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Funerals are not meant to be quiet affairs. There is a reason they burn the body on a roaring pyre. There is a reason they feast afterward—it is a celebration of a warrior’s life, a toast to what he goes on to after this world.
There is nothing to celebrate about a fourteen-year-old boy’s death.
He did not lose his life in battle. He did not sacrifice himself for the greater good.
It was a senseless slaughter.
And Niklaus is to blame.
At least, that is what their father says. That is what Niklaus believes.
Elijah watches Niklaus across the flickering flames of their little brother’s pyre. His face is empty.
Under his right eye a bruise flares, angry and swollen. Elijah can only guess that Father gave him this prize. A reminder.
As if the burning body is not enough.
Rebekah loops her arm through his. Leans her head on her shoulder, their blond hair weaving together as if one.
He does not turn, does not acknowledge her. His hands remain clasped in front of him.
…
The feast is not as raucous as it is meant to be. Father roves about, his hearty cries more angry than joyous.
Niklaus is nowhere to be found.
Elijah first goes to Rebekah. “Where is he?”
She need not ask who he means. “Not here.” Her cheeks are streaked with tears.
Elijah wipes them away as best he can before leaving her.
Mother kneels in front of a fire. Neither cooking nor eating. It almost looks like she is praying. To what god, to what end, Elijah cannot guess.
Elijah finds his brother by the stream. Away from the village. Away from everyone. His knees are drawn to his chest, body curled tight around them as if he hopes to disappear.
Sorry, brother. I will always find you.
He sits beside Niklaus, leaving a little space between them. Inviting Niklaus to close the gap.
Instead he scoots further away.
“Have you eaten anything?”
Niklaus is silent.
“You should eat.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t want to.”
“Penitence, brother?”
“I’m not hungry.” He stares straight ahead, not looking at Elijah.
Elijah lays his hand gently over Niklaus’s. “You cannot blame yourself. This is not your fault.”
“So they keep telling me. Mother, Rebekah. Even Tatia said so.”
“They’re right.”
“They’re liars, Elijah. None of them believe what they’re saying.”
“Niklaus—”
He jerks, throwing off Elijah’s hand. “Why are you here, brother? Will you lie to me as well?” His question is fierce, venomous with accusation, but the hurt in his eyes is like an ocean.
“I’m here,” Elijah falters. “Because I was worried.” Because I care for you. Because I can’t stand to see you in pain. Because you’re my brother.
Because I love you.
“Don’t be, if that’s all you’re here to do,” he spits.
“Then what do you want from me? Tell me, Niklaus.” Tell me so I can make it better.
“Tell me the truth,” he whispers. “Tell me it was my fault.”
Elijah is already shaking his head. Niklaus turns to face him, his expression full of pain. “Go on. Tell me I deserve to die, tell me it should have been me.”
“Brother—”
“It should have been!” His voice is half-scream by now. “You’re too blind or stupid or cowardly to say it, but you know.”
He sounds drunk, but Elijah can’t smell any ale on his breath.
He hasn’t been sleeping, Elijah knows. This could be exhaustion.
Or it’s just grief. Niklaus is drunk on grief.
Elijah grasps his brother’s jaw between his hands. “I will not. Niklaus.”
Niklaus stares at him blankly, eyes clouded with tears that will not fall. “Why not,” he whispers.
Elijah has no answer.
Their faces are so close Elijah can feel warm breath on his face.
There is no justifying what Elijah does next. Born out of a desperate desire to cull the screaming despair in Niklaus’s eyes—a need that goes underneath his skin, into the very blood they share.
He leans forward and presses his lips against his brother’s.
Niklaus’s lips are dry but somehow still soft. He does not move as Elijah kisses him, though his lips tremble.
Elijah inhales his brother’s scent, so familiar to him. Wild and sweet at the same time.
He allows himself three beats of silence before he pulls back, their lips parting with a soft pop.
Niklaus stares at him, a flicker of shock in that empty expression. His lips part, mouth soundlessly, as if searching for something to say—or searching for that comfort again.
Elijah offers him a little smile.
Niklaus seizes his jaw in one hand, his neck in the other, and pulls Elijah in for another kiss.
He’s rougher. Almost angry, and certainly desperate in the way his lips collide with Elijah’s. Devouring, searching. His tongue presses against Elijah’s teeth. Savoring.
Elijah freezes—but only for a second. His brother is alive under his hands, and that is worth any fear crawling in his heart. He cups Niklaus’s cheeks more firmly between his hands and kisses back.
Elijah kept their first kiss relatively chaste, but Niklaus does not do the same. He laps at Elijah like a parched, dying man drinks from a well. His breath is hot and frenzied against Elijah’s skin, the warmth of his hands building a film of sweat between them.
“Wh—” Elijah gasps. He doesn’t tear himself away, not completely. He won’t, not when Niklaus is showing more life than he has since he stumbled home with his brother’s body in his arms. “What are we doing?”
Niklaus hums, a noise that is half whimper and half moan. “I don’t know.” He pants into Elijah’s mouth, tongue lingering on his older brother’s lips.
His fingers lock in Elijah’s hair. Tethering them together.
“But please don’t stop.”