Chapter Text
The transition from the cold, damp earth of the woods to the afterlife was not the majestic journey Malcolm had expected. There was no flash of light, no boat ride across a dark river, no judgment seat.
One moment, he was lying on the moss, the life draining out of him with every weak beat of his heart, the taste of copper in his mouth. The next, he was gasping, sucking in a lungful of air that tasted like ozone, fresh linen, and expensive perfume.
He sat up abruptly, his hands flying to his wrists.
He expected to feel the sticky warmth of blood, the jagged tear of skin. Instead, his fingers brushed against smooth, unblemished flesh. He rolled up his sleeves. Nothing. No scars. No pain. Not even the faint white lines from the beer bottle.
He looked down at his clothes. He was no longer wearing his torn, dirt-stained Camp Half-Blood shirt and blood-soaked jeans. He was wearing a pristine white chiton, the kind he had seen in history books, soft and woven from material that felt like water.
"He's awake," a voice whispered.
Malcolm blinked, his vision adjusting to the light. It wasn't the dim twilight of the woods. It was bright, bathed in a perpetual, golden sunset. He was standing on a polished marble floor, in a pavilion surrounded by columns made of ivory and gold.
In front of him stood a girl. She was tall, with long dark hair that tumbled over her shoulders in perfect curls. She was dressed in shimmering armor, but her face was kind, filled with a gentle curiosity.
Malcolm knew her. He had seen her picture on the shelf in the Big House, right next to Charles Beckendorf’s.
"Silena Beauregard," Malcolm croaked. His voice felt rusty, unused.
She smiled, a sad, beautiful smile. "Hello, Malcolm. You gave us quite a scare. Charles said you were on your way, but we didn't expect you so soon."
Malcolm scrambled to his feet, his balance unsteady. He gripped the edge of a marble bench near him. "Where is he?"
Silena tilted her head, confused. "Where is who?"
"Connor," Malcolm demanded, his voice rising in panic. "Where's Connor?"
The panic was setting in again—the cold, clawing fear that the math had been wrong. What if the Greeks had been wrong? What if the Elysian Fields were segregated by cabin? What if Connor was in the Asphodel meadow, wandering aimlessly because he hadn't done enough 'heroic' deeds in Annabeth's eyes?
"Connor Stoll," Silena said softly, her eyes widening with realization. "Oh, Malcolm. He's here. He's here."
She took a step toward him, reaching out a hand, her expression shifting from welcome to concern. "Malcolm, wait. You need to breathe. You've been through a trauma. The transition can be disorienting—"
"Take me to him," Malcolm snapped, brushing past her hand. "Now."
Silena watched him, her brow furrowed. She looked at his wrists again, her gaze lingering on the smooth skin. "Malcolm... Charles told me what happened on the Chrysler Building. He told me about the Drakon. It was quick, wasn't it?"
Malcolm froze. He looked at her, really looked at her. She thought he had died in Manhattan. Of course she did. They didn't know. The gods didn't track the self-inflicted casualties of their wars with the same reverence they tracked the heroic ones.
He straightened his spine, a lifetime of disciplined thinking forcing the emotions into a box. He didn't have time for a therapy session. He didn't have time for the sympathetic looks that people gave when they realized you were a suicide victim.
He had wasted too much time already.
"Killed myself," Malcolm said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Silena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "What?"
"Slashed my wrists in the woods with Annabeth’s dagger," Malcolm said, staring her dead in the eye. "Talk later. Where is Connor?"
Silena stood frozen, her horror palpable. She looked at the boy in front of him—this son of Athena, usually so composed, so logical—and saw a shattered vessel held together by sheer desperation. She saw the fanaticism in his eyes. It wasn't sadness; it was a mission objective.
"Okay," she whispered, swallowing hard. "Okay. This way."
She turned and began to walk quickly through the pavilion. Malcolm followed, his strides long and purposeful. He didn't look at the paradise around him. He didn't look at the fields of barley where heroes were feasting, or the rivers that flowed with nectar. He kept his eyes locked on Silena’s back.
They walked down a marble path lined with cypress trees. The air was warm, filled with the sound of distant laughter and music.
"He's down by the river," Silena said, her voice trembling slightly. "He and Charles have been staying near the forge. Charles is trying to teach him how to work with Celestial bronze, but Connor... he's having a hard time focusing."
Malcolm didn't respond. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that contradicted the stillness of this place. "Alive. He’s alive here. I’m not crazy."
They crested a small hill. Below them, a sparkling river wound through a valley of green grass. Near the water's edge, a small wooden structure had been built—something that looked halfway between a cabin and a forge.
Sitting on the grass in front of it, legs sprawled out, leaning back on his hands, was Connor.
He was wearing an orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt and jeans. He looked solid. He looked real. He was staring at the water, a skip-stone in his hand, a frown etched onto his face.
Malcolm stopped. The breath left his lungs in a rush. It was him. The messy blonde hair. The slight slouch in his posture. The way his left foot twitched when he was bored.
It was Connor.
"Connor," Malcolm whispered.
Silena touched his arm gently. "I'll give you two a minute."
She stepped back, fading into the background of willow trees.
Malcolm didn't walk down the hill. He ran.
He didn't call out. He didn't shout. He just ran, his feet pounding against the grass, closing the distance between life and death, between grief and relief.
Connor heard the footsteps and looked up, shielding his eyes against the golden sun. He frowned, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He saw a figure flying toward him, a blur of white and determination.
"Malcolm?" Connor asked, confused. He scrambled to his feet, dropping the stone. "Malcolm, is that—?"
Malcolm didn't slow down. He didn't stop to embrace him. He didn't stop to weep.
Three yards away, Malcolm launched himself into the air. He utilized the momentum, his body moving with the precision of a calculated strike. He grabbed Connor’s shoulders and, using the boy's own confusion against him, twisted his hips and yanked.
Connor yelped in surprise as he was flipped upside down, his back hitting the soft grass with a dull thud.
Malcolm landed on top of him, straddling his chest, pinning Connor’s arms to the ground. He was breathing hard, his eyes wild, his face inches from Connor’s shocked expression.
"You bitch," Malcolm hissed.
Connor blinked, staring up at him. His mouth opened and closed. "Malcolm? What the—?"
"You absolute, selfish, idiotic bitch," Malcolm snarled, his voice cracking. "You left me. You promised. You swore you would come back. You said 'I'll see you at dinner, night owl.' You lied!"
Connor’s shock faded, replaced by a dawning realization and a look of utter heartbreak. He stopped struggling. He looked up at Malcolm, seeing the tears welling in his eyes, seeing the rage mixed with the agony.
"Malcolm..." Connor whispered. "I... I fell. I didn't mean to—"
"I don't care that you fell!" Malcolm screamed, his voice echoing across the river. "I care that you're dead! I care that I'm dead! You left me alone with her! You left me alone with the war!"
Connor’s eyes went wide. He stared at Malcolm, really looking at him for the first time. He looked at the white chiton. He looked at the lack of blood, the lack of wounds. He looked at the terror in Malcolm’s soul.
"Wait," Connor said, his voice rising. "You're... you're here? You're dead?"
"Obviously!" Malcolm yelled, letting go of Connor’s arms and sitting back on his hips. "I'm not here for a vacation, Connor! I'm here because you broke the equation! You removed the variable, so I had to remove myself!"
Connor’s face crumpled. "You... you killed yourself?"
"Yes!" Malcolm shouted, throwing his hands up. "I slit my wrists in the woods! I bled out on the moss! I wrote a note on a rock! I ruined Annabeth’s dagger!"
"Oh gods," Connor gasped, his hands coming up to cover his mouth. "Malcolm..."
"Don't 'oh gods' me," Malcolm said, his voice suddenly dropping. The rage drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving him exhausted and hollow. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against Connor’s chest.
"I couldn't do it," Malcolm whispered, his voice muffled by Connor’s shirt. "I couldn't stay there. It was too loud. It was too quiet. Everything was wrong."
He felt Connor’s arms wrap around him, hesitant at first, then tight, crushing him against his chest. Connor buried his face in Malcolm’s hair.
"You idiot," Connor sobbed, his body shaking. "You stupid, brilliant idiot. Why? You were safe. The war was over. You were at camp."
"I wasn't safe," Malcolm said, his tears soaking into the fabric. "I was never safe without you."
They stayed there for a long time, tangled together on the grass of Elysium. The sun didn't move. The river kept flowing. Silena watched from a distance, wiping her eyes.
Eventually, Malcolm pulled back. He sat up, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He looked down at Connor, who looked terrified.
"Tell me," Connor said softly, reaching up to push a stray curl out of Malcolm’s face. "Tell me everything. From the moment I fell."
Malcolm took a deep breath. He looked out at the water. "It was bad, Con. It was really bad."
He started with the explosion. He told Connor about the silence in the cabin. He told him about the funeral pyre they hadn't had yet, because they hadn't found a body. He told him about Travis crying, and Chiron’s silence.
Then he told him about the meeting.
"The fight with Annabeth," Connor guessed, his face darkening. "I figured you’d yell at her. You hate losing arguments."
"I didn't just yell at her," Malcolm said, his voice hard. "I destroyed her."
He recounted the scene in the Big House. He described the look on her face when he said he wasn't a hero. He told Connor about the revelation of the beer bottle, the confession he had screamed at the room. He told Connor how he had stripped off his necklace and called Annabeth a murderer.
Connor listened, his jaw clenched. When Malcolm got to the part about the glass, Connor reached out and took Malcolm’s hand, interlacing their fingers.
"I wanted to kill her, Con," Malcolm admitted, his voice trembling. "I looked at her, and I just wanted her to hurt as much as I did. But I knew she wouldn't. She has thick skin. She’s a soldier. She’d rationalize it."
"So you left," Connor said.
"So I left," Malcolm nodded. "I went to the cabin. I took her dagger. The one Luke gave her."
Connor flinched. "That's... heavy."
"She used it to plan," Malcolm said bitterly. "She used it to draw lines on maps that got people killed. I thought it was fitting."
He described the walk to the woods. The note. The coldness of the ground.
"I didn't hesitate," Malcolm said, looking at his wrists again. "I thought I would be scared. I thought survival instinct would kick in. But it didn't. It just felt like... solving a math problem. The only solution to an impossible equation."
He looked at Connor, tears spilling over again. "I did it because I couldn't bear the thought of you being here alone. I know how you get. You get bored. You get lonely. You start acting out. Who was going to prank you? Who was going to stop you from stealing nectar from the nearest table?"
Connor let out a wet, broken laugh. "You killed yourself to keep me from being bored?"
"I killed myself because I love you," Malcolm corrected fiercely. "And because Annabeth took you away from me. And if the only way to be with you was to die, then I was going to take the express route."
Connor sat up and pulled Malcolm into a hug, wrapping his arms around Malcolm’s waist and burying his face in his neck. "I hate it," Connor mumbled into his skin. "I hate that you did that. I hate that you hurt yourself. It makes me feel sick."
"I'm sorry," Malcolm whispered, stroking Connor’s hair. "I know it's selfish. I know Travis is going to be devastated. I know the camp is going to be a mess."
"Travis," Connor said, pulling back. "Oh gods. Travis."
"I know," Malcolm said softly. "I left him. I left him alone. I'm a terrible person."
"You're not a terrible person," Connor said. "You were his brother's boyfriend... he's going to be messed up."
"We can't do anything about it now," Malcolm said, the cold logic of the afterlife setting in. "The variables are set. We're here. He's there. The connection is severed."
Connor looked at Malcolm, his eyes searching. "Are you okay? I mean... really okay? You look... fragile."
Malcolm let out a long sigh. He looked at his hands, then at the paradise around them. "I don't know yet. I feel... light. But not in a good way. Like I'm missing a gravity that was holding me down. I don't feel the grief anymore, because you're right here. But I feel the... memory of it. Like a phantom limb."
He looked at Connor intensely. "Don't leave me again."
"I'm not going anywhere," Connor promised. "We're dead, Malcolm. We're eternal. We have forever."
"Forever," Malcolm tested the word. "That's a long time."
"We can do whatever we want," Connor said, a spark of his old mischievousness returning. "Beckendorf is building a house. Silena is planting a garden. We can build a library. An engineering lab. We can steal Apollo’s chariot."
"Stealing Apollo's chariot sounds dangerous," Malcolm murmured.
"We're already dead," Connor grinned. "What's he gonna do? Kill us?"
Malcolm looked at Connor’s grin. It was the same grin he had fallen in love with three years ago. It was the grin that had balanced out Malcolm’s anxiety, the grin that had made the bad days bearable.
Malcolm leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't a desperate, breathless kiss. It was slow, gentle, and heartbreaking. It tasted like strawberries and nectar and the salt of tears. It felt like coming home after a war that lasted a lifetime.
When they pulled apart, Connor rested his forehead against Malcolm’s.
"I missed you," Connor whispered. "Even though I didn't know I was gone for long. It felt like an eternity. I kept waiting for you to show up. I told Beckendorf, 'He’s smart. He’ll figure it out. He’s too stubborn to stay alive without me.'"
"I did figure it out," Malcolm said. "It just took a little blood loss."
Connor flinched again, but he didn't pull away. He grabbed Malcolm’s wrists, even though the skin was healed, and held them tight. "Never again, okay? If we get reincarnated, if we go to the Isles of the Blest, whatever... no more dying before the other one. That’s the rule."
"Okay," Malcolm agreed. "Synchronized expiration. Got it."
Connor laughed, a sound that was pure music in the golden air. "Gods, I love you, you nerdy suicide statistic."
"I love you too, you reckless hero casualty."
They sat there on the banks of the river, holding hands as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold.
Malcolm thought of Camp Half-Blood. He thought of the note on the rock. He thought of Annabeth finding his body in the woods. He thought of the shattered remains of the Athena cabin.
The guilt was a dull ache now, distant and manageable. He had done what he had to do. He had balanced the equation. He had followed the variable.
He looked at Connor, who was skipping stones on the river of the dead, humming a tune that Malcolm recognized as a song they used to listen to on a stolen iPod in the Hermes cabin.
It was quiet here. It was peaceful.
And for the first time in three years, Malcolm Pace didn't have to calculate the next move. He didn't have to worry about the strategy. He didn't have to be the strong one.
He could just be.
And as Connor turned to him, eyes bright with a new eternity, Malcolm realized that while history might hate lovers, death didn't seem to mind them at all.