Archive of Our Own ^beta

Antonio knew what he was giving up when he agreed to leave the manor. He just didn’t expect it to be this hard.

A new body. A new life. Something that he might have begged for, once upon a time, or perhaps even laughed at, and scorned. 

His soul had been forfeit. And he’d been okay with that. No sense in worrying about the fate of a soul that wasn’t his anymore, or about the condition of a body running on borrowed time. And not the borrowed time of a survivor in the last stretch of things, but the borrowed time of unraveling stitches and rotting skin. Teeth that should have fallen out long ago, limbs puppeted by an unseen hand.

A body that, for all intents and purposes, should no longer be standing. Preserved only by the strange magic of an inescapable box and its sadistic death game.

All of that is beyond him now. A new life has left him- reborn.

There are the phantom aches and pains that might not even be phantom at all. Something about his too long arms and legs, joints that don’t stay in place- the doctor they could never afford in his childhood muttering something about his general awkwardness and wrongness being the result of a disease that was simply understudied at the time. 

The phantom withdrawal is almost worse. 

This body lacks the long term physical effects of being familiar with drowning himself in booze. Any kind that he can get his hands on. There are no tremors. No sweats. No nausea or vomiting. 

Just the restlessness of a ghost haunting long past the dawn of his time, and the urge to wrap his hands around something suspiciously shaped like the stem of a wine glass. Or hell, the neck of a bottle.

There is the whispered promise of comfort and familiarity in letting the world get dizzy. Antonio has made a valiant effort not to succumb to temptation. Unfortunately, he has a terrible track record with that sort of thing.

Andrew has been helping. Sort of.

Half the time, he’s the reason Antonio wants to start drinking again, actually. He isn’t sure what to do with himself. Doesn’t know how to exist in a world so different, so separate from the one they became acquainted in. Doesn’t want to be seen.

He wonders if Andrew prefers the drunk version.

But if he does, he doesn’t say. He simply keeps his head down, keeping them both preoccupied. He doesn’t even try to shove a bible into Antonio’s hands, anymore, when the longing gets bad. Which is a remarkable feat.

Antonio thinks it might be the proper thing to ask him how his reconciliation with God is coming along. He doesn’t. 

He knows how it feels. To have God abandon him. To beg and to plead and to pray, locked away in a tower, beseeching a nonexistent god to rescue him.

Antonio imagines they might be similar, in that way. Wonders how many times Andrew sunk to his knees on the decrepit floor of that old manor with his hands clasped together in prayer and exhorted his benevolent god for a way out. 

Maybe all that praying has finally paid off, considering where they are. 

But in Antonio’s time, no god had ever answered. Only the devil, with his whims and wicked ways and promises and gifts of talent so divine, it was unholy. 

That’s all the devil is. A fallen angel. 

Antonio hasn’t picked up a violin since they left. He still has it- there, in the corner. Then, tucked under the bed, when even seeing in the case was too much. It needs tuning. One of the strings needs replacing. The wood is chipped. And he doesn’t know where the hell to get a bit of rosin in their little town. 

Doesn’t matter.

Antonio doesn’t pick up his violin. Andrew doesn’t pick up his bible. They do not turn to a god that abandoned Andrew on the day he was born, and abandoned Antonio on the day that he died.

Their house is empty, except for them. 

Andrew takes the night shift. 

He has to. For all of the ways that he’s changed, being sensitive to sunlight isn’t one of them. That’s just the unfortunate reality. 

But they’ve landed themselves somewhere nice. Somewhere gloomy. Somewhere that clouds are cast over the sky on most days, where it rains a lot and the truly sunny days are few and far between. 

At first, Antonio thinks it might just be the season. But it’s been about three months with no sign of change in the weather’s habits. Fickle thing. 

The temperature is usually tepid. Just on the right side of chilly. Which is good, because that means the ground isn’t frozen over and Andrew can actually do his work. 

But he does, however, come home often complaining about the mud. 

“Bloody rain,” Andrew mutters, knocking his boots against the trim on the stoop to little avail. They’re always caked in dirt, no matter what he does. Antonio thinks it’s sort of funny. Wouldn’t a gravekeeper be used to that by now?

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone and drowned yourself in one of the holes you dug.” 

“Ha ha,” Andrew deadpans. He takes the steps sluggishly, stopping just a foot away from where Antonio is perched in the too-small rocking chair. “As if I’m so stupid.”

“I said no such thing.” 

With a sigh, Andrew pinches his lips shut, but doesn’t argue further. He leans his shovel against the side of the house, in its designated spot- the siding is stained, worn away- and lets out a curse when it slips. He has to jump to catch it, tilting it rightways again before brushing his gloves off on his coat. 

It’s a little past three. Maybe three thirty. Antonio should be tired, but he isn’t. He still haunts the late hours, hasn’t really left that part of him behind. 

And it’s nice, like this. Getting to see the moon and the star speckled sky of the countryside. 

Beyond that, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know what they’re doing. The fact that Andrew agreed to leave the manor alongside him is an enigma in itself, even three months later. 

They haven’t really talked about it. Only settled into a routine, trying to make a normal life. 

Normal is far beyond them, even now. 

“There’s a field, out west,” Andrew pipes up, cutting through the silence. And he says nothing else. 

“Okay,” Antonio coaxes. He knows there’s more. 

Andrew fidgets, twisting the fabric of his gloves between his fingers, shucking one off and brushing his hair from his eyes. It’s an oddly vulnerable act, and while he doesn’t call it out, Antonio makes a mental note of such. 

“It’s- nice,” Andrew eventually grits out. “I took the long way into town and saw it. Thought… you might like it.”

“Fascinating.” Antonio tilts his head, resting his chin in his palm. “And what inspired such a notion?” 

If Andrew dislikes the poking and prodding so much, it’s unclear why he tolerates it. He shakes his head with a little huff, and even in the moonlight Antonio can see how he rolls his eyes. 

“Nothing. Nevermind. If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” 

He moves to enter the house, hand poised over the doorknob. But Antonio recognizes the olive branch. 

Standing, he pries Andrew’s hand from the knob, taking a calloused palm between long, bony fingers. 

“Well you’ve made such a big deal of it. Now you have to show me.” 

Andrew affixes him with a firm stare, something swimming behind his eyes, but Antonio can’t parse exactly what it is. Maybe even Andrew himself doesn’t know. Because he stands there, silent, for far longer than is socially allowed.

Antonio doesn’t think to drop it. Not for a second. Not his grip on Andrew’s hand, not in his insistence to be shown something, however mundane it might be. 

“Fine,” Andrew eventually grits out. “But let me get my scarf.”

They walk to the field in silence. It takes the better part of a half an hour, and it’s not like Antonio could hurry them along even if he wanted to- he doesn’t know the way. 

The chill bites at his nose in a way that would be uncomfortable, if not for how novel it is. It’s been a long time since he’s experienced sensations such as these- in the manor, things like cold and hot and hunger and fatigue and pain had been dulled. Warped. And yes they’ve been out for three months, but the awe and wonder of it all hasn’t worn off yet. He intends to make the best of it while it lasts.

Andrew leads them down the turn of a lane that eventually tapers off into a dirt path, and then widens, into the edge of a field. 

Maybe some wheat. Mostly tall grass. Like a farm plot, abandoned for its lack of yield over time, overgrown, forgotten. 

Antonio doesn’t quite see what the marvel is all about until Andrew takes him wordlessly by the wrist, and guides him into the thick of it, beating the stalks out of the way to reveal an inconspicuous foot path, where the greenery has been beaten down by those who’ve walked it before. 

The grass swallows them. Antonio lets Andrew drag him along, and only fleetingly contemplates the possibility that Andrew has snapped and is coaxing him toward his demise. 

It would be deserved. Maybe. Antonio can’t count how many times he’d chased Andrew through the cornfield on Lakeside, succumbing to a similar fate. It would be right. Just.

But it’s not that. Because after a disorienting moment, they arrive at the yawn where the grass parts, flattens, and grows shorter. A few tall patches, here and there, but the thick of it coming up only to their waists. 

And most gloriously of all, a patch of wild lavender. 

“Oh,” Antonio says, faintly. Andrew releases his grip on Antonio’s arm, finally, and he takes the opportunity to reach forward, brushing against the flowers. “This is what you wanted me to see.”

“Yes,” Andrew admits, casting his gaze off to the side. A shame, that he forfeits the fruits of his consideration by looking away. But Antonio will have the moment of novelty whether he is watching or not. 

“These are rather out of the way. How did you find them?”

The familiar silence falls upon them, again, and Antonio knows he’ll only get an answer if he presses. He draws his gaze away from the flowers, and back onto Andrew, who has turned his eyes up to the sliver of moon hanging above them. 

“I thought I might bring something nice to you,” he whispers, and then winces. “I know it’s not- rosin, or lambrusco. But we don’t have the money for that, and they don’t sell those in town anyway. So- flowers, in their stead.

But after all my years, tending to graves, I’ve watched gifts of flowers wilt and die at their altar. They just get thrown away.”

“... So, you brought me to them instead.” Antonio understands.

“Yes.”

In an instant, all of Antonio’s memories of a life long left behind come rushing back. Late night trysts. Lovers, in warm embraces, tender kisses and hushed whispers of sweet nothings- of empty promises. A letter, written on the back of a music score, left atop a windowsill with a single rose weighing it down. 

A romantic, once upon a time. And now he finds it resurfacing all too easily. 

Taking Andrew’s arm into hand, Antonio eases him closer, and does not falter when a rush of pink cascades across Andrew’s cheeks- he goes along anyway. The wind rises to drown out any words that might be spoken, but none are. The silence is enough. 

Antonio closes his eyes, relinquishing the beauty around him, just for a moment. The flowers, and Andrew, will still be there when he opens them again.