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Elias had not intended to kiss anyone at the stroke of midnight this year, but then, he hadn’t expected Peter to be at tonight’s festivities, either. He’s looking particularly sea captainly, his beard at its largest and whitest, his broad shoulders wrapped in that ubiquitous coat of his, his pipe firmly wedged between his teeth, and his eyes, as always, pale and far away. He’s led Elias away into a distant corner, far from the rest of the noisy, excited party, and as midnight sounds, he takes his pipe out of his mouth, wraps one muscular arm around Elias’s shoulders, and pulls him against him for a kiss. Elias goes willingly. He doesn’t precisely regret their last divorce, but of late he’s found himself missing Peter.
As Peter loosens his grip and pulls away from the kiss, Elias finds himself smiling up at him. His lips are tingling, warm and pleasant. Now that he thinks about it, that’s a little strange. Peter’s kisses are rarely warm. He touches his lips.
Peter is watching him intently.
The tingling is spreading. That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Elias’s lips are burning now, and something’s making his limbs feel heavy and foreign, his breathing laboured.
“Peter!” he says, hurt and bewildered. “What did you do to me?” It doesn’t occur to him to call out for help. This is between him and Peter. It always has been.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says, pulling his pipe out from between his teeth for a moment. He doesn’t sound sorry. “You always knew this couldn’t last.”
“But you… you’re killing me!” It’s hard to get the words out. His mouth is numb. He can hardly breathe. He’s stumbled up against a wall, leaning against it heavily as he gasps.
Peter’s pale, distant eyes rest on him, almost uninterested. He shrugs.
Elias’s legs give way and the floor rushes up towards him, but he doesn’t feel the pain as he hits it. The last thing he sees before the world vanishes, and him with it, is Peter’s thick, strong legs, walking away from him.