Still I can't let you go
The words are unfamiliar on his tongue, thick and bitter, dangerously close to gluing his mouth shut if he doesn't let them out. It's strange, to ask this question. He's sure he used this particular phrase many times before, both on cases and in their free time. And yet, when they finally pass his lips, they're clumsy, foreign, as if he's only now learning how to speak. Maybe he is.
Edwin is not looking at him, head turned a little to the side, his eyes a little dazed, staring far into the distance. Charles wonders if their look each other directly in the face ever again. He has the strangest feeling they might not. He can't remember the last time they did.
"I believe so, yes," Edwin finally says, and Charles has to look away. He hates how much it feels like talking to a stranger.
In the silence that falls around them, he tries to run back through his memories, to figure out when things started going wrong. He thinks it might have been around the time that Crystal died, but he's not sure. The time surrounding that day is dark and blurring together, and stretching too far into then-future. Neither of them were ever good at dealing with the difficult feelings, and so the weight of that grief crushed them entirely for a while. He thought they were getting better, though. It seems that they weren't.
"Had a good run, though, right?" he says, trying for some levity in his tone, feathers hitting against brick wall. It falls flat against his ears, more desperate than light, and that much closer to the truth for it.
"That we did," Edwin replies. Charles sees him moving in the corner of his eye, and from the sound of his voice, he thinks the other boy might be smiling a little. He can't be sure, though, because he's not looking at him. It's pathetic.
"Shame to let it go," he chokes out, voice cracking around the sentence. He feels heavy, as if he's back in his corporeal body, gravity pulling him deeper and deeper into the center of the Earth.
Edwin moves, and he can't feel the hands on his shoulders, but he shivers in surprise anyway. He looks up on instinct, and he wishes he didn't. Edwin's eyes are sad, but determined, a combination he's seen before many a time, but never directed at himself so intimately. It's intoxicating in all the possible ways.
"We need to grow up, Charles," Edwin whispers, a plea, "And this is getting us nowhere." And oh doesn't the truth hurt. He barely remembers his actual life, too entwined with Edwin for over a century, and at this point he doesn't remember when he ends and the other boy begins. He never thought it might be a bad thing.
Ghosts cry in a strange way -- there's no real tears, just pale paths appearing slowly on their face, like cracks on a porcelain doll. They never stay too long, glimmering and glistening as if they are actual streams of water. It's unfairly beautiful, he thinks as he watches the silver lines appearing and disappearing on Edwin's face. He's crying too, he knows, cheeks tingling under something that isn't there.
"It's not a goodbye," Edwin finally says, one corner of his lips quirking up higher than the other, "Just see you later," he explains, but he doesn't sound too sure. Neither of them can be sure what's going to happen from here, really, being alone for the first time in so many years. He won't move on, that's for sure, and Edwin definitely won't be doing that either. They might bump into each other here and there, right? It's not the end of the road.
Edwin takes a step back, and Charles does the same thing, his body overriding his mind. He takes a shaky, unnecessary break, trying to push back down the non-existent bile. "See you later?" he asks, trying one last time to catch something long gone. Edwin just nods, in that prim and proper way of his that's soon going to be entirely foreign. In some ways, it already is.
Charles turns around, when his whole essence begs him to stay, and starts walking without another word. He doesn't know where he's going, but he can't turn back.
The statement that ghosts can't sleep isn't true -- ghosts can sleep, they just choose not to. In part because they don't need it, and partially because although they don't dream, they do have nightmares.
He comes to with a start, sitting up violently. The office is dark and empty, and for a second he thinks that he's alone; but then Edwin phases through the wall, holding some book or other in his hands, entirely engrossed in its contents. The moment Charles lays his eyes on the other boy, everything else disappears. His heart would've slowed down to normal pace, if he had a heart to begin with. Some of his distress must be still showing on his face, though, because Edwin's face morhps into concern as soon as he looks at him.
"Are you alright, Charles?" he asks, shutting the book without checking a page. Save it for Edwin not to care about bookmarks - he'll just start the book again.
"Yeah," Charles breathes our, shaking away the last bits of the nightmare. He doesn't really remember what it was about; he knows it felt lonely. "Just a bad dream I think," he adds as an afterthought, hoping that the context with placate his best mate.
Edwin humms in response, and takes a seat on the couch next to him. "Do you fancy a read?" he inquires, and Charles can't help but cheer up a little. "Yeah, I could use a pick-me-up," he replies, nodding, and Edwin smiles softly, placing the book on his lap.
He doesn't get a chance to open it, though, because Charles leans in and kisses him softly. It's sweet and gentle, and still tastes new. He savours it as long as he can without floating away, and when he leans away, Edwin is staring at him with a dazed smile. He shakes it away, but he's still blushing when he finally opens the book.
"What are we reading?" Charles asks, snuggling into Edwin's side and laying his head on his shoulder. He tries not to laugh as Edwin clears his throat before answering,
"I was thinking Peter Pan."
