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Owen opened his eyes to blurriness, cheek pressed against a plush pillow. In all his time in Hell, never once had he had a chance to rest. Owen lifted his head an inch, taking in the room before him. He choked, and sat up all the way. Oh, he was still in Hell, certainly. This was Louis’s room, and Owen hadn’t seen it since the night Louis died. This was his cozy room in Oakhurst, full of books, with the tall mirror only Owen could use until he was turned.
“Love?”
Owen snapped his head to his right—then scrambled off the bed, foot catching in the covers. He landed on his side and scrambled even further, staring at Louis. Louis, who had been sitting on the bed, reading. Louis, Who was now slowly placing his book down, slowly inching off the bed. Owen’s eyes welled with tears, he continued to push himself backwards, as far as he could get until he was up against the wall, under the window glowing with late afternoon light.
“Easy, it’s just me, Owen.”
Owen drew his knees to his chest and covered his mouth with a hand. Louis’s hair was shiny and white, draped past his shoulders. He wore a red tunic with a shallow neckline, and silky black pants. Those were the clothes Owen wore in Oakhurst. Louis stepped closer, far too quickly. Owen flinched back into the wall. Louis stopped, then lowered himself to Owen’s level, a few feet away.
“Everything is alright,” Louis said. “Let me closer, won’t you?”
Just when Owen was beginning to accept his eternal torture. When he was getting used to the pain, when he realized how much he deserved it—to the point he craved more of it—the universe, Hell, whatever this was, it went and threw the greatest torture of all at him: the image of what he could have had. Or, the image of what he was never meant to have.
“Owen…”
Louis’s eyes filled with pity again. Owen pressed his palms harshly into his own eyes. He shook his head, unable to find the words. For the first time in years upon years of suffering in Hell, Owen curled up and hid in it like a coward. He could not face this suffering. This was the worst of it all. And it hurt so indescribably how Owen knew he deserved it, and would deserve it for forever.
“Look at me, please.”
Owen clawed into his hair, hiding his face in his knees. He would not. He would not look up despite knowing the more he fought back, the worse it got. He had to rewatch himself massacre Oakhurst hundreds of thousands of times and eventually, he began trying to look away. Every time tried to look away, he had to watch it on loop for longer. Owen saw himself from the eyes of the townspeople, their children, a bird in the sky, an animal in the farm, a pebble on the ground, and Louis on the pyre.
“You’re done, Owen. You have atoned, you have redeemed yourself.” Louis’s quiet footsteps approached. “You are here, with me.”
Hell was unbearable—an obvious, stupid thought. One a little child would have. Owen had prepared for torture, he had endured so much of it with growing composure. Never did he expect this. An illusion of Louis, his perfect image, promising everything Owen could have hoped for from his birth, to his death, to his descent.
“This is real, you and I are together. You are done atoning.”
Louis sat back down, so so close. The sound of his claws touching the floor as he settled himself, followed by the swish of his pants on the wooden floor, it was inches away. As Owen dug his nails into his scalp, the lightest touch ghosted over his right wrist. Then, it settled. Louis’s hand wrapped around Owen’s wrist and lifted his nails from his skin.
Owen let himself be moved. Louis took his other hand too, then pressed Owen’s palms together like a prayer. Louis held Owen’s hands between his own.
“I would really love for you to look at me again.”
Like Owen had rewatched the massacre, Owen was meant to look over and over at Louis’s wilting, disappointed, horrified, pitying face as Owen fell into the darkness because he was too evil to be at peace. Over and over Owen was meant to see the only person who ever cared for him witness the monster he truly was.
Louis let go, then slid his hands over the side of Owen’s face. Owen shrank away from it with a cry, but Louis held him securely, and lifted his head. Their eyes met.
Louis smiled. Before Owen could clamp his eyes shut again, Louis smiled, and Owen was too enamoured not to keep looking. Louis’s eyes shone, darting from one of Owen’s eyes to the other. He smiled, futilely wiping Owen’s tears with his thumbs. Owen waited for his expression to change again, but Louis stayed just like that—softly swiping over Owen’s cheeks, looking at him like it was the day after his turning, in a world where Louis lived.
“You did it,” Louis whispered. “You redeemed yourself, you came back to me. I knew you would, I never lost faith.”
In all of his time in Hell, Owen had never felt anything close to “happiness.” That was how he realized this was not Hell at all, not anymore. Because, despite thinking it would all fade away, that Louis would look at him with disgust, Owen was delighted to see his smile again. Even if for the last time.
“That’s it,” Louis said, sensing Owen’s understanding. “We’re together. You are all ready to start healing now.”
Owen opened his mouth, stuck for a few seconds. “I don’t understand.”
“You…” Louis moved a loose piece of Owen’s hair behind his ear. “You had a lot to make up for, and you had to do that before you could join me here.”
“Make up for? How did I—I wasn’t—all of that torture? That was me atoning?”
“It was never meant to be torture,” Louis brushed the top of Owen’s hair back. “They were lessons, and chances. Your time spent there, in that dark place, it only needed to last as long as it would take for you to learn, and to choose better.”
Long after Owen had tried to look away from the massacre he was forced to relive, he started trying to prevent it. Eventually, Owen was thrust back into his own body; he would wake again on the bed, rush out to town looking for Louis, and see him on the pyre. Eventually, Owen stopped himself from ever committing the massacre. When that happened, and Owen was no longer killing with pride, the torturous scenario changed.
“That ‘Hell,’ we sometimes call it, was never meant to be a place of torture, but a place of redemption.”
When the massacre was done repeating, Owen was left in an endless black void, walking with no direction or sight. Every odd amount of time, Owen would run into a stranger in the shadows. They would tell him they were from Oakhurst. They would tell him that he had killed them. The first time it happened, Owen ran away, unable to respond. He could only run so far before the person walked back into his path.
“This ‘Heaven’ you and I are in, this is a place of healing from what you have endured, from who you may have become, into who you want to be.”
Owen ended up grovelling at the feet of 2,799 citizens individually, sharing his scorn for himself, his sorrow for each of them. Sometimes he spoke to these people for minutes, sometimes he spoke to them for days. They told him what their dreams had been, their plans for the rest of their lives, and they told him exactly what they felt during every moment Owen’s claws, teeth, or fire tore them apart.
“Those people,” Louis said, drawing Owen out of his own mind, “they were not illusions, they were real. They are all here, in their afterlife, and part of their healing was hearing from you.”
Even the ones who had planted the evidence on Louis. Those ones, Owen spoke to last. Still, he fell to his knees, professed his regret. Even to them.
“And don’t you worry,” Louis said, “they did their time atoning too.”
Owen clenched his eyes shut with a sob.
“Oh, I know this is a lot,” Louis said, filled with concern.
Owen reached for Louis’s hands and pulled them off his face. “How do I go back?”
Louis froze for a moment before he pushed, reaching for Owen’s face again. Owen sat straighter, pulling away.
“Go back?” Louis murmured. “Love, please, why would you ever want to go back?”
Owen put Louis’s hands down and wrapped his arms around his own knees. “I can’t be here. I’m not done. I can’t be done.”
Louis shuffled closer and held Owen’s upper arms. “You would not be here if you were not done. You have learned, you have grown. You are done, and now you can heal.”
“No,” Owen shook his head. “No. I can never make up for this—I will never deserve you and this.”
Louis sighed low and crestfallen, gently rubbing Owen’s arms. “We have much mending to do, and as heartbroken as I am to see you this way, to hear you say that, I am elated to finally start this healing with you. You will see, you deserve this and so much more.”
“I need to go back,” Owen rasped.
Owen wanted the pain again. He deserved it and he would always deserve it. He had gotten used to it. He wanted to do it for Louis.
“I won’t have that.” Louis lifted Owen’s face again. “We have so much to talk about, let’s not do it on this floor, hm?”
Louis pulled Owen’s arms from around his knees, stood slowly, then tugged on his hands. Reluctantly, Owen got up with him, trembling. They stood holding hands, with Owen staring up in awe, Louis looking down with warm fondness. Louis walked them backwards to the bed, bringing Owen to his side, gesturing to the inviting mattress.
They lay together, facing each other, and Owen burst into another round of sobs.
“Oh dear.”
Owen covered his face. He wanted to see Louis, but he didn’t want Louis to see him. Louis’s hand slid over Owen’s arm, to his back, then dragged him close. Louis’s other hand wormed under Owen’s shoulder and helped hug him close.
“It’s alright,” Louis whispered. “You’re safe here, with me. You can finally feel what you need to feel.”
Owen tightened his hands into fists, too shy to grab Louis’s shirt, too shy to hug back. Maybe he was redeemed, but he knew better than to get greedy. Owen bit his tongue, holding his breath for long seconds at a time.
If this was Heaven, why was Owen crying? If this was Heaven, why did it hurt so much? Sure, there was a moment of happiness, a kind of mercy in seeing Louis—hearing him, touching him—but how could this be Heaven? Heaven should not have tears and regrets and this awful craving to keep hurting, keep atoning.
“I don’t get it,” Owen said through gritted teeth. “How can this be Heaven? I’m still—” Owen had to breathe again and gave up on the rest of his sentence.
Louis nodded, chin touching the top of Owen’s head. “‘Heaven’ is a bit of a misleading name. As I said, this is a place of healing, and to heal you must feel things. Good and bad, simple and complex.”
Owen knocked his forehead into Louis’s chest. “So what? We’re just—just in this room until I’m fixed?”
“Healed, you will heal. And,” Louis twirled one of Owen’s curls, “we can go wherever you need to. I thought a familiar place would be good for you.”
“What about you? Your healing?”
“The next stage of my healing happens like this, with you.”
Louis’s healing should be anything other than Owen’s return. His healing should be finding someone as pure and kind as himself to spend eternity with. Louis’s healing should not involve taking care of Owen—dealing with him.
Louis’s hand smoothed over the back of Owen’s head, then trailed through his hair. The hand ran down Owen’s back, then up into his hair again.
“Did you see everything I did?” Owen asked. “Were you watching the whole time?”
Louis’s hand did not cease, if anything, it became heavier on Owen’s back, softer in his hair.
“I saw it.”
“Oh Louis—”
“I have healed from—”
“I’m so sorry.” Owen curled in on himself as much as he could with Louis holding him. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
“I know, I know.”
“How do I fix it? How? I’ll go back,” Owen clutched Louis’s shirt. “I’ll keep atoning.”
“No, no, no.” Louis squeezed him. “You are redeemed. You do not need to go back there to make it up to me.”
“It can’t be this easy,” Owen choked.
“Nothing about what you have been through, in life, nor in death, has been anything close to ‘easy.’” Louis pressed a kiss to the top of Owen’s head. “There is nothing left for you in ‘Hell,’ you have learned all of your lessons. You have made amends with everyone you harmed.”
Owen shook his head. “Not everyone.”
He had spoken to the 2,799 of Oakhurst, as well as Martyn, Ren and Pyro. His meeting in the black void with Martyn had been short. Owen was shocked to see him, somehow. The poor man had almost made it out of Oakhurst. It was the smallest mistake, Apo’s kindness, that ended Martyn’s life. Then Ren, that conversation had been longer. Ren, at one point, tried apologizing to Owen too, but Owen refused it. Ren had nothing to apologize for, not a speckle in comparison to Owen.
Then Pyro. That one hurt. Owen re-witnessed himself tearing into Pyro's arm, Scott sinking his fangs into Pyro's neck. They chased him into the water, held him in it while Scott drained him. They dragged him back to land, coughing, choking, delirious. In the void, Pyro told Owen that he still couldn't quite figure out what to think of Scott and Owen. Pyro recounted that Shelby killed him, which was inconceivable, yet, made sense. Owen apologized to Pyro and wished him well. Pyro wished Owen well in return.
But Owen had not seen Avid. Nor Shelby, Scott, Cleo, Drift, Sausage, Abolish, Pearl, Apo or…
“Who is it that you think is left?” Louis asked.
Owen had seen Legs. Oh, Owen had seen a lot of him. By that lake, covered in dirt and blood. He remembered it now. Owen spent hour after hour, day after day, in an invisible border surrounding that lake with Legs always a few feet away. The first time Owen appeared there with him, at some point between repeated watchings of his Oakhurst massacre, before he had spoken to the 2,799 in the void, Owen had done the same thing he did before his death. He turned the Doctor, violently, and revelled in his screams. Owen drank in the Doctor’s realization that he had become the very monster he tried to cure out of Owen.
“Oh God,” Owen whispered.
Day after day in the inescapable lakescape, Owen killed the doctor. Sometimes, he skipped the turning and just shredded him apart. Eventually, Owen got so sick of the monotony that he gave the doctor a chance to speak. Every time the doctor got a chance to speak, without fail, he would give Owen another chance to stop. To be better. To work with him, build back their trust. The dialogue was different every time, if not the words, the tone, the mannerisms were different.
Owen remembered it more clearly now. He would massacre Oakhurst a few times, then slaughter the Doctor a few times, and repeat.
**********
The forest around Oakhurst was mostly spruces and pines, but around the lake there were tamaracks whose needles had gone orange in the fall chill. The needles covered the ground in an amber carpet, and if Owen stared for too long, they began looking like flames. Though, whether that was a fault of Owen’s mind or a property of Hell was debatable. The Doctor always said that stupid line when he appeared.
“Just once, I get to sneak up on you.”
It got quite old quite fast, and the Doctor was never really sneaking up on him. Owen always saw it coming, but it always sent a shiver through him.
“Is this supposed to be torture?” Owen laughed. “Killing you, over and over? This is a reward.”
“You don’t want to kill me,” the Doctor said, frowning. “You just feel like you have no choice.”
“Of course I have a choice. I’ve already chosen.” Owen started forward.
“You think you need to see me become a monster,” the Doctor said, staying in place, “because if I become a monster, it’ll be proof to you that bad people can’t be redeemed.”
“This is not torture.”
“And if bad people can’t be redeemed, you have no reason to try.”
Thousands of times, Owen killed the Doctor. They would have their whole back and forth. Sometimes Owen would say his usual lines.
“I don’t feel comfortable moving forward through the world, knowing someone like you exists within it.”
But the Doctor never responded how he was supposed to.
“I think that’s just because you see yourself in me now.”
Sometimes, Owen was forced to say lines he didn’t want to repeat.
“You wanna know the worst part about being a vampire Doc?” Owen would ask without meaning to. “It’s not the bloodlust, or watching everyone you love turn to dust in the blink of an eye.”
These times, when Owen was forced to reenact the things he was never supposed to admit, the Doctor did not back away in fear, his eyes did not fly wide, his hands did not hover over a stake or whisper terrified denials.
“It’s that when you get sick of it, and you want out you’ll sharpen that stake and you find you can’t do it yourself.”
The Doctor stayed still in front of Owen, even as Owen brandished a silver axe. He was a fitting lumberjack, always cutting down living things to make his own living.
“You find that you can’t do it to your own self,” Owen raised his axe, “so what is it gonna be, Doctor? Are you gonna do harm to me? Or let what needs to happen, happen?”
Usually, by this point, Owen would have struck as soon as the Doctor opened his mouth. Just once, out of boredom and curiosity, he let the Doctor have a chance.
“Have you really tried to stake yourself?” The Doctor asked.
The question infuriated Owen so much that he immediately sliced through the Doctor. He killed the man, and the scene reset, with Owen looking down at the water, wishing his reflection were there. Owen tried, as much as possible, to look like Louis.
“Owen,” the Doctor said, “answer my question.”
Owen turned toward the Doctor, brows deeply furrowed. He hadn’t said his line that time. The scene always reset, but this time, the Doctor hadn’t bragged about sneaking up on Owen.
“What?” Owen asked.
“Have you really tried to stake yourself?”
“Of course I have,” Owen scoffed.
“Why?”
Owen blinked. “What do you mean why?”
Maybe this was the real torture, then. Not the killing of the Doctor over and over again, but hearing the concern in his voice, seeing the soft but devastated look on his face, being presented with the company—care—Owen could have had.
The Doctor put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head.
“I tried to stake myself because I was tired of living, isn’t it obvious?”
“I thought you wanted eternity.”
“With Louis, yes. All I ever wanted was Louis.”
“And revenge?”
Owen placed his hand over his axe holster, considering escaping the conversation altogether, but he had a feeling if he tried, they would end up right back here.
Before Owen could speak, the Doctor continued, “Revenge was how you kept him close. How you kept him a part of your life.”
“He deserved to be avenged.”
“Louis was a good man. He would never hurt anybody, why would he want you to?”
Owen ground his teeth and pulled his axe out of its holster. “He deserved to be avenged.”
“You murdered in his name. You made his death a justification for violence. You made him a murderer.”
Owen killed the Doctor again. The scene reset. The Doctor’s body disappeared, and soon after, the Doctor walked out of the treeline.
“When did you try to stake yourself?”
Owen started toward him, axe dragging a trench through the tamarack needles. “Once after the massacre, before I buried myself. Once when I crawled out after those 200 years. Once after I first killed you at this lake.”
Owen stopped right before the Doctor, who stood with annoying composure, no fear, and with a raised eyebrow.
“And finally, Abolish let me die.”
Owen began raising his axe, but the Doctor caught his hand and kept the axe down. It was the first time the Doctor ever resisted his own death.
“You were willing to leave,” the Doctor said softly. “You were willing to die without getting your full revenge. You only kept going because you couldn’t stake yourself.”
Owen opened his mouth but found no words.
The Doctor wrapped his hand around Owen’s wrist, then tried to grab the axe. Owen let him grab it, but would not let the Doctor take it out of his hand.
“Killing everyone was not your priority at all,” the Doctor said. “You just wanted to be done. You convinced yourself that killing everyone was your priority because it was all you could do to keep Louis in your life—but your first choice, to just be done, wasn’t an option.”
Owen tried to raise his axe again, the Doctor shoved it down.
“There were other options but you didn’t see them, or you didn’t trust them, and I can’t entirely blame you.”
“What is this?”
“Owen, please. Please, take this chance. Drop the axe.” The Doctor let go of Owen’s wrist and the axe, instead slowly holding onto his shoulders. “You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? Dying? Revenge? Well, try something new.”
Owen glanced down at the hand on his right shoulder.
“Let me help you,” the Doctor said.
Owen wrenched himself away from the Doctor, then swung his axe. The Doctor died, and the Doctor reappeared behind him. Owen turned to him, attacking again.
“Leave me alone!” Owen shouted, stumbling with his next swing.
“It’s hard,” the Doctor said, “I know it’s hard. I make it sound easy.”
Owen slashed, the Doctor died. As he reappeared, and Owen whirled toward him, there was a sting in Owen’s eyes, a strain in his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere.” The Doctor held both hands out, as if he was expecting Owen to take them. “I’ll be here as long as I need to.”
“Get out of here!” Owen cried, killing the Doctor again.
After another six killings, Owen fell to his knees. The Doctor’s shadow appeared over him, dimming the fiery rug beneath them both. Owen clenched his fists around the handle of his axe until they shook.
“You know what you need to do,” the Doctor whispered.
Owen wrapped his left hand around the butt of the axe, tightened the grip of his right, and raised the blade to his neck. The Doctor dropped to his knees in front of Owen and pulled the axe away.
“No,” the Doctor said sternly. Then sadly, “you already tried that.”
Two nearly-synced tears rolled down Owen’s cheeks. The Doctor finally, fully pulled the axe out of Owen’s hands. Owen let it go and stared numbly at the middle of the Doctor’s chest. The Doctor tossed the axe behind him.
Legs pulled Owen’s hands forward and held them. “Try something new.”
With a small, exhausted sob, Owen slumped forward.
Legs’s arms wrapped around him and he whispered, “It’s gonna be alright.”
**********
The scene had not reset after that. After that, Owen had gone back to watching his massacre of Oakhurst. That was when he had started trying to prevent the massacre.
“That—that wasn’t him, was it?” Owen asked Louis. “Not really. Don’t—don’t tell me I was killing Legs over and over again in his afterlife—don’t—”
“Shh,” Louis soothed. “Legundo did not feel a thing.”
Owen froze. “But it was him.”
“Part of Legundo’s healing is to help you. He was there willingly.”
Owen covered his mouth, digging into his own cheeks and jaws. “No, no, Louis—please.”
“Legundo willingly visited you there to continue helping you. And I hear that he was successful.”
“That was really him,” Owen said. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know at all—is he dead? He’s dead. I killed him.”
“No, you did not kill him.”
“Did he stake himself?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me?” Owen pulled back weakly to look at Louis with stinging red eyes. “This is Heaven—you can’t lie in Heaven.”
Louis grinned sadly but fondly, held the side of Owen’s face, and wiped his tears again. “You did not give Legundo a very graceful ending, but you ended up equipping him with exactly what he needed to save the rest of Oakhurst.”
“What does that mean?”
“You turned him, Legundo sired the rest of the humans, then he sacrificed himself so they could be cured and leave.”
While alive, Owen had been so sure that he could never be redeemed. He tried to convince himself he didn’t want to be, that there was nothing left worth caring about, worth earning. Owen had not believed he could be redeemed, and Legundo was right. Legs was the living proof that someone so awful could be good again. Owen had not believed that he could be redeemed, but Legs was doing it. Legs was atoning, Legs was trying, Legs was spending the rest of his life making up for it. Owen had needed Legs to fail so Owen didn’t have to accept the fact that he could have done it too. Owen had thought that turning Legs would break him, would make him an irredeemable monster, fill him with rage, and make him kill again. Turning Legs was supposed to be Owen’s proof that it could never work out.
“He saved them?” Owen asked.
“He did.”
“He didn’t stake himself because of me?”
Legs was supposed to be Owen’s proof, and he was. Legs was Owen’s proof that redemption was possible. And Legs proved that he really, truly was a good man.
“Can I ever see him again?” Owen asked, bracing for the answer.
“He has been waiting so long, love. Whenever you feel ready.”
Owen jolted, then stared, wondering if he had heard correctly. “I can see him?”
Louis smiled, much more happily this time, and wiped Owen’s cheek again. Three knocks sounded from a door in the opposite corner of the room from the bed. Owen sat upright and turned toward the door that led to the hallway with a set of stairs down to the living room and kitchen. Owen looked back at Louis, who nodded lightly.
Before he had the chance to consider how Legs could be there—if that was even him—if this was all still somehow a cruel trick—he slid off the bed, wobbly on his feet, and started toward the door. Louis shuffled off the bed after him. Owen locked his hand around the door knob and yanked it open.
“Hello, Owen.”
Owen clenched his eyes shut and threw himself at Legs. This time, the hug did not fade away and leave Owen back in Oakhurst, watching the pyre, those murders. Legs’s arms wrapped around Owen and stayed, his head leaned into Owen’s and stayed.
“I’m so sorry,” Owen choked. “I’m so sorry for everything. I should have listened to you—I’m so sorry I hurt you—”
“Owen…”
“Oh God, Legs, I’m so sorry, what I did to you was awful,” Owen took in a huge breath, “I’m so selfish and stupid and I’m so sorry.”
“You were hurting, and confused, and desperate—”
Owen shook his head and clawed handfuls of Legs’s shirt. “You’re a good man. You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster—and I’m sorry for hurting you and for turning you,” Owen gasped, “and I’m sorry for doing it all over again in the afterlife.”
“Slow down, Owen.” Legs swiped his thumbs over Owen’s back. “We have all the time in the world, you can slow down. We can just enjoy the fact that we’re here, and it’s all over.”
“No, no I need you to know how sorry I am. I need you to know that you didn’t deserve it.”
“I know, and I need you to know, that if you just ask, I’ll forgive you.”
Owen shook his head harder. “I won’t. Ever. I don’t deserve it and I won’t ask for it. From either of you.”
Louis made a sad sound and touched Owen’s back between Legs’s hands. Owen tightened his grip on Legs, who squeezed him back with a sigh.
“We’ll work on that,” Legs said.
“Yes we will,” Louis agreed.
Owen pulled back to see Legs’s face, whose expression melted from something relieved to that look of concern and care and determination. Seeing it again now, how had Owen ever thought it was disingenuous?
“Are you well? Have you been… I don’t know,” Owen breathed. “Have you been here long? What—what do you even do in the afterlife?” Owen looked briefly back at Louis.
“I’ve been fine,” Legs assured. “Louis and I have been talking a lot, and when I first got here, I got to see a lot of people I… lost.”
The reality of Louis and Legs in the same room together was staggering enough, but the thought of them interacting, getting to know each other, because of their connection to Owen—that was a lot. They were similar in a lot of ways, the biggest one being how good they both were. Owen didn’t fit in at all. But they deserved each other’s company.
“That’s… that’s good.”
Owen didn’t want to let go of Legs yet.
“You seem overwhelmed,” Legs said.
There were still tears actively running down Owen’s face, and he was trembling, and his knees were weak, and there was a headache forming in the middle of his forehead, but it didn’t seem right that he could feel this kind of pain in the afterlife. That wasn’t fair.
“It’s hard to believe,” Owen said.
Louis rubbed Owen’s back, and Owen ached to hold Louis again too. He detached one hand from Legs to side-hug Louis, pressing their foreheads together. Owen held a handful of Legs’s sleeve.
“It’s real,” Louis said. “You’re here, we’re all here, and everything is alright.”
Owen let out a shaky breath, but he nodded. Louis wouldn’t lie to him. And neither would Legs.