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It’s been cold for three days now. Not the freezing deathliness that Erskine recalls from the last years of the war, nor the iciness of Russia or the aching snowfall north of Edinburgh. Just cold, and sort of miserable, and damp. Erskine hasn’t really left the apartment – preoccupied by growing mounds of correspondence and Corrival’s request for advice. Things haven’t been bad – he’s gotten through a lot of the work he needs to do, has played with the cat, ate adequately (though not well). He knows what it feels like when things get bad – this isn’t it. This is just a hollow aching emptiness in the chest and a sluggish feeling in his limbs. He doesn’t want to do his work, doesn’t want to do anything, but he can push through much more than this strange laziness. He isn’t useless, and even if he misses the others – Skulduggery and Ghastly are in the States trying to find a way to convict Serpine, Anton, Saracen and Larrikin in Australia maybe with their hotel, Dexter god knows where, and Hopeless has business to sort out on the other side of the country – he can move past that. But the apartment is quiet, even with the cat.
Sometimes Erskine feels like he is making up for a crime he never ended up committing. Sometimes, when he is halfway through a draft justifying magical secrecy or about to write to a prominent opposing mage to convince them to join his side, he feels overwhelming grief. Sometimes, when Hopeless just watches him, emotionless, as he explains Corrival and his next steps, Erskine wants to scream. This doesn’t feel like the right cause to follow, not when he remembers discovering his magic in the company of his mortal father, when he recalls the non-magical people who supported him in the past. Or even, at a particularly low point, when he sees a spider making its webs in the bathroom, and he remembers.
Erskine chose this path – this man, this goal – he cannot go back now. He’s declared this to the world, and he’s gotten somewhere too – added credence to a once dubious movement. But Erskine isn’t a sure man, not with this, and he thinks Hopeless may know too – he sees their glances at times, the way they bite their lip – and if they were one to shout their feelings, he wonders what they’d say.
The paper on his desk isn’t an adequate distraction from the whirling in his head, so he walks out of the office for a moment. The rain is still fogging up the window, the sky grey outside – he wants to leave but won’t, because he has work to do. So he glances out the window and sees for a moment his reflection – gold eyes in a dulled face, hair mussed and unbrushed, his collared shirt wrinkled – and picks up his violin.
Hopeless had given it to him a year after the Truce started. He sets it under his chin and begins to play. The tune he plays is old, one that never got written down, one his father taught him centuries ago. He fumbles a little, has to focus to get it right, plays and plays and plays.
The front door opens, with that usual creak, but he doesn’t bother to set down the violin – doesn’t know if he can. Someone walks in behind him, into the living room, sets a bag or something down.
“Erskine?” Hopeless says.
Erskine turns. They must have finished earlier than they had thought they would, to be back here so soon. Their dark hair is damp and their overcoat shiny with water, they dump that on a chair and walk slowly towards him.
“Would you like a hot chocolate?” They ask, no mention of their own journey or its results, no casual greeting. Erskine isn’t crying – it’s unlikely that his face shows the truth of his roiling emotions – but Hopeless doesn’t need visual cues. They’re constantly exposed to the worst parts of Erskine’s soul, cursed to know everyone else’s pain, and sometimes Erskine feels so guilty for that fact, and sometimes so thankful – that someone could know him and still stay.
Erskine puts down his violin, and then the two are hugging, tight and warm.
Hopeless’ magic has always been more of a curse, and that is why they’d gone to the other side of Ireland – trying to find a way to deafen their magic’s scream. Ordinary binding sigils don’t affect them, they need something custom to lock their powers away.
“How was it?” Erskine asks hoarsely, into their hair.
“They’re going to try to make me a bracelet, design new sigils,” Hopeless says. “I’ll have to go back in a month, see if it works.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” Hopeless sighs. “What’s bothering you?”
Erskine sets his forehead again Hopeless’, closes his eyes. They don’t stop hugging. “You know.”
“Uh huh,” Hopeless says. “Why don’t we put a record on, make hot drinks? Leave your work for the afternoon.”
“Okay,” Erskine says.
“I’ll draw a bath,” Hopeless says, pulling away. They glance back at Erskine, considering. “You’ll work this out, you know. I believe you can.”
They head for the bathroom, and Erskine sets the kettle on the stove and waits. The cat, appearing from nowhere to curl around his legs, miaows and he pets it. The kettle wails and the hole in his chest feels smaller than before, and then Hopeless is back and making a pot of tea. The process of life feels exterior and distant, still, but Hopeless grips his hand tight, and tugs him back to the living room.
It's still raining outside, Erskine’s guilt and moral uncertainty remain. But his partner is here, tucked into his side and talking softly, so he sets his head on their shoulder to wait this feeling out. Whatever will happen in the future will happen, but the war is over, the eight have survived – and for once, he has the chance to sort himself out. Maybe he’ll talk this out with Corrival, be honest and see how it goes.
Hopeless puts an arm around his shoulder, and the music is playing, and he sinks into the knowledge that this haze will go away.