Work Text:
William is in a graveyard.
Will… Will can't say he's fond of them. Especially not this one.
It's the one in Deadwood. And he's been to it many times. The first time was to visit his grandfather's grave. But mostly it was to hang out with his friends, hunt the ghosts that hid behind the tombstones.
He was fine with graveyards back then. Never really bought into the horror-movie propaganda of them being haunted –it's just plants and paths and fancy rocks, what's there to be afraid of. Now, standing here in the dead grass, a bit to the left of his grandfather's grave, he knows why he doesn't like them.
There's a stone in front of him, carved and polished, before it a pit in the ground, six feet deep, dirt cloying at the edges. A mound next to it, just waiting to cover the hole back up. On the stone, in carefully engraved letters is the name William Wisp .
It's not real. He reminds himself.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
He thinks it's irrational of him to be scared. He wasn't even dead long enough for anyone to make grave preparations. Wasn't dead long enough to have a headstone. And certainly wasn't dead long enough to be buried . No one even knew he died. It's stupid.
And yet here he stands, lifeless and covered in dirt and grime.
Strange, that he's already dirty when he hasn't even been buried yet. Or climbed out. Everything is too orderly from him to have woken up surrounded by dirt only to tear his way back to the surface. And yet here is. Muddy in front of an open grave with his name on it.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
Will has been in this position many times. Some identical to tonight. Others he wakes up already buried. A few he's perfectly clean but has been laid down, watching the dirt cascade over him. Lots of times is the moment before that, where he's psyching himself up to get in the grave. But worst of all is when he has a shovel and has to dig it himself.
It makes sense. In the twisted way that logic works in his mind.
If he could hurt all those people, then he might as well go the full mile and make his death as easy as possible. No need for extra money and time wasted when William can just dig the grave and get in it himself! Although he still hasn't figured out a way to do the work of burying himself yet.
It's probably for the best, he'd be awfully inefficient. Would waste a lot of time procrastinating and crying. There's no need to worry about that when his only job is to lie still in his pit of dirt.
All things considered, this is one of the better scenarios. Because he doesn't have to dig, and if he's already dirty then he can convince himself that he either already escaped or maybe someone changed their mind and thought the grave wasn't a good fit.
But he never knows what to do. In the other cases there's always a clear goal. Dig. Step into the grave. Hold still as dirt falls. Claw with shaky hands till he can breath air. And then once the task is done, once he's reached his goal, it's over. And he can move on with his life.
But here? What does he do? Previously he decided the solution was to sit and wait it out. Which works for all of them really, but it's hours and hours and hours (unless he's being buried. Then it's very quick. Unless he panics and climbs out too soon). And so he knows that there's a fix to this, he just hasn't figured it out yet.
So he just sighs, and lowers himself to the ground, and tugs his legs in close, and rests his chin on his knees, and stares at the worms wriggling around in his grave.
He's a bit jealous of them. They don't have to go through the effort of getting a shovel. And they don't care about dirt getting into their mouths and lungs. They just wriggle and move and are free.
He thinks that it's. Pathetic. He's envying a worm.
But sometimes he thinks he's an awful lot like those worms. Helpless and clueless and blundering blindly through life until it rains and the water forces him above ground. Where he can only hope that he doesn't drown in a puddle or get run over by a car. If he's lucky, someone will avoid stepping on him on their way to work. If he's really lucky he'll be picked up and tossed back into the grass. Only to repeat the cycle.
He thinks he's thinking too much about it. Which might be a paradox. He's not sure. He's always distracted in moments like these. Moments where despite the fact that he's dead, he feels like he can't get enough air.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
William frowns.
Why is there knocking? There's never knocking. There's never sound . Sound has no place in between William’s thoughts and fears.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Again. And what does it think it's doing? Knocking. Can't it understand there is nothing in life except the grave and William. Doesn't it understand that?
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Stop. Stop. There's not meant to be any sound.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
It ignores him. Which only makes him mad.
Fine . If suddenly there's sound now, then Will will play by those rules. Fine. There's sound.
Knock! Knock! Knock! William!
“Stop.” He says, bringing his hands up to cover his ears. But it doesn't work. The knocking doesn't go away .
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! WILLIAM!
“STOP !” William sits up with a shriek. Hands fisted in his air. Chest desperately working to take in air he doesn't need.
It's bright. That's weird, it shouldn't be bright. It's night out. It's always night out. Where is the light coming from? He tilts his head to the side and sees… a lamp?
“Will, hey” a voice, soft and controlled. In front of him. There's a person in front of him. Their hands are on his shoulders.
He's… he's in his bed. He realizes. There are covers over his legs, the lamp is on his bedside table, he's wearing pajamas.
“You're okay” Dakota? Dakota says to him.
William just takes in a breath, holds it to prove to himself he can, before letting it back out. “Yeah” he croaks out. “Yeah, I'm okay”
Dakota just gives him a skeptical look. Which, fair enough William supposes.
“What– um, what happened?” He can’t imagine he was being very loud. Those dreams never are. Until the end there, but… but that wasn’t William’s fault . It was because of the knocking.
“You were breathing” Dakota says simply. And ah, yes, that would do it.
Finally it clicks, what the knocking was. No one is allowed to touch home when he’s asleep, especially not during nightmares, too often has William woken up only to delve into a panic attack. And so, they developed knocking as a system. It would be stark enough from whatever dream Will was having to wake him up from it.
“Oh. Thanks”
“No problem. Do you wanna talk about it, or just go back to sleep or…?” Dakota yawns midway through his sentence, and William feels bad having woken him up.
“Uh, sleep. Sleep is fine. I should be good." It might be a lie. But it might not be. So William doesn’t mind watching Dakota go back to his mattress which is across from William’s. And William doesn’t mind lying back down and closing his eyes.
William is in a graveyard.
In front of an empty grave.
The headstone has his name on it.
He is covered in dirt.
And he looks down at the grave, which is next to his grandfather’s grave. And he wonders what’s behind him. What’s beyond the tombstone. What’s the world outside of dirt and grime.
And when William turns, he sees not the graveyard, not a cliff, not the bright light of day. He sees himself looking down a grave, black hoodie clean, carefully stepping into it and lying down, before deciding that it’s not for him, and getting back out, covered in dirt, but whole.
And William walks away from the graveyard.