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The apartment smelled of dust and disuse—old wood, mildew, and something that reminded James Marriott of faded photographs. The kind of place that hadn’t just been left behind, but forgotten entirely.
He crossed the threshold slowly, suitcase dragging behind him with a low groan. The floor creaked. The realtor had called it charming, historic, and an incredible deal. James hadn't asked why. He knew better by now.
He reached for the light switch, flicking it once. A single bulb sputtered overhead, throwing flickering shadows across cracked wallpaper. The air was wrong—thick, like it had been holding its breath for too long.
James exhaled, rubbing his arms as the chill seeped into his sleeves.
Not again.
He had moved, again, hoping this time would be different. That maybe—just maybe—he could live somewhere without them. But the moment he stepped into the hallway, the same shiver had climbed his spine. That same presence. Whispering in the silence.
He dropped his bag with a thud. “Alright,” he said aloud, tone sharp. “If you’re here, just get it over with. I’m not in the mood.”
For a beat, nothing happened. Then—wind. No open windows, no draft. Just a slow, deliberate curl of air around his neck. His breath misted.
A voice answered. Low, rough. Accented.
“Y’alright, pet?”
James spun on his heel.
The ghost leaned lazily in the doorframe. Tall. Broad. His uniform was an ancient red coat, tattered and scorched at the sleeves. His hair was dark, wavy, tousled like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times and stopped caring. His smirk was easy. Too easy. And he was unmistakably translucent.
James sighed. “Brilliant. Another one.”
The ghost arched a brow. “Another?”
“You’re not my first haunting.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s your name?”
“William Lenney,” the ghost replied. “But most called me Will.” His Geordie accent clung to each word, deep and musical.
James waved vaguely. “Great. Will. How long’ve you been here?”
Will shrugged. “Bit hazy. After Waterloo, maybe?”
James blinked. 1800s. Christ.
Will stepped closer, studying him with unsettling intensity. “You can see us, then? Properly?”
“Unfortunately.” James crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t do the whole ‘helping spirits move on’ thing anymore. So if you’re waiting for some grand resolution, you’re out of luck.”
Will’s smirk faltered. “Didn’t ask for your help, did I?”
“Good. Then we’ll ignore each other.”
James turned away, but Will materialized directly in front of him, blocking his path. Up close, James could see the faint scar along his jaw, the way his coat was singed at the edges.
“You’re a prickly one,” Will mused. “Most mediums I’ve met were all weepy and holy. You just seem… annoyed.”
“Because I am annoyed,” James snapped. “I didn’t ask for this. I just want to live a normal life.”
Will grinned. “Bit late for that, pet.”
James scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
Will’s grin widened. “Why not? Suits you.”
James opened his mouth to retort—then winced, a flash of pressure bursting behind his eyes.
Will’s smirk faded. “Oi. You alright?”
James shook his head. “Just a headache. Happens around spirits sometimes. You lot aren’t exactly quiet.”
Will stepped closer, concern replacing cockiness. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Too late,” James muttered.
Will’s hand lifted, hesitated, then reached for James’ shoulder. It passed right through—but James felt it anyway, like static under his skin. The hair on his arms stood up.
He blinked.
Will’s gaze held his, suddenly too serious. Too real.
James swallowed. “Just… keep your distance.”
Will inclined his head. “Alright, pet. But you might wanna be careful throwing words like that around.”
James frowned. “What words?”
“‘Distance.’” Will’s grin returned, slower this time. “It gets a bit meaningless in a one-bedroom flat.”
James scowled. This was going to be a problem.
He woke in the dark.
Humming.
Low. Off-key. Familiar in the way nightmares were.
The clock blinked 3:17 AM.
He groaned, rolling over. “Will.”
The humming stopped. A second later, Will glided through the wall, floating at the foot of the bed like some self-satisfied specter.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Oops.”
James sat up, running a hand through his hair. “What are you doing?”
Will shrugged, drifting closer. “Bored. Thought you might want company.”
“I want sleep, actually.”
Will chuckled. “Shame. I was just getting to the good part.”
James narrowed his eyes. “You are insufferable.”
Will gave a slow smile, stepping closer. “And you’re bloody handsome when you’re annoyed. So I suppose we’re even.”
James faltered. Heat prickled up the back of his neck.
He threw a pillow. Will didn’t even flinch—it passed through him and hit the wall with a soft thud.
“Cheating,” James muttered.
“You’re the one throwing bedding like a toddler,” Will said, then added, gentler: “Go back to sleep, pet. I’ll shut up.”
James lay back, but his heart was hammering now for a different reason.
Morning came with weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windows. James shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and nearly dropped his coffee when he saw Will sitting at the table.
The ghost had propped his boots up on the wood, leaning back in the chair like he owned the place. He was more solid now, the daylight giving his form definition—the scruff along his jaw, the way his coat wrinkled at the elbows.
James scowled. “You’re still here.”
Will smirked. “Aye. And you’re still grumpy.”
James ignored him, turning to the stove.
Will watched as James fumbled with the kettle. “You know, in my day, we didn’t have these fancy machines. Just a good ol’ fire.”
“In your day, people died of scurvy,” James muttered.
Will barked a laugh. “Fair point.”
The kettle whistled. James poured the water, the steam curling in the air between them. Will’s gaze followed the movement, something wistful in his expression.
“Miss that,” he said quietly. “The little things.”
James hesitated. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.
But he still slid the second mug across the table.
Will blinked. “What’s that for?”
“Thought you missed it.”
Will leaned forward, hands hovering over the steam. “That’s sweet, James.”
“Don’t read into it.”
“Oh, I’m reading so much into it.”
James looked away, sipping his drink. He could feel Will watching him. Studying him like a puzzle. Like a man who’d died long before the invention of personal space.
The next few days settled into an uneasy rhythm.
James went about his life—work, groceries, ignoring the supernatural—while Will drifted in and out of existence like a particularly persistent shadow. He made a habit of commenting on everything, from James’ taste in music (“This sounds like a cat being strangled”) to his cooking (“Did you mean to burn that, or…?”).
James, for his part, pretended he wasn’t slowly getting used to the ghost’s presence.
That was, until the nightmares started.
James dreamt of things he’d never seen: cannonfire, blood in the mud, smoke thick enough to choke on. The dreams clung to him, left him shaking in the dark.
And Will—Will was always there after.
“You’re not seeing things,” Will said one night, crouched at the edge of the bed. “Those are my memories.”
James blinked up at him. “What?”
“Your headaches. The dreams. You’re not just a medium, are you? You’re a conduit.”
James sat up slowly. “A what?”
Will tilted his head. “You don’t just see the dead. You feel us. Remember us. That’s rare.”
James swallowed. “It’s not pleasant.”
“I’d imagine not.” Will looked at him for a long time. “You’ve been alone with this for a long time, haven’t you?”
James didn’t answer.
Will didn’t push. Instead, he leaned forward, just close enough to send a chill over James’ mouth. “I could stay. Make it easier. You wouldn’t have to sleep alone.”
James met his eyes, pulse thudding.
Will studied him for a long, silent moment. Then, abruptly, he stood, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Right. Up you get.”
James blinked. “What?”
“You’re not going back to sleep like this,” Will said, as if it were obvious. “Come on. I’ll make you coffee.”
James stared. “You’re a ghost. You can’t make coffee.”
Will grinned. “I’ll supervise.”
The kitchen was less oppressive than the bedroom. James busied himself with the kettle, trying to ignore the way Will hovered at his shoulder.
“So,” Will said, leaning against the counter. “How long’ve you been able to see us?”
James sighed. “Since I was a kid.”
“And you hate it.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Will considered. “Dunno. Suppose it depends on the ghost.”
James shot him a look.
Will smirked. “I’m a delight.”
James rolled his eyes, but something in his chest loosened. The nightmares still lurked at the edges of his mind, but here, in the dim kitchen with Will’s stupid commentary, they felt… manageable.
Will watched as James poured the coffee. “You ever help any of them? The other ghosts?”
James stiffened. “Used to.”
“What happened?”
The memory rose unbidden—a woman’s voice, pleading. A promise he couldn’t keep. James set his mug down too hard. “It didn’t end well.”
Will didn’t press. He just nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did.
They sat in silence. Outside, the first hints of dawn crept through the window.
Will cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth… you’re not half bad. For a conduit.”
James snorted. “High praise.”
Will’s smile was softer this time. “Aye. It is.”
James looked away, suddenly aware of how close the ghost was standing. How his coat still smelled faintly of gunpowder, even after all these years.
This is a terrible idea, he thought.
But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
The flat was quiet for once.
James sat on the couch, flipping through a book he wasn’t really reading, while Will drifted around the room like a restless shadow. He’d been unusually subdued all evening, his usual quips replaced by long stretches of silence.
James glanced up. “You’re being weird.”
Will paused mid-step, his translucent form flickering. “Am I?”
“Yes. Normally you’re—” James waved a hand. “—loud. Annoying.”
Will’s mouth quirked, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”
James set the book aside. “What’s wrong?”
Will hesitated, then sighed. “It’s today.”
“What is?”
“The day I died.”
The words hung in the air, heavy. James blinked. “Oh.”
Will shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, but his form wavered like a candle in the wind. “Two hundred and twelve years ago, give or take. Not that I’m counting.”
James studied him—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers worried at the frayed edge of his coat. He’d seen ghosts cling to their deaths before, but never like this. Never with this quiet, aching weight.
“Do you want to talk about it?” James asked.
Will let out a hollow laugh. “Not much to tell. War’s war. I got shot. End of story.”
James didn’t buy it. “Will.”
Something in his voice made Will still. The ghost turned, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he sank onto the couch beside James—close enough that the air between them prickled with cold.
“It was cold,” Will said finally, his voice rough. “Winter campaign. We were retreating, half-starved, and I—I got separated. Took a bullet to the leg.” He exhaled, his breath a ghost of frost. “Didn’t even see who shot me. Just woke up dead.”
James’ chest tightened. He’d heard worse stories—horror was part of the job—but this felt different. This was Will.
“You were alone,” James murmured.
Will’s jaw clenched. “Aye.”
Without thinking, James reached out. His fingers passed through Will’s shoulder, but the ghost shuddered anyway, as if he’d felt it.
“You’re not alone now,” James said quietly.
Will stared at him, his eyes wide. For a moment, he looked utterly lost—like a man seeing sunlight after centuries in the dark.
Then, softly: “James Marriott, are you being nice to me?”
James rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
Will laughed, but it was wet, uneven. “Make me.”
James hesitated, then leaned in, pressing his forehead against Will’s—or where it would have been, if Will were solid. The gesture was absurd, pointless.
But Will went very, very still.
“You’re an idiot,” James muttered.
Will’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah.”
They stayed like that, frozen in the quiet, until Will finally sighed.
“James?”
“Hm?”
“Thanks.”
James pulled back, meeting Will’s gaze. The ghost was smiling—small, real.
James looked away, suddenly warm. “Don’t mention it.”
(He would. Later. Often.)
James had been acting weird all day.
Will had noticed the moment he phased through the bedroom wall that morning to find James rifling through his closet with unusual intensity, muttering about "appropriate first date attire" like it was some kind of battlefield strategy.
First date.
The words lodged in Will’s chest like a musket ball.
The guy—George, apparently—was perfectly fine.
That was the worst part.
He was polite, with an easy laugh and a firm handshake, and when James made a terrible joke about the wine, George actually chuckled instead of groaning like Will usually did. (Not that Will’s groans weren’t fond, of course. They were. Very.)
Will hovered near the ceiling like a particularly disgruntled chandelier, arms crossed as he watched them from above.
“So,” George said, swirling his wine. “You’re a musician?”
James nodded, cutting into his steak. “Mostly local gigs, some opening act work. Nothing exciting.”
“I think it’s exciting,” George said, smiling.
Will made a noise like a kettle boiling over. Neither of them heard.
It was when George reached across the table to brush a crumb from James’ lip that Will snapped.
The lights flickered violently. The temperature dropped so fast the wine glasses fogged over. A cabinet door flew open in the kitchen with a bang.
James stiffened, his eyes darting upward to where Will floated, seething.
George blinked. “Whoa. You’ve got some serious wiring issues in this place.”
“Yeah,” James said through gritted teeth. “Wiring.”
Will bared his teeth in a grin.
Later, after George had left (early, citing a sudden headache—ha), James stormed into the living room and glared at the ceiling.
“Get down here. Now.”
Will dropped to the floor with all the grace of a falling anvil. “Problem, pet?”
“You haunted my date.”
Will shrugged. “And?”
“And—!” James threw his hands up. “You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s rude!”
Will stepped closer, the air around him crackling with energy. “Did you like him?”
James faltered. “That’s not the point—”
“Answer the question.”
“I—I don’t know! Maybe! It was a first date, Will!”
Something dark flashed in Will’s eyes. “He wasn’t right for you.”
James scoffed. “Oh, and you’d know?”
“Aye,” Will said, deadly serious. “I would.”
The air between them thrummed. James’s breath hitched. He was close enough to Will that the faint scent of gun smoke drifted over him—ghostly in its own right.
And then it hit him.
“Oh my god,” James said. “You’re jealous.”
Will froze.
James’ lips twitched. “You are. You’re jealous.”
Will’s face did something complicated. “I—no. That’s not—shut up.”
James grinned. “You like me.”
Will sputtered, transparent ears turning pink. “I—you—Christ alive—”
James laughed, bright and startled. “Holy shit. A 200-year-old ghost has a crush on me.”
Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I changed my mind. Go call George back. See if I care.”
James leaned in, just a little. “Liar.”
Will met his gaze, and for the first time since he’d died, he had no clever retort.
James’ smile softened. “...You’re an idiot.”
Will exhaled. “Yeah.”
And then, because the universe had a sense of humor—
The front door creaked open.
George froze in the doorway, the phone he’d just retrieved from the entry table dangling limply in his hand. His gaze darted to James, then to the empty space beside him—where James was unmistakably staring, unmistakably speaking… to absolutely no one.
James cleared his throat, stiff and awkward. “Uh. Hey.”
George pointed. “What the hell was that?”
Will smirked. “Gaslight him. Tell him he’s going crazy.”
James elbowed the air beside him. His arm passed straight through, but the intent was unmistakable.
George blinked. “Did you just… elbow the air, mate?”
James winced.
Will, invisible menace that he was, just laughed.
Five minutes later, George sat perched on the edge of the couch like it might bite him, clutching his phone like it was holy. James was across from him, rubbing his temples. The armchair to the side dipped, subtly, like something had just sat down.
George noticed. His eye twitched.
“So,” George said slowly. “I’m going to say a sentence now, and you’re going to tell me if I’ve lost my mind. Ghosts are real.”
“...Yep,” James mumbled, after giving the ground a generous moment to open up and put him out of his misery.
“And one of them... lives here.”
“Haunts here,” Will corrected, tone dry. “There’s a difference.”
James glared at the seemingly empty chair. “Yes. One haunts here.”
George took a long, steadying breath. “And you two are...?”
James made a sound like a dying engine.
“Better than you,” Will offered, smug.
“We’re nothing,” James snapped.
George looked at him. Then at the chair that had no business denting like that. Then, inexplicably, he laughed.
“Oh my god,” he said. “He’s your ghost boyfriend.”
Will’s voice jumped. “What? No—I—”
James dropped his face into his hands. “I hate my life.”
George stood, still laughing. “You know what? This explains so much.” He headed for the door, then paused in the doorway. “For the record? Worst first date ever. But also? Weirdly the best.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Then—
James whipped around, glaring at Will. “You made me look crazy.”
Will’s voice came low and defensive. “How is it my fault? It’s not like he could hear me.”
“That’s not the point and you know it!”
“Oh, please. You were practically throwing yourself at him—”
“I was on a date! Like a normal person!”
Will froze. The air seemed to crystallize.
“…Right,” he said. Quiet. Brittle. “Normal.”
James’s stomach dropped. “Will—”
But the room was already emptying of him. His presence thinning, then vanishing like smoke.
“Will, wait—”
Gone.
James stared at the space where no one stood. The flat felt colder.
Shit.
He found Will on the roof.
The ghost sat with his knees drawn up, staring at the city lights. He didn't turn when James stepped out into the chill.
James sat beside him. "You know I didn't mean it like that."
Will's voice was flat. "Didn't you?"
James sighed. "I just meant... you're a ghost. I'm not. That's... complicated."
Will was quiet for a long moment. Then—
"I died at twenty-three," he said softly. "Never kissed anyone. Never fell in love. Never got to figure out what I even wanted." He turned, his eyes glinting in the dark. "Then I met you."
James' breath caught.
Will smiled, bitter and fond. "Yeah. Complicated."
The space between them felt charged, fragile. James reached out—
His fingers passed through Will's.
Will laughed, hollow. "See?"
James swallowed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned his shoulder against Will's. Solid enough to feel the cold. Not enough to hold.
"...We'll figure it out," he murmured.
Will looked at him. Really looked.
"...Yeah," he said at last. "We will."
Above them, the stars burned indifferent. But here, in the space between living and dead—
Something new flickered to life.
The days after George’s abrupt exit settled into an odd, charged quiet.
James tried to pretend nothing had changed. He worked. He cooked. He ignored the way Will flickered in and out of rooms like a half-formed thought.
But the air between them was different now—heavy with things neither of them knew how to say.
It was past midnight when James gave up on sleep.
He padded into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, and nearly yelped when he found Will sitting at the table, staring blankly at the wall.
"Christ," James muttered. "Warn a guy."
Will didn’t smile. His form was faint, edges blurred, like he wasn’t fully there.
James hesitated, then grabbed two mugs. "Coffee?"
Will blinked, as if surprised James had spoken to him at all. "...Aye."
James busied himself with the kettle, the silence stretching taut between them. Steam curled into the air, ghostly in the dim light.
Finally, Will spoke. "I tried to leave."
James stilled. "What?"
"Yesterday. I tried to... go. Move on, or whatever it is we do." Will’s voice was rough. "Couldn’t."
The admission hung in the air. James turned, gripping the counter behind him. "Why?"
Will met his gaze. "You know why."
James’ throat tightened.
The kettle whistled. Neither of them moved.
They took their coffee to the living room. Will sat on the couch—close, but not touching. James could feel the cold radiating off him.
"You’re really stuck with me, huh?" James said, aiming for lightness.
Will’s mouth quirked. "Seems so."
James stared into his mug. "What happens now?"
Will was quiet for a long moment. Then—
"Dunno." He leaned back, translucent fingers abandoning his own mug sitting on the table. "Never done this before."
James huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Me neither."
Silence settled again, but it was softer this time. Comfortable.
Will glanced at him. "For the record... I’m sorry. About the date."
James shrugged. "George wasn’t my type anyway."
Will raised a brow. "No?"
James took a deliberate sip of coffee. "Nope."
Will’s grin was slow, knowing. "Liar."
James kicked at him. His foot passed through Will’s shin, but the ghost laughed anyway—bright and startled, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
And just like that, the tension shattered.
Later, when the coffee was gone and the sky outside began to lighten, James found himself leaning into Will’s space, their shoulders barely an inch apart.
Will didn’t pull away.
"Hey," James said softly.
Will turned. "Hm?"
James hesitated. Then—
"Stay."
Will’s breath caught. For a moment, he looked painfully young—not a ghost, not a soldier, just a boy who’d been lost too long.
"...Aye," he whispered. "Alright."
James woke to the smell of burning.
He bolted upright, blinking at the sunlight streaming through his curtains. The apartment was silent—no smoke, no fire, just the faintest trace of gunpowder and old wool lingering in the air.
Will.
James groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Right. Ghost. Nightmares.
He found Will in the kitchen, hovering over the toaster with a look of intense concentration. His fingers flickered in and out of solidity as he attempted—and failed—to press the lever down.
James leaned against the doorframe. "You know you can’t actually use that, right?"
Will startled, whirling around. His coat swirled dramatically, because of course it did. "I almost had it."
James raised a brow. "By haunting my appliances?"
Will scowled. "I was trying to make breakfast for you."
The admission was so unexpectedly domestic that James’ chest did something funny. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, nudging Will aside (or rather, stepping through him—which was still weird, no matter how many times it happened).
"You’re ridiculous," James muttered, pressing the lever down with a decisive click.
Will huffed. "Could’ve done it myself with a bit more practice."
"Uh-huh." James grabbed the butter from the fridge. "Next time, just wake me up."
Will went very still. "...Next time?"
James froze, knife halfway to the toast. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to imply there would be a next time—that this was something they were doing now.
But when he turned, Will was watching him with something dangerously close to hope.
James swallowed. "...Yeah. Next time."
Will’s grin was bright enough to trigger every EMF reader in a five-mile radius.
They ate on the couch, knees brushing even though only one of them could actually feel it. Will kept stealing bites of James’ toast, his fingers solid just long enough to grab the crust before vanishing again.
"You’re a menace," James said, swatting at him.
Will dodged, grinning. "You love it."
James rolled his eyes. "I tolerate it."
"Same thing."
James opened his mouth to argue, but Will chose that moment to phase through the couch, reappearing on James’ other side with a triumphant smirk.
James groaned. "You’re impossible."
Will leaned in, his breath cool against James’ ear. "And yet you keep me around."
James’ pulse jumped. Christ. This ghost would be the death of him.
Later, when the toast was gone and the morning had stretched into afternoon, James found himself reaching out—slow, deliberate—until his fingers hovered just above Will’s.
Not touching. But close enough to feel the chill.
Will looked down at their hands, then up at James. His expression was unreadable.
James exhaled. "We’ll figure it out. Remember?"
Will turned his palm up, their fingers aligning but never quite meeting. "...Yeah," he murmured. "We will."
And for now—
That was enough.
James had spent the better part of the evening buried in old books and dubious online forums, searching for any shred of information about ghosts who could touch the living. The more he read, the more his head ached.
"According to this," James muttered, squinting at his laptop screen, "ghosts can manifest physical form through 'emotional resonance via conduits' or some bullshit."
Will, sprawled upside-down on the couch with his legs dangling through the ceiling, snorted. "Sounds like mystical hogwash."
James shot him a glare. "You're literally a ghost."
"And you're literally overthinking this." Will righted himself with a lazy flip, landing cross-legged in midair. "Why not just try it?"
James blinked. "Try what?"
Will grinned, sharp and playful. "Touching me."
James' throat went dry.
They stood in the center of the living room, facing each other like duelists at dawn. James' palms were sweating. Will's form flickered with barely-contained energy.
"Alright," James said, exhaling. "How do we—"
"Just reach out, Marriott," Will teased, but his voice wavered.
James lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, until his fingertips hovered inches from Will's chest. The air between them crackled with cold.
Will's gaze locked onto James' hand like it was the only solid thing in the world.
James swallowed—and pushed forward.
His fingers met something. Not flesh, not fabric, but a pressure, like pushing through thick static. Will gasped, his entire form shuddering.
"Fuck," Will breathed. "You're warm."
James could feel it too—the impossible thereness of Will, the way the cold burned against his skin. His fingers curled, grasping at Will's coat. The fabric held.
Then—
Will's form fractured, his edges blurring like a radio losing signal. James yanked his hand back as if burned.
"Shit—are you okay?"
Will flickered violently before stabilizing, his breathing ragged despite not needing air. "Bloody hell," he laughed, shaky. "That was..."
"Too much?" James finished.
Will met his eyes, grinning. "Amazing."
They spent the next hour experimenting—testing limits, learning rules.
Will could stay solid longest when James focused on him, not the act itself. A brush of fingers? A few seconds. A full grip? Instant flicker.
James' thumb tracing Will's jawline?
Five glorious seconds.
Will's hands framing James' face?
The room lights blew out.
By midnight, they were giddy with discovery, drunk on the impossible. James collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. Will floated above him, practically vibrating with energy.
"So," James panted, "emotional resonance is real."
Will dropped down beside him, close enough that James could feel the chill. "Told you not to overthink it."
James turned his head. Will was already looking at him.
Their noses nearly brushed.
Will leaned in—close, closer, their breath mingling—and James didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
Their lips met like sparks catching dry wood.
James gasped as Will’s mouth passed through his, a phantom pressure that still left him burning. Will groaned low in his throat, forehead pressed against James’.
“I still can’t touch you,” Will said, frustrated. “Not in the ways that matter.”
“You’re doing fine,” James whispered.
After a long pause, James finally dragged himself to bed, his skin still humming with the memory of static and cold.
Across the room, Will lingered in the doorway—solid enough to cast a shadow.
"James?"
"Hm?"
Will's voice was softer than James had ever heard it. "We'll get better at this."
James smiled into his pillow. "Yeah," he murmured. "We will."
The first time Will managed to stay solid for a full minute, James celebrated by throwing a pillow at his head.
It connected—hitting Will square in the face with a soft thump before tumbling to the ground. They both froze.
Will touched his nose, stunned. "Did you just assault me?"
James burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you felt that."
Will's grin was incandescent. He launched himself at James, tackling him onto the couch—or rather, attempting to. Halfway through the motion, his form destabilized, and James ended up with an armful of freezing mist and a very disgruntled ghost sprawled halfway through his torso.
"Ugh," Will groaned, his voice muffled by James' ribcage. "This is undignified."
James wheezed, batting at the parts of Will he could reach. "Get out of me, you absolute—"
Will solidified just enough to press icy fingers against James' sides, tickling him.
James shrieked.
Progress was slow, but it was theirs.
Will learned to stabilize himself by focusing on the memory of his heartbeat—the phantom pulse syncing with James' living one. James learned to reach for him without hesitation, his hands growing accustomed to the electric chill of Will's form.
They didn't talk about what it meant.
(They didn't need to.)
Then came the nightmares.
Not James' this time—Will's.
James woke to the sound of screaming.
He bolted upright, disoriented, before realizing the screams weren't audible—they were in his head, a psychic echo of Will's terror. The room was freezing, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood.
"Will!" James scrambled out of bed, following the pull of their connection.
He found Will in the living room, flickering violently, his form twisting between a soldier's silhouette and something jagged, broken. The coffee table was rattling, books flying off shelves—a full-blown poltergeist episode.
James didn't think. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Will's face.
"Look at me."
Will's eyes snapped open—wide, wild, lost. His hands came up to clutch at James' wrists, solid and bruising-tight.
"James," he gasped. "James."
"I'm here," James said, thumbs brushing Will's cheeks. "You're here. It's over."
Will shuddered, his form stabilizing under James' touch. The room fell still.
Slowly, carefully, James pulled him forward until Will's forehead rested against his shoulder. Will's breathing was ragged, his fingers tangled in James' shirt.
"I died," Will whispered. "I died, and I—"
"I know," James murmured. "I know."
And he held him—
As solid as the dawn.
When morning came, they were still on the floor, limbs tangled in a haphazard pile. Will was the most corporeal James had ever seen him—his weight a comfortable pressure against James' side, his hair soft where it brushed James' neck.
James didn't move. Didn't dare.
Will stirred, blinking up at him. His eyes were clear.
"...Hi," he said, voice rough.
James smiled. "Hi."
Will studied him for a long moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned up—
And pressed his lips to James'.
It was cold. It was perfect.
It was real.
When they pulled apart, Will's grin was brighter than sunlight. "Took us long enough."
James shoved him. Will laughed, and the sound filled the room, the apartment, the world—
A ghost, alive in all the ways that mattered.