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Okay, Charles could admit it, the Dead Boy Detectives Agency was not exactly world-renowned.
When the agency was first set up, back in 1990, Charles wasn’t really planning for subtlety. The way he imagined it, he and Edwin were like Sherlock and Watson, or like Max Carrados and Mr. Carlyle, from one of Edwin’s detective novels. Together, they would be an unstoppable duo, and the co-leaders of the world’s best ghostly detective agency.
That was not exactly how things were going.
The agency had been taking a few cases per month for the past year or so — the occasional unfinished business or troubled mage — and it wasn’t exactly what Charles was imagining, but it was a whole lot better than nothing. After all, it was nice to be of some sort of use, even in death, and nothing truly beat the warm feeling of comfort Charles got from solving a case.
And so, regardless of how unpopular the agency was, it was becoming increasingly frustrating that they hadn’t received any new cases as of late.
It had been almost a full month since the agency had gotten a new case, and quite frankly, Charles was growing both restless and incredibly bored out of his mind.
Edwin appreciated the downtime and explained that it gave him more time to study up on his Aramaic, which he insisted required some more light study — but of course, for him, 'light study' meant spending all day and night with his nose shoved between the pages of some dusty old book. Unfortunately for Charles, this meant that he was left to his own devices in terms of entertainment, which was almost never a good thing for him.
After spending most of the afternoon filing through his backpack and clearing out any unwanted knicknacks that he’d found in the process, Charles was at a complete loss when it came to entertainment options. He’d spent a couple minutes after that juggling a football, trying to count how long he could go (he got to 342), and then ultimately sat splayed across the couch, watching Edwin study.
Charles hated just sitting around, but there was something undeniably mesmerizing about the methodical way that Edwin went about studying.
Today, Edwin had a large leather book in front of him, easily twice as thick as the one he’d been reading the previous week. Edwin’s brown overcoat, and his grey pinstriped jacket were gone in a subtle display of domesticity; in its place, Edwin wore his white button up and navy blue sweater vest. His bow tie hung undone around his neck.
Edwin’s undressing was a relatively new development — one that Charles could not help but take notice of. When they first met, Edwin seemed more caged off about that sort of thing. Even in the privacy of a closed office, his gloves remained on, and his clothes remained infinitely layered.
It wasn’t until about four months into Charles’ death that Edwin had taken off his brown overcoat, displaying his gray jacket beneath, and back then, it had felt like a great feat, an extraordinary display of his comfort around Charles.
“Charles, is something wrong? Why are you staring?”
“Nah, mate, it’s just… well I’ve never seen you without that jacket on, have I?”
“I suppose not.”
“The gray looks on you, mate. ‘Fit’s you well.”
“Oh… Thank you, Charles.”
Edwin ditched the pinstripe jacket and bow tie about a month later on an afternoon of particularly tedious case-solving.
Today, as he sat in the same getup, he looked entirely concentrated on the book in front of him. Every so often, he moved a pale, nimble finger to flip the page, or he’d pick up a pen to write in one of his notebooks with the same frequency.
When Edwin studied, he stayed completely focused on whatever it was that he was reading, hardly ever looking up, or taking breaks. If ghosts weren’t cursed with the inability to drink or eat or sleep, Charles would have reached a point of genuine concern with regards to Edwin’s perpetuous studying habits; one time, Edwin had sat down at his desk to study and hadn’t so much as stood up for a week straight. During that time, Charles had noticed that when Edwin got proper focused on something, his eyebrows would furrow slightly, and it left a small divot in his forehead that Charles couldn’t help but stare at.
It was hard to believe that someone as clever and well-focused as Edwin would even consider letting Charles stay with him, and the more Charles thought about it, the more surreal it all seemed.
Edwin seemed to embody everything that Charles wasn’t; the way his piercing attentiveness deeply contrasted with Charles’ shite ability to focus on any task at hand, or the way he moved with such deliberate grace that so clearly rivaled Charles’ constant ineptitude. Still, the other boy seemed to truly enjoy Charles’ presence, and for that, Charles was infinitely grateful.
“Edwin?”
Edwin didn’t respond, his eyebrows still furrowed with concentration, and his eyes glued to the pages in front of him.
“Edwin,” Charles repeated.
Edwin looked up then, with a small “hm?”
“D’you wanna go for a walk?”
Edwin looked back down at his book in response, continuing on whatever he had been reading before. “I am afraid I am quite busy at the moment.”
“You’ve been busy for hours mate.” Charles was trying his best not to be too much, too clingy, but he truly was terribly bored, and his best mate was sitting halfway across the room, occupied by nothing other than books and studying. “And, I’m bloody bored out of my mind.”
Edwin did not look up from his book this time, simply turning another page, “well, Charles, it is a good thing we have an office that is full of perfectly adequate reading material to aid your current ailment.” Edwin tapped the book in front of him, his eyes still glued to the page, “And Aramaic is an incredibly important language to know in order to have a proper understanding of the arcane world. Perhaps you would do well with some study.”
Charles bit back a groan, burying his face in his hands. As he looked up, his hands dragging slowly to his chin, his eyes were drawn to the window, and the sliver of light that shown through the pink horizon. “What about the sunrise?” Charles offered. “You love those, yeah? If we left for the park now, I bet we could catch it before the sun’s fully up.”
Of all of the lesser known tidbits of information about Edwin Payne that Charles held dear to his heart, one of the first ones he recalled learning was about Edwin’s fondness of sunrises.
Charles still remembered the morning that they had both left St. Hills for the first time after his death. It was a somber evening, that one, an evening made paradoxically sweeter by the looming hope of a new friendship. But Charles would never forget the glint in Edwin’s eyes as they walked out of the building, the way his eyes softened and his irises glittered with wonder. It was entirely akin to the euphoria of a small boy who’d not yet born witness to the terrors of the world — but Edwin had seen all of that and more, and yet still, he managed to find beauty in even the mundane.
“What’ve you never seen a sunrise before?” Charles asked with a laugh.
“No. Not since I was in Hell,” Edwin admitted earnestly.
“Oh…”
“It is rather beautiful.”
Charles looked at Edwin, following his sparkling eyes out to the elegant horizon. “Yeah… It is.”
Charles liked sunrises as much as the next person, but mainly he'd just brought it up as an excuse to get out of the office and spend some time with his mate who’d been cooped up at his desk all month. And naturally, he knew that Edwin couldn’t resist such a convincing argument.
Edwin looked up at Charles, considering. He turned behind him to look at the window then, watching as the top of the blazing orange sun just barely peeked out above the horizon. “I suppose you are right about that…”
Charles grinned, proud to have finally gotten through Edwin’s stubbornness, “I am!”
Edwin looked back to his leather-bound book, then back at the window once more, clearly conflicted. “Okay,” he finally decided with a huff. “I suppose an hour-long walk could be moderately beneficial.”
…
“If you could be alive right now, what’d’you think you’d do?” Charles asked, staring up at the vibrant sunset. It was a beautiful image, a soft acrylic blend of oranges and pinks and deep indigo.
And indeed, the sunset was so much more breathtaking from outside, in the park.
Edwin gathered that this was the sort of sunset that poets wrote about and painters dreamed of; a perfectly picturesque symphony of vibrant colors. It was a sunset only just worthy of being met with the thoughtful gaze of Charles Rowland.
“Cos, I’ve been thinking,” Charles started, glancing back at Edwin, then back to the lake in front of them. He swung his feet on the bench that he and Edwin sat side by side on — being so early in the morning, it hadn’t been difficult at all to find an empty bench that wouldn’t startle anyone using it, as the park had been entirely empty. Edwin was grateful for this; being around so many living people at once was… unnerving.
Charles continued, “I think that I’d like to go to a concert. I miss the old shows that me and my mates would sneak out to back when I was alive. Or maybe I’d go to, like, a proper music festival; I’ve always wanted to go to one of those.” As Charles continued speaking, his voice took on a light air of fond nostalgia.
Edwin let out a small huff, a meaningless show of incredulity “Charles, you can still watch musical performances when you are dead.”
“It’s different when you’re alive though, innit?”
Edwin frowned, considering, “I suppose…”
Charles was his own person, of course, but somehow still it was strange to think about a time when he hadn’t always been alongside Edwin. There was a time when he had been alive and running off to concerts with his own friends — completely without Edwin — and that was a time that Charles yearned for.
Edwin had never been to a concert — not like the ones that Charles occasionally spoke about, with lively brass music and energetic dancing. No, instead Edwin’s musical experiences growing up was largely limited to being dragged off to the occasional musical hall by his mother as a young boy, or listening to recordings on his father’s phonograph.
Charles turned, and nodded his chin towards Edwin, “what about you?”
Edwin looked down at his hands; two fists that pressed together in front of his silent heart; a heart that would never beat again. “I do not know,” he admitted. Then he added, in a quiet whisper, barely loud enough to be heard, as if it was a secret never to be spoken, “I do not mind being dead.”
Charles’ lips spread into a small smile as he raised his eyebrows, nudging Edwin on the shoulder softly, "c'mon mate, there’s got to be something. Imagine you could be doing anything anywhere in the world — you could even travel back in time and meet your old mates — where would you go?”
Edwin unfurled the fists in front of his chest, stretching his hands flat and resting them on his knees.
Edwin did not have ‘old mates,’ as Charles put it.
Edwin had learned from early on that there was little else boys his age could be if not terribly cruel. It was a lesson he had to learn time and time again, between jeering taunts and lunches spent hiding in corners.
So instead of friends, Edwin sought out companionship in novels and poetry — books were far less likely to leave pins in his shoes or slap his lunch out of his hands.
Because no matter what Edwin did or who he tried to be — an image of masculinity for his father, or an agreeable wallflower for his peers — there would always be something about him that was perpetually different and wholly irreversible. Other.
It was not something that Edwin had ever been asked to be born as, or ever wholly understood, but it was something that he simply had to learn to live with. Finding kinship in anyone when you were a boy like Edwin was simply not a possibility… Well, until Charles.
Edwin looked up at the boy beside him, considering.
Charles’ skin glowed in the soft yellow glint of the rising sun, and the regal curve of his jaw grew even more prominent from its own shadow. Edwin could not help but stare as the shining sun formed gentle fractals in the other boy’s eyes, and oh those eyes.
Those big, dark brown honey eyes that beheld him with such love and care. Fawn eyes, that stubborn as he may try to be, could very well convince Edwin to follow that boy hopelessly to the very end of the world.
“I do not think I would want to be anywhere else,” Edwin admitted softly. “I would want to stay here, with you. Solving mysteries.”
Charles’ eyes scanned him with an unreadable expression. Was he upset?
“I am sorry, Charles,” Edwin said with a frown, looking away and back toward the pond.
If you asked him, Edwin would not be able to tell you what exactly he was sorry for. Sorry for being so needy. Sorry for rehashing old habits by turning to books and research, and neglecting his one true friend. Sorry for not leaving Charles alone the day Edwin found him shivering in the attic — for taking him away from his rightful place of eternal tranquility and keeping this beautiful boy all to himself.
Sorry for not being able to think of an adequate answer to a simple question that had an infinite number of more clever, more meaningful answers.
He was deeply, terribly sorry.
“Edwin, mate,” Charles crooned, his voice slightly hoarse as his fawn eyes stayed glued to Edwin’s. Edwin couldn’t help but squirm under his molten gaze. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Oh.
Edwin’s stomach did a small flip at this. A warmth spread through his chest, lacing its way through his ribs and covering his heart until the feeling absorbed him completely. This boy would be the death of him — Edwin Payne would die a second time, in the presence of the wonder that was Charles Rowland.
Charles cocked his head slightly, his eyes glued to the boy that sat beside him, taking in slightly mussed, wavy hair and a broken pale face flushed with emotion. And then, with no further warning, sturdy arms wrapped around Edwin, holding him tightly.
Edwin stiffened at first, taken aback by the sudden contact.
Edwin could not remember the last time that he had been hugged — not even while he was alive. Perhaps by a nanny, when he was a small child, no older than 6 or 7. But being hugged by Charles was different. It was engulfing and needy and overwhelming in its entirety. It was perfect.
Covetous as it was, Edwin hungrily relished in the prolonged contact, in the cherry red, intoxicating comfort of Charles’ arms.
Edwin knew, objectively speaking, that ghosts could not feel anything; they could not feel the chill of the sharp wind that swirled through London on an autumn morning, and they could not smell the lingering petrichor from a rainy afternoon prior.
But it was in that moment, Edwin swore he could feel Charles’ arms wrapped around him. He could feel soft hair brushing his cheek, the rough fabric of Charles’ coat rubbing against his own, and if Edwin stayed still enough, he could feel the other boy’s beating heart, a slow but steady thump.
Out of any ghost that could have a beating heart, it made sense that it’d be Charles. Kind, affectionate, full-of-love Charles. Taken from life all too soon Charles. It was Charles who always moved with a sense of animation and liveliness that rivaled even that of the living; of course he would still have a beating heart, even in death.
What had Edwin ever done to deserve companionship from such a remarkable boy?
“‘love you, mate,” Charles said, his voice slightly muffled by Edwin’s coat.
And wasn’t Edwin horrible for not being able to say it back?
Edwin opened his mouth to speak but the words caught in his throat, lost in the spiraling gravity of all that lay before him; hands on his back and arms around his shoulders and a beating heart against his own, and it was all so much and so, so good.
Edwin could only shut his eyes tight and bask in the soft, comforting arms of his dearest friend that hugged him tightly, letting out a small “mmm.”
But as Edwin wrapped his arms around the other boy, holding him safe and firm, his message was clear:
I love you, too
For as long as you’ll have me.