coffee-n-some-cream

[coffee-n-some-cream]

Bit of a weird ask but in your Butch4Butch Rasey fic from 2023 Raph/Ella has hair, do you picture her as human or turtle?

Good question - I intended it to be a human!turts AU, so they are all human teens going to human teen schools.

But if u wanna picture them as turtles with hair that's cool

[coffee-n-some-cream]

get back here and let me hold you motherfucker

With no other options left, Casey chucked his empty beer can at the guy. He jumped as it bounced off the alley wall with a clang and landed crumpled on the asphalt by his feet. Finally, he looked up and spotted Casey leaning over the edge of the rooftop, his asshole face scrunched in confusion. “What the hell? How’d you get up there?”

“Don’t worry about that. Where’s the turtle guy you were with earlier.” His words slurred together, and he knew he probably sounded drunk off his ass. Whatever.

He cocked his head. “Raph?”

Casey’s fists clenched at the fact that this random guy he’s never even met knows Raph’s name. It took three encounters and more than one fistfight before Raph told Casey his name, let alone anything else. “Yeah. Raph. Where’d he go?”

The guy stared up at him for a moment, then said, “Why? What do you want with him?”

The nerve of this guy. “None of your damn business. I’m a friend of his. Who the hell are you?”

Crossed arms. “I’m a friend of Raph’s too. And I’ve never met you.”

“Hey, that’s my line, asshole.” Casey jabbed a finger toward him and swayed with the movement. “I’ve been Raph’s best friend for years, and he’s never mentioned a washed-out grub of a guy who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

The guy froze for a moment. Then, “Casey Jones?”

Oh, perfect. The guy knew his name too. “Yeah? And? Who the hell are you?”

“Oh. I guess I have heard of you. I just didn’t expect you to be, uh…” He shrugged. “I’m Woody, Mikey’s friend. Raph took off looking for you a while ago.”

Oh. Now that he mentioned it, the name Woody had been said to him a few times before. New guy, Raph says Mikey is totally into him. Well. “Great. Catch ya later.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back. “Raph’s not big on people touching him. So. Maybe just tone that down.”

Woody squinted at him, an infuriating smile tugging at his lips. “When did you see me…?” He glanced back at the bar he had walked out of. “Were you watching us earlier? Through the window?”

Casey’s face was suddenly hot. “Nevermind,” he muttered and took off, hoping to god that this Woody guy wouldn’t go blabbing about this conversation to Mikey or anyone else. But knowing Casey’s luck, Raph would hear all about his weirdly possessive shovel talk by the next morning.

_

Casey stared up at the water tower, teeth chattering around the cigarette in his mouth. He’d stayed there for a solid twenty minutes before deciding it was a lost cause, then a few more because he needed to have a cry over how much of a lost cause it was. The warmth of the beer had worn off a while ago, but the woozy feeling hadn’t, and now his face was tacky and his nose was snotty. 

This was their spot. If Raph had been looking for him for a while, he had probably already checked here and given up. He had probably also tried texting or calling Casey with no answer. Not for the first time, Casey wanted to strangle himself when he pictured his trusty old cell phone shattered against the sidewalk. Raph had no way of tracking him down. No reason to either, considering how much of a dick Casey had been earlier, storming out on him like that. Hell, he’d probably given up already. Gone home to his family. Or maybe back to the bar, to Woody with his touchy hands and casual smiles. He’d told Woody that Raph didn’t like being touched, but he hadn’t seemed to mind all that much when Woody’s hand was squeezing his arm. It had taken Casey months to get to that point, when a touch or a tap didn’t have Raph doing a double-take.

Yeah. Raph was probably doing what any reasonable person would do. Staying inside where it was warm, being with people who were nice and normal and didn’t freak the fuck out at you for no reason because they had too many feelings all jumbled up in their thick, stupid skulls. And here was Casey, standing out on a rooftop on a frigid February night, shivering his ass off and wishing the guy he was in love with was stupid enough to come find him.

He let his head hang down for a second. Let himself feel just how pathetic he was. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to keep the snot from dribbling onto his lip. “Stupid…” he muttered. “I’m so fucking stupid.” He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his sneaker, and turned to go.

A clattering from across the roof made him freeze, and then Raph was pulling himself from the fire escape onto the roof. He looked at him, brown eyes shining, skin dark and flushed. “Case,” he said, voice breathless like he’d been running. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. You didn’t answer my calls.”

Casey stared back, mouth hanging open.

Raph looked him over, frown pulling his lips down, and took a step forward. “What the hell are you doing up here? Why’d you run off like that?”

Casey shook his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the way Raph was looking at him. His eyes were locked onto him, his body leaning forward, like Casey was the only thing that mattered right now. “I–” He needed to say something. “I went back to the bar.”

Raph’s frown twisted with confusion, another step forward. “You did? When? I didn’t see you.”

“I saw you. With that Woody guy. You were s-smilng–” He clamped his mouth shut on the hiccup, hoping Raph hadn’t noticed.

He glanced up. Raph looked horrified.

“Are you… crying?”

Yeah… yeah, he couldn’t do this. “Uh. I’m gonna, um. I’m freezing my butt off out here, I’m gonna go home. Night.” He turned and, since it worked so well last time, bolted for the edge of the roof.

“Casey!” Raph shouted, and he barely had time to register the sound of footsteps pounding behind him before strong hands were yanking him back by his jacket and pulling him from the edge of the roof. 

He struggled, it was instinct. The edge of the roof, freedom and escape, was right there, if he could just wriggle out of Raph’s hold. “Let go, I’m fine!”

“Would you just–!” Raph managed to get an arm around Casey’s waist, wrestling him back toward the middle of the roof. “Quit. Running. Away!” He grabbed Casey’s arm, yanked him around, and pulled him forward. Arms clamped around him, squeezing him against Raph’s body in a tight hug.

Casey struggled once, twice more against the firm hold, then slumped. As if all the fight in his body left him at once. Raph was hugging him. Hugging him tight, like he was afraid Casey would slip through his fingers if he let up even just a little. It felt good. He closed his eyes.

They both stood still, breaths coming out as labored, white puffs in the night air. Raph was warm against Casey’s chest, the smell of his leather jacket familiar, and Casey pushed his snotty nose into his shoulder. Raph’s hand came up to hold his head there, fingers twisting into his hair.

Casey sniffled. “’m sorry.”

Raph sighed, but didn’t let up on hugging him. “What are you cryin’ for, Case?” His voice sounded a little hoarse, wrung-out, and Casey felt a tug of guilt at being the cause of it.

“Nothin’, I’m just drunk.”

A huff, and then Raph was leaning back to look at Casey’s face. He put calloused hands on either side of his head. Casey sniffed, trying not to look too snotty and gross as his sort-of-boyfriend inspected him. Raph’s thumbs rubbed along his cheeks, wiping at old tear tracks. He looked worried, his eyes dark in the dim moonlight.

“Talk to me, Case. You’re freaking me out.”

“Don’t mean to. You just. I just always feel like...” He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, wishing he was more sober. He gripped the lapels of Raph’s jacket. “I love you.” He heard Raph’s breathing stop, but kept going. “And sometimes it feels like I love you so much it’s gonna just– just tear out of me, like some kinda monster. Like, it hurts, sometimes, in my chest.” He put a hand against his chest, and leaned his cheek against Raph’s hand, which hadn’t moved. “And when you– when you do stuff like last night. When you act like it’s nothing, I just–”

“Casey,” Raph said, his voice low and unsure.

“And then when I went back to the bar, I saw you with that guy and he was– you let him put his hand on your arm, just like that, and you were smiling at him. You know how long it took before you let me do that? Before you smiled at me like that? I thought…” He shook his head, opening his eyes only to train them on Raph’s chest, memorizing the way the leather wrinkled between his fingers. “I don’t know what I thought. But basically, I love you. That’s it.”

Raph was silent. His thumbs moved along Casey’s cheeks in continuous circles, but he was silent. They stood for long enough with nothing but the sounds of New York between them that Casey worked up the courage to look up. He blinked.

Raph looked scared. He was staring at Casey’s tear-streaked, reddened, snotty face, and he looked scared. “Casey, I…” he said, breathy, but didn’t continue.

Casey sighed, gave his best wry grin. “You don’t gotta say it back, Raph.”

Raph frowned again, bit his lip. He shook his head. And then he was tugging Casey forward and pushing warm, dry lips against Casey’s chapped ones. He closed his eyes and let Raph pull him closer, curling an arm around his shoulders. They had kissed before, but this was different. Slower, sweeter. Tender in a way Casey didn’t know Raph was capable of. Raph had never kissed him in a way that made him feel like broken glass, like he would fall apart if Raph’s arms weren’t holding him together. It was a moment suspended, the only sound the wetness between their lips, the only sensation Raph’s teeth pulling at his bottom lip, Raph’s thumb against the soft skin under his ear, Raph’s breaths against his cheek.

Raph pulled back and looked up at him. Casey looked back, unsure what to make of the glint in Raph’s eyes. He’d never seen this one before. It was new.

“Casey,” Raph said, voice still low and breathless.

“What?”

“I let Woody touch my arm because he’s my kid brother’s best friend. I was being real fuckin’ nice. But I want you touching me way more than I want him touching me. You get me?”

Casey stared down at him, then nodded.

“Casey.”

“What?”

“It’s freezing out here. I’m taking you home. Don’t run away again.”

Casey shook his head. “I’m not gonna run away again.”

Raph kissed him one more time. “Good.”

AO3

[coffee-n-some-cream]

[coffee-n-some-cream]

YOU can write whatever you want whenever however forevrr. i have to write something perfect and earth shattering and i have to do it perfectly the first time or else

[coffee-n-some-cream]

We Glimpse Each Other Out of Phase

Hello lovelies; rough weekend, huh? I've had this one roughly drafted for a couple of weeks and was planning to keep it in my back pocket as a Deadboyween prompt fill. However, given the cancellation news, I think maybe we could all use a little gentle melancholy comfort right now. So I cleaned it up a bit, and I hope you will take this little snippet as the warm hug it is intended as 💛 So this technically follows on from/is set in the same universe as my Painland Week fic Something I Can Turn To. A fic which I basically intended to leave as a one shot, but I got quite invested in the universe and have been absolutely blown away by the response to it. So it became a collection which now features, as well as my own fic, two wonderful fics by williamvapespeare and one by Ingi, and I would heartily recommend you check them out if you enjoy this story or my original one! That being said, you probably CAN read this without having read the first story, I just wouldn't personally recommend it, you'll be missing a lot of context and backstory! 3.7k, rated T, also available on Ao3 (registered users only!) Part One (Something I Can Turn To) on tumblr

Charles may have had a bit of a rough go of it growing up, but there'd been quiet moments, too. Most of 'em in a rickety old attic, with the only lad in the entire world he could trust with just about anything.

But there were peaceful times at home, too. Safe ones. Mostly at night. Long as he was quiet, didn't cry too loud or stomp about, he could get through eight-ish hours unbothered. Sure, sometimes he had to pace around the room a bit, silent on sock feet just to shake out the excess energy that wouldn't let him sleep but honestly? He bloody loved sleeping. Couldn't get enough of it. Long as he didn't make a fuss, didn't draw attention, he could sink into his bed in the cellar room and just sort of... bob out of his life for a bit. Like a smoke break, but better for his health. If he was dead lucky, he'd even stumble into Edwin's arms in his dreams; pass the time there 'til morning, when it all kicked off again.

So it wasn't easy, getting used to night shifts. It was a fair trade-off for all the other freedom in his life lately but bloody hell, did it sting a bit, losing that time. That dark, quiet nothing where he could be nothing, too, just for a bit. There was almost something sacred about it. Something he hadn’t known was important to him ‘til it was gone.

At least the night shift was pretty quiet, usually. Most of the people who needed to use a gym at two in the morning weren't exactly there to socialise. Charles' job pretty much amounted to half-dozing at reception and handing someone a towel now and then. He'd not had many nutjobs to deal with or fires to put out.

Then again, maybe a good disaster was what he needed just to stay awake. Christ, he was shattered. Took him a good few tries to get the key in the lock when he finally staggered home.

Charles was sad — but not surprised — to find the kitchen light on when he fell through the door.

He rolled his eyes. "Honey," he called, jokingly, the endearment all funny and wrong on his tongue. He'd call Edwin a lot of things — mate, love, best friend, fucking soulmate — but honey? Mingin'. "I'm home."

Edwin's reply was half a second too slow — textbook Edwin guilt response. Like when your cat didn't jump off the counter fast enough to pretend it hadn't been there in the first place. "Good evening, Charles."

"Good morning, more like," said Charles, drawing the bolts — all three of them — across and dropping his bag in a sloppy heap by the door. His coat came next, then each shoe, leaving a trail behind him as he stumbled towards the voice. The hallway felt too short and dark to be called a hallway, really. Looked more like a cupboard where someone had shoved a load of loose doors they had lying around. There was one to the kitchen, one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom that was basically also their living room. Plus a bunch of other weird little cupboard doors and hatches and grates and things, none of which led to anything you’d logically expect them to. It was a shambles, really. A 'paint it magnolia and fob it off on the students' sort of ruin. But it was home. Even bone-tired, he still found the energy to lock gaze with the weird eye-motif lamp Edwin had picked up somewhere and put on one of the non-shelves, and give it his customary wink. Felt wrong not to. Unlucky, somehow.

A fanlike halo of yellow light spread across the hallway carpet as he pushed open the kitchen door. He found more or less what he'd expected to find behind it. Edwin: sat prim and proper at the scuffed-up little table, surrounded by books and doing a bang-up impression of someone with no bloody idea what time it was. His chin, tucked elegantly behind his curled knuckles in that little thoughtful pose of his, lifted at the sound of the door. His eyes found Charles and narrowed, just a little, sketching a pleased little crinkle or two at the corners.

"Charles," he greeted once again, voice softer this time. "How was your shift?"

Edwin hadn't had those laugh lines when Charles had met him. Seeing as he was twelve, and not exactly full of reasons to smile. Charles wasn't gonna take full credit for them, or anything, but... well, not many other people putting in the legwork, were there?

He dragged in a breath and let it out again, sharply, puffing it out in a raspberry. "Same old."

Charles crossed the kitchen in about three steps (it wasn't a big kitchen), clocking Edwin's book of choice on the way. Some textbook with a long-winded title that basically translated to lawyer gubbins. He put a hand on Edwin's shoulder — and Edwin tilted his head easily, offering his cheek for a kiss. Charles grinned and pressed one to the tail end of one of those little lines.

"Burning the midnight oil?" asked Charles, nicking one of Edwin's favourite expressions. He always seemed to pick up the ones that made him sound about a hundred years old.

Edwin hummed, carefully noncommittal. "I must have lost track of time."

"Could've counted these, for a start," said Charles, tapping the little saucer on the table. It was piled high with used teabags, like some damp and deranged game of Jenga. "Might've given you a clue."

"I've been rather busy," Edwin sniffed, turning the page in his book. "Lots of swotting to be done before my lecture on Monday."

"Right, that's what this is, is it?"

"What else would it be?"

Charles reached out, pinched the book Edwin was reading at the centre, and slid it out of the bigger, decoy book he was holding with its cover facing out. "Oldest trick in the book, mate. Literally," he grinned. He lifted Edwin's secret reading into his arms, having a flip through. "Y'know, most people only pull that move when they've got dirty mags to hide.”

Edwin cleared his throat. Even in the dim light of the table lamp, Charles clocked the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. "Well," he said, setting the law textbook he absolutely wasn't reading on the table. "It does get rather draining, this intensive focus on one subject. I felt the need for a brief diversion."

Charles closed the secret book, glancing at the cover. "Anthropology, again. Like that one, don't you?"

"Hm. There's much to explore; it encompasses a rather broad area of study." Edwin took it back and slid it, sheepishly, behind the pile of other law volumes stacked at his elbow. "It's a fascinating subject."

"Should've applied for it," said Charles, gentle. He rubbed Edwin's shoulder absently — getting a little more intent when he felt Edwin melt a bit, his knotted muscles loosening under Charles' digging thumb. "Or any of the other five million bloody things you're interested in. Y'know, 'stead of the one thing you're not."

"I am interested in it!" Edwin blustered.

Charles raised an eyebrow at him.

Edwin sighed. "I am," he said, bit quieter. "It's just not all I'd like to be doing. But it was the right choice, of that I'm quite certain."

Charles sighed and stepped around him, coming to lean on the table, arms crossed. Their eyes met across the short distance. "Look. If you say it's alright, it's alright. I'll believe you, mate, honest I will."

He nudged Edwin's toe with his own, sock to holey sock. "But, y'know. Not for nothing, but at school you was always going on about all that stuff you wanted to do. Bloody... archaeology in Peru, and whatever else. Just don't see how a law degree gets you there, is all."

Edwin leaned back in his chair a bit, steepling his fingers. "Well, no. No, it doesn't get me to Peru; or Pompeii, or Patagonia —"

"Or anywhere beginning with a 'p'," Charles teased.

Edwin's lips twitched up in a little smile. "But it will get us somewhere. A great many somewheres, I imagine. As degrees go, it opens rather a lot of doors."

Charles cocked his head, squinting fondly. "'Us'?"

"Obviously, Charles," said Edwin, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Like a reality where he didn't bring Charles wherever he went wasn't worth considering.

Charles grinned, ducking his head.

"I'm sure you'll chastise me for my cynicism," Edwin continued, oblivious to Charles and his soppy moment. "But... Well, given the somewhat rocky beginnings you and I have encountered in life, I thought it best to..."

"What? Play it safe?"

"Yes," said Edwin. Firm, unapologetic. "Exactly. Because I would very much like for both of us to be safe in life, Charles."

"We are! Well," Charles shrugged, scratching at his nose with a wince. Still ached a bit sometimes, all told, even though the break was years ago. "We are now."

"And I would like for it to stay that way."

"It will!" Charles half-perched on the table, and nudged Edwin's leg with his big toe. "I'll look after us, won't I?"

Edwin looked up at him, and his eyes softened. Fuck, but he had the kindest bloody eyes — least when he turned them on Charles he did. His hand landed on Charles' knee, gentle as you like; rubbing small circles with his thumb like Charles had done on his shoulders.

"You've done more than enough already, Charles," he said, looking him dead in the eye; not letting him hide for anything. "It's only fair I look after you, too, now and again. Especially when it's within my power to do so."

Charles laughed, a thin, hitching sort of thing. His eyes felt all prickly. Fuck, he couldn't go crying on him, now — his eyeliner'd smudge everywhere, it'd be so obvious.

"Look after me," he mimicked, catching Edwin's hand in his, stealing it all for himself. "You gimme a bloody reason to wake up in the morning, mate. What else d'you need?"

Edwin opened his mouth, brows going all scrunched up like they did at the start of a concerned lecture. Charles ducked in and shushed him quicksharp with a kiss.

"Not saying I'm about to, like, off myself if you chuck me, or anything," he laughed against his lips, fondness glowing in the grate of his ribs like smouldering coals. He chased the kiss with a smaller one, to the corner of Edwin's mouth; the scratchy dusting of his five o'clock shadow. "I'd just wallow about being proper depressed, so. Don't chuck me, please?"

Maybe he was clinging a little too hard for his tone of voice. Maybe he was giving it all away in the hands — always such desperate, grasping fucking things. Always his problem, the hands. How they grabbed things, hit things, did things before his brain always had the chance to catch up. How long 'til Edwin got sick of Charles hanging onto him like a life raft, dragging him down with his dead weight? How long 'til the bones in Edwin's hands started to creak from being clutched too tight?

But Edwin just scoffed, quietly — completely failing to hide that little spark of humour in his eyes. "I hardly think that's a possibility, Charles," he said, lifting his other hand to pat the back of Charles'. His soft fingertips kissed feather-light against Charles' grazed, calloused knuckles. "Honestly,” he sighed, dramatically. “Here I sit, talking about the devastatingly boring career I'm attempting to get off the ground in order to keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed, and you think I'm about to chuck you."

He shook his head, crow’s feet crinkling and bloody hell. Charles loved him so much it felt overwhelming, sometimes. Like he needed a whole extra heart in his chest just to store it all.

Charles kissed Edwin's hand and flopped, happily, onto his lap, grinning at the mild ‘oof’ it shoved out of him. Grinning even wider when Edwin's other arm wrapped around Charles’ waist without a second thought. Edwin was a bit picky about personal space, for good reason — not with Charles, though. Charles had a standing invitation and he put it to bloody good use.

"Bet you could make a weird job work for you too, y'know," said Charles, dropping his next peck to Edwin's forehead as he sank into his lap. His head felt heavier already; only thing keeping him going was the effort of holding himself upright. Draped over Edwin like a blanket, he could've just dozed off right then and there. But the kitchen chair was creaking threateningly, so. Probably a bad idea. "I know the weird stuff's usually more competitive and that, but you're that smart. You'd run rings round the others, mate, get ahead of the game."

He flung his arms round Edwin's shoulders, scratched at the back of his head, the hair at his nape. It was a little longer than Edwin liked it. He needed a trim. So did Charles, really; his racing stripes had grown out and he kept having to blow stray curls out of his eyes. But they were saving their pennies any way they could. "You could go do something interesting, something a bit barmy," said Charles. "Something with a bit of adventure, yeah? Or at least where you get to have your nose in interesting books all day. You'd love that."

Edwin sighed, resting his cheek against Charles' shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. "That does sound compelling. But I've rather made my bed, Charles; I’ve no money coming in at all if I don’t study for it. And it is interesting, in moderation. Besides, it..."

"What?"

"It seems... like a decent thing to do." The warm weight of Edwin's arm squeezed Charles' waist. "Something I could do a modicum of good with."

Charles heard a rustle, and glanced over his shoulder. Edwin's other hand was flicking through the law book on the table, clever fingers finding the module he wanted without even checking the contents. Charles had to squint at it a moment, his exhausted eyes skittering off the page. He thought he saw 'human' and 'rights' in that word soup of a title.

He softened. "Eds..."

"I merely thought..." Edwin made a little noise of frustration in his throat, angling his face further into Charles. Speaking so soft it almost got lost in his skin, words lodging small and timid in his bones. "So many years, Charles. Trapped at the mercy of other people, no one caring if we lived or died, I... I could do something about it. Learn the right words to say, the right arguments, the right resources. So no one else need..."

Sometimes it fucking killed Charles, that there were people out there who thought Edwin was some... some selfish, spoiled rich toff with no feelings. As if he wasn't the kindest bloody person in the world; as if he hadn't had to carve that kindness out himself with his bare, bleeding hands.

Edwin sniffed. “It was just an idea,” he mumbled. “A silly idea.”

Charles shook his head, stroked Edwin's hair. "S'not a silly idea, love. Not silly at all."

Edwin never struggled to find his words like this — and he definitely didn’t mumble them. Words were his weapons, and he could go toe-to-toe with the best of 'em, talk bloody circles 'round his opponents.

Charles looked from him to the stack of books, the tower of teabags. The plastic clock on the wall, its hands marching on into the morning.

"Aw, mate," he said, rubbing the back of Edwin's neck — and dropping a kiss to the top of his head. "You're dead on your feet, in’t you?"

"I'm perfectly fine," Edwin grumbled. "And I've tests to study for —"

"Tests in subjects you're not bloody taking? Yeah, right." Charles bit his lip, cuddling Edwin's head against his chest. "Can't sleep, can you?"

Edwin was quiet a moment, breathing nice and steady into Charles' throat.

"It's still... difficult," he said.

Three door bolts and four hundred miles was a start, but bad memories had a way of following you about. Charles closed his eyes and breathed in, nice and slow; hoping Edwin could feel it in his chest, find a nice rhythm in his rising ribs.

"Edwin," he said, nuzzling into his hair. "On my life, mate — one of these days, you and me are gonna be so bloody set you'll be able to do whatever you want. Go back to uni fifty times, hundred times, don't care. Study for the rest of your life, if you want.” He tapped Edwin’s temple. “Cram everything that's ever interested you in that big brain of yours. Promise you."

It shouldn't've felt like taking a bloody knight's oath, whispered words at the kitchen table at stupid o'clock in the morning. But Christ, he'd fought off enough dragons to get ‘em here, hadn’t he?

He felt Edwin's smile against his skin, followed by the little dry brush of his kiss. "You could, too. If you liked," he said. "Get your A-levels, apply for university..."

Charles laughed, shaking his head. "Not sure I could keep up."

"Charles," Edwin admonished, in that stern teacher voice that was cuter (and fitter) than it had any right to be. "You're exceptionally bright."

"Ah, come on, mate," Charles mumbled, squirming. Edwin's arm round his waist locked as if it could sense an escape attempt incoming.

"You are. I remember your grades, before... well. Everything that occurred." He smoothed down the collar of Charles' fuck-ugly work shirt. "It's hardly your fault your final years went awry as they did. You could go back, take some courses at the local college. Try again."

"Right, sure."

Edwin huffed, frustrated. "I'm being quite serious, in the event that wasn't obvious."

"When aren't you?" Charles chuckled. He stared at the wall, at the stupid fucking boyband calendar their kooky upstairs neighbour gave Edwin for Christmas. Most of the writing on it was Edwin's, neat and tiny, scheduling tests and lectures and study blocks. Most of Charles' additions were just the word 'WORK', scribbled in on scattered days — more so Edwin knew when he was coming and going, rather than for his own benefit. Always different days, different times. Shift work; no chance to form a routine. He was never great at that, anyway.

"Not even sure what I'd do," he mumbled.

Edwin's palm on Charles' waist rubbed, soothing, grounding. "You never had something you wanted to study?" he asked. "Something you wanted to go into?"

"I..." His brow furrowed. It was so hard to think, sometimes. About times before now. Like all those bloody miserable years just blended into this mush of dread and misery. "I dunno what I wanted," he admitted. "Couldn't... couldn't think that far ahead, could I? I just wanted my mum to be alright. Wanted my dad to think I was worth something. Wanted not to hurt anymore."

He sniffed, and laughed, a watery sort of sound. His arm around Edwin's shoulders squeezed.

"Only thing I ever wanted and got back then was you," he said, flippant, like it didn't really matter. 'Cause it didn't really, did it? Wasn't some big confession or anything. Some deep, dark secret. Edwin knew. They both knew.

But Edwin breathed in sharply, a little ragged round the edges, so maybe he needed reminding now and again. "Charles..."

"Fuck," Charles chuckled, releasing Edwin so he could lean back and rub his eyes — so Edwin wouldn’t have his ear to Charles’ heart when it started beating too fast. "I'm shattered, mate. Dunno what I'm even saying anymore, do I?"

Maybe one of these days, he’d stop being too scared of the fucking size of his own feelings to sit with them a moment.

Maybe they both would.

Edwin sighed, pulling his hand from Charles' waist to pinch at the bridge of his own nose. "I suppose it has gotten rather late." He glanced at the clock, and winced. "Early. You should go and sleep. I'm sure you've had a long day."

Charles hummed, leaving his nice warm spot in Edwin's lap — but his hands didn't leave his shoulders. "C'mon, then," he mumbled, giving them a squeeze. "Bed."

"Better to go without me. I shan't sleep tonight."

"Didn't say anything about sleeping, now, did I?"

Edwin raised his eyebrow.

Charles' brain caught up to his mouth, and he laughed. "Ah — love to, darlin', but. Yeah, seriously, I'm fucking knackered. I meant, like — let's just have a bit of a cuddle, yeah?" He tugged at Edwin's collar where it poked out of his nice green jumper. It was a little crooked — Edwin must've really got into a study groove and unfastened a button or two. Fit as. "I proper fancy a cuddle."

"I'll be restless," said Edwin, all apologetic. "I'll only keep you awake."

Charles hummed, picking up the anthropology textbook and holding it out.

"Keep on reading, then," he said, giving Edwin the big, hopeful eyes he bloody knew he could never say no to. "Just... come read to me instead, yeah?"

Edwin had another dramatic sigh, like it was all such a big ask. He ought to tell that to his fucking smile lines. He took the book — and Charles' hand. "Well. I suppose I can manage that."

~

Charles didn't know how long Edwin stayed awake, in the end. Could've been hours for all he knew, he'd have had no idea — Charles had been asleep in bloody seconds. Head pillowed on Edwin's shoulder, that gorgeous voice rattling off dry old text blocks and making them sound like spoken-word lullabies... how could he resist?

All he knew was when he woke up, it was eleven in the morning, the sun was slanting through the crooked blinds; and Edwin was snoring softly underneath him. His hair a mess, his textbook open on his chest. His arm a slack, warm weight around Charles' shoulders.

Charles smiled, rubbed his dry eyes — forgot to scrub off his eyeliner before he konked out, again. Classic — and settled back in, nestling safe and sound into the the crook of Edwin's arm. Fuck it. It was Saturday. He'd asked Crystal to pick up his shift today, anyway, so him and Edwin could get a little quality time in.

If all they did with that time was sleep, well. Time well spent, innit? It wasn't like a smoke break from life when he did it with Edwin, anyway.

More like... stepping back to enjoy the view.

~~

Thanks for reading my loves, I hope it soothed the ache somewhat 💛 This has been a strange little one because I've essentially had to take something I very much wrote as a one-shot, and build onto what I established. When I wrote that first one-shot I didn't even have a clear idea in my mind for what Edwin was studying or anything! So things will likely change and grow and develop and who knows where we'll end up, but it's nice to see the lads figuring it out alongside me ^_^ Thanks for reading guys! It's been a bit of a long silence from me since Painland Week ended but I promise I'm working on stuff, including the next chapter of Lonely Bones! Regardless of what has happened to the show or whether it gets picked up or not, my plan is to keep writing and creating for it for as long as it sparks joy to do so - and seeing as I've made some amazing friends in this fandom, I think I'm gonna be here a while! I sure hope you guys are, too 💛 (p.s. if you are over 18, trustworthy with semi-secret identities, and like weird rarepair smut, feel free to DM me for my side Ao3 that I'm sure will be getting some action over the next few months xD)

[coffee-n-some-cream]

Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

~

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

~

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

~

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

~

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

~

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

~

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

~

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

~

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

~~

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

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In writing, epithets ("the taller man"/"the blonde"/etc) are inherently dehumanizing, in that they remove a character's name and identity, and instead focus on this other quality.

Which can be an extremely effective device within narration!

They can work very well for characters whose names the narrator doesn't know yet (especially to differentiate between two or more). How specific the epithet is can signal to the reader how important the character is going to be later on, and whether they should dedicate bandwidth to remembering them for later ("the bearded man" is much less likely to show up again than "the man with the angel tattoo")

They can indicate when characters stop being as an individual and instead embody their Role, like a detective choosing to think of their lover simply as The Thief when arresting them, or a royal character being referred to as The Queen when she's acting on behalf of the state

They can reveal the narrator's biases by repeatedly drawing attention to a particular quality that singles them out in the narrator's mind

But these only work if the epithet used is how the narrator primarily identifies that character. Which is why it's so jarring to see a lot of common epithets in intimate moments-- because it conveys that the main character is primarily thinking of their lover/best friend/etc in terms of their height or age or hair color.

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that ‘pakige?’ post but me, a couple hours after posting a fic, like ‘comints?’

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It's so scary naming characters from other cultures cause I can look up the meaning but I can't look up the vibe. Like say I want to name my super scary villain something short and simple, I find an old name that means strength of God with a common shortened version and I think oh perfect, and I name my big bad villain fucking Zeke.

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I’m a fanfic writer. All I know is “furrowed brow” and too many commas.

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*emerges from the other room covered in blood* you should see the word document

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hey writers how do you uhhhhhhhh pick the project you wanna work on and work only on that one for a length of time that is productive instead of cycling endlessly between four different projects and working on them a little bit at a time?????? asking for a fucking friend

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getting comments on ao3 makes me go so power hungry like. oh yeah you read the thing?? you read the WHOLE thing and even took time out of your day to give your WRITTEN INPUT on it???? make out with me.

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anyway,. back to your usual queue'd posts.

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LOVE it when i write something and then file it away and forget about it for years and then find it again, it's like getting to read a new fanfic! with the added bonus of wondering why i can't write this good anymore!