Chapter Text
- Pete is not married, and he’s never met his soulmate.
- Pete is not quite good, and not quite bad either. Is that what they call grey?
- Will is starting to like grey.
These are the things Will knows about Pete.
- William is a young man with a lot of darkness in him.
- William has got a jagged shine about him.
- Pete is starting to like those rough edges.
These are the things Pete knows about William.
These are the things Pete compartmentalises when he looks at the young man across him, currently sipping on his whisky. He had wanted to buy a cup of hot chocolate for the kid, but William had gone straight for a whisky, currently huddled over it like some sort of washed-up college student. Pete decides that he doesn’t like the image. He much prefers to have a mug of hot chocolate fogging up the kid’s face, chocolate on his lips and in his teeth, smiling ruddily like the hearth in winter. His gaze wanders for a moment, tuning out William’s soft chatter. He thinks of himself smiling as he leads William into the cab, him who held William’s hand and shared soulmarks like they were going on a camping trip.
Pete has seen families with their children, as he wandered down the avenue on his way to work. Sipping on lemonade at the sidewalk, skidding on ice, laughing that twinkling little laugh. He has gone to his friends’ funerals, over and over, seen caskets lowered into the ground, ashes scattered over a cliff into the ocean, their sons and daughters crying and reading out their eulogies of love and fulfilled lives. He has seen their epitaphs. Rest in Peace, devoted father—
Pete is selfish, his time is running out, and oh… he wants one for his own. He doesn’t want to die alone anymore.
William takes another sip of the whisky. Pete’s gaze is unfocused, he’s daydreaming, but he still notices the way William’s eyes flutter shut as the searing alcohol makes its way down. William was objectively… what people would call pretty . He could see it, of course, everyone could see it. Fluffy brown hair, a nice smile, a nose with a soft slope, plump pink lips, pianist fingers and a good figure. Pete didn’t care much for those traits, although he had to admit that they could be useful, dangerous even. But William’s scheming, his brilliant charisma, his idealism, ambition, fierce loyalty— those were things Pete wanted in a son.
No. You don’t want a son , he reminds himself angrily. You want a legacy . You want a protege .
They were talking about philosophy, geography, anything that came to mind. Pete was perfectly content to let Will lead the conversation at this point. The kid was impressively well-versed in general trivia, though of course not as much as himself. Then again, he hasn’t met anyone who was. Jebediah had tried, heavily persuaded by his acquaintances. The operative word being tried. Pete suppresses a grimace at the thought of the businessman.
“Pete?” Will was looking at him intently. Pete flinches, but he’s learned to redirect it into another movement, this time leaning back into the seat.
“William.”
William falls silent again. Pete cannot always completely comprehend what he’s thinking, but right now he’s got a pretty clear idea. It is clear from the kid’s dilated pupils, so dark it was almost black, like looking through the crimson stained-glass panes of a cathedral. He is a soft butterfly landing on the edge of William’s knife.
Ah. Kids really do grow up too fast these days.
“Talk to me, William.”
Annoyance flashes across William’s face, twisting his features a little bit.
“I have been talking. We’ve talked. What more do you want me to say?”
Pete internally berates himself for leading with such a stupid line. “You’re still angry.”
“You won’t get it. You mostly weren’t there when it happened,” William replies, but his voice has no trace of accusation in it.
Pete thinks about the scene he saw when he entered the office. The woman announcing William’s soulmark, holding his wrist, and she had the audacity to fuck around with his—
His kid? His coworker? His… Pete settles on apprentice.
But it is not her that gets him angry. He knows there will always be resentment in this world, the bullies, the adversaries, and the prejudices. There was so much of it, an extravagant, ridiculous excess. He knows her— Helen’s anger like he knows his own soulmark. It was a knowing borne of first-hand experience, a reluctant and unhealthy sort of intimacy. He’s too tired to wax poetry or philosophize about redemption or condemnation anymore.
What makes him more furious than anything was that he wasn’t there.
He thinks about William— frozen with fear like a child, like a little boy, weak. He wishes he was there to bring back the young man he’s seen before, laughing with sharp confidence and giggling with mischievous glee.
But then they started recording him, and in the spotlight at that last moment, the darkness in William emerged and bared its fangs, vicious and snarling like a cornered beast.
He could still hear William’s words: Read it, you bitch.
Pete thinks of William’s bloody hands, smearing desperately at Arty’s face, Arty’s broken nose. Blood looks uncannily good on the kid, like streaks of blusher or rouge making his eyes sharper, drawing attention to all the different angles of his face and neck and collarbones. There had been a grandeur about him, an opera-house vermillion, or a Renaissance painting. William was changing. Boys do grow up too fast nowadays. It’s a reassurance, knowing he can look forward to who William is going to become.
I know what he is. I’ve seen the pencil in his hand. If I let myself forget, then I am a fool. I brought him to a bar, not a bloody cafe.
“We need to start doing something other than leaving our tags in videos, Pete. It’s been more than three weeks. I’m tired of waiting,” William says.
“We should start on the ARG, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah.” William buries his face in his hands, then takes another swig of whisky.
Pete frowns, and prys the kid’s hand away. “Don’t drink so fast. You’re gonna get wasted too quickly if you do that.”
“Yeah, that’s the fucking point.” William refuses to meet his eyes, and reaches out for the glass. “Give me back my goddamn drink.”
Annoyance flares in him at the kid’s sudden drunken unhingedness. Pete smacks him lightly. “Don’t use vulgarities like that, William.”
“You don’t tell me what to do—!” William snaps, and his hand darts out, lightning-quick. Pete grabs his arm easily (makes sure not to go anywhere near the kid's wrist), and pins it to the table like taming a feral cat. “Hey, hey. Hey . Stop it. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“No, no, counselling is over, okay? Drop it, I just want—” William hiccups, his voice breaking— “I’m over this shit.”
Pete panics internally. This is something he doesn’t quite know how to handle. The youths he dealt before hated affection—William drank it in, whether he knew it or not. Then again, he’s never met anyone as special as William.
So Pete needs to be strong.
“Don’t worry, okay? You’re such a worrier. The ARG is going to be fine. We’re going to deal with everything that’s happened today, one step at a time. You’re not going to do everything by yourself. Hey, hey. William. Look at me, okay?” He crosses over to William’s side of the seat, slides in despite the kid’s half-hearted noise of annoyance.
“Don’t panic. Breathe, okay?” William still doesn’t look at him, wary and hunched over like a child being reprimanded.
He puts a fond smile on his own face, reaches out and ruffles William’s hair, rehearsing Phil’s movements. “You… are such a worrier.”
Only then does William look at him, doe eyes downturned, lashes twitching, brow drawn into a tight line.
And the weakness— it should disgust him, frustrate him like it usually does, but it doesn’t.
He hopes the kid can see that. He hopes the kid knows it’s endearing. He hopes, hopes for what he doesn’t know how to say.
“William,” he says finally, dragging the word out, and is surprised by the reverence in his own voice. “What do you need?”
And there , the fire in the boy’s eyes return.
“Tell me what to do,” William says, voice quiet and alcohol-dampened, like a molotov.
Good. Good. Wonderful.
“I want you to talk to Jebediah, and get some inspiration for the ARG.” he can barely keep the excitement out of his voice.
A mixture of uncertainty and surprise flashes across William’s face, but it doesn’t linger. Of course. One never expects legends or stories to be as real as they come. Pete blinks— “Is that okay?”
“I’ll do it,” William sounds slightly out of breath.
“Okay. Stay here. I’ll text him.” Pete moves back to his side, and he sees William twitch.
P: You up?
J: what do u want
P: You free?
J: wHAT
P: I have someone who wants to meet you.
J: refer them to work email
J: dumbass
P: Not business. Just interested in talking.
J: bullshit lol
J: this shit doesnt work on me anymore
J: wtf do they want
P: He wants advice.
P: Can I let him explain?
J: no
P: Are you busy?
J: yes
P: With what?
J: fuck off
P: One call. Come on. I kept you alive in Bhutan last month.
J: fuck you
J: ok fine
J: who the fuck is this guy anyway
P: My friend. Please be civil with him, I’ve told him a lot about you.
J: He’s in the mafia , right?
J: …???
P: He’s not.
J: WTF
J: AND YOU TOLD HIM ABOUT ME
J: WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU
J: SENILE PIECE OF SHIT
J: Fix this. Now. Take the fucker out. I fucking mean it.
P: This kid’s different.
J: Bullshit.
P: This kid is different from the rest. I’ve been in this business for a long time. Have my instincts been wrong?
J: Rarely. But still.
P: Anyway, I have a feeling you’ll like him too. He’s five years younger than you.
J: whats his name
P: Just call him Will.
J: what, ur not even gonna gimme a chance to do background check on him
P: Just call me.
J: never again, do u hear me
J: im not a fuckin therapist
Pete’s phone rings and he can see William sit a little straighter. “Just be yourself,” he advises, and William nods slowly, making a visible effort to relax his shoulders. The alcohol probably would have loosened the kid’s tongue at this point. Against Jebediah’s verbal rally though… Pete was starting to regret this decision a little bit. Admittedly, it was made with adrenaline still pumping hard through his blood.
He takes the call, and it doesn’t take long for Schlatt’s voice to filter through.
“Hey. Why am I here, Will?”
Pete sees William freeze up. Needless to say, Schlatt always catches people off guard. Everyone expects the boyish, smug voice of a dashing CEO, never the slimy drawl of a Wall Street Wolf.
“You’re here because I asked for you,” the kid replies, and his eyes widen almost comically when what he just said had registered in his brain. Pete wonders, with some glee, if William had forgotten who he was talking to.
Schlatt is silent for a while, and there’s alarm in William’s voice when he backtracks, “Uh— I didn’t mean that, I’m just a little tipsy right now—”
But then Schlatt laughs, a burst of loud roaring laughter for which Pete had to quickly cover the mic of the phone for, muffling the sound into bursts of static. “I don’t bite. Don’t mince your words around me,” Schlatt says after the guffaws stop.
Schlatt introduces himself as Jebediah, as he always does.
“I just remembered— Jebediah sounds Hebrew,” William points out. Pete can’t help but smirk. Clever.
Schlatt hums. “Yes. Don’t give yourself a headache about it.” His voice is level, contemplative. “You haven’t answered my question. Why am I here?”
William seems to get the hint not to beat around the bush any longer. “I need your advice on something. It’s an ARG. An Alternate Reality Game. Like Cicada 3301, if you know it.”
Schlatt scoffs. “Of course I know it, kid. I was one of the guys profiting from the fucking operation. Still am, by the way. You do know who I am right? A fucking ARG? This isn’t Little League. Pete, you really made me call? For this shit ?”
William rolls his eyes. “ Oh please, no one’s asking you to get emotionally invested. I myself was under the impression you were a lot more than this.”
“You know what they say: never meet your heroes. What were you expecting? More what— generosity?”
“I know better than to expect generosity from a capitalist,” William replies, and Schlatt barks out laughter again.
The frown on William’s face slowly morphs into a smirk, and red flag, red flag, the brat’s got something up his sleeve again . William speaks again, tentatively pronouncing each word, the picture-perfect image of innocence. “Hm… maybe, I wanted to see someone with more guts. Or are you not experienced enough in this field to help me?” He cocks his head and bats his eyelashes at Pete, smiling like a fucking cupid.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, I—” Schlatt falls silent all of a sudden. “You’re trying to rile me up, aren’t you?”
William fucking giggles . “Maybe. Is it working?”
Pete thinks he must be dreaming.
Schlatt makes an affronted noise and curses softly. “Shameless son of a bitch.” His voice has something different to it, this time. Pete replays it in his alcohol-laden brain a few times until he vaguely identifies it as curiosity .
William giggles again, and Schlatt sighs. “What’s the purpose of making this ARG?”
“The original purpose was for attention. Things are different now. I also want revenge on some people.” Huh. William could be incredibly honest with himself when not sober. Pete really should do this more often.
“Revenge, eh? I’ve always liked a good underdog, you know,” Schlatt purrs, “I have fun showing them their place. They fall over and over, so weak , but then eventually rise up and fuck up the status quo. You hate to see it. But hey, it's in their nature. And naturally, When our paths cross too much, I will put you down.”
Goosebumps run down William’s arms. "Oh," he says.
“Ah, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Schlatt says. Pete can hear a smile in his voice. He could imagine Schlatt right now, lounging on his sofa with a glass of cider, kicking up his polished oxfords, blazer thrown over his lap.
“I’m not scared,” William replies, which was as stupid as he could get.
Schlatt hums in response, dismissive. The sound of fabric at the other end signaled him stripping out of his suit. It continued for a while, punctuated by occasional yawns. Then there was the heavy rustling of sheets. God, Pete doesn’t want to think about the thread count of his Egyptian cotton bedspread right now. The minutes tick by, and William’s knuckles grow whiter by the second.
“You’re lucky I don’t know who or where you are yet,” Schlatt says as an afterthought, groaning as he stretched and the joints of his spine popped. “Don’t make that mistake again.”
William’s a clever boy, always has been. Pete is satisfied with how his eyes sharpen.
“Anyway…” Schlatt yawns once more, and by the way William’s eyelids are starting to droop as well, Pete could tell they were both slightly unfocused. “... Revenge. I'm all about that. The greatest act of revenge in the bible was as follows. Moses asked the Pharaoh to let the enslaved Israelites go, but he wouldn’t.”
“So God turned the Nile, along with all the water in the land, was turned into blood. Frogs covered the land. The dust was turned into gnats. Flies fill the house and land of Egypt. All their livestock die. Boils break out on them. But the Pharaoh would not let the Isralites go,” William murmurs, “Then hail strikes down on everything in the fields. Locusts devour every tree and plant. Darkness covers Egypt for three days. But still, the Pharaoh does not let the Israelites go.”
Schlatt continues— “So God sent the death angel to kill the first-born child of every family and the firstborn of every animal. The Bible says that there was loud crying in Egypt for there was not a household without someone dead. The smell of rot could reach the heavens itself.”
William opens his mouth, then closes it. Pete sees his brows furrow slightly in concentration. “You’re proposing a plague for the ARG,” he says slowly.
“You do do your bible study,” Schlatt says.
“I have a good teacher,” William replies, and his words are sincere. Pete’s heart trembles a little, pushing laughter out from his lungs. William looks up as him, and smiles widely.
William leans forward, steeples his fingers. His sleep-laden eyelids droop, before snapping open again. He stands up to get a glass of water, stumbling slightly in the process. When he returns to his seat, his fingers and shirt are wet with small splashes. Then he starts to sip.
Pete tracks the small motions on William’s face, the gradually deepening frown and the way he worries at his bottom lip. Minutes tick by, and the other end of the phone is silent. William’s eyes flicker to the phone.
“Hey,” Pete says, and taps at William’s fingers to get his attention. “No rush. If he doesn’t wait, it’s his loss.”
William puts his head down, and so they wait.
And wait.
William utters the word, “anthrax” a minute later— like one would say “I love you”, soft and delicate, a paper-thin whisper you send the fickle wind to carry, taking a gamble for the other person to receive it. A confession of the shadows.
“What did you say, William?” Pete asks. He needs to hear it out of William’s mouth once more. William lifts his head up, stares at his mug, but doesn’t respond. He’s waiting for Schlatt’s response, Pete realizes. You don’t confess twice. Either they hear it the first time or they don’t.
A minute passes before Schlatt says,“You’re not serious enough to pull off what you’re proposing.”
“I need some more time,” William says. He sounds confused.
Wasn’t this Pete’s nightmare? William at war with himself? It wasn’t a thing of grand retrospective wonder like the World Wars— this, seeing this, this is feral carnage. This is the slaughter of a butcher’s shop. This is William tearing himself apart from the inside. He’s scared of himself, again. Again and again and again William becomes his own worst enemy, his conscience ripping him apart.
“Have you used it on someone before?” William changes the conversation. Schlatt gives a slow tsk-tsk.
“I’m a businessman. How would I maintain my clientele if I kill people left and right?”
William flinches.
“Someone has used it on me before. Tried to , at least,” Schlatt continues.
“Why didn’t you die?” William asks, and knowing the kid, it’s a genuine question— but he demands it, demands to know, and his voice is vengeance and brokenness. Pete knows what he’s thinking, it’s what they always think— How could you live? Why? How could you live after everything you’ve done? How did you negate karma? How did you cheat divine judgement?
Schlatt laughs coldly, and there is ice in Pete’s veins.
“You sound unhappy about that, Wilbur,”Schlatt says cheerily. “If I didn’t know any better , I’d say you wanted me dead.”
William doesn’t say a thing.
It’s either because he’s not sure or he’s guilty , Pete thinks.
“To answer your question, I was vaccinated,” Schlatt continues, “and it had no effect.”
William’s expression is unreadable. “That’s enough for today. I’ll think it over.” His words are starting to softly fade out.
Schlatt chuckles—“I don’t give favours for free. Answer one question, and I’ll let you go.”
William frowns, but he lays his head on the table and agrees.
“Have I lived up to your expectations?” Schlatt asks. Pete couldn’t tell if he sincerely cared about William’s response. Schlatt never did anything without a goal in mind. This question could be misdirection. A distraction. No, perhaps he genuinely wanted to know. Was he trying to gauge William’s… no, how much Schlatt gains from this question depends on how William answers. That was strange. Schlatt usually doesn’t like asking open-ended questions, doesn’t like asking questions that he can’t predict the answers to, doesn’t like asking questions that are harmless.
The standard, correct way to answer this question was to give Schlatt as little information to work with as possible, Pete knows from experience.
“Looking back, you don’t surprise me,” William muses. “You’re very dangerous. But I knew that because Pete told me so. And I’m not prepared for it, but I expected it. I’m comfortable with you. I’m comfortable with that. I think this was what you wanted.”
Pete’s surprised William is aware of it— that sense of security Schlatt’s trying to lull him into. He’s more alarmed by the fact that William’s just letting it happen, that William is being so utterly transparent about his thoughts.
William hasn’t let anyone this far into his head, not even Pete. So why the fuck would he let Schlatt—
Pete recalls William’s soft, steady words: Tell me what to do.
William’s mostly exhausted his pre-emptive knowledge on Schlatt so far, and Pete had stopped guiding him along by this point. Was that why he let his guard down? No. William was smarter than that. Perhaps, just perhaps, without Pete’s guidance, the kid was starting to subconsciously move on his own— experimenting with truth or lie, sincerity or manipulation, soft or harsh, testing what Schlatt responds to best.
Regardless, he can’t win in Schlatt’s brand of 4D chess, on Schlatt’s chessboard, with Schlatt’s pieces, by Schlatt’s rules.
Pete has known Schlatt for nine years, yet he doesn’t know the board, doesn’t know the rules. Doesn’t really understand the entire enigma that was Schlatt. Not for a lack of trying, of course. In the beginning, he pried and he prodded, he blackmailed and he threatened, bought favors here and there. It doesn’t work, it never does. He peels back one lie after another, cuts and dissects, but the mask always stays.
By the seventh year, when Schlatt’s walls are stacked green bills, and his heart is the cigarette-smoke gas chamber of a casino,
Pete learns not to play.
William has never been in more danger than he is right now , Pete knows.
Schlatt yawns and William follows afterwards. “‘M tired,” William sighs, and Pete wants nothing more than to tuck him into bed.
The kid sits upright with great effort, then falls face flat on the table again. Pete dashes forward to stop him from breaking his nose.
Schlatt’s speech is slurring. “Night, William.”
William’s fast asleep already, and Pete heaves a sigh, reaches across the table to massage the bare skin of William’s neck. The kid’s gonna catch a cold at this rate. “The kid’s asleep, Schlatt. He’s fucking wasted.”
There is a sudden rustle of sheets on the other end, and when Schlatt speaks again, his voice is completely clear, devoid of any fatigue. The change makes Pete pause, but he’s been subjected to this kind of thing so frequently that it no longer makes him flinch. Schlatt’s acting could be uncanny.
“We are going to negotiate conditions. I’m interested in making a deal.”
“Regarding Will?”
“Who else?” Schlatt chuckles darkly. “Tentatively, I want one more phone call with him. You and I both benefit. You want him to get some help from me. And I want to talk to him more.”
That was true. If William was to gain any ground later on, he should start networking early. And Schlatt was the perfect resource for that purpose. Pete had predicted that Schlatt would be curious about William, and it was going according to plan, but everything was happening a little too fast for his liking.
“Do not try anything with him, Schlatt,” Pete tells him.
Schlatt ignores him. “I still don’t know what you’re planning to do to him, you know,” he says.
“Do not approach him directly. Do not trace or track him,” Pete pauses. “Do not attempt to recruit him. Have I made myself clear?”
“My Familia doesn’t want your leftovers,” Schlatt says.
It stings slightly. Leftovers , huh. Was that how Schlatt saw William?
Pete sends William home eventually.
He tucks William in. He prepares a hot glass of water that he knows will get cold in the morning, goes to the local pharmacy to buy hangover medicine, and leaves it by William’s bed.
Like a good father does.
He smokes three cigarettes on the balcony to wash the dangerous, addictive feeling of domesticity away from his lungs, and wishes he could cry.