Archive of Our Own

It’s just…

Well.

It’s just that Charles has gotten so used to it.

And it has been so easy to get used to that Charles hasn’t even noticed just how used he is to it until right now. Because why would he have realised it if he’s never been without Edwin’s affection before?

Maybe he is being a little dramatic, Charles concedes as he walks behind Edwin and Peter, because it’s not like he doesn’t have Edwin’s affection now.
Edwin is still here, he is still spending endlessly long nights with Charles at the agency, smiles at him from behind books and across their desk, makes little dry jokes and raises his eyebrow whenever he thinks Charles is being silly, touches Charles’ arms during conversations and lets Charles rest his feet in Edwin’s lap when they have nothing much to do, his graceful long fingers circling Charles’ ankle like they belong there.

But he had all that before as well, for more than three decades, and now that he has had more than that for a few lovely, amazing, fantastic months, he’s missing it.

Because after he had brought Edwin back from Hell – still the best thing he has ever done, the most important one, the one that Charles would do over and over again if he had to – and Edwin had told him he loved him, Edwin hadn’t stopped.

He had told Charles he loved him in the light of a rising sun or in between cases, when he thought Charles had done something clever and when he was sure that Charles had been very silly, when they were alone and sometimes even when Niko and Crystal were around (never around Jenny, though, and Charles was glad about that).
And it had been like a high, a rush every time, because even if Charles could never forget about that first confession, hearing it again had still felt indescribable.

Even if he couldn’t repeat the words back to Edwin and mean them in the exact same way, the thought that Edwin could love him? Incredible. Close to unbelievable. Almost too good to be true.

Only that now with Peter around, Edwin is suddenly saying it less and less, and never when the other ghost is around.

And maybe Charles shouldn’t, but he misses it.

Peter is a decent guy, too.

One that Charles should like a lot more than he does, and he knows that that has nothing to do with Peter himself, but with the fact that he has come between Edwin and him in a way that Charles cannot quite describe.

Charles feels a bit bad about it, even, because Peter is clever in a nerdy sort of way, funny, full of movie references, and maybe a little bit shy in between moments.
He’s the kind of guy Charles would be friends with otherwise, and definitely the kind of client he would like: easy to get along with, no wild requests, got them a super cool music box that plays exclusively ABBA songs when you open it, but never the same one twice in a row.

Right after he had hired them, he had even done a pretty wicked duet for Super Trouper with Charles, while Edwin had watched them with a fond kind of amusement.

So, Charles should like him so much, and he would.
If only Edwin didn’t like him so much as well.

“Let me get this straight”, Charles says slowly, just to make sure he gets it. “The plan is that we’ll get a piece of a building, like, a piece of wall? To give to this man. So you can pass on. That’s what you two came up with?”

Peter looks slightly embarrassed while listening to Charles go through the plan that Edwin and he have devised – without Charles, which in itself is enough to tick him off – and Charles understands why.
It sounds dumb as hell.

“It’s… yes? But it’s more complicated than that. At least, you know. Emotionally”, Peter tries to explain, and in Charles’ opinion, fails miserably.

“It really is, Charles, you are oversimplifying it quite terribly”, Edwin says, taking Peter’s side, which he shouldn’t, because he should be on Charles side. Automatically. Always. Even if he’s wrong. Which he isn’t. “You see, the physical piece of wall doesn’t matter. It is its symbolism.”

Peter nods quickly, and Charles has to do his best to not feel like they are ganging up on him, with their strange little plan and the knowing look Edwin gives Peter, and the fact that they came up with it without Charles even being there.

„We met there”, Peter explains, looking like he would be blushing if he still could, and it makes him look younger, vulnerable. “On the rooftop. We became friends up there, actually. He used to bring me food and we’d just look across the city and it… it felt safe. He felt safe.”

There is a little smile on Peter’s face, fond in a way that makes Charles feel like he is intruding on something; when he looks at Edwin instead, he finds a similar smile on his face, too.
It feels worse, especially because yes, okay, maybe Charles has oversimplified it a bit.

“It’s a little like if I got you a piece of the shed where I found you”, Edwin adds, like the gesture needs further explanation. “Or like you holding onto that lamp I brought you for more than three decades afterwards.”

And yes, okay, maybe Charles has oversimplified it a lot.

“Alright, alright”, he conceded, holding up his hands in defeat. “I get it. That’s very cute. So, lets go and get us a bit of brick, then.”

And get rid of Peter, Charles thinks, but doesn’t add.

“Yes, well”, Peter answers, ducking his head. “That is the whole problem. The building was torn down two years ago.”

“How are we going to get rocks from a building that doesn’t exist anymore?”, Charles asks once Peter has finally left, and follows Edwin to their bookshelf.
Even if it has only been a few hours, it feels like he hasn’t had Edwin to himself for ages.

“I am not quite certain yet”, Edwin responds as he picks out book after book, handing them to Charles without looking back. It mends something in Charles he didn’t know needed mending. “Since it is an inanimate object, I do not think my usual location spells will be of much use. We will have to find some other anchor point.”

Another book is thrust into Charles’ arms, heavy and quite obviously older than his existence, and its weight, even if Charles cannot quite feel it, grounds him anyway, just because Edwin is the one that put it there.

“An anchor point?”, Charles asks and Edwin nods; another book, thinner this time, its cover brittle and shedding bits and pieces onto Charles’ jacket. “Does it have to be something physical? Or could it just be, I don’t know. A feeling? A memory Peter has that has something to do with the building? Like the one he was talking about, that he met his friend up there for the first time.”

In front of him, Edwin stills, and Charles can’t tell if it means that he has said something clever or something utterly ridiculous – it has been both before.

“Oh, Charles!”, he exclaims a moment later, turning around with a grin on his pretty lips that he only allows himself to wear when they are alone. It makes something in Charles’ chest constrict, clench tightly around the memory and the sight and the anticipation of it. “The memory! What a fantastic idea, I might be able to combine a location spell with one for harvesting memories, if I just find the right ingredients.”

He’s moonlight poured into a human form, his smile just a little crooked, and Charles would go against anyone who would try to harm him, with his cricket bat and his bare hands and his teeth, if anything else failed.

“We’ll find them”, he tells Edwin and starts to carry the books over to the sofa; it’s too late in the night to use the desk. “We always do, don’t we? Getting all the jobs jobbed, the detecting detected and the cases solved.”

When he turns around again, books safely stacked at Edwin’s side of the sofa, easily reachable without rising from the cushions, Edwin hasn’t moved an inch, even if his eyes have softened, the light from them more that of a morning sun, a lantern brought to safeguard against the cold.

“I really do love you, Charles”, he says, for the first time that day, when Charles has gotten so used to hearing it at least thrice before the sun set; it ignites something within his chest that burns even brighter than Edwin’s eyes, makes Charles tingle from the tips of his ears down to the soles of his feet.

“Love you, too”, he responds easily and his heart sings with the truth of it; he doesn’t mean it quite the same way as Edwin does, but Charles can feel himself inching closer to it, one day at a time. “Now, let’s combine some spells and find some wall!”

The list they come up with only includes three items they currently do not have tucked away in one of the jars and flasks and boxes Edwin seems to collect everywhere they go, thank god.
Charles tries not to show it, but he breathes a sigh of relief, both because ingredient hunting is far from his favourite part of the job and because the quicker they find what they need, the quicker Peter can be out of their lives.
For good, this time.

“Okay, so we need Eyebright, Sweet Cicely and… mate, really? Thyme?”, he reads out when Edwin hands him the list, eyebrows and lips twitching upwards. “I get the other ones, but do we really have six different deadly poisons at hand but not an herb you can get at Tesco for a couple of quid?”

Edwin tries to look unimpressed, like this is not a seriously hilarious oversight.

“I will have you know that thyme attracts loyalty and affection, which is just what we need if we want to find something infused with those emotions. And it increases one’s psychic power, which-”, he starts, but, oh, Charles cannot help himself but interrupt.

“Yeah, well, it also increased how edible my mum’s stew was when I could still eat it”, he quips, and can see how Edwin’s facade crumbles. “And she still bought it at Tesco. Oh, Great Edwin, weaver of spells, conjurer of brick.”

And Edwin breaks, a smile spreading across his face; for a second, he tries to contain it, but then, he just lets it bloom, and something in Charles’ chest blooms with it.

“As long as I do conjure up a brick, I will take on that title gladly”, he concedes, and Charles grins back at him, slings an arm around Edwin’s shoulders, that feels like it belongs there.
Maybe it does.

“But does that mean that we can just get some thyme the normal way, or will we have to, I don’t know. Travel to a solitary hill somewhere in France and harvest it under a new moon?”

“...Tesco should be fine. As long as we pay for it.”

“Aw”, Charles, semi-professional shoplifter between the ages of ten and sixteen, says.
He still considers it a win.

There is a Sainsbury’s around the corner, so they go there instead, even if Charles’ mum would not have approved; Charles snatches some thyme and counts out the £1.10 in five pence pieces, until Edwin sighs next to him.

“You’re lucky I love you”, he tells Charles, as he watches him build a little pyramid out of the coins, and Charles’ heart skips a beat with the words, because, yes, he is.

“I know”, he tells Edwin, and in the second he looks away, Charles smuggles a button into the pyramid; he’ll leave the five pence at a playground later. “And not just because you like reminding me of it so much.”

And Edwin smiles, a small, sweet thing on his pretty lips, and Charles cannot help but do the same.

Eyebright, it turns out, is also not too difficult to find.

They mention it to Crystal, who looks at them for a second, before pulling out her phone.

“I’m pretty sure my grandma used to put that in a tea or something”, she tells them, and Charles wishes he didn’t notice it, but Edwin first looks over at Peter, who is perched on the backrest of their sofa like he belongs there, in their space.

“I am fairly certain we need the non-dried variant this time”, Edwin tells her, hands clasped behind his back, but there is a hitch in his voice, something that Charles is fairly certain no one but him notices. More than three decades spent with someone does that to you. Suck it, Peter, Charles almost, but not quite thinks. “We should go to Leicestershire to fetch someone, but it shouldn’t take more than half a day. It’ll be easiest to just travel via mirror.”

“Oh, is it more potent that way?”, Peter asks, excited all of a sudden. “Do the chemicals react more easily with the other ingredients? Or is it another, more magical thing? Do you need the life force of the plant?”

“Something akin to that”, Edwin replies, and Charles is almost certain that in reality, they could just use whatever tea Crystal could find on her internet. “A very astute observation.”

For a moment, Charles thinks that Edwin only wants to go to Leicestershire because it makes the spell look so much more mysterious if they cannot just go and grab the ingredients within a one mile radius from their agency, but Peter asks another question and Edwin’s eyes light up as he launches into the explanation.

And it’s not at all that, or at least not only that; it’s Edwin prolonging the inevitable of Peter passing on, Edwin trying to make more time for them.

Something breaks inside Charles’ chest, not his heart, but something close to it; it breaks for Edwin and the boy he so clearly wants and won’t be able to keep, and for himself and the boy he wants to want so badly, and might not be able to get.

At first, Charles doesn’t want to come to Leicestershire.

It’s not like they need three people to pick some flowers, but then he realises that the only thing that could be worse than watching Edwin smile gently at Peter as they stroll through the countryside, eyes softening at the stories Peter tells about his friend, would be staying behind and imagining it instead.

So, he tags along, listening to Peter babble about the intricacies of mirror travel and how he was studying physics before he died, and how he and his friend used to fantasise about teleportation devices all the time.
Wade, he calls him, and it must be the first time Charles heard Peter mention him by name; he’d remember the way Peter’s eyes light up at the sound of it, the melancholy in his voice, the way his smile curls around the syllables like it wants to keep them.

It makes something chime in Charles’ mind, playing a familiar note on his heartstrings, and it seems to do the same to Edwin, whose head tilts as he murmurs something so quietly that Charles’ ears cannot pick it up.
Whatever it is, it must be the right thing to say, because Peter smiles and nods.

The sadness doesn’t leave him, but Charles understands that too well; if it was him and Edwin in their roles, he would say Edwin’s name with the same affection, the same reverence, the same pain.

“What is it about him?”, Charles asks before he can think about it; his lips are speaking without a thought behind them, without consideration. Why is this even something he wants to know? “I mean. Why you like him that much. Why he’s the one you want to say goodbye to more than to everyone else.”

There is a pause; Edwin’s eyes are widened like he is about to tell Charles that asking was a horrible idea, a social blunder, but then Peter chuckles, pushes a hand through his hair so that he musses it up even more than it has been before.

“It’s hard to explain”, he eventually says, not looking at Charles, not looking at anyone at all. “Or actually, I’m not sure if it is. It might be? It’s just… I’ve never met a person who makes me feel like he does. Free. Like he sees me, all of me, and he still wants to stay, and not because he kind of, sort of accepts the parts of me that he might not like, or because he can ignore them. It’s like he wants to stay because of them as well. Like those parts are just as valuable to him as the one he likes better. And don’t get me wrong, there’s a ton of things more. He’s funny, he’s kinder than he lets himself to believe, he’s the one person I go to when I have had a horrible day, because I know he’ll make me feel better about it. But more than anything else, it’s just that he knows me and he still loves me. And he lets me know him too, and I think that is the single best gift I’ve ever gotten. And…because I never really got to tell him that, when I should have made sure he knew it every day of his life.”

The sounds around them haven’t stopped – the breeze is still blowing, the grass around their feet still whispering, the birds singing – and yet it feels like it, everything washed away by Peter’s words.

Charles’ eyes flit to Edwin, who is already watching him; for a moment, they just look at each other, and Charles knows that he doesn’t have a heart, and yet he can feel it beat against his ribs in heavy, thunderous thumps that rock him to his core.

“So, anyway”, Peter interrupts a moment that should have belonged to him anyway, not them, “that’s why, I guess. I hope that makes sense.”

And he smiles, bright and sad and happy still, and Charles nods faintly.

It does.

They find the Eyebright fifteen minutes later, a tiny, unassuming flower blooming on the wayside, and Edwin picks a small bouquet of it, wrapping it into a silken handkerchief to keep the petals safe.
Peter is at his side, chatting about one thing or another, but Charles doesn’t understand any of the words, because in his mind, it echoes he sees me, all of me, and he still wants to stay, whispers like those parts are just as valuable to him as the one he likes better, sings and he lets me know him too, and I think that is the single best gift I’ve ever gotten.

And he looks at Edwin and remembers Edwin telling him that he loves him this morning, and wonders if Edwin meant all of this, too; knows that if he told Edwin now, he would.

The thing is, Charles wants to fall in love with Edwin so badly that he aches with it.

He loves him, of course he does; he’s loved him for more than thirty years and he’ll love him for another three thousand if he gets the chance to.
Before Edwin had confessed to him, Charles had never considered that he could love him in another way than he has until now, but now that there is, Charles cannot help but want it.

And h e lets me know him too, and I think that is the single best gift I’ve ever gotten, Peter had said, and Charles had felt the words like a lightning strike, because yes, it is. Knowing Edwin is a gift and Charles wants more of it, both because he’s greedy and wants to love Edwin in every way there is, and because Edwin wants him to, and whatever Edwin wants, Charles wants to give him.

H e’s getting there, step by step, day by day, I love you by I love you from Edwin’s lips, and Charles is counting the seconds until he can look Edwin in the eye and tell him, I love you too , and mean it in every way there is.

The other things is that Charles thought he had more time for it.

Edwin puts the Eyebright in a little vase on their desk, presumably so he can continue to pretend that he truly needs its life force for the spell to work, and the small flowers seem to mock him whenever Charles looks at them.

They’re so small, and yet their significance seems immense, because Peter has run his fingers across their petals in some kind of sad, excited reverence, and Edwin had muttered something to him that had made him smile.
Charles had watched, like he does all the time now, and had wondered if, had their roles been reversed and Edwin had found Peter dying thirty-odd years ago, he would love him like he loves Charles now.

The last thing on their list is Sweet Cicely, which Charles has never even heard of, but Edwin informs all of them that it can be found in Scotland, which works just fine for Charles. He likes Scotland, he likes their little outings most of the time, he likes that it is close enough that it will only take another mirror travel to get it, because it’s not exotic enough for Crystal and Niko to want to come.
What he likes even more is that Peter won’t come, either.

“Since it’s the last thing, I thought I’d stay here”, he explains, rubbing the back of his neck like this is something he would be blushing about, had he still a blood flow to make that possible. “I won’t be here for much longer after all, so I thought I’d look in on my family and my friends. See how they are doing, if they’re okay.”

It makes perfect sense, and Charles pretends that is the only reason why he nods even before Peter has finished speaking; Edwin gives him a little smile, puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and while Charles is aware that Edwin has started touching more people than just him, the sight still makes him wince.

Crystal raises her eyebrow at him, but Charles just shakes his head. This is nothing he wants to, will or should get into.

“Of course”, Edwin says, and Peter smiles up at him gratefully, like he doubted that they would understand. “We should have everything set up by tomorrow, so if you want to come back then, we will be able to perform the spell.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I… I guess I can’t wait”, Peter responds, and almost sounds like he believes it.

They end up in Cairngorms National Park, in between Aberdeen and Inverness, stumbling through a hiker’s pocket mirror, who doesn’t notice them as more than a surprising breeze that ruffles through her hair.

The sky is heavy with clouds, but Charles doesn’t mind it at all, not when he has Edwin to watch, who shines almost as bright as the sun, when the land surrounding them is soft with hills and lush with flowers.

“It shouldn’t be hard to find some Sweet Cicely”, Edwin tells him, straightening his lapels like he’s afraid the trip here might have crooked them. “Just look out for a tall-stemmed plant with feathered leaves and small, white flowers.”

Charles nods and they start walking; he doesn’t really look out for anything though, at least not yet. Instead, he imagines he can feel the gentle wind that is dancing through the grass, enjoys that it is the two of them again, thinks for a second about reaching out and taking Edwin’s hand in his.

He’d be able to feel it in that strange way that ghosts feel each other, not quite a human touch, but as close to it as they can get. Edwin’s fingers would be slender between his own, a touch cooler, would hold onto his hand firmly, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But before he can even consider doing it – would he do it, or would it feel wrong, too romantic for someone who has not yet fallen in love? – Edwin speaks.

“I’m not sure why you don’t like Peter”, he starts, and Charles doesn’t have a heart; it stops anyway. “But I really appreciate that you’re making an effort, Charles. He deserves the closure, and I know that you know that too, but especially since Peter and I, well. Understand each other, I suppose, you could say. I appreciate it even more. So, thank you.”

He smiles, and at first, Charles doesn’t know what to say. Because he expected Edwin to notice that he doesn’t like Peter, but never thought he would bring it up, because he doesn’t know how to explain why he doesn’t like Peter without sounding insane, because Edwin says Peter and I understand each other, and Charles has no idea what that means.

“It’s nothing”, he eventually replies, just so he has said anything at all, “It’s not like he isn’t nice. And that music box was pretty brills. And he, uh. Seems to like you a lot, and everyone who likes you is alright in my books.”

It sounds stilted even to Charles’ ears, even if he means it, for once uncaring that Peter liking Edwin is part of the problem.
Something about the words makes Edwin chuckle softly, like he never considered it, and Charles wishes he could figure out what it is.

“I suppose he does. Well, I like him, too”, he tells Charles, like that had ever been in doubt. “I just hope we can help him the way he needs us to. From what I have gathered, his – their – situation is strangely like ours and yet nothing like it at the same time. It makes sense that this would build a certain kind of… kinship.”

Nothing about it makes sense, but Charles doesn’t dare to ask, because he isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

And because, before he would be able to get the words out, Edwin says, “I love you quite a lot, Charles, I hope you know that.”

A spark in his heart, a flame burning just a little brighter, a forest fire.

“I know that”, Charles answers easily, and he does, he always has. “I love you, too.”

It’s almost too easy to find the flower they need, and Charles stands there, watching Edwin take cuttings and wrap them into another silken handkerchief, fingers working so carefully, it’s like Edwin thinks the plant can feel his touch.
The sky is still overcast, but it doesn’t seem like it is likely to rain, and even if was, it’s not like they could feel it.

“I know we have everything we need”, he starts before he can think better of it, “but do you maybe want to stay a little longer? Walk around a little? See the sights, whatever they might be?”

And Edwin looks up at him from where he is crouching, hands full of white petals and green leaves, and his eyes are bright enough for Charles to forget about most other things.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Charles. Let’s do that. We can put together the spell later.”

They spend an hour, or maybe three, wandering through the park, and maybe Charles’ fingers are itching to close around Edwin’ the entire time, maybe Charles almost lets them.

Assembling the spell takes the entire night, but Charles doesn’t mind it the slightest.

There is something so familiar, so comforting about working alongside Edwin like this, cutting herbs and crushing incense, watching the lines of Edwin’s back as he carefully mixes the ingredients.
Charles wishes he could ease the tension in his shoulders, but that, too, is familiar: when Edwin concentrates, when he really, truly needs something to go right, it’s like his entire body works towards it, even if the tasks only require his hands, his arms, his mind.

It’s touching in its own way, how much he tries for Peter, even if it means their time together will be cut short, and so Charles stuffs his own impatience, his thoughts of can’t be quick enough and I hope he won’t suffer for it and please don’t let Edwin love him yet into the furthest corner of his mind.
Instead, he mills the incense extra fine, removes every wilted petal from the Eyebright and distils the spring water three times, instead of twice.

And thinks of Edwin’s smile in Scotland, and how from time to time, their hands had brushed between them as they travelled through the countryside.

“So, I just have to light the incense, drop the ashes into the bowl and then we have a spell?”, Peter asks, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, obviously excited. “I didn’t expect magic to be so… easy.”

Charles is about to correct him – magic isn’t easy, it’s just Edwin’s expertise that makes it seem so – but there is a hand on his shoulder before he can speak, cutting him off in the most efficient way.

“You also have to stir the potion three times after you put in the ashes, counter-clockwise. And focus on your emotions, your memories, so the spell will know what to attach itself to”, Edwin reminds Peter gently, something singing along the way he says emotion that makes Charles feel warm around the edges. “But yes, in the end, magic isn’t that difficult for an inquiring mind as yours.”

Peter beams at him, then claps his hands and gives them a curt nod. “Let’s do this, then.”

What follows feels too intimate for Charles to watch and yet too important to just leave halfway through; he watches Peter’s forehead furrowing, his lips forming words they never speak, his eyes misted by tears when he opens them again.
There is a shiver stuck unfulfilled in Charles’ spine, but they end with their pendulum filled with a murky green potion, primed to lead them just where they need to go.

The pendulum gets stuck to a spot on the map just outside of London, and Charles is about to ready the mirror when Edwin puts his hand on his shoulder again. It’s soft in the way only his touch is, as is his smile when Charles turns around to look at him.

“I think it might be best for me and Peter to go and find the brick alone”, Edwin explains, and Charles feels his non-existent heart plummet, the shiver finally escaping and making his fingers tremble. “Not because I don’t want you there, but because I think it might be a very emotional experience for him. A goodbye in itself, if you will. I hope you don’t mind.”

Without wanting to, Charles looks for Peter, who is standing across the room, eyes fixed on the map like he is searching for something; it makes sense, of course it does. And usually, Charles would be delighted that Edwin would relate to a client to this extent, to want to make them comfortable when he sometimes tends to be brash and beautiful and three steps ahead of everything, unwilling to look back. But now, it feels like a punch to the stomach, a dismissal, even if Charles knows that it isn’t one.

“Of course”, he hears himself say, “Yeah, sure. You go ahead, I’ll wait here. I’m sure there is more than enough detecting to do.”

There isn’t any detecting to do, or rather, Charles doesn’t do any of it; he sits on the sofa and tries not to stare at the mirror in the corner, tries not to think about Edwin’s hand on Peter’s shoulder as they pick up stone and mortar, tries not to think of Edwin on the other side of the cushions, of the hand that isn’t wrapped around his ankle any longer.

The piece of wall they come back with is smaller than Charles’ fist, brick-red and crumbling as it lies on their desk, leaving dust that Charles knows he will find everywhere over the agency, even after he has cleaned all of it.

Peter keeps looking at it like it is a sacred artefact, and maybe to some extent it is, when they have put this much effort into finding it.

“Are you ready?”, Edwin asks, and his voice is as gentle as the hand he had put on Charles’ shoulder earlier, more a caress than a question.

For a long second, there is only silence, Peter’s attention still on the brick, but then he turns around, eyes sad, but determined anyway.

“No”, he answers, and for the first time since they met, Charles knows how it would be to like him, to suffer through this alongside him and not just on the sidelines. “Let’s do it anyway.”

At first, Charles expects to be left behind, because if Peter needed privacy for the small farewell that was finding the wall fragment, then surely he will need it again to truly say goodbye. But Edwin never mentions it, and Peter is too caught up in whatever he is contemplating to acknowledge either of them for more than a few seconds at a time, so Charles steps through the mirror with them, not knowing where it will take him.

The scenery changes, their agency fading to be replaced by a small bathroom that should have been cleaned at least two weeks ago, clothes shoved haphazardly around the overflowing laundry basket, a Hello Kitty electric toothbrush thrown into the sink, while a second, white one, stands pristinely on the edge of it. Toothpaste and blood are splattered on the porcelain, like someone cut themselves while shaving and didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Peter makes a noise, something in between a sigh and a sob and a name, and Charles’ heart breaks for him a little, because this is something that, back then, after he had died, he had seen in his parents’ house.
The lack of care, the emptiness of a space that feels no longer needed, because the inhabitants don’t want to think about living in it any longer, don’t want to think about living at all.

There’s no way of telling if Wade is there or if they will have to wait for him to come back, and yet Charles looks at the state of the bathroom and knows he will be sprawled on the bed, or the sofa, or maybe the floor between them. Surrounded by tissues, like Charles’ mother was, or empty bottles, like his dad. Clutching a picture, maybe, like both of them had been at times.

It takes a few moments until Peter moves again, shaking his head, his hand in the pocket of his hoodie, where Charles knows he has stuffed the piece of wall, a note he had prepared to leave with it.
He looks lost, and Charles knows without knowing that as soon as he steps through the door, it is likely to get far worse. For a second, Charles wants to tell him so, even if he isn’t sure if it would be so he can brace himself or to give him the opportunity to turn back, but his eyes catch Edwin’s, who shakes his head like he knows exactly what Charles is thinking.

Knowing Edwin, he might.

So, instead, he just follows Peter when he steps through the door, not bothering to open it, and what greets him is just what Charles expected.

There are empty take out containers strewn about the place, more clothes flung across the furniture, beer cans half-crushed, half-drunk, half-forgotten. A chair has been smashed to pieces, the wood splinters never cleaned up, one of the light fixtures hanging from the wall by only a few cables, colourful flyers for restaurants and car repairs scattered across the floor, a few unopened letters between them.

It’s a war zone, a grave, and the only thing that seems untouched is a framed picture in the middle of the dining table, showing Peter with another, slightly older man, grinning into the camera, Mickey Mouse ears perched on their heads.
They look happy, and the contrast is so stark it makes Charles head spin.

However long Peter has been dead, it’s clear that it must have been the worst stretch of time the inhabitant of the apartment has ever lived through.
The grief feels like a cloud, a sort of fog that covers every inch of space; the pain so palpable Charles can feel it penetrate his astral form, seep into the spaces between atoms, tint the walls of his non-existent heart dark.

He looks over at Edwin and finds what he is feeling reflected on his face; for a second, he almost reaches out and takes Edwin’s hand in his to find at least a little of solace here.

“Wade?”, Peter calls out softly, as if he could still be heard by the living, and startles Charles out of it. His fingers ache with the missed chance. “Wade, it’s me!”

His steps are slow and cautious, but he still ventures further into the living room, feet clipping through slowly rotting fried rice and pizza cartons like he doesn’t even see them.
Maybe, Charles thinks, he really doesn’t, because if it was him and Edwin in their roles, he would not notice his surroundings for a second, either.

The blinds have been drawn to keep out the daylight, so the only source of light is the TV that is flickering in the corner, playing some kind of daytime talk show that Charles cannot imagine anyone is paying attention to. It does paint the walls bright colours, though, the muffled sounds of it most likely not enough to drown out the grief, but perhaps a band-aid to make it more bearable than being left alone with one’s own thoughts.

Peter takes another step, then another, and then a sound stumbles from his lips that lets Charles know that he has found his friend; Charles and Edwin follow until they can see the sunken form at the bottom of the couch, wearing a hoodie that is so small that it must have belonged to Peter when he was still alive.
Wade looks catatonic, like he hasn’t moved in hours, and the pain radiating from him is so thick it makes it hard to think.

“Oh, Wade”, Peter breathes out and crouches down next to him; the hurt in his voice has a different flavour than the one that is permeating the apartment, but it is no less potent. “You seemed better last time, what happened?”

His hand is hovering between them, like he isn’t sure where to put it, and something about the gesture hurts, too.

“You can touch him”, Edwin tells him gently, like he is trying to soothe a wounded animal. “He won’t feel it, so it won’t scare him. But it might help you, if only to let go.”

Something about the words startles a chuckle from Peter, fragile and devastated, sounding worse than a sob might have. His eyes don’t stray from Wade’s form for a second.
“I don’t think it would be right. I never touched him much when I was still alive, I was always too much of a coward for it. Doing it now, when he won’t notice it, that feels like cheating.”

And yet, his hand comes down to rest on Wade’s forearm, so careful that Charles wonders if Wade would be able to feel it even if Peter was still alive.

“How do I tell him-”, Peter starts before cutting himself off, fingers flexing on Wade’s arm. “I thought it would be enough to leave him the note we prepared, explaining everything, but… it’s not. I can’t leave him, not like this. He deserves so much better.”

First, Charles wants to suggest pen and paper, but Peter hasn’t been dead for long, hasn’t yet mastered the fine mechanics of manipulating objects around them. The note he mentioned, Charles is fairly certain that Edwin was the one to write down his words.
But he brought his backpack for a reason, because there is always something that might go wrong, something they might need.

It only takes him a moment or two to find the box, fingers curling around the familiar box, the battered cardboard. They have had it for more than a decade now, and never really found a use for it that extended beyond silly games between Edwin and him on quiet nights.

“Try this”, he tells Peter and puts the Oujia board down, just outside of Wade’s field of vision as not to startle him. “It’s a little tedious, because it is so slow, but it works.”

And Peter looks up at him with tears in his eyes, making them glisten in the light from the TV in an almost otherworldly way.

“Thank you”, he whispers, and underneath his touch, Wade stirs to change the channel. “Thank you, both of you.”

They leave to give Peter some privacy to say his goodbyes, Charles slumping down next to the front door in the hallway; Edwin following just a second later.
For once, the silence between them feels oppressive, laden with second-hand emotion, with the grief Charles can still taste on the back of his tongue.

There is so much to be said that Charles cannot find the words, especially not when he isn’t sure how this is affecting Edwin, if he, with his affection for Peter, feels this even more intently.

“I know it was an impossibility”, Edwin finally says, so softly that Charles only hears it because they are so close, “but I wish we could have done more. Anything more, really.”

Charles can’t do anything but nod, his head so heavy that even the small motion seems exhausting.

“Peter will be able to pass more easily”, he answers, more to soothe Edwin than because he believes it; he can still see the all-encompassing sadness in Peter’s eyes when he blinks, feels the heaviness of his gaze, the lightness of his touch on Wade’s arm, as if he was scared to break something that didn’t belong to him. “It’s not much, but it’s something. Maybe he can say something to make it hurt less.”

Charles doesn’t believe that for a second; even outside the apartment, he can taste the heartbreak, the flavour reminding him of watching Edwin being dragged back to Hell in front of him.

“I hope so”, Edwin says; I don’t think so, he doesn’t. “And Charles? I love you. Dearly.”

It’s a strange time to say it, a strange place, too, but Charles latches onto the words like they are the first sunbeam after a week of rain. Maybe they are.

“I love you, too”, he replies, and this time, he doesn’t have the strength to stop himself, so he reaches out and grasps Edwin’s hand in his, holds it so tightly he forgets how light Peter’s touch had looked.

It takes a long, long time until Peter steps out through the front door, his eyes rimmed red and his cheeks still wet with tears, like he has forgotten to wipe them away. But his presence feels a little lighter, like Charles can breathe again; next to him, Edwin relaxes slightly.

Neither of them speak, but then Peter gives them a little, shaky nod, and suddenly, it is hard for Charles to remember that he doesn’t like him much.

“I didn’t kiss him”, Peter says, and it sounds like a confession, like something not meant for Charles’ ears. “I wanted to, but I didn’t want our first kiss to be like this. When he can’t feel it.”

He rubs a hand across his eyes, leaving them redder than before; Edwin’s hand twitches in his and Charles’ heart aches for him, just like it does for Peter, for Wade.

“Does that mean you are ready?”, Edwin asks, standing up slowly, and Charles misses the steady pressure of his fingers the second they let go of him. “Will you pass on now?”

“I think so”, Peter answers, looking a little lost as he forces a smile onto his face. Charles is fairly certain it is for their sakes; he wants to wipe it off. “I told him that I will wait for him, wherever I’m going. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll do the same for me.”

The smile slips and is replaced by something Charles can almost believe, sadder and yet hopeful, like this is the one thing Peter can allow himself to believe. Like this relationship will be enough to keep him grounded for however long it takes, like his love will be enough for now, even if he doesn’t get to share it.

“Good”, Edwin tells him, and Peter gives an almost imperceptible nod.

“At least he knows that he was always loved. That’s all I ever wanted. For him to know that I loved him as much as he loved me.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself; a second later, Charles notices the blue glow coming from underneath the door, alluring even to someone who never wants to step into it.

“Oh”, Peter breathes out, the same tranquillity slowly taking over his features that Charles knows from those, who are about to pass on. It doesn’t take the pain away that has been etched into his features, but it calms it until the wound doesn’t look as raw anymore. “I guess that’s me, then. Thank you, again. I really, really mean it. If you ever do join me, then let me know. I’ll wait for you, too.”

He turns around, and just before he steps through the door once more, he looks over his shoulder, at Edwin, or Charles, or both of them.

“Don’t make the same mistake as I did. Don’t wait too long.”

And then, he is gone.

They leave in silence, because Charles cannot think of a single thing to say, because Edwin looks like he is lost in thought.
He must be hurting, and Charles hates it, hates it even more that he doesn’t know how to fix it. There is no way to bring Peter back, and even if there was, it seems like he wouldn’t return Edwin’s feelings after all.

Good, it whispers in his head, the voice one Charles wishes he could silence forever, because Edwin’s happiness should always be more important than Charles’ jealousy.

“I’m sorry”, he finally says, trying to cut off that voice before it can poison his mind any further, “I know he meant a lot to you. And I’m not sure if you knew about Wade and him, but it can’t have been easy in any case.”

There is no answer for a second or two, then Edwin says carefully, slowly, “Thank you? Even if I am not quite certain what you mean.”

“You know. You obviously liked him a lot, and for a bit, I thought- but obviously, he was in love already. I don’t know it from experience or anything, but I imagine it hurts. Just like watching him go into the light would hurt.”

Another pause, which is uncommon, because usually Edwin is so fast, so quick-witted that Charles sometimes has problems following him, but maybe it’s the heartbreak that clouds his senses.
Charles could turn around and look, but he is too much of a coward to do so, too afraid of what he’ll find. Too scared that he’ll taste the grief in Edwin’s aura as well.

“Charles”, Edwin eventually says, still slowly, like he is only coming up with the words as he speaks them. “Are you under the impression that I am in love with Peter?”

Something about it feels wrong, but Charles doesn’t have the time to find out what it is; Edwin has stopped walking, so he has to do the same, has to turn around and look at Edwin after all. The grief he feared isn’t there, just an expression that he cannot quite read, which is almost as frightening.

“Maybe not love-love yet, but… yes?”

A moment passes in what feels like stunned silence, then Edwin laughs, a small, incredulous, fond sound that puts something inside of Charles together that he didn’t know had split apart.
He sounds sombre, but not like his heart has just been broken.

“That might explain a few things”, Edwin says, more to himself than to Charles, then, “but no. I did like him, quite a lot even. But we bonded, for lack of a better word, because we were both in love with other people. We were both in love with our best friend.”

“What?”

“There was absolutely nothing between us”, Edwin says softly, and there is something shimmering in his eyes, making them brighter than Charles has seen them in a while. And slowly, the words are filtering in, one by one, changing everything and nothing at all.

“… but you always tried to spend time alone with him”, his lips say anyway, while his brain is still trying to catch up. “And you…you stopped saying you loved me. At least when he was around.”

Again, Edwin laughs, and he sounds sweet. Hopeful. Like he cannot believe what he is hearing, but but thinks it will make his existence better anyway.
Like there might be parts of Charles he doesn’t like as much as others, but like he cares for them all the same.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”, he explains, his lips still curved up into a smile. “And we spent time alone, because it felt wrong to discuss my feelings for you while you were present. Peter and Wade, their situation was not too dissimilar to ours. He wanted to know about my perspective, because it must have been close to Wade’s. You see, Wade confessed his love countless times, but Peter never allowed himself to get closer to him, even though he reciprocated his feelings.”

Charles’ mind is reeling, half of him overjoyed that he does not have to share Edwin’s affection, half of him confused; it’s the second that makes more sense, that still knows how to form words.

“But if he loved him too, why wouldn’t he say so?”, he asks; Edwin was wrong about their situations being similar, because the second Charles could say the words and mean them, he would shout them from the rooftops, scrawl them across every surface, tattoo them onto Edwin’s heart.

“Because he was afraid of ruining what they already had.”

Edwin says it like it makes sense, like it is obvious, and Charles would be offended, if Edwin didn’t say it oh so fondly as well.

“So, you’re not-”, he starts, the second half of his mind catching up and having to make sure; Edwin cuts him off before he has even asked the question.

“No, Charles”, he tells him so softly, so happily, “I can assure you, I am still madly in love with only you. But if you want to, I can tell you so much more often. In front of much more people, too.”

If he still had blood to do so, Charles knows he would be blushing.
Yet, he still nods, even if he cannot look at Edwin as he does so.

“In that case, I love you, Charles Rowland.”

Charles almost says it back immediately, out of habit and because he does, and because there is a smile in Edwin’s voice and because the words spark something bright and happy and beautiful inside his chest, but he stops himself. Because Peter’s voice rings in his head, still laced with tears, saying, don’t wait too long.

And hasn’t he waited long enough already?

Because he looks at Edwin for a second longer, the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips and the hazel of his eyes, and he sees his best friend, sees the person he wants to spend eternity with, sees the person he loves the most.
Sees all the nights they have spent huddled together on the sofa, the trips they have taken for cases and time they have spend between those; sees kindness and intelligence and a dry wit that will make him laugh just as much in three centuries as it has the last three decades.
Feels Edwin’s hand in his, and how much he has wanted his touch, and how much he had hated the idea of losing Edwin, losing any part of Edwin, to someone who isn’t him.

Knows that Edwin knows him and loves him all the same; knows that Edwin has allowed Charles to get to know him too.

Knows that it is, in fact, the single best gift he has ever gotten.

And knows that no matter how much time he asks for, how much time he takes, none of it will ever fade, it will only change, only grow, into something he will still recognise, still hold close to his heart, still defend with every atom in his body.

And isn’t that love?

Isn’t that enough love to say the words back, and know you mean them?

A breath he does not need, and yet craves, another look at Edwin, who is watching him so fondly, and suddenly, the question is so easily answered.

“I love you, too”, he says, and even if he doesn’t have a heart, he can feel it pounding against his ribs. It’s painful and it’s beautiful and Charles never wants it to stop. “I love you the most.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t”, Charles tells him, and it feels a bit like jumping off a building and finding out that you had wings all along. “I didn’t know until just a moment ago.”

And because he, they, have waited long enough, he reaches out and takes Edwin’s hand in his; it feels right in a way nothing ever had before, and if Charles had still been looking for an answer, he’d find it right there, in the pressure of Edwin’s fingers against his.

He pulls Edwin in, ignores his little gasp and kisses it off Edwin’s lips, and finds that it tastes sweet, tastes like waiting forever, tastes like finally being where he was always meant to be.
Tastes like having been home for thirty years without noticing.

And when Edwin kisses back, it tastes like finally, Edwin is, too.