#much funnier to just let him come home expecting James Wright. who is deceased

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

This year I lost my dear husband, James (QUIT TELLING EVERYONE I’M DEAD)

Putting this on Tumblr too bc it’s a oneshot (~3,000 word?), and I know Tumblr eats links, but if you want it on AO3 the link to my account there is in my blog header. 

It was a perfect day for the Lonely, damp and cold and foggy, and he knew Peter would be doing something interesting now that he was back on land, but he hadn’t thought it would be this.

Elias had expected to find him lurking outside the Institute, looking searchingly at everyone who left until he got some sign of recognition (okay, maybe Elias had fantasized about that a bit, and about coolly ignoring him for a few days before pretending to meet him for the first time, pointedly asking if he was lost). Or, if he felt like doing something sensible, maybe trying to identify the new Head of the Magnus Institute, not that Elias thought his nonexistent research skills and horror of human interaction would get him far there. More likely he’d pretend nothing had changed and simply go about his usual lonely business, waiting for Elias to contact him, too proud in his carefully cultivated self-sufficiency to seek him out at all.

But none of this had happened. Instead, he had scared the new tenant at James Wright’s flat half to death by appearing suddenly in her living room (she was convinced he was a ghost and had come to the Institute to give a statement, hilariously enough), and then, after a few hours of frenzied attempts at figuring out where his husband had gone, he’d finally found his obituary in a newspaper and disappeared into the Lonely to… sulk, or whatever it was he did in there. It took too much effort for Elias to watch him in there, and besides, it was impossible to do without making his presence felt, and he wanted to maintain the element of surprise, so he left him alone.

The next time he was able to find him, Peter was sitting on the still-bare mud of James Wright’s grave with a bottle of whisky, the mists clinging to him like the hands of ghosts.

Huh. Well, that was new.

Pothead filing clerk Elias Bouchard did not have good clothes, and the new Elias was still working on replacing his entire wardrobe with things more suitable for a Head of the Institute, but he could manage. He had his suit, and he’d kept one of James Wright’s long black coats. He flung it over his shoulders at the entrance to the graveyard.

He couldn’t see Peter from here, at least not with his human eyes, and that was all he was using.The fog thickened around Peter. But he Knew where he was, so he started walking. The grass squelched under his shoes when he stepped off the path, and he grimaced, placing his feet carefully to avoid slipping, trying not to get any mud on his shoes.

Slowly, as he walked deeper into the mist, a human figure appeared, slumped against one of the headstones.

He Knew that if he hadn’t had preternatural sight he wouldn’t have been able to find him at all, so it wasn’t surprising that Peter, who would usually hunch himself a bit deeper into the mist and will himself to be unnoticeable, looked up, confused by the intrusion.

Elias made a conscious effort not to Look at him, but only to meet his eyes and give a brief nod. Not a trace of Beholding. Just a man wandering the graveyard, intrigued at finding a drunken sailor sprawled across a fresh grave.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring a bit at the place where Peter’s legs slumped against the wet earth, mud soaking into his trousers. Why would he sit there. Sitting on the wet grass would have been bad enough, but right in the mud, really? And since when did Peter own a black dress shirt? Was he… he was. He was wearing all black. He was wearing all black, crying on James Wright’s grave. He was crying. He’d been almost certain he’d Seen it wrong before. After all, it was a wet day, he’d assumed it was rain. Peter would never let himself enter the real world in such a state. But here he was…?

Peter scrubbed his cheek with a muddy hand and screwed the cap off his bottle, clearing his throat with a distinctly dismissive sound. Elias, disregarding his implicit plea for solitude, walked closer.

“Friend of yours?”

Peter glanced at him briefly, coldly, before tipping the bottle back. Probably cursing himself for not noticing when someone broke through his shroud of mist, for not isolating himself better. But that was just a guess. Elias couldn’t look into his mind; the mist made it a gamble at the best of times and anyways Peter knew what it felt like. He couldn’t give himself away yet. The mystery was so exciting.

“I knew him,” Elias commented, looking at the fresh new headstone, granite shining under a pale coat of water. Peter was leaning against it, obscuring most of the inscription, but he knew what it said.

“Lots of people did,” Peter grunted. “Think I’m the only one who didn’t hear about it when he died.”

Ahaha! Was Peter Lukas lamenting his lack of connection to the rest of humanity? That thing he so carefully cultivated and was so very very proud of. That thing? Hilarious. Or, maybe he was just malingering to feed the Lonely. That was probably it.

“No?” Elias prodded. Peter sighed.

“I was away. No one took the trouble to contact me.”

Had he assumed that one of the more socially-integrated Lukases would have gotten in contact with him if something important happened? Funny. He was pretty sure the Lukases expected Peter to give them updates on Elias, if anything.

“That must have been hard. When did you find out?”

“Yesterday. What do you want?”

Elias considered introducing himself as Head of the Institute. Seeing his reaction would be lovely, but he wanted to drag it out a bit more, see if Peter could figure it out himself. If not, he could mock him later for not being able to put the pieces together.

“Some privacy,” said Elias, leaning one arm against the headstone, “but it seems you had the same idea as I. How did you know him?”

Peter considered this for a moment. “Work,” he said.

Hah. That was amusing. Did he really see it like that? It had been a long time since they had dropped that pretense. Not that the Institute didn’t still rely heavily on the contributions of the Lukas family, but their last several marriages had been private, more for personal reasons than for, as he so eloquently put it, work. Even when they were estranged, he and Peter stayed on decent terms, and after so many years he trusted Peter not to cause problems for him with his family; especially as he continued to offer them any useful information (and any lonely statement-givers) that came his way. The Institute and the Lukas family were allies. That didn’t mean that the two of them had to be married, yet they kept doing it anyway. It was stupid but Elias had long ago resigned himself to it. They both had a weak spot for the other, and like good allies they’d silently agreed never to talk about it. But here Peter was lying in the mud and grieving.

“Interesting, so did I,” said Elias. “Best place to meet him, I believe. The man hardly left the Institute.”

Peter chuckled softly. “Sounds about right.”

Elias thought about interrogating Peter about where he worked and how he’d supposedly met James, but decided not to. If he made him too uncomfortable Peter might just disappear before he could reveal himself, and that would be a shame. And he hadn’t come here to catch him in a lie, he’d come to ask him about James Wright.

“Did you know him well?” asked Elias.

Peter stared into the mist.

“Pretty well, yeah.”

“I think I did too,” said Elias, tracing the headstone’s inscription with his fingertips. “We… yes. We were close.”

He’d hoped to get some reaction with that. Peter considered for a few moments, then silently offered him the bottle. Elias, who’d tried Peter’s whisky before, knew better.

“Thank you, no.”

Peter took the drink himself, and Elias was… concerned about the amount of liquor he was consuming.

“Not planning on joining him, are you?”

Peter just grunted. “…You liked him, huh?”

Elias laughed softly. “Anyone would,” he said sappily, and was pleased to see him carefully not react. He was getting the message, and oh, how he wished he could see how he was reacting to it under that mask. Surely he wouldn’t keep the stoic act too long, he was already daytime drinking on a fresh grave, there wasn’t much lower he could fall. Elias let his voice drop. “I… loved him.”

“Mm,” commented Peter. He placed one hand on the mud beside him, gently pressing into the earth, and kept it there. “I wasn’t around much,” he said quietly.

Well what on earth was he supposed to make of that? He was trying to make Peter jealous and he had very rarely failed at something so completely.

“Do you know, was he alone when he died?” asked Peter.

“Yes.”

“Pity. He was terrified of death.”

“Isn’t everyone?” asked Elias, perhaps a little sharply.

Peter shrugged. “It scares me enough, I suppose, but it doesn’t bother me the way it did him… it seems restful. Resigning yourself to the way of things. I’m not rushing to meet it, of course, but there’s a kind of unflinching beauty in death. No one’s immune, much as we might pretend. In the end, we all face death alone.” He stretched one leg out in the mud, pressing his hand deeper into the earth so that his fingers started to disappear. “And frankly it would solve a lot of problems. Wouldn’t have to turn in budget reports, for one thing.” He chuckled. “yes, it seems peaceful.”

“Not to me. Have you seen people die?” said Elias.

“I have. Many times. The fear is felt by those who are left watching, the dead are beyond it.”

“Because they’re gone. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Peter tilted his head back, let it rest against the headstone, and looked at the dimly-visible silhouette of bare branches against the pale sky. His hair lay in damp strands across his forehead, and Elias Did Not think about brushing them back.

“In the eyes of death I’m already gone. Aren’t we all? We exist for a moment. Like bubbles in the stream. Here a moment, then breaking; always in motion. I’ve always known how… transparent it all is. You can’t really touch anything without falling through,” Peter said.

Well that was new. He was babbling, words starting to slur. Elias decided that he’d have to reveal himself soon, before Peter drank himself so deeply into incoherence that he wouldn’t be able to react to the surprise. That would be a waste.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter after a pause, “I doubt others see it the way that I do. But death has never held any particular terror for me. I’m more afraid of pain, or sickness. Being deceived. Those are things that happen when you’re alive.”

Especially that last one, thought Elias. Peter started to set the bottle down (thank goodness), thought about it for a moment… and started to unscrew the top for another swig. Elias, acting on impulse, swiped it out of his hands. Peter turned to glare at him.

“Listen, I know we’ve only just met but I’m not watching you drink yourself to death over some man you barely knew.”

Ah, finally, a reaction. A spark of rage appeared in Peter’s face, but passed before it could translate into motion. Elias, who’d been tensed for a fight, slowly relaxed.

“You’re right,” said Peter quietly, looking off into the mist. “I didn’t know him. No one really does.”

“What?”

“Know each other. You just… see the outside of someone, and you guess about what they’re really like, but you’re never quite right. People exist apart from you. And that’s very lonely. Almost as lonely as death.”

Elias muffled an exasperated sigh.

“Well, if that’s your belief, surely it can’t be hard to replace someone who’s left you. One person must be as good as another if you can never really—”

“No. I still miss him.”

A warmth spread through Elias’ chest. There, he had it loud and clear in plain words. He was going to hold on to this memory and the next time Peter tried to pull that “oh I’m an emotionless avatar of Forsaken incapable of human bonds” he’d beam it directly into his brain so hard he got a fucking nosebleed from the sheer amount of raw, human, embarrassing grief. Elias wondered if this would be useful blackmail material.

“I know that smile.”

With a start, Elias realized that Peter had leaned back and was looking up at him, frowning. Ah, he’d blown his cover. Well, this was as good a time as any.

“Do you?” he smiled. Peter looked intently at him. At his eyes.

“Jonah?” he said in a small voice.

Elias laughed.

“Took you long enough.” And as proof, he showed him a memory; James Wright’s stilled body with empty eye sockets, image blurred with pain as his new body adjusted to him. Elias Bouchard’s eyes, bloodshot, in his hand. Placing them in James Wright’s body and washing his hands, vision slowly clearing.

Peter sighed, closing his eyes. “Jonah. Were you trying to make me jealous of your narcissistic crush on yourself? I mean, it’s accurate; I’m just not used to that level of honesty from you.”

“Oh, “Jonah”? You must really be angry at me.”

“No, you just haven’t told me your name yet, handsome stranger.”

“Elias. Elias Bouchard, new Head of the Magnus Institute. Pleased to meet you, sailor.” Elias walked around the headstone to crouch closer to Peter, who was almost laughing.

“El-lie-as,” he said slowly, as if tasting the name syllable by syllable, and a chill ran up Elias’ spine. Huh. Very sensitive new body. Yeah, that was it. “It fits you,” said Peter. “Musical, pretentious, has the word lie in it.”

“Oh, shut up.” Elias leaned in for a kiss and Peter stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Elias, dear, why does this body smell like weed?”

“I’m… still airing the flat out.”

“Why does your body’s flat smell like weed?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Hm! Didn’t have you pegged for a stoner, Jonah. I’ll have to introduce you to some of my crew…”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You’re right, I don’t remember anyone’s names. You’ll have to introduce yourself.”

“Listen, I don’t think you have any right critiquing the habits of my body’s former inhabitant when I just found you lying in the mud trying to drink yourself to death.”

“Shut up. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Me? Really? You thought I was dead?”

“You’re not immune to heart attacks, Elias! They said it was a sudden heart attack, I thought you really died!”

“What, you think a little heart attack could kill me?”

“That is exactly the kind of attitude that makes me think your hubris is going to catch up to you one of these days.”

He was right, but Elias didn’t want to admit it. He tried to pick healthy bodies, but the thought that despite all his centuries of care and planning, one might just… break down on him…

“C’mere,” said Peter, tugging on his tie. “I’d better start getting used to that smell.”

“I’m not joining you in the mud, Peter, get up.”

“Too drunk. C’mon, you’re already muddy.”

Elias remembered that that was the hand Peter had gotten all muddy before touching him. Looked down at his shirt. Groaned.

“Oh, for—”

Peter chucked him under the chin, deliberately smearing mud on him, then grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him down in the mud while Elias was busy glaring at him. Elias swore.

“Oh, shut up. I think this is a very lenient revenge for letting me think you were dead.”

“Well that’s your fault for not being smarter.”

Peter pinned him against the solid cold of the headstone and kissed him and oh he could not let him know how much he was enjoying this or he’d never live it down. Peter was cold and smelled of grave dirt and whisky and still, faintly, of the sea. It was a new experience, but still Peter.

“You’re a mess,” said Elias, resigning himself to his muddy fate with a sigh. At least he’d fallen on top of his coat, and it was keeping the worst of it off him.

“And? I’m assuming your new flat has a shower,” said Peter.

“It does. Only a shower,” Elias complained. Peter laughed.

“Oh, noooo, no bath? You’ll survive, you spoiled Victorian. I’ll even show you how it works.”

“I know how to take a shower!”

“Turning down the offer?”

“…No.”

“Good.” Peter traced the shape of his face with a muddy finger. Elias grabbed his hand and pushed it away.

“Could you at least use your other hand? The one that’s not caked in mud?”

“No, I don’t think I will. This mud was the closest I thought I’d ever get to you.”

“And that bothers you? Really? Mr. Lonesome, Eternally Alone Lukas?”

Peter got an odd expression. He didn’t like Elias calling him out on his many contradictions. He could argue quite convincingly if he was in the mood, but he apparently wasn’t. “Shut up,” he said, and kissed him again.

This little experiment had gone well, Elias decided.