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Edwin is not in Hell.
Logically, he knows this. It has been over a month since the events of Port Townsend, and subsequently his brief return to the Dollhouse. A month since he was dragged back to the realm of punishment by the demon he refers to as the Spider.
Edwin remembers escaping. He remembers running with Charles at his heels, dodging and forcing their way through the sins, through limbo, until they reached the staircase that led to their freedom. He remembers the ache in the soles of his feet and burning in his lungs caused by Hell’s ability to force ghosts to become corporeal. He remembers the way his long-dead heart pounded against his ribcage. He remembers panting and gasping for air as he looked up at his friend and bared his soul. He remembers stumbling through the doorway back to the mortal plane, his senses vanishing.
He remembers it all. So, Edwin knows he’s not in Hell.
Which is why it is so absurd that he finds himself cowering under the desk in their office.
It is utterly ridiculous that Edwin cannot seem to catch his breath when he does not even need to breathe. The way his ears are ringing with the sound of babies’ laughter. The walls warping into a familiar shade of rancid green cement. The layers of his clothing disappearing until he is left in his white nightclothes that have turned slightly brown from dirt and grime. Shivers that silently wrack his body as he presses a quivering hand against his mouth, forcing himself to stay quiet. Fat tears roll down his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes closed. It does nothing to stop the images of blood, guts, and broken dolls from assaulting him.
It is all so stupid.
Edwin cannot stand the way his body and brain betray him. He cannot fathom how he spent seventy years experiencing the tortures of Hell, thirty years overcoming the trauma it created, only for it to all be undone by what was likely only a few hours back in the Dollhouse. He hates it.
Because there is a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispering uncertainties.
How can you be sure that you and Charles escaped? What if it was an illusion? What if it was ALL an illusion? What if you never escaped Hell in the first place, and these last thirty years have been a fantasy you dreamt up in a desperate attempt to maintain your sanity? It would make sense; the only explanation for why Charles stayed with you. Though otherwise it seems you did an awful job, seeing as you’re as mad as the Mad Hatter of Wonderland. Sane people don’t hallucinate. Why would he-
Edwin puts his hands over his ears. The attempt to block out the voice is in vain, but by some means it helps to muffle it. He knows the voice is wrong, but his body doesn’t. Never mind that he doesn’t even have a body. It trembles and shakes as though he’s freezing. He winces; wrong choice of words.
Because now his mind shoves images of Charles dying to the forefront, conveniently excluding their tender interactions in favor of showing his sickly state. Edwin has seen horrors unimaginable and not flinched, but the unnatural paleness of his friend’s skin always makes his nonexistent stomach lurch. It haunts him, wordplay unintended, to think about if Charles could have been saved. Surely not; he could already see him. He must have been too close to death.
But the obnoxious voice taunts him with the possibilities. That Charles could've survived if Edwin had gotten help. That he hates being dead, and it's Edwin's fault. That Edwin is the reason he doesn't get to live the life he deserves. That he's keeping him from his tranquil eternal afterlife because he's selfish.
A small whine slips past his lips. He bites down hard and pulls his knees even closer to his chest. Edwin knows the voice is wrong, but it hurts all the same. More tears roll down his cheeks as he presses his forehead against his knees.
Maybe he really is in Hell.
When Charles walks up to the door of their office, he expects to see his best mate still sitting at his desk engrossed in whatever book he was reading when he left to accompany Crystal home. He can see the cozy space in his mind; the lamps casting a comforting glow, the rhythmic turning of the pages, the old sofa waiting for him to flop onto.
After phasing through the door, he sees the opposite. All of the lamps are off, leaving the office unpleasantly dark with only the light of the moon outside to provide any illumination. The book that Edwin was reading when Charles left is not on the desk anymore. In fact, it is on the floor, as though it was cast aside hastily.
Charles swallows around the lump forming in his throat as he kneels down to rescue it. He tries not to panic, but there are very few reasons why Edwin would leave a book in such a state. Charles paces to the desk and sets the book down, setting the well-worn bookmark on the page before closing it.
That is when he hears it. A tiny sound anyone else would dismiss. But in the uneasy silence of the office, and with Charles’ attunement to his best mate, it rings clear as a bell.
A stifled gasp.
All at once, Charles knows exactly why the book was on the ground, why the office is dark and silent, why there’s a sense of dread and despair in the slightly dusty air. He feels an ache in his chest where his heart would be if he were alive. He takes a steadying breath and walks around the corner of the desk.
The sight is something familiar, something he should expect, and yet he swears his phantom heart cracks with his incorporeal chest.
Edwin is in his nightclothes, curled into a tight ball under the desk, weeping like a lost child, and yet is making only the tiniest bit of noise. Seeing him in such a state but still keeping himself quiet always hurts. Charles has known for decades that his partner can make himself silent if he chooses to. He always knew it was related to Hell, but now, having seen it for himself, he has a new level of understanding.
“You have to be very, very quiet.”
The words echo in his mind as clearly as the day he heard them. He can’t forget about Edwin’s hand covering his mouth, the real, physical sensation skin against skin shocking him after three decades without it. His voice was so soft, trembling, unlike anything Charles had heard before.
He always radiates confidence; it feels wrong to see him so timid. Edwin always fills the room with his presence, but now he attempts to take up as little space as possible. He likes to talk; get him going and his mouth will run like a river. But there is a dam within his mind, carefully crafted out of the fractured pieces of himself that litter the halls of the Dollhouse. It shuts off the river and unwillingly lets only the smallest drops through the cracks between his bones.
These intense panic attacks happened occasionally when Charles and Edwin first met. It was a tough thing for them to navigate with the drastic contrast between their upbringing. While Charles wants to hold his best mate, Edwin is uncomfortable with most touch. His disdain for it is especially bad during these episodes, where Edwin had explained his mind warps reality. Charles’ touch may be harmless, but Edwin’s instincts can’t always tell that in a moment of shear panic.
Flashes of Lust pop into Charles’ brain. While they hadn’t gone after him, the inhabitants of Lust had grabbed and groped his best mate with their insatiable bloody hands. It becomes completely clear to Charles why it had been so vital for them to communicate if he wants to touch him, and it makes his non-existent stomach churn uneasily. But if recognizing his surroundings was difficult for his traumatized brain, it was almost a certainty that he would become nonverbal. Trying to talk Edwin out of it was rarely successful. It took several years before they figured out an effective way for Charles to help.
Charles kneels to the floor in front of his friend. He takes another breath, one that shakes a bit. Then he reaches forward with one hand. With one finger, he taps Edwin’s arm once. It startles him, of course, sending a tremor through his whole body as he curls up tighter. As soon as there’s been a long enough pause, Charles touches him again. He holds his finger down a little longer, then taps him twice. The gasp of realization that comes from his partner makes something in Charles’ chest warm in a sad way. There’s another pause. He taps him once, then holds his finger down for a moment, then does it again. Pause. Two short taps. Pause. One longer touch and one tap.
The dam shatters.
Edwin’s sobs become loud and desperate; his voice hoarse is from use despite his ghostly state. But there is also relief in his cries as he uncurls. He throws himself at Charles, who is already awaiting with open arms.
The Edwardian boy presses his face against Charles’ chest as he clings to him, and Charles has to look up, blinking rapidly, to prevent his own tears from falling. It always hurts to see him like this. Edwin’s pain is Charles’ pain, and that is something that will never change. He wraps his arms around his partner as tightly as he can, resting his chin atop his head. Through the thin cloth of Edwin’s pajamas, his fingers subconsciously repeat the tender motions.
Morse code had been Charles’ idea. It was a good one, if he can say so himself; perhaps his best. A single tap equates to a dot, while a lingering, but brief, touch counts as a dash.
The early nineteen-hundreds were a time of war, and any boy near the age of conscription would have learned it. Edwin is a perfect example of a boy from that era, and due to his dedication to knowledge and study, he already knew Morse code, just as Charles had expected when he had suggested it.
As much as his language and mathematics teachers loved to berate him, Charles had excelled in history. His attention span had led to difficulties with maintaining focus during the classes, but his memory is surprisingly good.
It was one of the first things Edwin had noticed when they became partners. Charles would never forget the very first time he recalled something that Edwin had forgotten, and the look admiration that had shone in his sage eyes is something Charles is always trying to replicate to this day. A warmness settles in his stomach. The voices in his head quiet their criticisms. Tension falls off of his shoulders, as if his spectral body inherently knows that Edwin’s praise and approval is far more important than any lingering doubts from his life. Everything about Edwin is more important than his time alive.
These are the thoughts that are passing by as he holds his partner close. Charles doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, but eventually the heavy sobs become quiet sniffles.
Charles does three dashes, pauses, then a dash, a dot, and a dash, then finishes with two dots, two dashes, and two dots.
Ok?
Edwin takes a shuttering breath, but nods against his chest. Charles gently presses more letters with the tips of his fingers.
Talk?
“Yes… you may speak,” Edwin replies very softly.
Charles hums in acknowledgment but says nothing. The first bit of talking typically sets the tone for the rest of their conversation, so it takes him a moment to think of what he wants to say. When he finally decides, he lifts his chin off of his friend’s head and matches the volume of his voice. “Wanna tell me what’s got you in this state?”
It is a casual phrasing that somewhat alleviates the solemness of the situation. Even if it’s not much, any amount of de-escalation is welcome. They learned over time that treating this as a normal issue is better than the alternative. Edwin once explained that it highlights how… different he and his challenges are. This way they can almost convince themselves that it’s a normal panic attack, and not something linked to the most horrifying plane in existence. Tiptoeing around it like a ticking time-bomb just makes the inevitable explosion worse.
Edwin sniffles a bit and pulls back. Charles reluctantly lets him but is relieved when he doesn’t go far. He reaches up to attempt to wipe his face clean; once he’s feeling better he can simply will it away, but the slight tremor in his hand as he moves gives away that he’s not yet fully recovered.
“Nothing,” he answers.
His lip wobbles, and he quickly bites down on it to stave off another bout of tears. Charles reaches up to cup his face with one of his hands. His thumb gently brushes back and forth on his cheek bone in a comforting notion that also rids him of some of the tears still lingering on his resigned face. Edwin leans into the touch, reminding Charles of a cat; after Port Townsend, he has a troubled relationship with felines, but he is far from immune to their adorableness.
“You sure?” Charles asks, lowering his head to coax him to meet his eyes.
Edwin only holds eye contact for a moment, but it’s comforting that he’s not actively avoiding it. He nods with a heavy sigh. “Yes, unfortunately…”
The office is silent save for their unnecessary breathing. Ghosts obviously don’t need to breathe, but it’s a habit from being alive that is nearly impossible to shake. It also helps trick their spectral forms into reacting the same way their real bodies would have. If deep breathing helped calmed them down while alive, it can help them calm down while dead too.
Charles feels a certain stillness that he recognizes as Edwin thinking. He has more to say but needs to formulate the sentences properly. Being misunderstood is one of Edwin’s biggest fears and discomforts. Charles had learned a long time ago that he needs to be patient with him in times where he struggles for words. Charles is not known for patience, often electing to charge into situations without thinking. But with Edwin, it’s different. He is too important. Charles has to stop and consider his actions and words. He stays quiet, rubbing small circles on his friend’s back with his free hand.
“It’s always worse… when there’s no discernible cause,” Edwin says. He pauses again, closing his eyes and leaning forward. He rests his forehead against Charles’ shoulder with an exhausted sigh. “Triggers can be avoided. But I cannot simply turn off these… irrational reactions.”
“Yeah, I reckon you can’t avoid your own brain, can you?” Charles agrees.
He holds the back of his partner’s head, threading his fingers with through the dark strands of hair. Edwin shivers in response, tension slowly unwinding from his shoulders. A small smile graces Charles’ lips.
Being a ghost strips him of the ability to feel the world around him. Ghosts are entities that are sort of floating between planes. They are on the mortal plane but are inherently not mortal beings. They are souls that have become untethered from their mortal bodies.
That being said, ghosts can feel other ghosts. They exist in the same realm of in-between. It is not exactly the same as feeling something while alive, but there are textures and sensations that ghosts can experience if it comes from another ghost or occasionally a supernatural entity.
It lets Charles feel the hair on Edwin’s head and his breaths on the side of his neck, and that’s something he treasures. There's a damp spot on his polo from his friend's crying, but he couldn't care less. The warm that comes from their embrace supersedes everything else.
“I wish it would stop…”
“I’m sure it will, eventually. And in the meantime, we’ll work through it the best we can, won’t we? There’s nothing wrong with you, mate. Even if it doesn’t ever go away, I’m never going to stop helping you.”
Edwin sighs again, turning his nose into Charles’ neck, and snuggling deeper into their hug. He’s not quite nuzzling him, but it’s close enough that warmth flushes into Charles' cheeks as he swallows. He’s always been disarmed by his best mate’s appearance. He used to be able to wave those thoughts aside, but the knowledge of his love brings a new level of feeling to these intimate moments. And he promised they'd figure out what their relationship means, didn't he? These tender touches tap directly into Charles' heart. They feel more potent. He can't find the words to describe it, but everything is slightly different now. It's not a negative change though, not at all.
But there must have been some shift in his demeanor that gives him away because Edwin’s body suddenly becomes rigid. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-” Charles mourns the loss of their closeness as soon as he pulls away. Edwin tries to shuffle back from him, but the desk fortunately stops his retreat. He’s avoiding all eye contact and trying to pull his limbs back into a curled-up ball. Charles latches a hand onto his wrist to keep him from getting any further away.
“Don’t."
“Charles-”
“I mean it, Edwin. Don’t do that,” he tells him sternly.
Edwin looks at him with wide shiny eyes. He looks so lost. There’s disbelief and guilt in his gaze that Charles won’t tolerate. A wave of self-doubt and anger surges to the forefront of his mind like a tsunami. He hates himself for not being better at this. All he wants is to see his best mate smile, and yet he keeps mucking it up.
Being angry isn’t going to help, is it? he thinks. It will only make Edwin feel worse, won’t it?
Charles briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He unclenches his fist that he hadn’t even noticed he formed. Then he moves his hand from Edwin’s wrist to his hand, slowly threading their fingers together despite the initial resistance from the Edwardian boy.
“Every word I’ve said about your feelings has been the truth,” Charles says, squeezing his hand. “You’re the most important person in the world to me, and I told you that this wouldn’t cause any problems, didn’t I? If we did it before Port Townsend, we can do it now. I know that big brain of yours likes to run itself in circles,” he taps his friend’s forehead very gently, “but you’re not taking advantage of me, or making me uncomfortable, or whatever it is you’re worrying about."
“I swear,” he continues, voice turning overly dramatic, “I’ll get Crystal to send me into your mind to smash those inner demons with my new cricket bat if I’ve got to. I’ve fought real demons! They wouldn’t know what hit them, would they?"
Charles doesn't remember choosing to, but his thumb is brushing back and forth against his friend's skin. Edwin seems fixated on the movement as though it's grounding him. Charles squeezes his hand reassuringly. A shy smile fights its way onto Edwin’s face as he glances up to meet his eyes before he casts his eyes back down to their entwined fingers. “I would request that you refrain from the use of Molotov cocktails,” he replies. It takes Charles a moment to register his words, but when he does, he starts to grin. “As effective as they might be against spider demons, perhaps it would be best if you avoided setting my brain on fire.”
“I’d be careful!"
“Charles, as much as I adore you, being careful has never been your strong suit.”
“Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?”
He pouts, comedically sticking his bottom lip out as Edwin clears his throat to disguise a snort. “We have a multitude of case files to support my claim. I believe I added one relatively recently where the subject in question bargained with an agent of the Afterlife to allow him into Hell."
“Well, the ‘subject in question’ had a best mate he needed to rescue,” Charles counters. “Successfully did so too, didn’t he?”
There is a small pause. Edwin glances at what he can see of the office behind Charles. He searches, scanning for final reminders that he’s truly not in Hell. Charles holds his breath as his partner’s eyes find their way back to his. The last bit of tension slides off of Edwin’s shoulders, and he squeezes Charles’ hand. His expression turns soft and fond.
“Yes, he did.”
Charles beams as he squeezes his hand back. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you off the floor, yeah?”