Chapter Text
Maurice woke slowly, dazed. It felt like his mouth was dripping yet deathly dry. Sheets tangled around his legs, sticking uncomfortably like a second skin. Sweat cooled on his forehead and his hair was drenched. The digital clock on his bedside table blinked 3:17 PM in an agonizing neon red. His throat burned like he had swallowed shards of glass. Fever, he vaguely realized, pressing the back of his hand to his head. He was clammy, way too hot. He’d been sick for days, maybe longer. Time had blurred into a haze of chills and fitful sleep.
The dream lingered at the edges of his vision: Roger’s dirty hands, the bug crawling along his skin, the way his voice had wavered when he called out to Maurice accusingly. The latter shuddered and halfheartedly kicked the blankets off. The room spun when he stood, but he gripped the dresser until the dizziness passed. Just a fever dream, he told himself, though his pulse hammered in his throat.
He wished it wasn't.
He stumbled downstairs, the wooden steps creaking under his unsteady weight. The house was empty, his mum at work probably. The kitchen faucet dripped into a puddle within the sink. Maurice traveled over and gulped water straight from the tap, the cold shocking his system momentarily. The liquid tasted metallic like old pipes and a substance faintly coppery. Blood. Lots of blood. He shook his head slightly despite the obvious ache it provided. Maurice wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and caught sight of his reflection in the microwave door. He looked pale, eyes hollowed like near death. He looked wrong.
He was missing something and he no longer belonged.
The front door swung open with a rumble. Outside, the afternoon light was gentle, filtered through thick clouds. Clouds ready to cry for something. The air smelled like grass and distant rains. Maurice moved without thinking, his bare feet slapping painfully against the pavement. The neighborhood passed him like nothing. There were Mrs. Henley’s rose bushes and the exact curb where Jack had unfortunately face-planted last year. There was also the shortcut through the alley where Roger had once pressed him against the brick wall and almost—
No. Because that never happened. Roger never almost did anything. Why couldn't he have done it?
Maurice walked past cars and streets, entirely powered by autopilot and the oncoming memories. He finally managed to stopped, his legs aching. Maurice has been sick for days. A gate loomed ahead, rusted iron swirling its way up ornate spikes. He could cut his finger on that. He wouldn't mind. Maurice hadn’t meant to come here. But he did. There was a song calling him and he'd be an idiot to reject.
Roger went missing for 3 days. Maurice was sick for more than 3 days.
He had a fever dream.
His breath trembled as he stepped forward, rocks within the soil pressing into his soles. The huge stones were old, weathered by decades of wind and rain. But one stood apart. It was fresh, the stone light and bright against the earth.
"Ma'am, are you sure you would like to install a Angel of Grief upon this? It may cost you over £4,000."
This was stupid. It was all stupid. It shouldn't say anything on it. It should not even exist. But it does. Maurice’s fingers traced the grooves of the letters, granite biting cold under his fingertips. It forced him awake. Maurice's heated breath fogged in the air. Wrong. Because he had vanished in late spring, when the air couldn't choose between cool and hot, birds were wildly chirping, and rain liked to come and go. But here, in this great yard, a faint hint of frost clung to the edges of nature.
A crow cawed overhead. Maurice looked up and the sky instantly blinded him.
.
.
.
Two officers burst from the tree line, their boots kicking up mud. A body sagged in one man's hold, arms hanging like a broken marionette. The boy's head lolled, chin tipped up to expose the ragged gash across his throat. It was far from clean and surgical, but desperate, as if he’d sawed at it with his own nails. It was obvious that he used something sharp instead, but the weapon remained unable to be found. Blood soaked his shirt black, dripping down his wrists to patter on the leaves.
One officer shouted into his radio, static cracking the air with a piercing ring. The other, a newer and younger officer, vomited into some of the precious ferns.
A woman met them the rest of the way. Her slippers skidded in the wet grass as she ran, arms outstretched. The first officer blocked her, his voice low and urgent, but she shoved past him, her hands fluttering over the boy's still face. Her scream was so distraught it was far from human. It was as if heartbreak had gained a sound.
Maurice watched from the side, a little tipsy from shock. He had followed the search party on a whim, with his bike abandoned in the ditch. Now, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. The poor boy's lips were turning blue. His eyes were closed, but his eyelids reflected the melancholy sun.
The younger officer lifted the kid's limp hand, showing the palm to his partner. Even from a distance, Maurice saw the stains of Nightshade, the same poison Roger had tried to slip Sam.
He wanted to see which would take him out first, the cut or the poison.
This wasn't like him at all.
The mother staggered back, collapsing against the railing, her wails dissolving into wet, strained gasps. “Why?” she choked out, her fingers curling into shaking fists against her chest. “Why would he—?”
She could hardly breathe out the words.
An officer exchanged a look with his partner. Neither answered. Who ever could?
The father emerged from the house, his face ashen. This was the gravest emergency for the family. He took one look at his son’s body and turned away, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. His shoulders shook silently.
It's odd how sobs could appear so similarly to laughter.
Maurice felt nauseous. He doubled over just like the guy before, bile scorching his throat. He felt more though. His heart and soul and intestines were escaping him. Leaves flinched with his retching. When he wiped his mouth, his fingers came away disgusting and he almost puked again.
The ambulance arrived with lights flashing but there was no need for a siren. The paramedics moved slowly, as if they already knew it was too late. Because it was far from too late. One checked for a pulse out of habit, then shook his head. God's miracle if there was any sign of life. Another draped a sheet over the body, but not before Maurice saw the way the fingers curled inward, his nails battered with dirt and dried blood. He'd been clawing at Earth until the very end. He always fought.
The woman could barely stand at this point. “He was constantly so angry,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers threatened to rip her shirt apart by a thread. “But I never thought... I didn’t know—”
.
.
.
Maurice blinked and suddenly he was back in front of the gravestone.
Roger Connor
(2011-2026)
He just couldn't read what it said. So, he reluctantly stood up. He wanted to hold onto the grave and never let go. However, Maurice's legs moved before his mind did.
They took him past places he went with the others, they took him up these hills and past those roads. The only thing Maurice could think about was how much he missed Roger.
The atmosphere became filled with the suffocating scent of coal and steel. He could hear it even from afar.
The tracks hummed under Maurice’s sneakers, a vibration that traveled up his bones like an involuntary pulse. He didn’t recall walking here. He didn't mind it. The miniature rocks shifted underfoot, nipping at him, but the pain was distant. Each exhale he took was a ghost swallowed by the growing darkness. Maur was at the graveyard longer than he thought.
He didn’t stop to think for a moment. He didn’t stop at all. The wind tugged at his sleeves, insistent like someone was attempting to pull him back. It didn't matter, every sense inside of him was numbed to the core. His skin was numb and it had been for days. Ever since the dreaded funeral.
A train whistle trilled in the distance, mournful. Everything but people could tell the future. Maurice didn’t look up. His phone no longer buzzed in his pocket, he turned it when the questions grew too loud. The screen was cracked worse now and he was ashamed of all the late messages he had sent Roger's ghost.
The rails trembled beneath Maurice. Closer now. The whistle shrieked again, crying sharply. It was muffled in the brown haired boy's ears. Maurice’s breath hitched, forced itself out, and got stuck again. Roger’s voice circled him. He swore it did.
Maurice practically laughed. The light appeared first, a blinding halo swelling between the trees and the late sky, bleaching the world white. Maurice squinted into it. For a delirious second, he thought he saw Roger standing near the trees diagonal from him, stance completely soft and hands dangling loosely at his sides. His hair was perfect. His mouth moved silently, shaping words Maurice couldn’t hear, but he hoped it was his name.
The metallic vibrations grew in a roar. Maurice's mind managed to trick him into thinking that shine was the sun was breaking through the clouds. Then the whistle screamed again, shrill.
He didn’t move, didn't flinch, didn't cry. The light swallowed everything: the trees, the sky, the ache in his chest, until all that was left was brightness so intense it burned his skin.
Close enough now that Maurice could feel the heat of it, the rush of air harsh against his skin like his hand brushing Maurice's cheek. Roger is alive, and Maurice is, too.
"When I get home, I'm gonna love you so well."
The thud was deafening. Not the hollow, crumpling impact of flesh hitting steel at a high speed, but something wetter and heavier, like a melon dropped from a great height. Then silence. No screech of brakes. There had been no screams. Just the rhythm of clattering wheels on train tracks that faded into the distance. A slow drip hitting stones.
.
.
.
“We gather here today to mourn the loss of Maurice Brandreth,” the priest announced, fingers pressed together as if holding something fragile. The soul of innocence. “A young man taken too soon.”
Outside the church, rain pattered against the high windows, distorting the colored
light that spilled across the casket. It was closed, of course.
Some things were never meant to be seen.