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It takes Edwin seventy-three years to escape Hell, and it’s only when he returns to St. Hilarions that he realizes what he’s lost. His senses, his entire immediate family, and the familiarity of a world that’s moved on without him.
The only real reprieve, though, is the cessation of sensation. He notices it immediately, when he realizes he’s now truly left Hell, like it’s a ringing in his ears of undeterminable white noise that suddenly cuts out and he’s left strung out in the open, splayed out, resupine, until he’s inevitably attacked. But he’s safe, and he can no longer feel his skin and muscles and sinews rip from his bones until he’s nothing more than a harsh ache that transfers into a new consciousness.
It’s not long that he notices something must be horribly, fundamentally wrong with him when he recoils so hard from a fleeting touch that he nearly phases through the floor.
It takes him too long to realize that he’s scared. Not of Hell, though it’s still a dull ache deep in his mind. Not of Charles, who so easily invited himself into Edwin’s life. And not of the emptiness that fills whatever senses he’s lost with some degree of grief. He’s terrified of just how easily he adapts to it. He’s terrified that the lack of touch might wash away whatever tight hold he has around his soul.He’s terrified that he wants Charles to touch him regardless, to reach through the fear and grasp whatever comfort Edwin could feel.
And it takes him far longer to realize that, even as a ghost and after seventy years has elapsed from his death and a further thirty from his escape from Hell, he can’t stand this lack of sensation. Not because he aches for any semblance of touch, of pressure, of heat, of pain, but because he can still feel the fear. He can’t feel Crystal or Niko (oh god, Niko ), but even without the sensation, he feels the acerbic heat of nausea rise within himself.
Edwin loathes touch, the sensation of hands on his skin draws disgust like gordiacea from arthropods in water, its dark tendrils only constricting around him until his skin crawls and he’s left weak at his knees. And maybe it’s the rot he’s acquired from Hell, only serving to inscribe him with the notion of pain or fear or disgust.
Although he resigns himself for allowing it to preserve friendships or in situations of inevitability, he’s developed some sort of sixth sense to predict it. And–
He recoils in a proleptic shock, in such a manner that the opposing party startles backwards in stiff surprise, stock still and confused. When Edwin’s eyes refocus, he can see Charles, hand still outstretched, and Crystal, a few paces back and dusting off her shoe in mild annoyance, like Charles had bumped into her in his haste. Charles’ eyes are owlish and confused, like a deer in headlights. It takes him a moment to put his hand down, words dancing at his lips, but hesitant to speak.
“Ah,” Edwin manages lamely, eventually, before Charles can get a word out, “Apologies.”
Some strange mixture of concern and pity dance across Charles’ and Crystal’s faces and Edwin can’t stand it. He backs away and straightens in a façade of normalcy.
“Do tell what is the issue,” Edwin ends up saying, all awkward and rigid.
“Actually,” Charles, bless him, is the first to recover, smiling, “We’ve got a potential client.”
“Emphasis on potential. They’re outside still, and I don’t know how long they’ve been here. They were here when we got back,” Crystal retorts, following Charles in stride.
“Hey, they wouldn’t have to be waiting if you didn’t come with me to alert Edwin.”
“Yeah but what would I say to them, talk about the wonderful weather we’re having? Do you want me to leave a fantastic review for you guys when you guys are out here making out in the office?”
“Oi, there will be no snogging when we’re on the job, I’ll have you know.”
“Sure, that’s the biggest problem of what I just said. You guys need a better system to alert when there’s a client at the door. It's not the nineteen-goddamn-hundreds anymore. You’re lucky none of them just up and leave whenever you guys aren’t here.”
In the midst of this bickering, Edwin realizes how physically close the two are. Just enough that surely Crystal could feel the subtle brush of Charles’ jacket and his hand when he motions. It makes Edwin burn up in shame. That non-existent adrenaline courses through his body at the sight of it. That his friends have to be careful all because he can’t settle his heart. It’s enough that he curls his mouth in a wry smile, “Well we shan’t keep them waiting now should we?”
As it turns out, the client is still there, Waverly Bennett, a frenzy of fiery curls that speaks at a mile a minute when they enter the office. They skip formalities in a brash display of unadulterated energy, “Now normally I wouldn’t go to anyone about this, but there’s been somethin’ weird goin’ on with my flat. So I thought I was makin’ stuff up in my mind, all paranoia induced and whatever, y’know? But, recently, things have been extra strange,” they pause, grimacing, “I wouldn’t think anything of it, but I saw my sister. She’s been dead for years now. I would’ve thought she was a ghost like the whole lot of you, but then something was off. Why would she come back five years after she’s died? And she wouldn’t talk either and only look at us all creepy like. We don’t think it’s a ghost, but we’re being haunted. Could you guys please look into it?”
They quickly acquiesce after a few questions.
After a brief research session through a pile of books that ends up in Charles’ backpack and Crystal’s so-called ‘lap-top,’ which she’s implored they use to ‘modernize’ their business (and though Edwin would never admit it, it was a marvel of the world, easily pulling up strings of information that may be helpful), they decide to investigate the apartment. Though they try to include him in an awkward line that takes up the entirety of the pavement, Edwin ends up trailing the pair at a distance, directly behind Charles, like he’s still leaving room for Niko beside him.
Like she’s still there, as close to warm as he can feel. Like her pool of brilliant white hair can still rest on his shoulder and he can relax minutely under her unique, bubbly comfort. Grief is not something Edwin thought would ever be applicable to him again. Not when everyone he knew had died years before he even escaped Hell and his only friend is a ghost just as himself (though he would be proven wrong somewhere between the thirty-five years they’ve known each other, multiple times). But then they met Crystal and Niko, and Edwin doesn’t know what he’d do when Crystal inevitably leaves like Niko. He doesn’t know what he would do if Charles leaves with her.
“This is the place is it not?” Edwin stops in front of a building at the address provided. The others, who’d only stopped moments after Edwin began speaking, clumsily stumble to join his side.
“Oh shit,” Crystal says, taking in the view, furrowing her eyebrows, “Is it just me, or is there something… off about it.”
Charles lets out a small hum, nodding along, “Yeah, it’s a bit strange, innit?”
Its edifice is small, covered in ivies to conceal whatever dark brick lays beneath. There’s nothing physically wrong with the building outside of the errant crack in the brick that perhaps draws the walls too thin for comfort, but they’re right– the energy is off. Like there’s something intrinsically wrong with it, outside of architecture.
“Shall we enter?” Charles asks, motioning to the entrance in some grandeur that Edwin thinks should be some facsimile of his proclivities. He ignores it in favor of an eyeroll.
Charles leads them in, and although Edwin is directly behind him, Charles’ hand extends closer to Crystal in an unspoken arrangement the three of them made for a strange ‘order of priority’ when entering danger (though Edwin would happily take the brunt of an ambush). It sends a chill down his spine at the motion.
But he likes to think he can hide the way his skin itches at the thought still, clapping as if to ease it, “Well, I suppose the course of action is to split up.”
“Oh hell no,” Crystal seems nearly bewildered that he would even offer up the idea, “Not only is that a stupid idea, there is no way this place is big enough for us to even need to split up.”
“I jest,” Edwin says as a defense through a lame monotone, though he isn’t quite joking, “However, while we certainly do not have to, separating into different rooms should give us the best chance at observing the creature.”
“And if it’s dangerous?”
“There is certainly a chance it may be, however it has yet to do so given the description our client had given us,” Edwin brandishes his notebook from his pocket, waving it around as if Crystal could read its contents through its leather binding.
“And you’re willing to take that chance?”
“Time is a finite resource, and our clients are living beings. Although I don’t envision this will be a long trial, this is still their home, and I am sure they would wish to return sooner rather than later.”
“Fine,” appealing to the still living part of Crystal seems to work and she relents, “But I’m taking the main room.”
“Well that’s settled then, Eds, where’re we going now?” Charles chimes in, suddenly sidling very close to Edwin’s back as if he were trying to get a better view of Edwin’s notebook, sending a chill through Edwin where Charles’ breath should hit. The flat is small, and they can almost see the entirety of the space from their view at the entrance.
“There are two other areas that must be covered. One room at the top of the staircase and another at the end of the hallway.”
“Oh a choice, now have we? Whichever gives me better vantage at the lot of you.”
“Logistically, that would be the living room, but because Crystal’s laid claim to it,” Crystal rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at the mention of her name. Edwin ignores it and continues, “the next best location would be in the room upstairs.”
“Guess that’s my claim then,” Charles concludes, smiling.
“Great,” Crystal says, only slightly sardonic, rocking along the balls of her feet, “Can we at least look around before we split up?”
“I don’t see why we should,” Edwin begins, but taking a glimpse of the two others, he relents, “But I also do not see why we should not. So long as we look swiftly.”
So they take a lap of the place, just to get a scope of the area, in case they might see the creature they’re after, or to catch any oddities. The flat is small, cluttered on all four walls and atop all surfaces. Pictures litter the wall, some framed and some not, some wrinkled and some pristine, all filled with various faces from the occupants of the apartment. Books and souvenirs and toy cars litter shelves, all carefully laid out. There are takeout containers that fill the trashcan beyond its limits and unopened mail on the table and a chessboard left out on the table, a few pieces knocked over. There is a layer of dust that muddies the sheen of linoleum floors and glass coffee tables and shelves. And it all feels like there’s some terrible feeling of abject grief that tugs uncomfortably at Edwin’s soul.
It’s difficult to tell where the melancholy ends and any sense of normalcy begins, and perhaps the loss of life permeates the apartment in a low hum that never quite ends. Not helped by the emergence of some creature that can take the form of deceased loved ones.
The bedroom Edwin chooses is quiet, doused in that bittersweet that only subtly stains the main room. It’s tired, messy and morose in its restless cleanliness. Through the moonlight in the window, he can see the slow dance of dust along the air, agitated when Edwin finds his place at the desk, standing behind the chair instead of sitting. Like he might be tainting this family’s grief with his own if he moves anything. It’s hard not to think of Niko.
From above him, he can hear Charles amble around, trying to find a spot to settle. It’s surprisingly comfortable despite how unfamiliar and uneasy the place is. Like he’s on the opposite side of the door at the office, walking along creaky floorboards in search of something he’s misplaced. It can grate on his ears in the office when he’s researching a case or reading, but now, it’s this small sense of warmth that permeates through his stomach. That feeling that’s inextricably linked to Charles.
And yet he can’t stand it. The way Charles can so innocently look upon him when he recoils away from the tips of Charles’ fingers, as if Edwin’s not the unreasonable one. The way Charles asks if Edwin’s alright and obliges to his silent pleas until the fleeting moments he allows it. And every time Edwin tries to apologize, Charles is there first.
And perhaps Charles thinks it’s a reminder of Hell or whatever happened in Port Townsend. But really, it’s his inability to be a man.
And perhaps it’s wrong of him to think that way.
It’s hard not to.
Modern sensibilities say that he’s allowed to like other boys. He’s allowed to feel pain and acknowledge it. He’s allowed to feel something within him hurt and break when his feelings are rejected. And he’s allowed to feel some sort of inane reticence towards touch because he’s allowed to have boundaries. And he’s allowed to feel violated in ways he doesn’t fully understand.
Distantly, he thinks he can hear Crystal, mumbling to herself. Maybe it's the creature they’re after, but he can hear her mannerisms that he doubts the creature could mimic within one night. Unless they killed Crystal. But tuning his ears to focus on her voice, he can hear her grumble, bouncing between cursing Edwin out for his plan and whining about losing sleep. In which he realizes he forgets to account for her being very much alive and very much human. He should apologize to her when they finish their investigation.
He feels something crawl up his spine, and for a moment he thinks he’s in Esther’s torture device. Or in Hell. Or in the school basement. Or in an unknown face’s grasp.
It takes him all too long to realize that there is a girl in the room, all warped and confusing. Her eyes are too large for her skin, bulging unnaturally, and her mouth is uneven and twisted. It takes him a few seconds to realize who she is, her hair a calm orange wave rather than Waverly’s mane. She’s standing too close for comfort and he wants nothing more than to push her away. No less because she’s, evidently, the creature they’re looking for. He’s about to call for Charles or Crystal until her loose orange waves fade to brilliant white fringe and her face changes to a terrible approximation of gentle asian features, an amalgamation of memories and colors that he still recognizes despite the fog around her actual features.
Niko.
In all his endeavors to extricate the detective agency from his weaknesses , he forgets that this case and his grief—all of their grief—is something that could so easily be roped into their business in a case like this. That they’re really a mirror image of the family they’re helping. Just as Waverly and their family can’t help but let their mourning permeate into daily life, Edwin and Charles and Crystal (God, he really should apologize to her. Grief must be no easier for an actual teenager than a ghost who’s already lost everything he’s ever known in life) have allowed it to sit beside them, quietly as the Night Nurse insists they maintain her immaculate reputation. Like a member of the detective agency that fills the spot Niko occasionally occupied in the sparse moments when they allowed her to join in on their investigations.
Though Edwin likes to believe he carries himself with some level of class and dignity, all of it means nothing when he all but throws himself at the wall, hitting it with a dull thud, just to escape the guilt. It’s on her last mission that she passed, saving him . If he could feel nausea, he’d be turned inside out on the ground, just to escape the burning shame inside him.
He killed Niko. If he hadn’t allowed her to become close to him, hadn’t sought after her for comfort when Charles had with Crystal, hadn’t entertained those strange moving pictures of animated dogs and teenage crime fighters, hadn’t listened to how pure and innocent love is, she would be alive.
There’s that tug again on his soul, one that inexplicably clears his head. The creature must be causing this. He wants to phase backwards through the wall behind him and alert the others. Instead, his legs struggle to support his weight, and he backs away in all the grace of a child tripping over themselves in their parents’ clothes. He feels like a child again, hiding away in the communal toilets when he can’t stand being out where so many people are. And when he looks back up just to reorient himself–
– Oh .
Without even realizing it, the creature is no longer Niko. It’s…
Edwin can’t tell who or what it is. But it has the familiar silhouette of Edwardian clothing. He suddenly feels much smaller, as if the room stretches around him until Goliath is rapidly approaching, and he’s David, all out of stones to throw and nowhere to run.
Whatever the creature turns into is off , its face is muddy and unclear if not for the contours of eyes and a nose and lips peeking from beneath a fog. He thinks the nose might’ve been tall and sharp, the lips may have been wrapped in a perpetually sardonic smile. And the eyes, Edwin can’t remember the color or the shape, but there’s this insistent glint, something provocative and numbing.
From within, Edwin thinks he might be able to see sharp yellow eyes or something wide and innocent and newborn in flashes. Maybe the face of a witch who wants to use his pain (but doesn’t even have the courtesy to remove it when he’s smoldering in iron just to dig up whatever remnants of pain he experienced from the dregs of Hell). Maybe baby doll heads that do nothing but watch and stare at him, unrelenting, as he’s torn to pieces. If he squints, he could see a teenage boy, so caught up in appearances to realize he’s gripping Edwin’s arm too tight if it meant sparing his own identity, asking if they were the same. They’re all swirling within the creature, growing clearer at the evoked memories that flash about his brain in a sense of helplessness, betrayal, fear, and remorse (Edwin hardly has the time to think about why he’s seeing them all).
Edwin can’t find the voice in himself to scream, to call for help, to do anything other than to just sit and stare.
Edwin is not a strong man, and by the standards of his era, he’s hardly a man at all. Because why else would he freeze when the creature comes closer, its dark and twisted arm reaching to him? Why else would he feel the fear of nearly one-hundred years of helplessness emerge all at once to make his stomach drop so far he thinks he might be back in Hell? Why else would he be silently begging for either Charles or Crystal, several decades his junior, to help him?
His head slams into the wall now, just to get himself some infinitesimal distance from the creature. Ghosts cannot be concussed, yet Edwin feels whatever thoughts in his brain halt. He’s the ‘brains’ of the operation, yet he has not acted logically for a single second this entire day.
And ghosts cannot feel. But he can feel the creature’s hands as it gets closer to his body. He can feel the fear. The dread. Hand on his waist, trailing downward like it’s following the flow of a rushing deluge. Ghosts cannot feel and ghosts do not have internal organs. But he can feel something touch him, through his layers of clothes, in the same way iron could burn straight through him and make him feel everything around him. And it sickens him so deeply that the burning acrid feeling seeps deep into his skin and soul and he thinks that maybe it’s what doomed him to Hell. Allowing himself to be touched and to not stop it and to feel, somewhere deep in himself, that he might want it, or something adjacent to it.
He sees vague flashes of it. It’s been over a century since then, yet he sees that foggy day in late March. It’s temperate and usual, and Edwin doesn’t expect anything. Yet when he enters the water closet around noon, a boy washing his hands greets him, casual and at most, somewhat awkward. But it’s cordial, which Edwin desires more than he should.
Then there’s a hand on his wrist stopping him.
Then he’s cornered in a stall.
Then there’s a hand on his waist, toying with his shirt until it exposes the waistband of his pants, reaching downward.
He closes his eyes, as if it’ll stop whatever he’s witnessing. It doesn’t, and when he opens his eyes, the creature is advancing far too fast. It barely makes contact with him, its hand is too reminiscent of the classmate, but instead of leaving Edwin feeling nauseous and disgusting, it leaves Edwin feeling faded , in some ways. Depleted.
Through the sickly haze around his brain, he struggles to place what this creature is. Its figure, whatever nebulous face it wore, fades, ever so slightly when his thoughts trail to the actual case. Edwin’s been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized it’s being manipulated by them. A thoughtform .
“Edwin!” Crystal is suddenly by his side, and Charles is across the room. He hadn’t even heard them come in, but Charles is striking the humanoid form with his cricket bat, and it falls with a harsh thud. They don’t even know it’s neutralized yet, but take the chance to hurry out of the room.
The apartment is small, not much larger than their office, but by the time they get to the kitchenette on the far side from the bedroom, huddled under the counter, Edwin collapses against the cabinets, and they shake under his weight as he attempts to right himself.
“Okay, so what was that?” Crystal asks in a harsh whisper.
Edwin hardly hears the question, focusing his eyes on the door that he could barely see around the corner of the wall. Absently, he motions to Charles, “Charles, your bag?” Charles silently hands it over, his eyes burning holes in Edwin’s skin. He doesn’t comment on it, only letting Crystal’s question hang, unanswered and tense in the air.
If he’s right, he ensured there was some abeyance-enchanted receptacle before they had left. After a moment of rifling (he’s still not as skilled as Charles at it, slowed by the soft burn of his skin under the scrutiny of his two , he finds it–a coffer from the time they helped a young Baroque aristocrat. Edwin half expects an errant comment from Charles about how long it’s been sitting in his bag, collecting dust from the times Charles reaches past it to grab whatever he needs. But that aberrant silence struggles against Edwin’s lack of composure.
“We do not have much time, but that creature is a thoughtform of some kind. I do not know the intricacies at the moment, but it feeds off one’s intense emotions, most strongly grief and fear. It is of utmost importance to quiet your thoughts. Once it’s neutralized, it should be possible to seal its remnants in this,” he makes a flourish at the coffer, as large as the kitchen counter will allow.
The creature makes this strange gurgled sound, its figure hobbled over and unsteady as it shifts between a myriad of people (Edwin makes a note to pettily remind her that his plan to split up was, indeed, the correct option, even if he’d stumbled across it), as it approaches. Its back is arched and uncertain, and its skin is almost human, a menagerie of different shades and sizes that form a patchwork of people all vying to be shown in the dim light around them.
Truly, it’s a struggle not to think of all that strengthens the thoughtform. Try as he might, something always pulls the grief and the fear from Edwin’s mind (and surely Charles and Crystal as well). There are always flashes of Niko that shake them all slightly–he can see the way the others stiffen each time they catch a glimpse of her. On its unsteady formation of legs that can never quite match its body, it approaches all too slowly. It doesn’t need to be fast when Crystal is rendered on her knees, her hands on her head, eyes squeezed shut, just from the strength of the evoked emotions. Edwin pushes her under the counter and blocks her from view, as if his form could protect her.
Charles, with his brows furrowed into a harsh scowl and the sleeves of his jacket cuffed uncomfortably around his elbows, charges at the creature when it crosses the threshold of the kitchen and swings. Though it reels back, falling with a resounding thud, it stands back up, whatever damage done healing to an effigy of a face.
It turns into him.
Edwin only knows because of the wide-eyed look Crystal gives to him silently, backing up as if to keep him in view. He hardly remembers what he looks like, but the creature is wearing his undershirt and drawers, like he’s in Hell, being unwrapped until he’s nothing more than a mess of limbs on the ground.
He can’t help but wonder why Charles would think of him.
Maybe whatever his partners had seen when they’d found him left them mourning the man they’d known. That the sight that left them feeling so disgusted that the creature could easily tear it out of them so it could take his form. Maybe it's the unspoken grief of his and Charles’ friendship after they’d escaped Hell, cracked from his confession, threatening to spill out onto the ground until Edwin is left alone, trying to sweep up the remnants of their friendship with nothing but his hands. Or maybe it’s the fear that Edwin might become like the demons that haunt him from both Hell and life.
Edwin doesn’t want to know. Still, Charles backs away and looks back at him, like he’s making sure Edwin is still there. Yet when he turns his head back towards the thoughtform, he seems to have forgotten where Edwin is, and approaches the faux Edwin in a haze. And the thoughtform reaches out for Charles, curling Edwin’s visage in an unnatural, sultry smile.
“Charles,” Edwin reaches out for his companion’s wrist.
In return, Charles looks back at him, his body still turned towards the creature, as if Edwin is nothing more than an inconvenience. His face is turned into a cruel grimace, like Charles may attack should Edwin provoke it. Helplessly, Edwin looks to Crystal, like she might be able to help him. She only motions to Charles, who’s attempting to break from his grasp. And so Edwin wraps his arms around Charles, his skin crawling at the motion of Charles’ arms that end up wrapping awkwardly around his body.
From his periphery, Edwin can see the creature saunter over unnaturally in his meticulous uniform now that they’re standing still. In his panic, he takes Charles’ face in his hands, silently making a note to apologize when they get out of danger, and nearly headbutts Charles in a facsimile of a kiss. And surprisingly, Charles doesn’t attack when Edwin pulls away like he’s drowning (ghosts can’t breathe, he handedly reminds himself).
And then Charles slumps to the ground. Great. Edwin doesn’t know who’s caused it–him or the creature. Looking at the thoughtform, it appears to have shrunk, staggering like the kiss was a physical attack.
Edwin spares another helpless look at Crystal and she gets the cue to help Edwin drag Charles behind the counter. As he squats, he urgently whispers to Crystal, his hand reaching to toy with the coffer that’s hanging out of his pocket like a large tome, “Please keep Charles safe and remember to think positively. I believe I should be able to seal this creature soon.”
Standing before the creature, who’s still a strange approximation of him, staggering like he’d just been swung into by the spider demon. And despite all that he’s seen, Edwin tries to think of what they’ll do when they get out. It’s been particularly warm in London and cases have been slow. Maybe they could travel about the city or outside of town. Or maybe they could watch another one of those moving pictures that Edwin still can’t quite believe are so different from the ones he grew up with. Or they could just relax despite Edwin’s constant refusal to do so. Or if the others want anything to do with him, he could find more books that he’s not read yet.
The thoughtform is no longer him, only a messy humanoid figure that’s shrunken down yet corpulent, like it’s a dead body left out to rot. Opening the coffer now, wisps of the creature are drawn into the box in aureate tendrils through whispered incantations, a vague sickness washing over him until the oppressive negativity is pulled from his body. When he closes the coffer again, it locks into place, and he can finally relax.
The aphonic buzz that settles over them is loud, and when Edwin closes his eyes, he can hear Crystal’s shuddering breaths and vague noises of nocturnal animals and stray cars, unaware of the perturbed silence Edwin and Crystal are sharing.
“Right,” Edwin begins, all awkward as he reaches for Charles’ backpack.
“Yeah,” Crystal responds airily, just as speechless, “Should we wait for him to wake up or should we just leave?”
“I shall return him to the office through a mirror. Rest assured, I will return to walk you home,” he only offers when Crystal looks at him helplessly and he remembers that she’s a part of the detective agency, as much as he hates to admit it.
“What a gentleman,” Crystal’s attempt at sarcasm falls flat with her wide eyes, but she seems appreciative, “I’ll, uh, wait outside, I guess.”
Edwin nods, watching her open the door and settle against the wall next to the door and turn on her phone before the door jolts shut in a resounding thud. It causes Charles’ head to lull and his eyebrows to furrow as if being disturbed in his sleep. It’s enough that Edwin decides they could sort it out when they’re back in the office.
Maybe if they were still in Port Townsend, Edwin might not have offered to accompany Crystal back to her place (if not for the fact that they were occupying the space she lived in). He might not have even told her where he was bringing Charles or allow her to join the detective agency. But they’ve grown and they’ve lost. And they’ve lost so, so much. So Edwin tries to stretch himself until he can protect both Charles and Crystal. But given the state of them, he’s failed.
When Edwin returns to the apartment, he tries to shake the unease he feels when he sees the room at the end of the hall. His skin still burns with the memory. He rushes out, rattling the doorknob like a warning, and he opens the door.
“Let us go,” he says, offering up an awkward smile.
They’re probably midway through their walk back when Crystal breaks the silence.
“Sorry I’m kinda messed up after that. I know it must’ve been so much worse for you, but I could feel, like, everything. Emotionally, I guess. I don’t know how or why but I guess I can just… connect to that place or that thing.”
It hadn’t really occurred to Edwin that whatever the creature had cursed the apartment with to draw out the negativity would be much harder for a psychic like Crystal than it might’ve been to him or Charles. She can connect to it all just by touch, and she must’ve felt every single ounce of grief and sadness and fear and torment.
“I understand,” Edwin responds, looking down at his feet instead of trying to face Crystal. He kicks at a stray rock, “This case must have been very difficult for you.”
Crystal makes this low, guttural noise, “It didn’t help that I was so goddamn powerless too,” she pauses, “Not that it wasn’t for the rest of you guys either.”
Edwin can tell Crystal is trying to step around the details of the case, but she’s losing her footing and any consideration she has comes out all gangly and unwieldy. If Edwin were a different man, he would be thankful or equally as careful. But instead, he finds himself getting annoyed.
“It is perfectly alright,” he says through gritted teeth, “If you do not want to talk about what we’ve seen tonight, you do not have to. Please do not skirt around the topic.”
When he looks back up at Crystal, she’s sucking on the insides of her cheeks, “Fine. But, uh, if you want to talk about it, go ahead.”
He counts the trees as they walk, and gets to fifteen before he decides he needs to explain himself.
“I cannot dignify you with the details that I, myself, do not understand, but I can attempt to. Whatever you saw when we reunited was… rather unfortunate. It was a memory from my childhood, to which I do not even recall the perpetrator. And he simply touched me in places that have not been touched, likely ever. I do not fully recall all the details, and merely just the fear of touch only slightly beyond my proclivities.”
He doesn’t know why he’s trying to explain it to Crystal, but it’s a rambling mess that’s almost forcibly pulled from the depths of his throat that makes him want to gag. Another three trees later and Crystal says, “I’m sorry that happened. Did you tell Charles?”
He shakes his head and worries his bottom lip, like it might grant him an answer. Dryly, he explains, “I’m afraid it never did turn up in conversation. He did not even know about my experiences in Hell until he traversed the ingress.”
Truthfully, it never really did come up. They both hesitated to relinquish many details about their youths, and Edwin, to be fair, Edwin hardly considers it a vital detail from his life. Not when it happened once over one-hundred years ago.
“Look, I get you came from some backwards time before the first World War, but you can talk about this stuff. Really, I’ve never seen someone so repressed before, it’ll do you well to talk about one or two things you went through. I know I give you shit for talking about Hell so much, but even I know it must’ve been awful. And I know we don’t really get along, but you can talk to me in contexts where I’m not basically forcing it out of you.”
Even without looking at her, Edwin can tell she has this determined look on her face. He can feel her eyes boring holes into the side of his face. He only smiles, “Thank you, but that is entirely unnecessary. I will never see that boy again nor will I return to Hell again. I am afraid there isn’t much more to divulge.”
“You are so lucky I won’t lay a hand on you because I could smack you upside the head right now. You’ve never learned anything about trauma have you?” She rubs a hand over her face, “Actually, don’t answer that question, I already know the answer,” and she kicks her feet at the cracks on the ground, “If Niko were here, she’d know how to talk about this with or explain it to you– you and Charles, actually. But I… I just suck.”
It’s hard not to think of the space Niko left in her wake, only shaping the gaps that they’re struggling to fill, and yet they struggle to truly talk about her. When they do, a quiet understanding lingers alongside the effervescent anguish of a life that may have prospered and grown if it didn’t love so, so much. Maybe one day, the holes will be a memory of a life that died knowing it was a savior. It’ll be a celebration of a life that still lived as it pleased. But for now, they’re trying desperately to mend a hole that can’t be fixed.
Against his better judgment, Edwin reaches his hand to Crystal’s shoulder, as if asking for permission. When she doesn’t immediately move, he wraps his right arm awkwardly around Crystal’s shoulders. “I miss her too,” he ends up saying, all soft and low, crackling with emotions he doesn’t quite understand.
And they stay like that, walking alongside the bittersweet melancholy that envelops them (though he thoroughly refuses her attempts to return the gesture).
(“I do not mean to interfere with the mood , as one may describe, but I must inform you that my initial assessment was correct. Splitting ways for the investigation was, in fact, the superior option.”
“Wha–”
“In your words, I would say ‘I told you so.’”
“Shut up.”)
Crystal all but collapses in her bed when they get back to her place, mumbling something about makeup and acne. Edwin says his goodbyes, which go about as far as an awkward wave that Crystal all but ignores in favor of saying a crass, “Get the fuck out and I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you guys,” and leaves through the floor mirror in her bedroom.
It’s only when Edwin returns to the soft amber of the office that he realizes that he, too, is tired. For a second, he wonders what would happen if he just laid next to Charles, who’s sprawled his gangly limbs about the headrest and floor of the couch like it’s a competition to see how far his limbs can stretch, and feign sleep until he can no longer remember anything that’s happened. Of course, he can’t and Charles being unconscious is, ostensibly, not normal. But the newer ghost is not quite comatose, moving around like he’s truly asleep.
Just as Edwin’s about to grab the book on ghost maladies, Charles stirs and awakens. It takes but a second for Edwin to appear at Charles’ side, clasping his hands together and quirking the corners of his lips up in an awkward smile as he eyes Charles’ slow, almost torturous blinking and the book that’s haphazardly balancing on the shelf and says a hesitant, “Charles! How are you feeling?” And his hands separate, hovering about Charles until they land plainly by his side.
It takes a while for Charles to respond, and Edwin gets a view of the boy’s face. His face is a soft, warm tan that Edwin wants to wrap himself among, allowing himself to catch the gleams of sunlight in the swirling browns of kind eyes, though they’re hazy with some amount of unconsciousness. His skin is pockmarked with teenage youth and the reminder that Charles is real , not whatever vague attempts of vanity Edwin remembers growing up with. It’s in the quiet that Edwin is reminded of his love for the boy. Like those gently flowing days in Port Townsend where he’d talk to boys like him that made him realize that above all, he is in love with Charles.
He loves Charles. And Charles doesn’t love him back, but it’s okay. Because they’re still by each other’s side like they’ve been for thirty-five years. And maybe Charles might hate him for what they’ve seen that night and what Edwin’s done, but it’s okay. He tries to tell himself. It’s okay. Because Edwin’s been alone for over seventy years in Hell and an additional sixteen more in life, and if Charles chooses to leave him in disgust, shame, whatever terrible reaction that caused Charles’ mind to go to him in that apartment, he can survive. And at least the memories of their time together will still be there (even if the thought of it makes him want to scream like he’s being torn apart all over again).
And then he remembers. He kissed Charles. In all the heat of the moment, he took Charles’ denial and rather than concede to the silent request, he decided he wouldn’t listen. He took advantage of his closest friend. And it makes him realize– how is he better than the creature they’ve sealed away into that coffer?
“Edwin?” Charles’ voice is what rouses Edwin from his shame, all soft and confused, “What happened? We’ve still got a case to take care of don’t we? What are we doing in the office?”
“Ah,” Edwin begins as a placeholder for an explanation, “Everything has been taken care of.”
He doesn’t elaborate, even as Charles looks at him, expectantly. He knows what he should do. Explain what happened, apologize for his actions, try to wash the feelings from his skin until he’s no longer there. Until he doesn’t have to face Charles’ disappointed face.
It takes a pregnant silence for Charles to concede, likely due in part to the ebbs of unconsciousness that still fog up his eyes. Edwin can see it, brown eyes that struggle against the light, clouded slightly, and if he were a better person, he’d turn down the lights.
“Seems fair to me, mate. Sounds like the job’s been jobbed so I can’t complain. But I’m a bit miffed I couldn’t contribute more,” though spoken with all the ease Charles can typically manage.
It’s more patience than Edwin deserves, but he just provides an awkward smile, the feeling on the corner of his lips feeling foreign in his skin, “How are you feeling? You gave us quite a fright when you fell unconscious.”
Charles scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, smiling sheepishly in response to Edwin’s, “Yeah I’m good, mate. My brain’s a bit fuzzy, but nothing that can’t be fixed. I’m sure you know how to fix me up if anything’s up with me.”
“Of course,” Edwin responds, his voice low with the soft hum of morning. It’s now far past the typical waking hours of humans, and the night sky is awake with the dawdling of nocturnal animals and stragglers struggling through the graveyard shift. And it leaves him feeling vulnerable in some ways. Like he’s breaking the peace with his presence alone.
He doesn’t quite know when this reticence began. Maybe it was his confession in Hell that goes rejected but not quite answered. The burn of shame in his love. That strange pull of his heart (or the lack thereof), wanting to start in an all out sprint for the love, the hope– Charles. But he has to be quiet, tamp down his heart until he remembers his place.
“--Edwin! Are you listening?”
Evidently, Edwin wasn’t, “Apologies, Charles. What were you saying?”
“I was asking if you were alright, mate.”
“I’m… I’m alright,” he remembers the creature. And the outstretched hand. And his body, unable to move. Like he’s being consumed by the fear, the helplessness, the shame, the disgust. The notion that it’s his fault. And Niko. And deceased loved ones he hardly remembers. And Niko. And the notion that it’s all his fault .
“Come on, talk to me. Just like old times,” Edwin hadn’t even noticed it, but Charles is sitting now, looking intently at Edwin, his eyes sparkling with something unspoken
The old times has long since given way to the introduction of the girls they’ve welcomed into their lives, fragmenting their strange duo until Edwin can hardly remember what the old times even entailed, being nothing more than a distant memory. His thoughts go unspoken, instead manifesting in his lips pressing in a thin line.
“I believe my personal matters have no impact on the specifics of the case, if that does anything to assuage your worries.”
“As a matter of fact, it doesn’t, mate,” the tacked on ‘mate’ that’s so casual in Charles’ speech feels nothing less than condescending and it makes Edwin’s skin burn, “Why do you have to push me away?”
“Truly, I am alright. You need not worry about my… personal issues.”
“Of course I’m going to worry, we’re a team! We’re best mates, remember?”
Edwin shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t allow his emotions to run his mouth, but he’s inexplicably tired. And he can’t help himself, “But that is not the logic you applied when you hesitated to inform me of details about your life that you so freely shared with Crystal.”
Charles hesitates, reeling back in some amount of hurt, “That’s different. I’m perfectly willing to share, painful as it may be. You just never asked.”
The words hit like a deluge of cold water and Edwin feels sick. Maybe he’s just selfish. It all makes his skin crawl and he backs away, crossing his arms and running his hands over his jacket where he should feel tweed instead of cold. He thinks he might be shaking, he can’t tell.
“I,” he starts, quiet and hesitant, “I should have. However, that does not mean anything is the matter with me.”
At Edwin’s refusal, Charles throws his hands up, and Edwin flinches (how selfish is he to recoil at the soft, open hands of an abuse victim?). Charles softens, putting his hands down, but continues with renewed conviction, “Eds, why can’t you just let me help? We’ve known each other for thirty-five years and I’m still prying stuff from you like I’m pulling teeth. I’m not going to judge you and I sure as hell won’t leave no matter what you say. Not unless you tell me to.”
There’s something weird, unspoken and uncertain. Charles looks at Edwin expectantly, like he might be the world (he isn’t), and Edwin hesitates. Rather than wait, Charles continues, his eyes still boring hopeful holes into Edwin’s skin, “Do you want me to go?”
“No!” Edwin nearly shouts it, his voice grating to his own ears, “There is not a single soul in the world I would rather spend eternity with.”
“Then don’t shut me out!” The retaliation is quick, rising in an unbridled anger. Maybe not anger, but upset, instead.
“I would not have to if you didn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I am privy to every single thing in the world. Have you not considered that I may have been reticent about myself because I do not have the means to communicate my issues with you?”
“Edwin–”
“It has taken me nearly the entirety of my lifetime and death to even realize my… inclinations for you.”
Maybe it’s a lie. Maybe it’s his strange, twisted way of avoiding the question. But it works. Charles immediately relents as if he’s drawn blood.
“Edwin. You’re right. I’m sorry. But you know you can always talk to me right? Like you said back in the States?”
“Of course.”
It’s quiet now and Edwin takes the time to weigh his options. Really, he should talk to Charles, as per Crystal’s advice, but the other ghost is unreadable. And it takes Edwin all too long to realize that he’s scared. He’s terrified of what Charles might think of him. Whether it’s some scornful disgust or an unending, careful pity.
“I’m afraid,” Edwin says, barely audible over the soft chirps of crickets outside.
“You’re what?”
There’s another pause and Edwin has to look away, as if seeing Charles’ reaction might harm him. He toys with his fingers like it might reveal what he’s going to say. It doesn’t and he takes in an unnecessary yet shaky breath, wanting nothing more than to rub his hands over his face until he’s no longer himself. And then maybe he could stop feeling the inferno of emotions within him struggling to escape against the barriers he’s built up around him.
“I am afraid. Petrified, even,” he struggles to get more details out, only managing a wry smile and wrapping his hands around his arms.
From his periphery, he can see Charles start to reach out, hesitate, and fall back to his side. In some ways, it’s worse when Charles is so timid. Edwin just wishes his friend could be brash and excitable and open, but he doesn’t think Charles has ever been that, only some caricature of a boy that he thinks people will want.
“I suppose you already recognize my predilections to avoid touch. I’m afraid it may go beyond simple proclivities. When I was in attendance at St. Hilarions, a boy maybe my age, or perhaps one or two years above, had… done some rather unsavory things to me. I could remember his hands about my waist and…,” he pauses, scratching at his hair as if his raised arm could hide his face from Charles, “And my phallus. I can even remember being sick afterwards and even the time and date. But I do not even remember his face or the extent of his actions. I realize that I do not know anything, not even what you may say to me. I am afraid you might hate me.”
Charles is quiet once again, and in the silence, Edwin tries to piece together what Charles’ silence means. Is it of disgust? Some discomfort that, had Charles not been a ghost, he would’ve thrown up all over the floor? Or even some level of understanding that Crystal offered up? No matter the reaction, he wonders if Charles might think less of him. If he might tread around Edwin like he were nothing more than a brittle piece of pottery, teetering on the edge of a podium, ready to fall and break on hard marble flooring.
“Eds. Mate. Look at me,” it’s not quite what Edwin’s expecting, and he slowly turns to face Charles. Charles whose face is unreadable and hard, but softens when Edwin meets his eyes, “Why would I hate you? You were taken advantage of, and if I could go back in time, I would rough that guy up until he can’t even lift his hand to touch you.”
“That is wholly unnecessary. And not to mention excessive.”
“Of course it’s necessary. You’re my best mate and I love you!”
“Then why did you think of me during the case? The thoughtform transformed into me when it approached.”
“Do you think I was scared of you? Or whatever emotions that thing takes. How low do you think of me?” It’s only spoken through half feigned offense, “When we walked into that room and I saw you and that creature ,” he spits the word out like venom, “I thought– I knew I failed you. I’m supposed to be the brawn and I let you get hurt. Simple as that. If it changes based off grief or any kind of negativity, then it’d changed into my remorse or guilt or something all messy like that.”
Edwin furrows his eyebrows and tries not to acknowledge it, “And what about your reaction?”
“When it changed into you, it was right bollocks, wasn’t it? My brain got all messed with and I couldn’t tell which one was you. All I knew was that I wanted to be closer to you.”
“I wanted to sincerely apologize for my actions when you were… not fully present.”
“When you kissed me, I thought I was going to die,” Charles’ eyes widen as if realizing his mistake and he’s quick to clarify, “No, not like that. Nothing bad! I thought I was dying and in some strange ghost logic, I was alive again.”
“But you said we were just ‘best mates.’”
“And I also said we’d have forever to figure it out. So maybe I need more time. But that kiss was brills, mate.”
“Shut it.”
Edwin only smiles and looks away, as if he’s hiding an impossible blush that wraps around his face and neck until he thinks he might combust. When he looks back, Charles shyly extends his arms, asking Edwin if he wants to engage, and despite any reservations, Edwin reciprocates and wraps his arms around Charles’ midriff. The other boy keeps his arms extended, only closing his arms when Edwin gives an iota of a nod. Though Edwin’s instinct is to flinch and hide away in his layers until he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, he tries not to think of that faceless Edwardian boy he barely remembers and instead, Charles. The boy he loves that will spend eternity with him.
And maybe that’s enough.