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There's mud on the carpet when Lampton opens the door. (He stays there when the nights are too long to go home. Lately, every night has been too long. He finds himself taking extra shifts, choosing to come back to his room later and later at night to avoid thinking.) Dirty footprints drag from the window across the floor.
Lampton pulls his sword from its scabbard, following the thick marks that stain the ground with dirt and blood.
A ghost sits in his bed, pulling off its boots.
The sword falls from Lampton's hand before he has the time to strengthen his grip and the ghost turns its head to look at him as the metal hits the floor with a jarring clang , back tensing.
"What's with the face, Thomas?" The ghost asks, expression twisting pleasantly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Lampton stares at him. Dirt clings to the ghost's skin and clothing; an unnatural, unnerving layer. But when the ghost smiles at him there's a phantom of something familiar, some spark of warmth and love that he's been craving for decades.
"Nothing, Lloyd," He tells it. "It's nothing."
Lloyd smiles that dazzling, broad smile, "Come to bed, Thomas."
Sword left on the floor, Lampton gladly goes.
It's gone in the morning, no trace of its existence except a drop of blood on the stone windowsill.
Lampton pulls his clothes on slowly, having discarded them so carelessly the night before. An ache persists in his shoulders like he carries a weight on his back. He feels dirty and there is just barely a layer of grime on his skin.
(He doesn't wash it away.)
The sun has barely risen when he leaves his room, passing through the quarters and away from the castle. There is a cemetery north of here and that is where he goes.
(He elects to leave his sword behind.)
The cemetery is quiet, as it is every morning.
Rows of gravestones greet him silently, worn shapes and distanced silhouettes familiar companions on his journey.
The grave he visits is lonely and there is no body buried beneath the headstone that reads Lloyd Bailey, endlessly loved.
Disrespect is obvious in the cracks and vandalism left behind by visitors to the lot. Lampton knows he shouldn't be angry, but he is.
He has nothing to offer the bodyless grave.
"I'm sorry," He says, as he has every morning.
He leaves before the sun climbs the hills.
He opens his eyes as his bed dips, forced down by a sudden heaviness. The air in the room turns cold and damp as he rolls over on his side.
Lloyd is sitting on the edge of the bed, body bathed in moonlight. He looks almost ethereal (and Lampton thinks about the wings he hasn't seen in twenty years).
"You left," Lampton notes gruffly. Lloyd leans forward, putting one cold hand on his chest.
Dirt crumbles from Lloyd's arms onto the sheets and Lampton's skin. The layer is thicker than it was last night.
His eyes, when Lampton looks, are grey. Lloyd's eyes have always been sharp and striking. These are a shade darker, but they carry the same clever focus and determination that Lampton is willing to fall in love with again and again and again.
"Not forever," Lloyd says, tracing a pattern of something into Lampton's flesh. "What kind of man would I be?"
Lampton takes his hand by the wrist, stopping the movement. Lloyd grows tense as he examines the dirt under the man's nails. "A troubled man," Lampton says. "A victim."
He intertwines their fingers, tugging Lloyd forward.
"I could have taken your troubles away," He murmurs. "If you'd only let me."
Lloyd's lips curl into a pointy grin, leaning ever forward. "I'm letting you now."
"I know." Lampton leans forward too.
The queen watches him with a worried frown. She holds the princess in her arms protectively, as she has since the Enchantress ripped them apart. (Lampton is sure he hasn't earned the right to call her by her name. He's sure no one has.)
"Sir Lampton, are you doing alright?" She asks. "You seem tired , lately."
Lampton smiles at her. "Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty," He answers. There's dirt under his nails. "But I am quite alright."
Cinderella smiles back at him, but there's an edge of caution to it. Like she's aware of his growing otherness and the layers of dirt collecting on his skin. "You've been in Chance's life since he was sixteen," She tells him gently. "I think you've more than earned the right to call me Cinderella."
"That's very kind of you," Lampton says.
The smile ebbs away and she places a light hand on his arm. "Take care of yourself. Please."
Lampton's smile takes on a sharper, self-deprecating edge. "I will, Your Majesty."
They're tangled together in Lampton's bed when Lloyd presses his nails into Lampton's back hard enough to draw blood. It's so cold that Lampton barely feels it.
"Do you know what I am?" He asks.
"Yes," Lampton answers, face hidden by Lloyd's hair.
Lloyd scrapes dirt from Lampton's shoulders. "Do you care?"
Lampton smiles wryly. "Not particularly."
There's a weight to Lampton's whole body in the morning, like someone sits on his chest. His back stings.
He's too cold to move.
"Aren't you tired of this?" Lloyd carves red lines in Lampton's numb flesh with his fingers. It started with his nails, but now his fingertips are slick with blood.
Lampton's sure he's carving his name.
"I could never be tired of you," Lampton says wearily. He has trouble keeping his eyes open now. Dirt fills the folds and creases in his sheets, spilling out onto the floor whenever one of them moves. "Why do you think I'm still here?"
Lloyd kisses the markings he's left. When he leans back his lips are splashed with such a pretty shade of crimson.
"You won't be for much longer," He promises.
Lampton forces his hand up from where it lays limp at his side, barely feeling the pinch of days and days of letters in his skin. He cups Lloyd's face, wiping the blood from the man's lips with his thumb.
"Stay with me?" He mumbles as his eyes begin to slip closed. He loses his grip on Lloyd's face, hand dragging down his front.
Lloyd's smile is gentle as he takes Lampton's hand in his. There's blood on both their hands, as there's always been. "Of course," Lloyd says. "Always."
Lampton opens his eyes and there is no weight to his chest, no sting to his body. He feels warm.
He pushes himself up from where he'd been curled on his side. The sun is only minutes away from the horizon.
"Come with me." Lloyd is standing in the doorway, eyes shining and grin curled so widely on his face. His hand is outstretched (still coated with spots and streaks of dirt. Even from here, Lampton can see the blood under his nails.)
It's so easy to slip from bed (though dirt crumbles from his form when his feet hit the floor).
It’s so easy to cross the room and take Lloyd’s hand (tangling their fingers together between their cold shapes).
It’s so easy to kiss the corners of Lloyd’s lips (ignoring the ghost’s dead eyes and sharp teeth the way he has been for weeks).
It’s so easy to say, “I’m yours, for as long as you need me” (ignoring the body he’s left on his mattress).
(He knows it’s never very long.)