Archive of Our Own

It wasn't as though he disliked parties or dancing. In fact, he had a particular affinity for the latter, and even excelled in it. The necessary grace, coordination, and rhythm needed for fencing translated well to dance, and vice versa, allowing him to show off his expertise both in the arena and at his father's galas. The difference between the austere, politically loaded necessities of his homeworld's galas and the useless, tacky frivolities of prom were, however, monumental. It wasn't worth his time or effort when he could be working towards more important matters, like his training, or homework, or drafting up the next letter home.

Right now, though, progressing any of those three was either impossible or pointless. Prom was tonight, and so all campus facilities had been either closed early or hijacked for the event, something he wish he had been informed about earlier as he ended up kicked out of the practice building not even twenty minutes into his warm-ups. This forced him back to his room before the sun had even set. He did have a major section of his room occupied by a practice mat, so he was able to resume his warm-ups, but it still was not nearly spacious nor versatile enough for the full extent of his needs. It was really best only for calisthenics and basic form adjustments.

So, he gave up on his neutered warm-ups to instead finish drafting up his letter home, neatly signed and sealed for the post on Monday, and completed whatever homework he had remaining, which now put him weeks ahead of his academic schedule. Usually such free time would be procured and distributed amongst more practice, but, of course, that currently isn't actionable.

Well, technically, not all of his homework was done. There was still Graves' half of their chemistry project, which he would need in order to properly tie it all off.

Speaking of.

With the Pride back up on its wall-mount, his skin only slightly warm with exertion, he glared down at the notebook sitting on his desk. It was thick, with various papers haphazardly sticking out in choppy, vestigial angles, showing a severe lack of care from whoever shoved them in. The cover was black and polluted with gruesome stickers and doodles of skulls and zombie cats, the corners worn and crushed to the point that you could see their white, cardboard insides, its spiral ring deformed and bending out of the holes marching down its spine. Clearly, this did not belong to him.

Because Darcy Graves had so much in that ludicrously spacious bag, and she always arrived thirteen minutes late to class lugging both it and an abject air of aloof sleeplessness that it was a wonder she didn't forget her materials more often. This was actually the first time she had left behind the binder, and while he'd usually leave others to reap the consequences of their negligence, his chemistry grade did rely on her. So when he saw it still sitting on the desk, in front of her empty seat in the aftermath of class some days ago, he took it.

There multiple reasons why he has yet to return it: First, he was busy, and so was she, in opposing ways. He operated on a highly polished, cyclical schedule that firmly shook hands with every relevant responsibility he had to meet. A strong regiment meant a strong mind, body, and soul. Meanwhile, Graves seemed to (barely) operate purely on the undead whims of others, alongside her own disruptive circadian rhythm. The only responsibility she took the hand of was gnarled, powerful, and too rotten for her own good.

Not that he cared.

The second reason was to make his own reviews. He wasn't usually one to pry unless it directly concerned him, but since her work did impact his grade, then he felt justified in double-checking. Her notes were…passable. Wherever they were legible, that is. Browsing through all the morbid doodles and awful penmanship and complete lack of organization, though, he had to wonder how she managed to keep up as well as she did. So, in the many places for improvement, he provided his own addendums, corrections (not many, surprisingly, at least for what he could make out), and a note condemning the rather unflattering drawing she had made of him being frightened by a giant dissected rat. (It wasn't his fault that he found dissections slightly off-putting. He saw no point, nor any honor, in carving open and desecrating a creature past its demise).

There had also been, shoved in the back flap, a piece of blotting paper stamped with a black kiss. He had stared at it for a long moment before taking it out. It was unsanitary and needed to be tossed.

So, he now had Graves' revamped notebook, and a long evening of unproductivity before him. Alone in his dorm room, he was stranded amongst the rest of Blackmore dazzling themselves for a dance that will mean nothing in the long-run, shirking their time and energy.

Apollo wondered if Graves would be in attendance. Then he scoffed to himself. Not a chance. That did, however, tell him what he could do this evening.

He picked up the binder and shrugged on his (not-school) blazer, calling up his chauffeur to take him to a specific graveyard—the one the closest to the school. He had a list of all the natural habitats of Darcy Graves (graveyards and cemeteries and potter's fields and crematoriums and funeral homes) in the wider area memorized.

The academy's austere architecture was frosted in banners and streamers, silver and gold, the lampposts baubled with balloons. He knew, vaguely, that this specific dance sometimes had annually revolving themes, but in his purposeful skirting of the festivities, he had no idea if this one was abiding by one or not. He took a longer way to the street, at the back where he knew (hoped) it'd be less polluted with the glittering masses of Blackmore's underachievers. He ended up passing by a few early attendees (or maybe just stragglers), dressed finely, their gazes following him because of course they would, even when he was still only in his uniform, his head held high like he already won the crown because he didn't need a popularity contest to know where he stood against the rest of them, and they did too.

The back street was deserted aside from his chauffeur. It might not be for long, though, so he slid into the back seat and sent them off.

Rosewood Cemetery was actually only a twenty minute walk from Blackmore grounds, but there was no guarantee that Graves would actually be at Rosewood, and he may have to go on a scavenger hunt to find her. He wasn't going to do all that on foot, especially with the rapidly approaching night. That said, he gave himself three chances: three different locations to try, and if all turned up Graves-less, then he'd head back to the dorm and wait for Monday's class instead.

Upon arrival, he slid out the car and lifted his hand in a gesture of Wait here, before approaching the gates. It was still early enough for them to be unlocked and opened, although Apollo knew that a lock wouldn't have been enough to keep Graves out. It would, however, be enough to keep him out, purely on a basis of respect for the law.

Rosewood wasn't a large cemetery, and it wasn't attached to any churches or chapels, either (Graves once said that this is what made a cemetery a cemetery and not a graveyard. There was a difference.), so Apollo did not have to wander long to see all there was. Neatly organized but still weather-worn lots of headstones and raised tombs, punctuated by the occasional melodramatic angel statue or family mausoleum. Oaks and willow trees bowed overhead, deepening the shadows ahead of the night's approaching shroud. The cemetery was empty aside from him, the occasional squirrel, and the growing pile of dirt besides one of the graves, all the way at the back, just out of the way of some untrimmed bushes.

Apollo approached, binder tucked under one arm, his other hand casual into his pocket. There was a possibility that this was just a groundskeeper, so he kept his stride disinterested.

But there was no need to exercise caution, as it was exactly who he was hoping for. In the middle of a literal shallow grave was Graves herself, still in her uniform despite the weekend, but her blazer was off and her sleeves were pushed up. No spiked bracelets or fishnets, either, just a pair of practical work gloves wrapped tight around a grimy shovel. The hole she had dug wasn't even a foot deep yet, so she saw him the moment he rounded the large headstone. But she still had to tilt her head back to look at him, her bangs pinned back and eye makeup smudgy from the sweat.

Apollo asked, in lieu of a greeting: "What are you doing?"

Graves looked down at the shovel and the growing hole. Then she looked back up. "Is that a trick question?"

"Let me rephrase: why are you digging up a grave?"

"Why do I do anything? The dead have needs."

"And they need you to disturb their resting place?"

"Yeah, sometimes they do."

He must've made a face, because she made one too. "Is there a reason you're out here bothering me?"

Apollo unveiled the binder. "I believe this is yours?"

She stared at it as though it were a foreign entity and had no idea why he thought it'd have anything to do with her. Then she stepped up from the shallow ditch and stabbed the tip of the shovel into the ground next to her. On even ground, she still wasn't that much taller compared to him. Still had to knock her head back to look him in the face. But she didn't want to look at his face, she wanted to look at the binder, which she snatched from him. His tail flickered in annoyance at the overt rudeness, but said nothing as she flipped it open, turning slightly, putting her shoulder between them. Her face pinched.

"Did you write in this?"

"Usually I respect other people's privacy," he said, making a pointed look at the half-dug up grave, even though she still wasn't looking at him and, so, couldn't see it. He crossed his arms. "But considering my grade partially hinges on your work ethic, I figured I'd do you a favor. How the hell do you read your own notes?"

"Because they're mine," she replied simply, and flipped around to show him the page with the unflattering drawing of him. "What's the problem with this? I even got your giant head right."

"Is that a trick question?" He threw back.

She rolled her eyes and snapped the binder closed, sliding it under her arm. "Well…thanks, I guess." She almost sounded genuine. "You can go now."

But Apollo thought about the campus currently colonized by prom, and his own empty dorm room stranded in the middle of it. He looked at Graves, who was also not at prom, but instead getting knee deep in the dirt, still playing with the dead, not caring about how the rest of the living was turning around her.

He asked, against his better judgment: "Do you need help?"

Her brows rose high enough to stretch the rest of her face, cracking the dried worn, dried mascara rubbed under her eyes. "What?"

"This," he gestured towards the hole, the grave, "does not look like an easy job. How long does it take to this on your own?"

"About…several hours."

"So you'll dig yourself into exhaustion well past midnight, by yourself, in the middle of a very deplorable city?" He shook his head. "Did you even stretch before you started? You're bound to pull something."

"What's with this? Get off my ass, I'm fine, I've done this before," she snapped. "I have my friends to help me."

"Funny, I don't see any of them holding a shovel." Or any at all. Although, when she said friends there had been a hollow whisper against the breeze that made gooseflesh crawl up his arms, but that was all. Whatever was around, they didn't care to show themselves to him. Maybe not to anyone but Graves.

Graves muttered, "Ghouls aren't very strong…or smart…they work better as a quantity, not quality."

"Shocking. Give me a moment."

He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he walked back to the gate, tapping the window of his ride so that his chauffeur would lower it. After informing him that he was free to go, Apollo would be walking back, and pointedly ignoring the subtle look he got, he returned to Graves.

Her binder was gone, most likely tucked away in her bag that was currently being used as a pillow by the Lich hand at the base of the headstone. She was holding the shovel again, and seemed surprised to see him return.

"You're back?"

"I said I would help, and I'm a man of my word. I just didn't want my ride to waste gas all night."

Graves was silent for a moment, then asked, "Isn't it prom tonight? You're not going?"

Apollo scoffed, "Why would I? It's a waste of time."

"And, somehow, offering to help me dig up a grave isn't?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. He tried again, and failed again. Graves began to smile, but it didn't look happy. "Something the matter? Let me guess…" she swung the shovel up, similar to how she would swing her bag around: wide and looking to demolish all in its path. "You asked someone out and got totally rejected. God, I would love to have seen the look on your face when that happened."

He stepped out of the way of her swing with practiced ease. "Of course not. In fact, it was the opposite. I got asked out by several of our peers…and I rejected them."

"Poor Blackmore bachelorettes not getting their Prince Charming," Graves mused sardonically.

"How many times do I have to say it? Not a prince."

"Doesn't matter to them. You fit their stupid little fantasy."

"Oh," he raised a sculpted brow, "and you know this fantasy because…?"

"Shut up."

He huffed"And what about you? No one asked you?"

Suddenly her face wiped itself out. All derision, all annoyance, all bad humor wiped clean.

"No."

Then she tossed the shovel at him. Even when unprepared he was still a trained elite, and swiftly side-stepped to catch it by the shaft. He grimaced at the feel of rough, unpolished wood and powdered dirt, but still held firm.

"Alright, golden boy, you wanna help? Then help." She peeled off her gloves and tossed them as well. He caught them with one hand and raised a brow. She told him, "You wanna ruin your manicure? Just put them on."

"And what about you?" While he wouldn't say no to the gloves, it didn't feel right stealing her potentially limited resources, especially when he was a late addition to this excursion.

"Wait here, I'll be back," was her answer as she turned, marching off into the night's growing depth.

He raised his voice after her. "Where are you going?"

But she didn't stop nor respond. He stood there, waiting. Even pulled on the gloves, safely pocketing his family ring. He crinkled his nose at the leftover sweat inside the gloves. At least they fit—probably better than they fit her. He pulled off his blazer and wiped off the pollen dusting the headstone before folding it neatly on top. As he rolled up his sleeves, he properly looked at the headstone's engraving: two names, died on the same day, one male and one female. He immediately recognized the woman's name as Ixian. The man's was decidedly human. The names did not share any similarities, but the epitaph showed their link together:

Dearly beloveds, together in life, together in death.

Boots scuffed behind him. Graves had returned, a new shovel and pair of gloves in hand. Wherever she had gotten them, he decided to pocket the ask for later. He had a more pressing topic before him.

"The woman buried here is Ixian?"

"She sure is."

"We tend to cremate our dead."

Graves stepped down into the hole, pulled on her new gloves (they looked too big as well) and resumed digging. "They died pretty suddenly, just before their wedding day. An accident. She wanted to be buried with him in his family lot."

"This is a family lot?" Taking a sweeping gander at the nearby area. This double-grave seemed quite disjointed from any of the other plots.

"Nope," she said, voice breathy with effort. "His family didn't actually approve of them, and didn't want them buried together. That's why they're so far from everyone else. A close friend was what managed to make it happen."

"Cremation would've been easier."

"Probably," she said, "but this is what they wanted."

"So why dig them up?"

"They're missing something, and I have it. Gotta return it the hard way, though."

The fact that this grave was partially shared by an Ixian shifted things for Apollo. Still torn about disturbing her resting place, yes, but there also came an inherent sense of duty to do whatever he can for her soul to rest. If this was what she needed to pass on, then he would commit to it.

So, he tightened his grip, better planted his feet, and got to work.

Graves hadn't been wrong about it being a long process. Even with the two of them it felt tedious and laborious, discomfort crawling across his nerves as dirt stained his clothes and stuck the sweat of his skin. Every now and then, he paused to check his pocket, making sure his ring hadn't tumbled out, and to deliberate on what the hell he was doing. He wasn't the sort of man who should be doing hard labor, digging around in the dirt and trying not to touch any of the worms when he had to use his hands to move a rock out of the way. It felt unrefined and undisciplined, and made sure Graves knew this multiple times throughout their excavation, alongside questions about the legality of all this. Her responses ranged from the sardonic, but honest, answers to flat out Oh, my god, do you ever shut up?

At least it was a good workout. If he focused on that part, then it became a lot more bearable.

After only about an hour of progress, the night had fully enveloped them, and Graves took pause to retrieve her jar of deadheads to release them in the night. They served as their new light: haunting, necrotic will-o-the-wisps that wavered ephemerally around them. More for Graves' sake than his, as Ixians had the biological advantage of tapetum lucidum, meaning that he could see just as easily in the dark as in the light. But if this was what she needed to make up for her species' evolutionary failings, then he wouldn't stop her. No need to risk her accidentally slamming the shovel into her own foot, or something equally disastrous.

The deadheads never wandered far, and especially stuck close to wherever Graves was working, but Apollo sort of wished they did keep their distance. Not because he was scared of them, more just…appropriately vigilant. Every so often, one bobbed close to him, and his heightened reflexes made him dart aside. Graves gave a single, sharp HA! every time she saw him flinch. A precise sound of mockery that made him scowl and dump a pile of dirt onto her shoes. Unfortunately, this turned out to not at all be equivalent revenge, as her boots were already dirty beyond repair. Her face said this, and he had to concede this one to her.

They continued on for another hour or two. He made frequent check-ins with his pocket watch, and had to just watch in mild despair as the time ticked later and later. Eventually, when it officially hit past midnight, he called for a break.

He stuck the shovel into the dirt to lean against it, and combed loosened hair out of his flushed face. He watched as Graves settled into her own brief respite, thinking about their earlier conversation.

Apollo asked, "So, who asked you?"

Graves immediately picked up on what he was referring to. "Weren't you listening? I said no one."

"You think I'm stupid? You were clearly lying. So I'll ask again: who would have the gall to ask you to a dance?"

Graves glowered, and worked her jaw around either another petty insult or rude answer. Somehow, the latter won. "Ugh. It doesn't matter. It was just a stupid prank."

"What makes you say that?"

"Maybe because he started laughing halfway through? And all his friends were there, also laughing? It was in the middle of the damn hallway. Everyone saw. Everyone knows." Her voice had gone raspy near the end. Not like she was going to cry, but more like she was very, very tired.

Everyone knows. Everyone except him, as he hadn't heard of it until now. Then again, it's not like he goes out of his way to talk to anyone whose character would allow juvenile bullying to fall under their repertoire. And to think, the same sort of people who pulled this sort of degeneracy acted shocked, even offended, when he didn't want anything to do with them or their sycophancy.

Apollo pressed, "Who did it?"

"Why…do you want to know?" She dragged out the last syllable of that why; a long stretch of suspicion formatting her question.

"Dishonorable bullies shouldn't have their names nor faces hidden."

Graves picked her shovel back up and resumed digging. Sweat plastered her hair to her face: the pale riverine strands stuck to ivory skin, some caught on a scarped of dirt under her right eye, and some stuck against the lipstick of her full mouth. He thought about the blotting paper, still in his desk drawer.

He cut his gaze away and went back to digging.

She said, after a few firm digs, "Tad…S-something. I don't know his last name. I don't pay attention to the living much."

"Tad Sauvageon?"

"Sounds about right. He looks like he's wearing a bad wig of his own haircut."

A sort of off-kilter insult, but Apollo could tell who she meant: "Oh…yes, I know of him." Apollo shared gym class with him. His father was a successful but dreadfully boring stock trader. Tad himself was also successful (in the land of underground gambling on campus, not in any actual academics or sports) but dreadfully boring. Trees and apples, as it goes. While Apollo didn't go out of his way to talk to his peers, he made sure he had basic knowledge of who was who and who did what. It always paid to be prepared.

He tucked this knowledge away for later.

Graves snorted. "I'll give you this: you're not the biggest prick at Blackmore."

"I'm flattered."

"Second biggest."

"I'm no longer flattered."

She laughed, and he didn't feel offended. It was hard when he got to hear a real laugh from her, that unguarded thing that he could fold away and save for later. To embarrass her, obviously, because what intimidating necromancer snorted when she laughed? He was probably the only person who knew about this private foible, and took a possessive satisfaction in that.

Back to digging they went.

When they finally hit wood, Apollo checked his watch with particular decisiveness this time. It was well past three in the morning. A bizarre time to see, as he couldn't recall the last time he'd been up this late. This was going to throw a further wrench into his usual weekend plans.

He had started to mentally organize the most efficient way of fixing his sleeping schedule within one day when Graves swept the last blanket of dirt off the coffin before depositing her shovel to the side. Due to Graves' guidance, they had dug just enough room around the coffin so to have room to stand beside it.

Apollo had never seen a coffin before. North Ixia was a culture of fire and heroics, making cremation and burning send-offs in boats or airships the ideal ways of honoring the dead. He knew that some human cultures practiced similar funerary rites, but not in this specific region. Even so, despite his limited experience with burials, he still had the cultural knowledge of what happened and how things were meant to look.

A single, wide coffin, big enough for two, and quite well-crafted, with intricate curlicues of ivy and bleeding-heart blossoms embossed into the wood, weaving together into a simple, but evocative, piece of delicate heart iconography at the center, bisected by an opening seam running all the way down. He hadn't seen a coffin like this before, limited experience notwithstanding.

"Is sharing coffins…common for couples here?"

"No," Graves replied, voice softer. "It's not unheard of, but…usually they get their own and have those buried side-by-side. Then again, most couples don't die at the same time."

She crouched down and ran her hands along that seam. Hunting for a latch or divot to pry it open.

The benefit of Ixian burial rites is that Apollo rarely had to see the rotting bodies up close. Any corpses he has had to be near in his eighteen years of living were fresh: recent assassinations in the same house, same gala, same courtyard below.

Same childhood bedroom.

He was expected to take over after his father someday. To command armies, execute enemies and traitors in a single decisive strike, to parse through battlefield photographs of crushed heads and shattered limbs, of singed skin and stolen hearts piled atop one another, to gauge how bad the casualties were and how intimately it would influence his next strategy. To do all this without even blinking.

When Graves finally hauled open the coffin to reveal two skeletons, he blinked.

He expected a more violent smell: the sour stench of flesh dissolving into dirt, of maggot and worm-chewed wood and muscle, of whatever trapped gasses would be expunged. But it wasn't as bad as he expected; it was mostly just that earthy sort of decay, like dense mulch.

They must've been buried in each other's embrace, because combined with their extensive decay, they appeared more like a conjoined twin: his ribcage was hers, her thigh bone was his, forehead pressed to forehead. The only distinguishable pieces were her horns and the leftover curl of her tail trailing off her spinal cord. Maybe, if he kept looking, he could identify the delicate remains of his hands on her hipbone. But it was hard to tell, they were nigh-indistinguishable from each other now. Time would quietly, incessantly, march on, and as it did, they'd continue to fully melt into each other first before fully succumbing to the earth itself. Together forever.

"If they wanted to be so close, then they still could've gone with cremation…" He said, clearing his throat of rising nausea. "Mixed the ashes together."

"They're still together, aren't they?" Graves said. She started rifling through her clunky bag, which she had brought down into the hole some time ago, before the depth got too deep to comfortably scale. "I think sharing a coffin is just as sweet. They're happy together."

"Didn't take you for a romantic."

"Oh, shut up."

She procured a small pouch, and gingerly leaned over the coffin with practiced care. Apollo didn't know how she could stomach being so close to such decay. The dirt, the worms, the potential diseases. It was so careless that it almost wrapped back around to professional. His tail flickered in anticipation as she shook out the components of the pouch into her hand: a pair of wedding bands.

"Hello Bellona, hello Anthony." She spoke with that open gentleness he only heard in two scenarios: when she was communicating with the dead, and in his dreams.

She continued to talk to whoever was there that he couldn't see. "I finally found your rings. It took fucking forever, though. There's too many pawn shops in this damn city."

And she started to reach for their skeletal, dirt-clotted fingers and even with the gloves on he didn't know how she could bear it. Or how she could tell whose hand was really whose. Probably their ghosts whispering in her ear. As she picked up their first finger, a noise of disgust slipped out, and she rolled her eyes but didn't stop.

When she slid on the last of the rings, delicate enough to not break anything, the air around them sighed in relief. He hadn't even realized how loaded it was before, not until the moment of that release.

"That's it?" He asked.

"That's all there is."

"I'm glad." He glanced around, expecting to see something preternatural, but all there was was the floating deadheads, looking down at them. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shrug off the goosebumps. "So…are they still here?"

"They are. They're about to go, though."

"I see."

Then he straightened his back and spoke aloud in Ixian their classic goodbyes, their final ones, for the deceased.

The air wavered, and Graves' shoulders shook with visible effort. Overcome with emotion? Yes, but not the melancholic kind. The kind that made his defenses raise and ears flush.

"What? It's traditional Ixian—"

"She doesn't understand you."

He sputtered. "Excuse me?"

"She's second-generation! She never learned Ixian, just some basic words." She laughed some more. Now that she wasn't fighting against it, though, he realized that it wasn't as mocking as he had assumed. It was more companionable. "But she appreciates the gesture."

He shook his head, the tip of his tail scraping across the wood of the coffin in agitation. Light enough to be heard, but not to mark. "I can't believe this. How could one—"

"Okay, they're heading off now." She interrupted, smiling at the air. A real smile. He quieted at that sight. "Glad I could be of help. Uh," she glanced at Apollo. "That…we could be of help. Goodbye." And then came the absolute absence of whatever was there before. Even he could tell the way the air hollowed out around them in a gentle departure. Graves closed the coffin, made sure it was all in order, then collapsed on top of it.

"Don't rest now," Apollo crossed his arms. "Don't we have to cover this back up?"

"Ugh," Graves threw an arm over her eyes. He could see the sweat on her arm and neck, pooling in her thin collarbones, glistening under the undulating light of her skulls. "I'll do that after I wake up."

"Don't tell me you're going to sleep in an open grave? On a coffin?"

"I've done it before," she slid her arm off to remove her gloves, then rubbed at her eyes. When her hands dropped, she looked like a dirty raccoon. He laughed.

"What an image you are right now!"

"Oh, like you're looking like Mister Perfect either." She reached up to poke him in the arm. "Look at you, a regular blue-collar getting off his twelve hour. I think it suits you."

And he couldn't have that. He sat down at the edge of the coffin, heavier than he meant, legs deader than he expected, and tried to pat the dirt off his sleeves, his pant legs, his shoulders. A piece of his bottom shirt seemed clean enough, and he wrenched it up, feeling the cool night air hit his bare abdomen and lower back. He wiped at his face, making it more presentable. But also maybe making it worse. He glanced at Graves, wondering if she was really going to be satisfied laying there in all that filth.

But she was looking at him, too. Face angry and red.

"What?" Thoughts slid sideways into anxiety. Did he make himself look worse?

"Nothing," her voice was taut, and she rolled over, pillowing her head on her arm. Her buns were more of a suggestion now, with the majority of the white locks fanning out in dusty, tangled swathes around her head. "Your hair looks ridiculous, by the way."

"As though you're one to talk." He dropped his shirt, smoothing it out, and then went for his hair. He fought to comb it out, his hair gel now long dissolved by sweat and time, which was impressive, as his usual brand boasted an ability to withstand long hours of abuse to keep perfect in even the most grueling fencing tournaments. With no mirror, he just had to pray that he accomplished something.

He was so tired. After the subpar attempts of self-grooming, with nothing else to truly occupy him, the realization hit like a train. He knew he was in a much better shape than Graves, and kept himself at peak physical performance without fail, but any amount of unfamiliar hard labor for hours on end would exhaust anyone. Not to mention how far past his usual sleeping time was—

He bent over, pressing his face into his hands. "Oh, gods, I have to be up in two hours."

"It's a Sunday," her voice was heavy with somnolence. "You don't gotta get up for anything. Give yourself a break for once."

"Easy for you to say," he snapped. "I can't let myself falter like this. The expectations placed upon me leave no room for—"

A sigh. "Hey. C'mere."

His heart did not jump. His tail did not still from its previous agitation. His face did not immediately turn to her. None of this happened because she was still not looking at him. It was a secret only for him to destroy. She was looking up at the sky, one arm blindly raised to gesture him over.

Curiosity won over suspicion. He swallowed past his repulsion for the coffin and the skeletons below, and carefully slid over. Keeping a respectable distance, he laid down in parallel to her. She pointed up at the sky.

"Big dipper…little dipper…uhm…I think that's Orion…?" She tried to point each corresponding constellation out, but it was still too nebulous to make the connection. It's not like stargazing was a pass-time of Apollo's, especially with an unfamiliar sky. He didn't interrupt her, though. She continued to try and identify them with various levels of confidence, before eventually asking: "Is the sky different in North Ixia?"

He had no idea what the point of this was. But he answered anyway. "Yes. Our stars are different…the colors, the sizes, the constellations…we even have two moons."

"Two moons…that's kind of cool."

"It is."

Times like these, when faced with the unavoidable reminder of how far from home he truly was, the homesickness that simmered under every step, riposte, and smile boiled over, becoming something so large and heavy that it sunk into grief. He tightened his jaw. Then made himself relax, in the way he was taught when young: piece by part, in tandem with even breaths and even thoughts. Move on and forward, one mental foot at a time.

He let out a long breath, then asked, "You've never visited Ixia before?"

"Nope."

"The North is understandable…but the South is very welcoming to tourists. I'm surprised."

"Don't be. My parents don't believe in things like vacations or spending quality time with the family. Any trips we take are for business only." Her voice was sharpened by resentment. "Even the little things. Didn't get my first movie theater experience 'til I was old enough to be the one to take us." She added before he could ask: "By us I just mean me and my sister."

Apollo thought about all the trips and plays and operas he had seen with his father. The ones with with his mother, in his limited time with her. They were some of his most brilliant memories, and it was hard to imagine a bright past without them.

"Well, if you ever decide to visit, I'd be happy to point you towards the best we have to offer."

"Ha. I'll keep that in mind. But kind of funny coming from you. Have you even checked out any of our movies? Any of our museums?"

"Why would I?" He scoffed. "I doubt it'd compare to what I have back at home."

She took in a breath as though to respond. Then held it. He waited. He even hoped.

Finally, she released it: "You know what? I'll take you to a movie sometime. Consider it, uh, pay back for helping me with this."

"Really?" He didn't mean for it to sound eager.

"Well, you can't exactly pass comparison if you haven't even seen any of our shit. Don't worry, I have just the film in mind." And he did not like the impish dip of her tone. Not one bit.

"…I'm not sure if I should trust you."

"What? You scared?"

"I'm never scared."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem."

And Apollo, who would not back out of a challenge he had already risen to: "It won't be."

She was smiling. Just a small thing. She had it on her face almost the whole time, which he knew, because he lost interest in the constellations two sentences into this conversation, and his gaze had dragged to her on its own. Her bangs had fully fallen away from her face, showing the strong profile of her nose, the moon-white of her cheeks under the layers of dry makeup and slate-brown dirt, the daub of black lipstick that had melted at the corner of her mouth from the sweat.

He thought about the blotting paper again.

Graves glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He quickly looked away, back to the sky.

And she looked back too. He thinks she did, at least, because she started point more out. At some point, her dead heads had snuffed themselves out, leaving them alone together in the dark of the grave, lit only by the moon and stars.

He listened to her talk until she wasn't talking anymore, and the next thing he knew was this:

The sun was shining overhead, still early enough for its light to be thin and gauzy through the morning mist.

And his back was groaning in pain from the the hard labor and bad sleeping spot.

And Graves was facing him, still asleep, pressed so close that their foreheads touched, that her ribcage could be his, or his thigh could be hers. His hand tucked over her waist. His tail coiled around her leg, just above the knee. Warmer together in the cold morning air.

He'd never been this close to her. She smelled like petrichor, or wilting funeral flowers. Unconventional and even immediately off-putting, but quickly became a pleasantry. He breathed it in, and when he sighed it out, it ruffled her hair from her face, even scared off some loose scatterings of dirt, but she didn't react. She barely moved at all, actually; nothing more than the steady, shallow rhythm of her own breathing. He had to suppress a smile. She slept like the dead.

The shift in her hair did draw his attention to a wilted petal nested in the fluff of it, just above her temple. Most likely blown over from a nearby floral offering. Mind still sleep-drunk, he raised his hand from her hip to carefully pull the petal out. It crumbled between his fingers, scattering to her cheek, some strays tumbling down to her mouth. His own mouth went dry. He thought about the blotting paper.

She still didn't react, though. No indication that she felt anything. He wondered if she even dreamed. He risked a swipe of the thumb over her cheek, brushing off the petal's remnants. And then he kept it there, just for a moment.

This was dangerous. And pathetic. He was entertaining an infatuation that was not only an unnecessary distraction but was also irrevocably hopeless. Whether or not Graves would ever accept his feelings wasn't the issue, it was the greater political problem that was. Graves was human. The only thing that could scale this monumental barrier would be if she came from a background of nobility, or something close, like a Fairfax. (This, however, was not a knock against the respectability of a career in law, it was just a matter of politics). At least then he could argue the particular political gain of being with this particular human. But that wasn't the case, and so no matter how Apollo turned her in his head, he struggled to find a befitting angle that would get his father to agree to any official romantic arrangements.

And it wasn't as though his father would personally dislike her—Apollo wanted to believe that he would at least respect her for her necrotic prowess and strong stomach, even if the rest was…unconventional—but Apollo had duties to fulfill. Whenever graduation passed and he was finally able to return home, he knew there would be a spread of prospective partners to sort through. To figure out if this arranged marriage would be more beneficial than that arranged marriage. It was an inevitably that he had no problems resigning himself to ever since he was old enough to understand. Romance was never his priority, after all. His family, his country, his fencing, the Olympics. Those were the priorities. Or they were.

He allowed himself these small indulgences only with the knowledge that it was going nowhere and all would be put behind him as soon as he returned home and could fully realign himself to his family, his culture, and his proper, immediate duties.

This, however, didn't feel like a small indulgence. In fact, thinking on it, he knew all of those small indulgences of the past had been stacking up fast. He needed to put a stop to it. He needed to go back to his dorm and burn that blotting paper. He needed to—

Graves was awake. Eyes open wide, pinning him in place. His hand was still cupping her face, the coolness of her skin rapidly warming under his palm. The kind of flush that conquered her whole countenance: cheeks, neck, ears, nose. Impossible to hide even if she had her usual bangs in place.

Maybe she knew this, because her hand shot out and shoved him in the shoulder, pushing him away with an audible gasp from them both. His tail unwound itself and he rolled with the motion, catching himself and springing up before he could hit the ground. Even in this groggy state would his reflexes never fail him.

But his reflexes couldn't save him from the racing heartbeat and unpredictable swing of his tail. He worked to calm himself again. Cleared his throat. Then, to busy his hands and gaze, checked his pocket watch.

"Good gods, it's almost nine in the morning!"

Graves was sitting up on the coffin, hands wrapped around her bent knees, the mass of her hair hiding her face. She didn't say anything. He slowly pocketed the watch, which he immediately regretted, as he didn't know what to do with his hands afterwards.

Neither said anything for a long while. Then, finally, she muttered, "We should…get out of here."

He cleared his throat and looked up. "Yeah, we should." He held his hand out to her. "Do you need help climbing out?"

It was a six-foot-hole, and while he could easily scale it due to his own height overtaking that, she didn't have the same advantage.

Graves stood up on her own. "I'm fine, I can climb it. Not my first rodeo."

"Are you sure?" His fingers still curled around the memory of her hip.

"I already got one."

He opened his mouth, but whatever came out was an abortive yell as a ghoul lurched out of the ground beside her. Its desiccated bones croaked as it rotated its posture into something supportive, holding out its hands for Graves to grab onto its shoulders and step up. Its skinless, gaping face stared her down as she scrambled up the side of the hole. Then it cracked its neck to jerk towards him, and his skin crawled.

Graves peeked over the edge. "Need a hand, golden boy?"

"Absolutely not."

"You sure?" It wasn't a genuine question but a teasing affront. He glared at her briefly, but didn't fully lose his focus on the ghoul. He couldn't help the tension in his body when left alone in an enclosed space with a zombie. Even if he, objectively, knew it wouldn't cause him any purposeful harm. Maybe. Hopefully.

Graves shrugged. "Suit yourself." Then she gave a small, short whistle. "Throw my stuff up, will you?"

Apollo moved the same time the ghoul did, and was faster, too, scooping up her blazer and impractically heavy bag to toss it up to her. The ghoul had frozen mid-movement, seemingly confused by its interrupted goal.

"Oh…thanks," Graves said to him, then back to the ghoul: "You can go now, buddy. Thanks."

It crumbled, like a sandcastle shattering under a heavy wind, a rapid return to the dirt, its necrotic light snuffing out, like it was never there in the first place. He swallowed, pulled his gloves back on, and jumped out of the hole with graceful ease.

Back at the surface, the air tasted fresher on his tongue and thinner against his skin, a palpable freedom from the musty suffocation of the grave. He removed the gloves with decisiveness and tilted his head back, basking in the light breeze.

Graves, meanwhile, had already shrugged on her blazer and bag. The Lich hand was nowhere in sight, which did little to comfort him, even if he knew it was probably back in her bag. She stood, shifting from foot to foot, in that way when someone wants to say something. He gave her a permissive look.

She asked, "Do you want to get some breakfast?"

"I want a shower."

"And we still gotta rebury this thing."

Not a serious push-back: "We?"

"A certain someone doesn't do things in half-measures. Besides, the burying is easier than the digging."

He knew this to be true and was always going to hold himself to it. He just couldn't resist going along the flow of their banter. It was too easy to indulge in. It really was becoming a problem.

"I'm not going to an establishment looking like I just crawled out of a grave because—well, look at that! I just did!"

"There's a corner store not two minutes from here. I'll buy you a bagel."

He grimaced. "Surely there's better—"

"There isn't a five-star in the whole city that wouldn't kick us out immediately. A corner store, though? They specialize in weirdos tracking in dirt. Besides, the faster we eat, the faster we can get this finished." She started off down the path.

He hesitated, grabbed his own things, and followed after her.

They got breakfast at the corner store (burial mounds of dead insects polluting every recess, numerous out of date flyers greased over even more out of date flyers, occult knick-knacks that looked too small and shoddy to offer any substantial magic, and a ruddy cashier that barely acknowledged the state of their persons when ringing up Graves' purchase) and ate it on the curb in front ("This looks foul.", "Oh, right, I forgot you have the diet of a spoiled purse dog.", "Well, excuse me for caring about what I eat. I have a strict regimen to maintain, not to mention—", "Just eat your fucking bagel, Fifi."), before returning to the cemetery by the time it hit ten o'clock. According to Graves, she usually wasn't up 'this early' on the weekend. For not the first nor last time, Apollo wondered how she truly went on operating the way she did.

Back at the grave, full of renewed energy, they rolled up their sleeves and got to burying. Thank the gods, because looking down at that coffin just reminded him of how they woke up together. It was going to haunt him for many lonesome nights in his own bed. He wondered (hoped, hoped, hoped) if it was going to haunt her too.

(Sometimes, when he glanced over at her, which was more often than it should, he thought he caught her looking too. Her face red, but that could have been the exertion. But it also could have been something else. He still hoped. Even despite everything he had reminded himself about earlier, he still couldn't shake off the hope.)

Graves had been right: it was easier than the digging. No hard ground to wrestle with or random rocks to try and argue your shovel around, all they had to deal with now was a long two hours of repetitiveness. But they made it through, with Graves patting down the last of the dirt with proper finality.

"There," she said, "all done."

"All done," he echoed.

The bed of dirt was conspicuously flattened and bare of any grass or natural debris, making it obvious to anyone who would come by that this grave was recently disturbed. But that wasn't their problem anymore, was it?

Graves collected their shovels and gloves and took them back to wherever she had gotten them, and he went back to the gate to wait. He checked his ring. Still there, still mostly clean, but he wasn't going to slip it back on until he could properly wash his hands.

When she returned, he asked, "Where did you get those, anyway?"

"The groundskeeper's shed."

"You have permission to go in there? To use their things?"

"Don't ask questions if you already know you're gonna be mad at the answer," she crossed her arms. "Besides, they kinda know me by now. We'll be fine."

He was too tired to push it. "I'll take your word for it."

"Good."

They stood there, a couple feet apart, in front of the gate, still covered in filth, limbs heavy with exhaustion, the occasional pedestrian wandering by. Some, Apollo recognized, were prom-goers from last night, stumbling into taxis or the nearest bush, failing to fight hangovers in their glittery, impractical outfits. Apollo knew he didn't look any more presentable, but at least he spent all night doing something productive. He kept his head held high as their heads hung low.

He told Graves, "I'm not going to make a habit of digging up graves with you, but…I can't say I regret this. The work you do is…commendable."

"That kinda sounded like a compliment?"

"Because it was. Credit where credit is due. In fact," he shifted," if you ever find yourself helping another Ixian soul…I'd be willing to help again. Depending on the circumstance," he held up a hand, "this is not an invitation to drag me along anything possibly illegal again."

"Ye of so little faith," she smirked, then softened it slightly. Her hand coming up to tug at a matted piece of hair hanging in her face. "But…thanks. I guess. Bitching aside, you did make this easier for me. So, I'll keep your offer in mind, I guess."

I guess was better than no.

"Well," he automatically moved to shrug on his blazer, then rescinded it when he remembered the state the rest of him was in. No need to ruin another good piece of clothing. "I'm heading back. Do you…need me to call you a ride?"

"I'm fine," she replied, jerking a thumb over her shoulder as she stepped back in preparation for her own departure. "Gonna go dirty up a subway seat instead."

He frowned. "I really don't mind—"

"Drop it, man, this is how I always get home."

The frown flattened out to a purse. "If…you're sure."

"I'm sure, no need to guilt yourself into being a gentleman for me." She said gentleman like it was a vulgarity. She turned from him. "Well, see you on Monday."

"I'm holding you to that," he pointed at her. "I better not see an empty seat next to me again, especially after all the effort I went for your notes."

"An effort I didn't ask for but, yeah, whatever, I'll be there. Later, man."

"Goodbye, Darcy."

And they parted.

And when Monday came, he was there, and so was she.

And they didn't mention the grave, or prom, or how they awoke that morning on the coffin. (But Apollo hadn't been wrong about it haunting him since.)

And if Graves happened to pass by Ted Sauvageon with a bruised eye and a bloody nose from a poor gym performance then she didn't mention it. And neither did he.

(The blotting paper remained, unburned and untrashed, in his desk drawer.)