi” scrawled on his left hip. He never went searching for the penman, because there was only one fact he needed to know about them, one he unfortunately knew in an instant.
They were not Charles.
“Then that is unacceptable. Though I seriously doubt Nevada is progressive enough to treat non-soulmate unions as seriously as they do soulmate bonds,” Edwin counters icily. “They'll no doubt be thrilled that we're once again making ourselves available for our ‘true loves.’”
Thomas nods slowly, though Edwin has a sinking suspicion it's not in agreement. “Right. It's, like, notoriously difficult for soulmates to get divorced here.”
Edwin waits for the completion of a thought that never comes. The longer Thomas draws this out, the most prickly Edwin becomes — he loathes feeling so silly, so woefully out of his depth. He curses himself for being in such a state of undress, but the thought of rifling through the clothing scattered throughout the room under Thomas’ watchful gaze is mortifying. “If you have a point to make, then I suggest you make it swiftly.”
This finally does it, finally cracks through Thomas’ armor and exposes something raw underneath. “Oh my god, you are so fucking pretentious! How does it feel, being the walking, talking embodiment of elitism, sweet cheeks?” he laughs, harsh and ugly to contrast his pretty facade.
Edwin is riveted.
Thomas continues, now on his feet and pacing, “I mean, for fuck's sake, you're acting like I somehow lured you here against your will when it was your fucking idea to get married in the first place!”
Edwin opens his mouth to refute that claim, but he remembers it now, walking out of the diner hand-in-hand and looking over at Thomas with his amber eyes aglow in the red light of the neon sign and blurting, “Marry me.” Not a question, but a statement, one that at the time made Thomas press him against the building and snog him positively senseless.
He looks down at the fists he has pressed together in his lap, one of which is adorned with the unassuming golden band Thomas had chosen for him at the full-service little venue. Edwin wonders if Thomas is still wearing his gifted ring, though he's currently bitching too animatedly to tell. His so-called husband is running his mouth about something or another — about Edwin's stupid fucking accent, or maybe it's his clenched-too-tight asshole — in that ridiculous black robe, which now flutters open to expose his rib-inked soulmate mark once again.
Edwin’s breath hitches in sudden realization.
When Thomas whips back around to face him, his gem-encrusted wedding band gleams in the room’s neon light from where he's running his hand through his hair nervously.
“Thomas,” Edwin begins slowly, as if that will somehow change the horrifyingly inevitable answer. “Why is it that we can not get an annulment, exactly?”
The other man laughs with just a dash of hysteria, arms dropping uselessly down to his sides. “Because, Edwin,” Thomas all but shouts, “we’re fucking soulmates!”