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TEN.
There is a handprint on the mirror when Hunter gets out of the shower.
Steam rises around him in clouds, the shower curtain behind him swaying in the moist air. There is a handprint on the mirror and Hunter’s heart skips a beat, a split-second at most, and his feet leave wet puddles on the bathroom floor.
“Sebastian?” he calls, but the room is silent.
He can’t look away from the mirror, doesn’t want to, and he holds up a hand and places it against the glass. A perfect fit; palm to palm.
“…Sebastian?” he says again, brows drawing together. The steam is fading and the air is thinning. The glass grows cold to the touch.
The room is silent.
ONE.
When Hunter Clarington transfers to Dalton, he doesn’t expect the roommate. He’d specifically requested a single, and when he moves in, he’s surprised and more than a little upset to discover that he’s supposed to share his room.
The fact that his roommate is a ghost is secondary; Hunter Clarington simply doesn’t like to share.
“I don’t want a roommate,” he says to the ghost, who’s hanging by a belted noose in the middle of his room. His bright green eyes are bugged out and his tongue is lolling, but Hunter knows he’s a ghost because he can see right through him. He purses his lips.
“Go away,” Hunter says, putting his bookbag on his desk. “I’m trying to study.”
The notion is so ridiculous that the ghost actually looks up. “You can’t be serious,” he says, frowning. “It’s the first day of class. No one studies on the first day of class.”
“I do,” Hunter says shortly. “Now go away…?” He pauses, looking expectantly at the ghost.
The ghost frowns. “Sebastian,” he says, and drifts down slowly from the ceiling. The noose disappears from his neck, and his clothing fades into a sharply pressed Dalton uniform. “But more importantly—why aren’t you afraid of me? And also, why are you studying?”
Hunter turns his back on him, propping open his science textbook and taking out his highlighter. “Go away, Sebastian,” he says. “I’m on scholarship, and I can’t let a janky ghost ruin my GPA.”
“Janky?” Sebastian draws himself up to his full height, which Hunter is annoyed to discover is a couple of inches taller than him. “I am not janky!”
“Yeah, you are,” Hunter says, raising an eyebrow. “You went for the most obvious trick in the book. No slow burn of fear, no build-up of terror, no… class. Like I said: janky.”
The look on the ghost’s face is almost comical in its outrage, and there is a handful of seconds where he gives him his best death glare. Then there is a soft sucking sound, the kind that tape makes when pulled from leather, and Sebastian is gone.
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Good riddance.”
FIVE.
“So what new and boring things are we doing today, Clarington?”
It’s Sebastian, of course, and he’s the last person that Hunter wants to see right now. His eyes are red when he shuts his laptop with a loud click, turning away from the ghost.
“I’m not in the mood today, Smythe. Go away,” he growls, getting up and striding to his bathroom. He runs the water in the sink to cover up the fact that his nose is clogged and he sounds a bit watery, and he washes his hands under the cold tap.
“…are you crying?” Sebastian appears in the mirror, melting out from behind the glass. Had Hunter been anyone else, he would’ve jumped away in fright.
Instead, he merely glares.
“I’m not,” he says forcefully, swiping at his eyes.
Sebastian frowns. “You sure look like you’re crying,” he says. “Your nose is red and everything.”
“Just—just leave me alone, okay?” Hunter says. He leans down and scrubs at his face, washing away the evidence. The Skype conversation with his father had lasted for the better part of an hour, and by the time he’d hung up, Hunter had been on the verge of putting his fist through the screen.
His father doesn’t understand him. No one does except for his brother Michael, and his dad had kicked him out a long time ago. Michael’s a few years older than Hunter, and the day he’d came out to the Claringtons had been the last time Hunter ever saw him.
They don’t talk about him anymore, except during times like tonight, when his father goes on about how God hates fags and that if Mike ever shows his face around town again, he’ll be the first guy in line to run him right out. It makes Hunter sick to his stomach, but he forces himself to nod stoically and pretend to agree.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian is persistent, annoying, and he pops up from the drain and floats right into Hunter’s face.
“God damn it!” Hunter yells, sweeping his arm across Smythe’s body roughly. It passes through him and knocks his mug and toothbrush to the floor. The ceramic shatters when it hits the tiles, shards spilling everywhere. “Why won’t you leave me alone?!”
Hunter doesn’t even notice that he’s still crying until he leans down to pick up the bits of his cup and clear liquid drips onto the floor. Sebastian is silent as he watches Hunter sit there, motionless, for a good fifteen minutes.
“…are you okay?” he asks finally, when Hunter finally stirs. He gets to his feet, leaving behind the broken glass. He’s just so god damned tired.
“No,” Hunter says, going outside and sprawling on his bed. “I’m not okay.”
Sebastian floats towards him, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What’s wrong, Clarington?” he asks. “Maybe I can help or some shit.”
Hunter is quiet for such a long time that Sebastian almost thinks he’s not going to reply. “I’m gay,” he says finally, after another handful of minutes pass. It’s the first time he’s said the words aloud, and the fact that Smythe is a ghost doesn’t even matter. He feels a little weight lift from his shoulders all the same.
“Oh,” Sebastian says.
“’Oh?’” Hunter repeats, sitting up. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh’?”
“Well… I sort of figured,” Sebastian says, tilting his chin at the laptop. “There aren’t a lot of girls in the porn that you jack off to. Like. No girls at all, actually.”
Hunter’s expression flits from annoyed to outright horrified in the span of two seconds. “You—watch me masturbate??” he shouts.
“What else am I supposed to do?” Sebastian asks, shrugging. “And it’s not like it counts. I’m dead—I can’t come, or any of that fun stuff.”
Hunter hurls his pillow at him, and curses as it smashes into Pavarotti’s cage. It gives an indignant squawk. “It’s a gross invasion of privacy,” he snarls, momentarily forgetting his despair about his father. “I can’t believe you, Smythe! And why the hell didn’t I see you?”
Sebastian mimes a yawn. “Because you only see me when I let you,” he says. “And what’s the big deal, anyway? There are ghosts everywhere. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t meant they aren’t there. They honestly just don’t care, is all.”
At Hunter’s unimpressed look, Smythe shrugs. “Well, maybe I care,” he admits. “A little. I haven’t gotten laid in ten years, Clarington. Give me a break.”
The boy turns away from him in disgust. “I don’t see what the big deal is anyway,” Sebastian persists. “I mean, so I saw your dick. I’m sure plenty of guys have, by now.”
There is an awkward silence as Hunter refuses to look anywhere even remotely close to Sebastian.
“Oh,” Sebastian says, after a while. He has the grace to finally look a little ashamed. “Sorry, Hunt. I guess I just… sort of assumed…” He makes an obscene gesture with his hands, and Hunter feels vaguely ill.
“For god’s sake, Smythe—you’re the first person I’ve ever told,” he says. “I couldn’t even bring myself to think it before, much less do anything about it.”
He flops down on his bed and Sebastian sighs. “Come on, how was I supposed to know that?” he asks. “I mean, you’re freaking gorgeous, Clarington. If I was alive, I’d be all over you in a heartbeat.”
Hunter still won’t look at him, but the tips of his ears turn a little red. “Go away, pervert,” he huffs, but he doesn’t sound quite so mad anymore.
“Seriously, you have to know that you’re a walking wet dream,” Sebastian says earnestly. He floats under the bed and pops up in front of Hunter, laying down beside him. “But I’m really sorry I watched you. I mean, I’m not sorry sorry—that was like the best show I’ve gotten in years—but I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable.”
“What the hell kind of an apology is that?” Clarington demands, his face bright red. He doesn’t get up to storm off, though, so Sebastian counts it as a win.
“The best you’re going to get from me,” Sebastian says, and blows him a kiss.
“Asshole.”
“I haven’t seen yours yet, but now that you mention it, I’m sure I can surprise you in the shower…”
“SMYTHE.”
TWO.
Hunter meets the Warblers for the first time.
He hits it off with the guys straight off the bat, and when he requests to see a sample of one of their routines from the year before, they sing ‘Uptown Girl’ and a boy named Nick takes the lead. He’s handsome and friendly and he smiles at Hunter from across the room.
Hunter likes him immediately.
“Our lead used to be Blaine Anderson,” Duval explains later. “But he transferred to McKinley last year. Kept saying he was getting nightmares about some lecherous ghost.”
The rest of the Warblers laugh like it’s a joke, though Hunter’s chuckle is a lot more forced. “It’ll take a lot more than that,” he says. “To get me out of here.”
Nick grins, ducking his head. “Yeah, we’re really glad Dalton got you to transfer,” he says. “The headmaster sent us a recording of your group’s Regionals win last year. You’re really good.”
Hunter’s vain enough to blush at that, and the rest of the meeting goes better than he can possibly hope. Duval’s a great guy and a talented singer, but he’s not much of a leader; Hunter knows he won’t give him any trouble now that he’s taken over.
When he gets back to his dorm room he has a bird cage in hand and is humming just a little. The canary chirps in response, tittering a bit when he sets it down. “You should be glad my parents made me leave my cat back in Colorado,” he tells it. “Mr. Puss would’ve made short work of you.”
Pavarotti the fourth hides its head under its wing and Hunter smirks, taking a seat as he starts going over the Warblers’ stack of sheet music. He’s so engrossed in what he’s doing that he’s almost taken by surprise when Sebastian’s head floats up from the middle of his desk.
“So you’re the Captain of the Warblers now?” The ghost asks, making a face at the canary. It chirps in distress, wings flapping at its cage.
Hunter’s mouth thins in annoyance. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was awarded a scholarship to Dalton because I led my old club to a regionals win,” he says. “And I thought you were gone.”
“I got bored,” Sebastian says, shrugging. “Besides, this used to be my old room. I like it here.”
He floats over to Hunter’s bed, stretching out on it carelessly. “So, fearless leader, what are your plans for our lovely team?”
Clarington turns, glaring. “It’s not your anything,” he says pointedly. “And my plans are a secret.”
“Please,” Sebastian says, rolling his eyes. “I was the last Captain to take the Warblers to Nationals, and that happened ten years ago. You won’t make it past Regionals without my help.”
Hunter frowns. “You’re S. Smythe?” he asks doubtfully. The Warblers have a trophy case and in the very center of it stands a National’s second place trophy; their highest honor in the past decade.
“The ‘S’ stands for Sebastian, yes,” the ghost replies. “I take it you saw the plaque in the choir room?”
Hunter nods slowly; he’d taken stock of the trophies in that case, and the plaque for MVP had stood out. ‘S. Smythe,’ it read. ‘Captain. Warbler. Legend.’ (Okay, so maybe Dalton took its show choir a little too seriously, but still.) Whatever else Sebastian had been when he was alive, he was undisputedly a prince on the stage.
“Then you know what I can do,” Sebastian says, waggling his eyebrows. “You know that I could help you. If you, you know. Ask me nicely.”
“Smythe took the Warblers to two regionals wins and one second place nationals,” Hunter says slowly. The wheels in his head turn and Sebastian makes a show of brushing his fingernails against his transparent chest.
“Fine,” he says, voice colored with grudging respect. “I’m listening.”
Sebastian smirks. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
SIX.
“You should ask him out, you know.”
“What’re you blathering on about now, Smythe?” Hunter asks, but there’s no heat in his voice. He’s sitting on the bleachers at the field, going through his history notes. Sebastian is floating somewhere beneath him, (probably trying to catch a glimpse of the boys changing in the locker room, the pervert), and is keeping him company as he studies.
“Duval,” Sebastian says. His head pops up between Hunter’s legs and through his textbook.
“God damn it, Seb,” Hunter says. “Don’t fucking do that!” He snaps the textbook shut and sits back so that Smythe’s head isn’t quite protruding from his crotch.
Sebastian smirks. “Why? Are you afraid you’ll like it?” he teases. “But seriously, the way you look at Duval, I’m surprised he hasn’t caught on, yet.”
“I don’t look at Nick at all,” Hunter insists, and Smythe rolls his eyes.
“Please. You just spent twenty minutes staring at his ass,” he says. “You should get it over with. Ask him out.”
“No,” Hunter says firmly. “I’m not—I can’t ask him.”
“Ask him out,” Sebastian continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “To that big dance, even. It’s next week and you don’t have a date. The Captain of the Warblers can’t be a loser, so you have to bring someone. May as well be little Nicky over there.”
“Don’t call him that,” Hunter says, annoyed. “And I can’t ask him. He’s straight, anyway.”
Sebastian purses his lips. “You’re like the worst judge of sexuality ever,” he says. “No wonder you’re still a virgin.”
“Shut up!” Hunter hisses, gathering his books. His shout gains the attention of the boys on the track, and when Nick spots him, he brightens and waves. Clarington waves back lamely and accidentally drops his history textbook on his foot. It’s a thousand pages and in hardcover, and Hunter tries very hard not to shout several expletives as he bends down to pick it up.
Sebastian had disappeared the minute the other boys turned to look, but Hunter can hear him laughing in his ear.
Nick is approaching the bleachers now, his expression a mask of concern. Hunter ignores the pain in his foot and pretends he doesn’t see him, striding back to the dorms.
His face flames.
“Smooth, Clarington. Real smooth.”
“Shut up, Smythe.”
SEVEN.
Duval says yes.
Hunter asks him to stay behind after rehearsals on Thursday, and Trent and Jeff shoot him a knowing grin as they file out. Clarington resolutely ignores them, making a show of packing up his things.
Nick is smiling when he walks up, his hands in his pockets and his hair falling over his eyes. He’s several inches shorter than Hunter and he actually has to crane his neck a little to meet his gaze.
Clarington really, really likes him.
“Hey, man,” Nick says, smiling as he walks up to him. “What’s up?”
“The dance on Saturday,” Hunter says stiffly. “You going with anyone?” He realizes that he’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he makes an effort to look a little less intimidating by laying them on the table and leaning forward.
“Um,” Nick backs away a little, brows rising. “No, I—I was just going to tag along with Sterling and his girlfriend. The guy I like didn’t ask me, so…” He shrugs self-consciously, and Hunter smiles widely. He hadn’t actually confirmed Sebastian’s claims that Nick is gay up until now, so this is definitely a step in the right direction. He’d be fist pumping if it isn’t so inappropriate.
Nick gives him an odd look. “Well, you don’t have to rub it in or anything,” he says, frowning, and Hunter wipes the smile off of his face.
“Sorry, I wasn’t smiling at that,” he says hastily. “I’m glad that you don’t have a date, that’s all.”
Nick is looking increasingly more offended by the second, and Hunter holds up his hands. “Shit, can we start this again?” he says. “Look, I just wanted to ask if you’d consider going with me. To the dance, I mean. We don’t have to actually dance or anything, but I’d. Like to go with you. If you want.”
It’s possibly the worst invitation in the history of bad invitations. Hunter isn’t sure if the laughter is coming from his head, from an invisible Sebastian, or from Nick. Maybe some soul-crushing combination of the three, but he relaxes a bit when he realizes that Duval is nodding.
“You know, I didn’t even know you were gay,” Nick chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Otherwise, I would’ve asked you days ago.”
Hunter lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. “That a yes?” he asks, and Nick rolls his eyes.
“That’s a yes, Clarington,” he says.
They both grin at each other somewhat awkwardly, and by the time Hunter heads back to his room, he still can’t wipe the smile off of his face.
“Sebastian?” he calls, throwing his bookbag on the chair. “You were right about Nick— he said he’d go with me!”
When no answer is forthcoming, he goes into the bathroom, checks the closet, and finally gets on his hands and knees and looks under the bed.
“Sebastian?”
This is when Smythe chooses to make his appearance-- when Hunter is on the floor with his ass in the air. He can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Hell of a view to come home to, Clarington,” he says, chuckling.
Hunter purses his lips, straightening. “Where have you been?” he asks, dropping onto his bed. “I asked Nick to the dance. He said yes.”
Sebastian’s smile wavers only slightly. “That’s great, Hunt,” he says, floating over to rest on ‘his’ side of the bed. “Out and proud. I’m happy for you.”
They’re lying face to face, and if Sebastian were alive Hunter would’ve felt his breath on his cheek. He smiles. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says earnestly. “So… thanks.”
Smythe shrugs. “You deserve to be happy, same as anyone,” he says a bit awkwardly, and he fades a little against the sheets. “I’m sure you would’ve figured it out sooner or later.”
But Hunter shakes his head. Sebastian’s an annoying, arrogant ass, but he’s also been there for him every single time he’s needed him to be.
“No,” he says quietly. “I really wouldn’t have.”
He’s not talking about Duval anymore, and he knows that Sebastian understands.
THREE.
Hunter throws a pillow at Sebastian’s head. It passes through him harmlessly and bounces on the desk, causing his textbooks to crash to the floor.
“He’s not that bad,” Hunter says; they’re talking about Nick again, the fourth time this week. “His version of ‘Uptown Girl’ was amazing.”
“His version of ‘Uptown Girl’ was cookie-cutter drivel,” Sebastian snorts. He floats off the bed and hovers behind Hunter, eying the list of his songs on his laptop. “Why you would ever consider giving him a solo is beyond me. I took every solo and built every performance around my greatness. That’s why we won, Clarington.”
Hunter’s lip twists; Sebastian ignores him.
“How about this one?” the ghost asks after a pregnant pause, pointing at the screen. His finger passes through it with a static fizz.
“I’m not singing a song about blowjobs at sectionals, Smythe.”
FOUR.
Hunter sings a song about blowjobs at sectionals.
They win.
EIGHT.
On the night of the dance, Sebastian hovers behind him as he gets dressed.
“Got the tickets?” he asks. “Phone? Wallet? Breath mints?”
“Check, check, check, and… check,” Hunter grins, patting himself down. He straightens his tie and runs a hand through his hair, glancing at Sebastian. “Well, then. Looks like I’m all set.”
“Looks like it,” the ghost replies, nodding. He makes a show of going around Hunter, inspecting him from every angle. “Very sharp, Clarington.”
He laughs. “Thanks, considering you picked out the suit,” Hunter says, and they share a smile as he dithers at the doorway. He’s in no hurry to go, he realizes, and it’s less about who he’s going to meet and more about who he’s leaving behind.
He pauses, biting his lip.
“Sebastian, I wish—“ he starts, but Sebastian interrupts him smoothly.
“You don’t want to be late, killer,” he says, and Clarington shuts his mouth with an audible click.
“Right,” he says, blinking. He shakes himself, forcing a smile. “Of course. See you later, Smythe.”
Sebastian’s already half-gone before he’s even done talking, and the last to fade are his bright green eyes. Then Hunter is alone, and he flicks off the light switch and sighs.
“I wish I were going with you,” he says quietly, and pulls the door shut.
. . .
Hunter has a good time at the dance.
He and Nick have plenty in common, and the conversation is light and uncomplicated. They don’t dance because Hunter’s never slow danced with a guy before and Nick is content to just sit and talk. At some point Jeff comes by with his girlfriend and she drags Duval out on the floor for a fast song, and Hunter is left with Sterling as company. Some of the other Warblers come by to say hello, and soon they are in a large, rowdy group, filled with laughter.
Thad pulls Hunter into a deep discussion about their next set list, and he smiles apologetically at Nick from across the table. Nick smiles back, shrugging, and much of the night is spent in this fashion. It isn’t quite what Hunter had expected, but he can’t complain.
They stay until the very end of the dance, until the crowd has thinned considerably and only a handful of Warblers remain at their table. Hunter drains his punch cup as Sterling and his girl take their leave. Duval comes back from the restroom with an uncharacteristic swagger, and he taps Hunter on the shoulder when the music comes up for the last dance.
“Come on, Clarington,” he says, winking. “Get up and dance with me.”
Hunter’s brows draw up in surprise, but he allows Nick to pull him up and lead him to the dance floor. “I thought you didn’t want to dance,” he says, and Duval rolls his eyes.
“Please,” he says. “You’re killing me here, Hunt.”
He puts his hands around Hunter’s neck and Clarington puts his arms around his waist, and it’s surprisingly not as awkward as he thought it would be. Duval even lets him lead, which makes sense because he’s almost a full head taller than him.
They sway to the music for most of the song, and Hunter has to admit that it’s actually kind of nice. Nick moves a little closer, rubbing his cheek against the line of Hunter’s jaw, and Clarington suddenly becomes acutely aware of how close they’re standing.
“…Nick?” he asks, and Duval stops moving and tips his chin up just so. He smirks.
“Shut up and kiss me, Clarington,” he says, and Hunter does.
When their lips meet, it’s like fireworks go off somewhere in the distant part of Hunter’s brain. Nick’s lips are soft and a little cool against his, and he cards his fingers in his hair and holds him close. Hunter doesn’t know how long they’re standing like that, making out in the middle of the freaking dance floor, but someone wolf whistles and they finally break apart.
Hunter opens his eyes just as Duval’s flash green, and he just like that, he knows. “Sebastian?”
He pulls away so quickly that he stumbles, and people turn to look as Nick blinks, staring at him in confusion. “…Hunter?” he asks, bewildered. “What are we doing on the dance floor…?”
There’s no trace of Sebastian, and Hunter looks around wildly for the telltale wisp. His heart is pounding and he can practically hear the blood rushing in his ears. What the hell had just happened?
The other couples on the dance floor are all staring at him, and Nick puts a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Hunter? Calm down—“ he trails off as Clarington abruptly yanks his arm away from him.
“I-I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wild as he backs away from Nick. “I have to go.”
And then he’s turning on his heel and practically running for the door, body checking Trent on his way out. He doesn’t even stop to apologize, and he makes directly for the dormitories across campus. It’d been Sebastian on the dance floor, it had to be, and he doesn’t know how or why it’s possible, but he as sure as hell knows he’s going to do something about it.
. . .
By the time Hunter gets to his room, he’s broken into a sweat and his tie is askew. He slams the door closed and stands in the center of his room, lifting his chin.
“Sebastian—I know that was you,” he growls. “Come out. Now.”
The ghost appears behind him, passing soundlessly through the windows before fading in completely. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and Hunter closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Clarington says, turning to face him. “You don’t know how much I—Damn it. How did you do that, Sebastian?”
The ghost shakes his head. “I possessed him,” he said. “I shouldn’t have, and it’s impossible to hold on for more than a few minutes anyway, but I just… I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
Hunter moves forward, his gaze locked on Sebastian’s. “I’m not angry, Smythe,” he says. He’s bare inches away from the ghost now, and he reaches up, cradling the air around his cheek with the palm of his hand. The air is slightly cooler here, but otherwise he feels nothing. He swears softly.
“You have no idea how much I—how much I want to touch you,” Hunter says. “That kiss. I knew it wasn’t Nick and I didn’t fucking want it to be him. I… I want to be with you, Sebastian.”
Smythe doesn’t say anything, but he wavers a little in the dim light. His eyes are so green that they’re practically incandescent.
“Are you sure about this, Hunter?” he asks quietly, and the boy doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
Sebastian holds out his hand, palm up.
“Take my hand.”
NINE.
Hunter dreams.
In his dream, Sebastian is standing in the center of his dorm room. His eyes are green, his skin is pink, and his hair is a lovely shade of dark blond. Hunter can scarcely believe his eyes.
He puts his hand on Sebastian’s chest and he feels his heartbeat, strong and firm and true. His breath gusts against Hunter’s cheek.
“H-how?” Clarington asks wonderingly, but Sebastian only smiles. He pulls him forward and into his arms, and they wind up on Hunter’s bed in a pleasant tangle of limbs. He is solid warmth and a hot gaze and it is the best dream that Hunter’s ever had.
“Shut up and kiss me, Clarington,” Sebastian says softly, and he does.
. . .
Later, when the sweat has cooled on their bodies and sunlight is filtering in through the window, Hunter trails a hand against Sebastian’s arm.
“This isn’t real, is it?” he asks softly, and Smythe shakes his head. “So what happens next?”
“You wake up,” Sebastian says. “And get on with your life.”
Hunter doesn’t cry, but he comes pretty damned close. “It’s not fair,” he says. “I don’t want to say goodbye.”
Sebastian doesn’t say anything at first, but he looks at Hunter like he’s the only thing in the world.
Maybe he is.
“I’m already dead, Hunt,” Smythe says, and touches his cheek. “And you’re alive.”
“So live.”
ELEVEN.
Hunter is an old man, now.
He is a father and a grandfather and a husband. Nick is a good man, a faithful partner, and Hunter loves him dearly, but he never quite forgets the boy who gave him courage all those years ago, back when he was still in boarding school.
The hospital room is dimly lit.
We had a good run, Nicky, Hunter says, and his husband smiles through his tears.
He’s at Hunter’s bedside, their hands clasped, and their son—his name is Smith because Hunter couldn’t bear to call him Sebastian—is hovering behind him. The rest of the family is outside; Hunter doesn’t want them to see. He takes a breath, mustering a smile for his husband. His son.
The heart monitor beside him slows.
He sees it, then. A flash of green, an impish grin.
Flatlines.
. . .
. . .
“Hey, Clarington. What took you so long?”
#
Death is before me today:
Like the recovery of a sick man,
Like going forth into a
garden after sickness.
Death is before me today:
Like the odor of myrrh,
Like sitting under a sail
in a good wind.
Death is before me today:
Like the course of a stream,
Like the return of a man
from the war-galley to his house.
Death is before me today:
Like the home that a man longs to see,
After years spent as a captive
“The Sandman: Preludes & Nocturnes”
Neil Gaiman