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The sea dances: it is a silk performance of beauty, playing a soul-seeing blue tune. It goes up and down and back up again, flickering away amber light from the sun. Somehow, it is the most beautiful thing Tommy has ever seen.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Tubbo asks, next to him. He’s wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, yet his face peeps out like a baby bird. “The ocean?”
Tommy turns to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmurs. Tubbo’s face is melting, his eyes aglow. “Oh gosh, Tubs, don’t tell me you’re sappy.”
“So what, bitch? I feel wise.”
“You’re very wise, Tubbo.”
A pause. The ocean’s waves crash in and out, with enough rhythm to make Tubbo’s reply fade in and out. “It reminds me of a soulmate bond … take it for granted I think … but it’s beautiful.”
Every word echoes in his mind. Still, he mutters “whatever you say, Tubbo,” and the two erupt into a comfortable, companionable silence.
—
We are connected by few things.
Our capacity for kindness, for love, which is a compulsion one cannot ignore forever. Our search for answers, and logic, which we cannot stop looking for. Both are involuntary, vulnerable experiences.
Even fewer are connected by marks.
Everyone knows what it is, the same way everyone knows to spell their own name or basic mathematics: for some, it is their unique freckle combination that only one other share. It is a mark, on the body, that is unique to the pair. Some meet on a vacation after years of isolation. Whatever it is, humans inherently find each other. Our souls are connected to someone else at birth by a mark on our body.
…Tommy’s mark is different. From birth he was taught to hide away a small, small drawing on his shoulder: one of a doodle of a cat knocking a plant off a shelf, all in pencil and scrawly and scribbly. It’s homey, it’s lovely, it’s good.
But it’s physical. He can see it, he can trail his fingers over it in awe, in endless wonder.
His is rare, he knows, but possible. Techno and Wilbur share a small drawing of a steam train but neither of them will say what it symbolises. (He can guess, however, that Jubilee Line has something to do with it.)
—
“Wilbur Soot!” He shouts, stomping into the man’s small office. “You. I want to paint, so unless it’s on your fuckin’ walls, you’re going to come paint with me.”
The small smirk on Wilbur’s face is lit by the iris and yellow Twitch sign, which creates a horizon in his eyes. “I was meant to stream today, you gremlin. I’m the people’s streamer!”
“Guess the people will have to suffer. Tommy got there first!”
Wilbur stands up, almost whacking Tommy on the head. “You twat. Stop referring to yourself in the third person.”
“Says Wilbur,” he sasses, “you bitch. I’ll speak however I want to because I’m a certified girlboss. And awesome. Did I mention I’m a girlboss? Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss? That’s me!”
Wilbur’s face slowly warps into a childish, sprouting smile, like Tommy’s rambling is enough to soothe even the worst wounds, like he wasn’t expecting it but appreciates it anyway. He may call Tommy sunshine, but he is the sunflower, the reason the sun lets off such vivid rays.
“Come on, we’re painting,” Wilbur says. His tone isn’t necessarily gruff, more-so fond, but one listen tells anyone that he’s been talking to Technoblade, for he is slightly more monotone and slower like he’s plugging what he says into a scientific calculator before speaking.
“Ohhh, but Wilbur—”
“What?”
“We are having such a lovely time! I love fuckin’ chatting! We’re like—we’re gossip girls!”
Wilbur sits back down with a gentle sigh, that reminds Tommy of that merry, beautiful sea. Full of fondness and appreciation for simple existence, in a way that Tommy can only dream of.
“You look like there’s a question on your mind, king,” Wilbur says.
“God… you’re so… I wouldn’t say insufferable, because I’m a kind person,” he pauses to emphasise kind, which makes Wilbur burst into laughter, “but… if I had a knife in my hand, I would shank you.”
Wilbur leans backwards. “I’m a Wikipedia when it comes to this sorta thing, Toms—C’mon, let’s have it.”
Tommy closes his eyes – Wilbur knows just what to say, just what Tommy needs to hear. “Are you fuckin’ sure? I mean—I could make it more difficult, more entertaining? You’d have to evade and dodge my endless retorts.”
“You’re about to give in,” he points out.
Tommy groans. “Fine! Y’know what, bitch. If you’re so wise, answer me this. Soulmates. What’s—fuck. Do you believe in them?”
He startles himself with the question – but when he thinks about it, it makes sense. Ever since the day on the pebble-plump beach, it feels so easy to chain himself to the question. Who? Who? Who? He lives an extraordinary life, he doesn’t need a soulmate … frankly, it doesn’t matter.
Still doesn’t stop the question pouring out of his soul.
Because here’s the thing: Wilbur and Techno have their silly drawing that could’ve been Tommy’s, and Ranboo and Tubbo have their silly little freckle tucked right under their chin—and who knows what Phil and Kristin have, but the two are so helplessly, so completely in love that they must be soulmates.
Whom does that leave Tommy? Jack Manifold? (No. He’s already soulmates with Fundy … they announced it when Fundy came to the U.K. and everyone clapped, like a Disney movie.)
“Soulmates are…” Wilbur hums, bringing Tommy back to the present gently. “I don’t know, Tommy. They’re good, they’re … comforting. They probably do exist, but you never know—these marks? We have no proof that they are real, we just say they are. I love you, Tommy Innit – not because you’re my soulmate, but because you are wonderful, and it is lovely to love you. I choose to love you.”
“Do you think… they are your other half?” Tommy bites his lip.
“Soulmates aren’t your other half,” Wilbur screws his face. His eyes seem to burn directly into Tommy’s as he speaks. “That’s a load of shit. Tommy, you are your own person. You aren’t made to be someone else’s half; you’re made to be yourself – love is choice. Soulmates are rubbish. If they do exist, they aren’t found, they aren’t destined, they’re made. And I’m proud to say that I made mine.”
Tommy doesn’t reply. He thinks about the small cat on his shoulder, joyfully pawing at the plant. It isn’t Wilbur’s mark. Or Tubbo’s, or Freddie’s, or Jack’s.
He is his own person. Wilbur’s correct. But he needs someone to love him unconditionally, who can love his pencilled cat and accepts him, understands every whisper, every slight eyebrow raise. Tommy wants a soulmate. “I still fuckin’ want one. God, can’t we just fuckin’—go down to the store? Rob ‘em! I could get my gun!”
“You embarrass me.”
Cheekily, Tommy retorts “you love me.”
“I do. I choose to.”
—
He creates a Google Form – and posts it to the entire DreamSMP server, informing everyone that they ‘must do it or I will clart you.’ Tommy can’t get it out of his head – every stream he’s constantly checking chat, half-hoping he’ll see a “we have the same soulmark!” He craves the love of one.
Question one. How much pasta is too much pasta?
…Listen. Tommy just had to know.
The answer is, according to Ranboo, “uh probably until you die of poisoning? same way you can when eating too many apples? TOMMY PLEASE DON’T TEST THIS.”
Question two. Do you believe in soulmates?
“Yup,” answers Dream. Short and sweet.
Most people reply the same way. Responses along the lines of ‘yeah’ or ‘pretty hard not to’ or ‘i believe in love full stop’ make him grin but don’t help him at all. Tubbo says ‘i think its pretty pog big man’. Tommy starts to lose hope—that everyone filled it out half-heartedly, quickly like they got forms all the time.
But then… “It’s hard not to believe in them when part of your body has a mark—but I think the most important thing to remember is that soulmates don’t have to be romantic. Love doesn’t have to be romantic. As long as you are happy and comfy with anyone, you can love them.” Phil wrote that – and Tommy practically blushes.
Phil is wonderful, really, in all the best ways. He’s caring and kind, and he makes time for you. He’ll offer advice or help with homework or help with something at school—he cares. And this is only proof of that.
He scrolls further down. For more responses. “I do believe in them – I think its really cool that there’s someone made for you, that’s destined to be there and comfort you. We all deserve someone to love us first because then we are all loved.”
Tommy truly can’t explain how much he resonates with Eret’s response. It isn’t Wilbur’s, or Phil’s—but it is what he believes. We all deserve someone to love us first because then we are all loved.
Tommy really appreciates Eret. She is a comfort adult in her own way, constantly offering advice and knowledge and stories about sexuality. Ze loves playing Minecraft with Tommy, or sometimes they’ll play cosy indie games – like they played Unpacking together – and talk about life. They share a Stardew Valley world that is rich with mods and goodness, and every in-game Summer they’ll go watch the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies together.
“Kid, I’m not entirely sure where this comes from but let me tell you this. You deserve love. And if its from a soulmate, then good job, and if isn’t then good job. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter if you believe in them: if you’re fucking happy, then you’re happy.” Schlatt’s response. Tommy takes a gentle breath in. He responded.
Tommy has looked up to Schlatt since SMPLive, but it is his Podcast, The Weekly Slap, that cemented him in Tommy’s books. His constant advice and more raw human side underneath all the jokes is what Tommy appreciates – they message occasionally and it’s always so pleasant, and he’s just so thankful for the reply.
Niki’s response is perhaps the one that means most to him. “I believe in soulmates. I love believing in soulmates. Everyone argues that you can be your own person, but your soulmate is the perfect addition – it’s like switching from running on fuel to electricity in a car. It’s much better. You don’t know how you lived without it. Someone who finds the key to your lock is always someone you should believe in. It’s the same as magic – you can believe it doesn’t exist, but will your life really be better for it?”
Tommy only wrote two questions.
—
“Philza Minecraft. We are going to have a picnic together. You have been randomly selected to tell me more about your soulmate opinions. Bitch.”
Phil grabs his coat from the wall, smiling quietly to himself. “Wilbur said this was going to happen. Toms, I’d be happy to help.”
“Good. You’re bringing food.”
They end up sitting near a lake overridden with ivory and ducks, under vibrant, dew-drenched grass. Food lays all over their cosy blanket, the sun shines … they both sit down, and Tommy takes a deep breath. “Okay. Bitch. You came this way to listen to my problems.”
“I’d hope so—otherwise what are we doing here?” Tommy gulps, but Phil’s still smiling. He smiles. He’s happy.
“I—well… I don’t know. I want to believe in soulmates, I have the mark, but… I’m fuckin’—I’m a celebrity Phil! Why don’t I know my person yet? Why haven’t they reached out? That’s… I know you’re my comfort adult, Philza Minecraft, but can you solve that one?”
Phil settles back, munching into a sandwich. The ducks around them quack, making tiny ripples in the water, and Tommy chucks them a piece of bread.
“That’s bad for the ducks. Please don’t feed them bread.”
Tommy looks at him. “Phil, as my current father figure, it is your job to take me to the park and feed the ducks. If that involves chucking big pieces of bread between them and watching them fuckin’ attack each other, that’s what we shall do.”
“Tommy. Do you want advice or not?”
Guiltily, Tommy bites out “I suppose so.”
“Then don’t feed the ducks.”
“Bitch. Dickhead. You’re ruining my dreams.” Phil gives him a pointed look. “Fine! Fine! Sorry!”
“Soulmates are a sign of love, right? And so… when you doubt soulmates, you doubt your capacity for love.”
Tommy flops himself against the blanket, looking up into the cloudless sky. “You sound like an English teacher. I don’t know why I fuckin’ asked.”
“You need someone to tell you, Tommy. To tell you not that you are your own person, but that you can love someone without a soulmate connection. I love you, right? And we aren’t soulmates.”
We aren’t soulmates. Tommy understands what Phil’s saying but he can’t get it out of his head. Around and around, we aren’t soulmates. Who is? He needs, desperately, fiercely, for as much as he’s worth, for someone to love him before anyone else. He’s selfish. Let him have it.
“Love isn’t a list of priorities that you have to choose from.” Tommy stares at Phil, who continues like it’s the easiest thing to say in the world. “You can love multiple people and your soulmate isn’t always going to be the top of that list. Your friendships, your romance, it fluctuates. Why do you think Wilbur would sometimes put your name down for Minecraft Championship, instead of Techno?”
Tommy opens his mouth, but Phil is still talking, with enough love in his voice to silence Tommy before he begins to answer. “And even if there wasn’t soulmates, fuck soulmates, you would still be appreciated. You would still be loved. Because love isn’t a game of matching marks, it’s life, it’s purpose.” Seemingly at the end of his miniature speech, Phil, too, lies back on the ground.
For a few seconds, not very many, Tommy believes every word Phil said. He sees the still blue sky, without birds in the way, with beautiful, sunny leaves that barely border his eyesight ... and thinks I am loved.
“So why do we have fuckin’ soulmates at all? If they’re just fuckin’ there and shit—what is their purpose?”
Phil doesn’t speak for a while. The two are still, lying down in the middle of a park, hearing quacking ducks and ripples of water and merry laughter of children, with not a word floating between them.
Love isn’t a list of priorities that you have to choose from.
“To provide comfort.” Tommy thinks that Phil isn’t going to elaborate, as a silence breeds itself again until he finally does. “It is a … notice, Toms, that no matter what, no matter how bad it gets, you have the capacity for a happy ending – you could lose everything, everyone, but you have a person who would forgive you if you worked for it.”
Even though Wilbur already answered this, Tommy can’t help but ask “shouldn’t a friend do that too? A good one? Wouldn’t Wilbur fuckin’ do that for you and me?”
“It’s hard to differ between a soulmate and a friend. If you’re surrounded by good people, then they should serve the same purpose. A soulmark, a soulmate, is only proof that a good person is there for you, waiting or already there, in front of you.”
It’s hard to differ between a soulmate and a friend. If you’re surrounded by good people, then they should serve the same purpose.
Phil sits up again. “Have you heard the song Slipping Through My Fingers by Abba?”
“Of course. Who do you fuckin’ take me for?”
“And you know what it’s about?” A mother saying goodbye to her daughter, Tommy thinks. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. A soulmate is like that – it’s someone that, after they leave, you just feel glad that you know them at all. That you’re proud of the person they will become. The universe just selects one of those people and gives you a trait so you can identify them easier.”
Tommy sits up. “Is that what it’s like for you and Kristin?”
Phil shakes his head. “We aren’t soulmates, Tommy. I haven’t found mine yet.”
Tommy gasps. “Wait—so… you got married despite knowing—”
“Mate, we love each other. What more do we need?”
—
That night, in the depths of his room, Tommy plays Slipping Through My Fingers on repeat.
He tries to imagine his soulmate—he thinks of Wilbur, and Techno, and Phil, and Ranboo, and Tubbo, and the wider Dream SMP—and doesn’t know who it is. He can’t picture them at all.
So instead, he imagines his friends. And it suddenly becomes so much simpler.
—
Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo all string out goodbyes to chat. Tommy sees the hearts spams, the endless messages of appreciation and love, and he can’t help but smile. As soon as Ranboo hits the end stream button, all three collapse into a mess on the floor.
Streaming has always been easy – it still is – but that doesn’t stop the exhaustion from hitting. For a minute, the three lie on Tubbo’s floor, breathless, quietly laughing at each other. Tommy places his hand on his chest and feels it rise and fall like dough.
“That was exhausting.” Ranboo breaks the silence first, grabbing Tubbo’s hand in one and Tommy’s in the other. The contact gives him the strength to stand up, to feel again. “I don’t think we got cancelled, which is good.”
“To be fair,” Tubbo thoughtfully adds, “we have been streaming for several hours.”
“This is stupid.” Tommy shouts up, standing out. “I’m sick of being tired after every stream. Let’s—I don’t know. You’ve seen Jojo Rabbit, right? Let’s fuckin’ dance.”
And before either of them has a chance to protest, he’s blaring Be Mine by The Covasettes – a song that he knows Tubbo loves more than he’ll ever say – the lyrics, the fast-paced beat, it’s there.
Sure enough, by the chorus Tubbo is dragging Ranboo up, screeching “I can make you so, I can make you so hi-igh!” And all three starts swinging around the room, hearts pumping and beating as loud as they can, singing a silly love song whose lyrics don’t matter: it is the beat, the way the lyrics are sung that gets them so energised.
Tubbo’s infectious smile is similar to a bumblebee—he darts around the room, using so much contact it’s clear as day his love language is touch, hugging and pushing and laughing with as much vibrancy as he can. And Tommy is there, by his side, dragging a more-reserved Ranboo into the chaos, into the moment.
It is Tommy’s break. His break from thinking, from streaming, from learning how to love and how to have a soulmate. “I can show you how, how it feels to be mine!”
And like an orchestra, the two come in with echoes of “how it feels to be mine!”
As soon as the ends, they break into a loud laugh, the dorkish sounds that only the truest of friends can make. To Tommy, this moment is a testimony.
Why do you think Wilbur would sometimes put your name down for Minecraft Championship, instead of Techno? Phil had asked.
The answer is the same reason why both Tubbo and Ranboo, despite being soulmates with each other, seek him out now – because they love him. As simple and as complex as that.
—
“You were fuckin’ right, you wise old man,” Tommy announces, waltzing into Phil’s home. It’s cosy, it’s comfy—and somehow these aren’t the same thing. It’s cosy because it’s warm because it’s inviting, but Phil’s house is comfy because it is safe. “I don’t know how you do it, really. Do you search up quotes? Do you watch heaps of fuckin’ movies?”
Phil suppresses his laugh with a careful, bright smile. “I’ve watched plenty of Disney movies … but it comes from experience, mate. You gotta learn everything the hard way.”
“Is that Tommy?” Kristin shouts from the other room, walking in. As soon as she sees him, she smiles. “You should’ve said you were coming—really, you should’ve said something.”
“I wasn’t—fuck, I wasn’t planning to stay long—”
“You’re staying. Wonderful. I’ll let you two talk—C’mon, kid, I’ve seen that look before,” her laugh is so jolly, so full of love, that it makes him smile too. “But after that, you better call me for a game of Monopoly. I’m on a winning streak!”
After she leaves, Tommy immediately starts speaking. “So—I thought about what you said, like really thought, y’know?”
“How much sugar have you had, exactly? Or caffeine. Oh my gosh, please don’t say you’ve had caffeine.”
“To cut a long, very interesting—mind you—story short, I’ve realised. You were right. I don’t… I don’t need a soulmate to be happy. Who cares about this stupid drawing on my shoulder?”
Phil stops. “On—on your shoulder?”
“Yeahhh! Do you wanna see?” Phil is frozen, barely standing. His eyes are forward, unmoving. “It’s this really cool fuckin’ pencil drawing—”
“—of a cat? Knocking over a plant? Right?” Phil completes for him. His words are slow and deliberate… but not thankful. His eyes seem to shine with a thousand stars, with a child-like wonder that Tommy had only dreamt of before.
His eyes shine with the knowledge of finding a soulmate.
And suddenly it hits Tommy in a wave, exactly like the ocean’s magnificent ones. It comes in the realisation, taking away Tommy’s breath. “We’re—fuck. All this time? I always—I always just fuckin’ assumed it was you and Kristin but… why didn’t I…”
“I thought you were a third soulmate for Ranboo and Tubbo. You kids have always—I thought it couldn’t be two of you without the third.”
It makes sense. Perfect sense—like the stars have aligned in just the right way so that he can see. Tommy has seen the stars perfectly and now he can find them so easily it is hard to remember a life without them. Of course, it’s the person whom he can turn for advice always, who can articulate what even Wilbur can’t, the person who would always, will always be his friend.
Phil.
“I’m—fuck, in a way I’m somewhat glad it happened like this,” Tommy quickly says. “I’ve—before us, there was me. I learnt how to be my own person first, how to love myself before a soulmate did.”
Phil’s breathless reply is so simple yet so rich in love. “I’m happy for you.”
They are soulmates.
—
It is the middle of the night: but the excitement and euphoria he feels cannot lull him to sleep. Tommy tosses and turns and tosses again, plays ASMR and counts backwards from 1000, until he gives up and opens Discord on his phone.
Wilbur’s awake. He sends a message ‘you good to call?’
‘sure’. So, so simple. It makes him so giddy with happiness. “HELLO?” He immediately shouts, making himself wince. Too loud for too late at night.
"Hey, Tommy,” Wilbur sleepily says. “Can’t sleep?”
“You got it! Good job, Wilbur Soot.”
He can hear the smile—the flush in the face, the small exhale in the nose as the other man melts. “I heard about you and Phil. I’m happy for you, Tommy, I really am.”
“I—Well. While we’re here, I want to fuckin’—thanks. Wilbur. For… giving me advice. And, more importantly, for loving me.” Tommy tucks his phone away, on charge, flopping back into bed.
“Tommy—Awwww, Tommy,” Wilbur murmurs. “You don’t have to thank me for that. It’s a pleasure, an honour even, to love you.”
“You will give me a god complex,” Tommy says seriously.
“Good. Sunshine, you deserve one.” Tommy melts. Sunshine. Wilbur doesn’t throw it out often, not in everyday conversation, but in the personal conversations where he needs to hear it the most, Wilbur’s there. To call him the warmth of the world, the warmth of his world. “You’re—you’re worth it, Toms. Every day, I get to choose to love you, I get to choose to say kind things to you—and I wouldn’t change it. Not a day.”
Tommy shrinks, curling into his blankets. “Do you ever think that we should’ve been soulmates?”
“No. We’re more than that, sunshine. We’re brothers.”