A/N- Thanks for the reviews guys! On to chapter five! And just for clarity's sake, Eli didn't die the night he attacked Violet. He escaped. And this chapter, he's back with a vengeance. Hope you all enjoy!
Love in the Afterlife
Chapter Five
"The sun's coming up." Violet looked over her shoulder at the weak morning light coming through her shutters.
"I've never done this before. Stayed up all night with somebody." Tate smiled sleepily when Violet turned back to face him. They just looked at each other for a long moment, lying on their sides facing each other in bed, Tate taking the hand that was resting on her pillow and lacing his fingers through hers.
"Me neither." Violet smiled back, wearing nothing but his plaid shirt but still feeling a little shy around him after last night. During her time in college, sex with other guys had mostly proved anticlimactic and awkward, and the one time a guy had tried to go down on her before had been a total disaster. He'd been a friend from her junior philosophy class, and they'd both been pretty drunk in his dorm room after a party, and after assuring Violet that he was "really good at this", Violet had felt absolutely nothing but embarrassment for him until he'd fallen asleep with his head still between her legs, and she'd sneaked out and barely been able to muster a "hello" to him in class on Monday.
But last night, Tate had gone down on her and Violet had finally understood the "holy-shit-balls" reaction to oral that countless friends and Cosmo articles had led her to expect. She had half-expected another earthquake. It was always so intense when she and Tate were together, and not just physically. They had talked until five in the morning, and she told him things last night she'd never told anyone—like the fact that all she really wanted to do with her college degree was write books. Or the fact that she didn't really miss her mom all that much after she moved back to Boston, and how she felt guilty for siding with her dad after all the crap he'd pulled. She never felt nervous telling Tate anything, because she knew without a doubt that he loved and accepted her for exactly who she was.
They fell asleep holding hands, and Violet didn't wake up the next day until nearly one o'clock. It was like the all-nighters she'd been pulling for school combined with the excitement of seeing Tate again (and having more sex in one night than she'd had in the past six years) finally all caught up with her, and she felt like she was coming out of a coma when she finally woke up.
But her sleepy, love-drunk haze faded quickly when she realized she had woken up alone. Violet sat up in bed, the sheets still rumpled on his side, like he had just left. She didn't even have to go searching around the room for him this time. She could feel it. He was already gone.
Violet felt a rush of white-hot anger in her stomach, not at him, but at this, their whole situation. It wasn't fair. They were supposed to be together. They'd both known it from the moment they met. This was bullshit. She ran a hand through her dark hair, taking a long, shaky breath, trying not to scream out in frustration.
Suddenly, she noticed a folded up piece of white paper on her bedside table. She picked it up, opening the paper and hungrily devouring the words written in his dark, slanted print, hoping for a solution but only finding a goodbye.
Violet-
If you're reading this, it means I didn't get the chance to say goodbye in person and I have to say it in a letter. Hey, it's better than a chalkboard, right?
Last night was perfect, and if it was up to me, I'd wake up next to you for the rest of my (after)life.
But it's not up to me, or you, and so I think we have to let this go. I don't want you to be stuck in this place waiting for me forever. I wouldn't wish this crazy house (or my crazy mother) on my worst enemy, and I definitely wouldn't wish them on you—my soulmate and my best friend. You're going to be an amazing writer, and I don't want anything to hold you back.
Please know that I meant it when I said I would love you forever and just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not there.
I can't wait to see what you do with your life. You already saved mine.
-Tate
Violet was crying by the time she got to the end of the letter, silent, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. She wiped them away, trying to remember the last time she'd even gotten misty-eyed. She never knew if it was him, or this place, or both of them together, but it was like every emotion just bubbled up so easily here—love, hate, despair, everything.
She refolded the letter, not ready to think about any of the things he'd said in it. Violet shoved the letter in her book bag, fishing out her cigarettes and lighter and blatantly ignoring the "NO SMOKING" sign Constance had posted in all of the rooms. She chain-smoked her way through five cigarettes before her empty stomach started to churn with nausea. She needed to eat something, but she couldn't face Constance or the ghost-hunters who would surely have questions for her if she went downstairs.
Suddenly there was a knock at her door. Violet hastily stubbed out her cigarette, making a futile attempt to wave away the smell of smoke. "Y-Yes?"
"Miss Harmon?" It was Moira's voice. "I've brought you lunch."
Violet hastily put on underwear and her jeans from last night, doing up a few more buttons of Tate's shirt and hoping she looked like she had just been innocently writing in her room all morning. She opened the door, finding it oddly comforting that Moira hadn't changed a bit. "Thanks. I'm starved."
Moira looked her up and down, almost suspiciously. Violet crossed her arms over her chest. "What?"
"Ham and swiss sandwich." Moira handed her the tray. "Still your favorite?"
"Yeah. You're the best." Violet said quickly, unable to shake the odd feeling that Moira always knew everything she was trying to hide.
Moira watched Violet hurry back over to her bed, hastily digging into her sandwich. Moira's lips curved into a smile. "You really don't think she'll find out? It's written all over your face."
Violet swallowed a bite of sandwich, her cheeks slightly flushed. "What is?"
"You've been smoking in here." Moira shook her head.
Violet let out a small little laugh of relief. "Oh, yeah. Guilty."
Moira turned as though to leave, but suddenly stopped, looking back to Violet. "It's a bad habit, Miss Harmon. You should really give it up. I understand you had to indulge your rebellious spirit in high school, but you're an adult now. And I'd hate to see you waste your whole life…smoking." Moira was looking at her rather pointedly, and Violet realized what they were really talking about. How in the hell did Moira know everything?
"I'm not wasting my life," Violet said defensively.
"Then what are you doing back here?"
"I'm writing a book on this place."
"Oh, move on." Moira snapped, frustration creeping into her voice. "I don't understand you. Or Mr. Harvey. I stay here because I can't leave. You both choose to keep coming back to this godforsaken place. For them. All in the name of some hopeless search for a love you can never really possess, with two people who will always leave you both disappointed. I find it incredibly sad."
"Well, no one asked you." Violet snapped, having very little idea what Larry Harvey had to do with her but done with this conversation nonetheless.
There was a long, awkward silence. Moira finally just nodded. "I'm sorry, Miss Harmon. You just have so much potential."
Violet sighed. Why did everyone keep saying stuff like that? "Okay. Thanks for the sandwich."
"Of course, ma'am." Moira left without another word, and Violet was left with nothing but silence and the unpleasant truth of Moira's words for company. Moira and Tate were right. She couldn't stay here. Her defining characteristic couldn't be the girl who was always left behind.
"Violet's checked out a day early. I thought she'd at least stay for the weekend, especially after I moved heaven and earth to get her in her old room." Constance poured herself a drink, sitting down with Larry at the kitchen table. He always stayed up late finishing the financial reports for the day, and Constance joining him after locking up for the night had become their little tradition.
Constance and Larry had started the bed and breakfast together two years ago, and everything else had just seemed to evolve from their business partnership with no great fanfare or dramatics. Renewing their friendship and physical relationship soon after joining forces professionally had just seemed natural, and Constance was apparently finally lonely enough to see past his mangled appearance and not mention it (much). And although they spent almost all their time together, the actual nature of their relationship was never discussed. Larry had the disturbing notion that Constance had just started sleeping with him again as some kind of bizarre thank-you for helping her start up the bed and breakfast, but the romantic in him still believed there was more to it than that. There had to be.
Larry looked over his laptop at her, raising his eyebrows. "You're disappointed."
"No, I'm not. Why would I be?" Constance shrugged flippantly.
"Yes, you are. And I can tell you exactly why." Larry closed his computer. "I can practically read your mind by now, you know."
Constance took a sip of her drink, one side of her mouth curving upwards into what could have been a smile or a sneer. "Fine. Amaze me."
"You thought that Violet coming back would bring Tate back too." Larry said simply. "And I get it. I thought the same thing. I want him back too."
Constance sighed, her eyes slightly glassy. "I was foolish to hope… but I just…Tate's always been so devoted to Violet. He loves her like…"
"Like the way I love you."
Constance pressed her lips together, clearly displeased with him for broaching the only unspoken topic between them. "Laurence, please don't do this. I asked you to help me with this place because I value your financial input."
Larry shook his head. "No. You're lying. That's not all this is."
Constance set down her drink, her dark eyes flashing with anger. "We're staving off loneliness, Laurence. That doesn't make us soulmates."
Larry slammed his fist down on the table. "Then what would? What more could you possibly want that I haven't given you?" There was a long silence before Larry rubbed the scarred side of his face wearily before looking back up to her, conviction in his eyes she had never seen before. "You're just scared. Scared of actually admitting you need another person. But you do need me, Constance. And I need you."
"I don't need anyone."
"Fine." Larry got to his feet. "Run this place on your own then." He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, walking out the front door without another word.
Constance looked around the empty kitchen, finding herself in the unusual position of being alone. "He'll be back," she said, suddenly realizing that even though the house was full to bursting with spirits and guests, she had run out of people who cared to listen.
1983
"Larry Harvey speaking."
"Can I see you?"
"Hold on." Larry hurried to close his office door, going back to his phone and lowering his voice, feeling a little thrill of excitement at his office subterfuge. "What's wrong?"
"He's cheating. I know he is." Constance already sounded worked up into a high temper, and Larry had the distinct impression that she'd been drinking before she called him.
"What? With who?"
"That damn maid. I heard them talking in the kitchen this morning before he went to work, and it didn't exactly sound like the proper tone of conversation between employer and employee. I mean, I'm more offended by his lack of originality than anything else. Diddling the maid? What's next? His secretary?" Constance laughed hollowly, and Larry heard the clink of ice cubes as she took another sip of something. "She's upstairs, right now. Cleaning the boy's rooms. The thought of her touching their things makes my skin crawl. You know, a very large part of me just wants to take my pistol and—"
"Let's meet for lunch. At the Roosevelt."
"When?"
"Whenever. Now." Larry waved his hand. "Do you want me to come pick you up?"
"No, I can drive myself, thank you." Constance sniffed imperiously. Larry sighed. She was clearly in no condition to drive, but didn't want to risk the chance of neighbors seeing them together in the middle of the day.
"Baby, come on. I don't want you wrapping that nice Cadillac around a telephone pool."
"I'll meet you in twenty minutes. At the Roosevelt." Constance said stubbornly.
"Fine. Twenty minutes." Larry hung up the phone, shaking his head and calling the hotel to make their usual reservation. He knew she'd probably be fine—Constance had been drinking hard liquor since she was fifteen, and had a disturbingly high tolerance for the stuff. He was just happy she'd called.
His relationship with Constance was impossible to explain, largely because Larry wasn't even sure he understood it himself. She was always the one who dictated the nature of their interactions. Sometimes they were friends. Most times they were lovers. Sometimes she hated him, other times, mostly when she was drunk, she'd threaten to kill herself if he wouldn't see her. It was undoubtedly an unhealthy relationship, but Larry loved it. When he was with Constance, it was like the world changed from black and white to color. His life was so alarmingly routine without her—husband to a wife who barely tolerated him, father to two girls who clearly were told by their mother whose side to be on, and executive of an accounting firm that he could barely describe to people without boring himself.
But Constance was beautiful and exciting and infuriating and made him feel things he used to think only existed in movies and books. It gave them both a nasty little thrill to have to pretend there was nothing going on between them when they all had dinner at the Langdon's overwrought historic home every week, Hugo blissfully unaware and Lorraine at least pretending to be, Larry's daughters playing happily on the floor with Addy, Tate, and Eli.
Larry knew he should feel guilty about what they were doing, but somehow that emotion just never set in. They didn't set out to hurt anyone. And so far, they hadn't. But he did fantasize all the time about what it would be like to be married to Constance. Their kids already got along. Hugo would find someone else in a matter of hours. Maybe that pretty maid of theirs. And Lorraine…Larry's train of thought always stopped there. He didn't like thinking of what would happen to her.
Larry shook himself mentally, driving up the palm-tree lined path that led to the glamorous Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Constance had told him once that she'd always imagined herself among the rich and famous Hollywood denizens who regularly lounged poolside or closed deals at the hotel bar, and Larry had surprised her once by taking her to dinner there. Ever since, it had become their spot to meet. They both had dreams of being discovered in Hollywood that had to be set aside for the sake of their families, and this hotel seemed to encapsulate everything they still secretly wanted for themselves.
He checked in at the front desk, ambling towards the elevator, making sure to keep his expression even when Constance fell into step with him, neither speaking to each other or making eye contact as they boarded the elevator together, doing their now-familiar acting exercise of playing total strangers in public.
When the doors closed, Larry turned towards her, looking over her always flawless appearance. Her blond hair was in Veronica Lake curls around her shoulders, her enviable figure very clearly displayed in a thin cream colored sweater dotted with pearls over white pants and tall champagne colored high heels. She certainly didn't look like the inebriated lovelorn housewife he'd talked to on the phone. She looked like she always did—a movie star.
Constance leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, a smug smile on her glossed lips as she looked back at him. "I'll have you notice, Mr. Harvey—not a scratch on me. Or my Cadillac."
"Heaven strike me down for daring to question your abilities." Larry held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Did you get a smoking room?"
"Of course."
"And you won't judge me for indulging my vices?"
Larry smiled, shaking his head. "Never."
They walked off the elevator together and into their room, Larry loosening his tie and taking off his jacket as Constance set her white Chanel handbag on the nightstand. When he turned back around from taking off his jacket, Constance peeled off her sweater and pants and stepped towards him, pushing him down on the foot of the bed. She slid off her underwear, leaning down to take his face in her hands.
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you." Larry said obediently, his hands already under the lace bra still covering her breasts.
"Tell me you love me." Constance sighed, undoing her bra and slipping the straps off her shoulders.
"I love you." Larry tossed the flimsy lingerie off the side of the bed, watching her hurriedly undo his belt and pants as he pulled her back on the bed, his hands grasping her hips as they fucked with her on top, Constance clenching his shoulders as she moved against him with a strange ferocity, seemingly out to prove something yet again.
"Hugo never lets me be on top." Constance informed him, a distinctive flush spreading from her chest to her neck as they both started breathing harder.
"Hugo's an idiot." Larry muttered, the heat of the moment making him bolder than he usually would be.
Constance didn't reply, and they didn't speak again until it was over, limbs still entwined in sweaty sheets as they lay side by side, Constance rummaging through her purse almost immediately after, lighting up a cigarette and even sharing it with Larry, finding herself in an unusually giving mood. He was the only man who ever took the time to give her an orgasm, something Constance had found a depressingly rare trait, so she might as well show some shred of appreciation. What was one cigarette between friends? It did feel a little too romantic for her tastes, but Larry seemed so happy when she did it that she indulged him.
"When do you have to be back at work?" Constance asked, stretching out her long limbs, shivering slightly at the small aftershock of pleasure still thudding through her.
Larry blew out a cloud of smoke, shrugging. Sex always seemed to make him very apathetic towards everything else. "Dunno. Who cares?"
"Laurence."
Larry handed the cigarette back. "I'm the boss, honey. They can't exactly fire me." He stroked the bare curve of her hip with one hand, finding it incredibly sexy that Constance was perfectly fine with him seeing her naked in this crappy hotel room lighting in the middle of the day. The very few times he and Lorraine had sex anymore, it was always at night, in pitch darkness, under the covers, and was so awkward and silent that Larry thought it barely even deserved the title of sex.
Constance grinned, seemingly in a much better mood now, but her voice still sarcastic. "Yes, baby, please tell me all about accounting." She leaned forward, kissing him briefly. "You really need to work on your pillow talk."
She got out of bed, walking around the room stark naked as she read the room service menu. "I'm starved, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Do they have a good burger here?"
Constance looked up at him, wrinkling her nose. "I don't know why you insist on eating like a twelve-year old."
"I'm sorry, darling. What choice would meet your approval? Larry smiled sardonically.
"I'll order for us." Constance sat back down on her side of the bed, picking up the phone.
"And then I'll pay for us, right?" Larry laughed.
"I knew you were a clever man." Constance gave him back the cigarette, Larry tasting the vanilla flavor from her lipstick as he inhaled. A little over an hour later, he was back in his dull, sterile office, his time with Constance feeling, as always, like nothing but a stolen dream.
2017
"There you are." Chad walked into the master bedroom, finding Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out at the blazing reds and yellows of the sunset with a thoughtful expression on his ridiculously handsome features. Chad tentatively stepped towards him. "I haven't seen you in days."
"Did you ever think that might be intentional?" Patrick muttered under his breath.
Chad blinked with surprise. "Why are you being such a grouch?"
"No reason. Never mind." Patrick seemed to lose his nerve, going back to his usual maddeningly placid self.
"Come on. You've been skulking around for weeks. Something's bothering you."
Patrick shrugged. "Just not feeling very social, I guess."
Chad raised his eyebrows. "Really? But you're usually so very friendly. With bartenders." He started ticking people off on his fingers. "Randoms. Trainers."
Patrick rolled his eyes. "Enough already about my trainer. It's not funny anymore."
"Oh, I beg to differ. I find it hilarious, especially now that I see you're still so touchy about him. What's wrong, Pat? You thought you two were soulmates?" Chad snickered.
"Maybe." Patrick said boldly. "We could have been."
Chad was so caught off guard that he was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Finally, he managed to sputter out a response. "If…if not for me, you mean?"
"Yeah. If not for you and this stupid house and me being dumb enough to come back home that day, we'd probably still be together. We weren't just messing around, Chad. We were in love. I was going to leave you."
Chad's face had gone very pale, but he was clearly struggling to keep a sardonic, flippant smile on his face. "I see. So I was standing in the way of true love, was I?"
"It's not your fault. I should have told you." Patrick said, trying to be fair.
"So why didn't you?" Chad demanded. "Were you just worried I'd throw you out? Didn't want to move into your one true love's shitty efficiency apartment on South Side?"
Patrick shook his head. "Just stop."
"Not a chance. I am nowhere near finished." Chad laughed, a forced, strained sound." Let me just clarify something—are you saying that if you hadn't come home that day, and I had died without you, you would have been, what? Relieved? Just stepped over my dead body to get to him? Screwed him at my wake? I'm so sorry for getting in the way of all your plans."
Patrick looked down at the floor. "We were so unhappy, Chad. Don't act like this is coming as a complete surprise."
"We were unhappy because you're a cheating asshole!"
"No!" Patrick stood up. "No, that's bullshit. You can't blame everything on me this time. You checked out of our relationship too."
"I seem to remember putting on a rubber suit to satisfy your perverse urges only a week before our untimely end. How is that checking out?"
"Because dressing up and pretending nothing's wrong wasn't the way to fix things!"
"Oh, now you know how to fix things? Please, Pat. Enlighten me." Chad scoffed.
"That." Patrick pointed at him. "That voice, right there. Every time you talk to me like that, I want to put your face through a fucking wall."
"So do it." Chad sneered, stepping almost nose-to-nose with Patrick. He stared him down for a long moment, Patrick breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists, his huge muscled body vibrating with a rage he never let out. Chad smiled, leaning closer, their mouths practically touching. "We both know you won't."
There was a strange, charged moment where they looked right at each other and Chad actually thought Patrick was going to do something for once—kiss him, knock his teeth out, yell in his face— but he didn't. Chad sighed, stepping away from him. "That's your problem, Pat. You're so angry all the time, and I don't even think you remember why anymore."
"You're helping me remember." Patrick said, his jaw still clenched.
Chad threw up his hands. "Remember what? What did I do that was so horrible?" There was a long moment of silence, and Chad suddenly realized that more than anything, he was just exhausted, tired of fighting, tired of being angry, tired of having the same fight and not getting anywhere. He finally broke the long silence between them. "I don't get it, Pat. It was like one day, you just gave up on us. And if it was something I did, please just…tell me."
Patrick shook his head. "It's too late."
Chad sighed, stepping closer to him, his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't know how to break this to you, baby, but we're not going anywhere. Talk to me."
Patrick licked his lips, looking down at the floor when he spoke. "Do you remember that day…when I told you…when I told you we weren't getting Sophie?"
Chad nodded. Sophie had been the name they'd chosen for their daughter before the birth mother, a girl Patrick had met through work, had backed out of the adoption. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I remember."
"When I came home, and I told you it wasn't going to happen…you just looked at me and said…" Patrick's voice broke as he went on, "you said, 'I don't know why I expected anything different.' Like you knew I'd fuck it up. Like me letting you down was just a foregone conclusion. Once I got that in my head, once I realized what you really thought of me, I couldn't talk to you. I could barely look at you. And when I started sleeping with Alex—that was my trainer's name—"
"I really don't need to know his name."
"I did it because he actually listened to me. He didn't think I was a failure. He didn't think taking classes to become a paramedic was a waste of time. He made me feel good about myself, and he actually wanted to have sex with me. So it happened. I fucked up. And when I came home after, I knew you knew. You could see it on my face. You have such a freaky good sense of smell you could probably smell him. I didn't try to cover it up. I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you. But you didn't even bother to fight with me. You didn't care. You started all that "Don't ask, don't tell" bullshit because you never cared about me. I was just a prop to make you look good. You never respected me, or my job, or my opinion."
"Pat—"
Patrick pushed him away. "You didn't! You always judged me for not going to college. You would barely even let me talk to your friends from Stanford so I wouldn't embarrass you by saying something too working-class."
"None of this is coming from me." Chad protested.
"When I took the dishes into the kitchen, one of your friends called me a "blue-collar himbo" and you laughed." Patrick crossed his arms over his chest.
"I…" Chad's voice faltered for a moment. "I didn't know you heard that. I'm sorry. I was being an idiot. Every time we all get together, it becomes this sick competition, and I let it get to me."
"You were never proud of me. Never supportive of anything I wanted." Patrick couldn't stop now that he'd started. "I was always supportive of you. We always did everything you wanted. Anywhere you wanted to go for dinner, that's where we went. We lived where you wanted to live. We had sex like twice a year because that's what you wanted. You picked out my clothes for events. You told me what movies and music and shows "we" liked. You made every single decision in our relationship, and treated me like your dumb arm candy that you liked to show off at nightclubs. I was your perfect man, as long as I didn't speak."
Chad shrugged his shoulders wearily. "Fine. If we're being perfectly honest, fine. When we first met, I liked you for entirely shallow reasons. You were the best-looking guy I'd ever seen, and I couldn't figure out why you were even talking to me. I did like showing you off in nightclubs. And I can be a bossy, controlling asshole. I'd never been in a long-term relationship before you, and I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn't want you to know that, so I overreached and tried to control everything so I wouldn't lose you." Chad ran a hand through his hair. "What about you? It seems like you hate pretty much everything about me. So why'd you ever even approach me? That first night, why'd you talk to me?"
Patrick crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Completely shallow reasons. I thought you looked rich, and that you'd pay all my bills."
Chad blinked with surprise at such blunt honesty, but realized that Patrick was being sarcastic as he went on. "I mean, that's what everyone thought about us, right? That I only liked you for your money, and you only liked me because I looked good in sleeveless shirts." Patrick sighed heavily. "I'd never been in a long-term relationship either, Chad. And everything happened so fast with us. We were living together in a month. Maybe…" He rubbed his mouth with his hand. "Maybe we were just too different to ever really make it work."
"But you said it first." Chad watched him carefully. "You said 'I love you' first. You kissed me that first night. You asked me to have a baby with you. To get a house."
"I know."
"Why did you do all of that, if you hate me so much?"
"I don't hate you." Patrick said quietly.
Chad looked at him for a long moment. "I never thought you were a failure. I always thought you were too good for me, and I was terrified every day that you were going to leave me. When I said…what I said about losing Sophia, I was talking about myself. I was talking about the sinking feeling in my stomach that I was just an ugly, awkward kid who got shipped off to boarding school and college in order to grow into an ugly, awkward adult who got paid inordinate amounts of money to make other people's lives look perfect while pretending mine wasn't a lonely, hollow disaster." Chad let out a long breath. He had never shared these feelings with anyone. "I wanted someone different from me, and all the horrible, selfish people I'd grown up loathing. I wanted you, more than I'd ever wanted anything."
"I wanted you too, babe." Patrick said sadly. "But maybe…before we met…we had the right idea to just stay away from relationships. Maybe you just always end up wanting to kill each other in the end."
Chad smiled, leaning back against the wall. "Do you really want to kill me?"
"Sometimes." Patrick leaned over him, his hand gently resting on the side of Chad's neck as he kissed him, almost experimentally, just to see what it would feel like after years of constantly being at each other's throats. Chad didn't reach out for him, but he didn't push him away as the embrace grew deeper, both out of breath when they finally broke apart. They had gone so long without a shred of affection between them that even a kiss felt incredibly intimate.
"Are we calling a temporary cease-fire?" Chad asked with a small smile, smoothing Patrick's hair back off his forehead.
"Depends." Patrick started to loosen Chad's tie. "Is that your snobby way of asking me to have ghost sex?"
"We're not done talking." Chad said sternly.
"We've got forever." Patrick shrugged, pulling off his t-shirt, laughing at the look on Chad's face. "What?"
"Nothing. You'll judge me for thinking shallow thoughts." Chad grinned.
"Oh, see…this is awkward. I was fully expecting you to pay me for this after." Patrick smiled back.
"Damn it. Everyone was right about us." Chad was still laughing when Patrick kissed him again, but soon Chad was kissing him back, Patrick unbuttoning Chad's ridiculously expensive shirt as Chad unzipped Patrick's jeans, leaving a trail of clothes behind as they made their way to the bed, both finding that ending six years of celibacy suddenly seemed much more important than the petty differences that had separated them, finally and passionately reconciling in the bedroom that had housed so much bitterness and anger between them when they were alive. Patrick buried his head in Chad's shoulder at the end, Chad's hand clenching in the sheets, finding that it actually was a nice change to let Patrick take control for once.
Afterwards, they lay side-by-side, looking up at the ceiling, a big, goofy smile on Patrick's face.
"I feel like I need a cigarette after that." Patrick looked over at Chad.
"Honey, you're a medical professional. You can't smoke."
"Yeah. But you know what I mean?"
"Yes. I know what you mean." Chad kissed him, gently stroking Patrick's chin with his thumb. "Make-up sex. Worth all the hype?"
"Totally." Patrick smiled.
Suddenly, the door to the master bedroom opened, a young couple walking over the threshold and dropping their suitcases in surprise when they saw Chad and Patrick in their bed for the weekend.
"Hi there. I'm Patrick, and this is my boyfriend Chad. We died here. But you probably already know that." Patrick gave them a friendly smile, Chad snickering beside him.
"Your first ghost sighting of the weekend. Congratulations." Chad clapped his hands together with a smile. "You now have the rare distinction of nearly catching us in flagrante delicto."
"The very rare distinction." Patrick sighed.
"Let's go." Chad rolled his eyes, placing his hand on Patrick's arm before they disappeared entirely, the bed perfectly made up and their scattered clothes gone in their wake.
The couple looked at each other for a silent, stunned moment before the girl squeezed her husband's hand with an excited little squeal. "The people on the Murder House forums are going to freak!"
"Hey! You're back early." Violet's roommate Lexi smiled happily when she walked back into their apartment after a long, depressing drive back to Berkeley. "How was L.A.?"
"It was okay." Violet shrugged, dropping her bags in her room before joining Lexi at the kitchen table, Lexi clicking off the "Real Housewives" marathon she'd been watching. Lexi had seemed like a total nightmare when Violet first met her- blond, big boobs, fond of wearing pink polo shirts and tennis skirts, dating the president of the campus' biggest fraternity, the kind of sorority girl Violet thought only existed to die in horror movies. They'd gotten placed as roommates randomly, and Violet was fully prepared to hate her, but Lexi had ended up winning her over. She was one of the nicest people Violet had ever met, but also had a devilishly subversive sense of humor and surprisingly good taste in music. They'd always had different groups of friends, but roomed together all four years of college, and Lexi knew her well enough that she sensed something was up before Violet had even sat down at the table.
"What's wrong?" Lexi asked.
Violet sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Nothing. It was just…kind of weird. I went back to my old neighborhood. Saw my old house. Ran into my first boyfriend."
"Yikes. I hate running into exes." Lexi shuddered. "How was that? Seeing him again?"
Violet considered this question for a moment, unable to talk about him without smiling. "It was like…do you ever have those people that you can go forever without talking, and then you see each other again, and it's like nothing's changed? Like you just pick up right where you left off?"
Lexi's big blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. She had never seen Violet look this excited talking about a guy, ever. "You hooked up with him, didn't you?"
"We…yeah. We did…some stuff."
Lexi shook her head. "Is he why you broke up with that perfectly nice guy from your thesis class? Because you thought you might run into him again when you went home?"
"No." Violet said, as if Lexi was being ridiculous.
"Vi."
Violet sighed heavily. "Okay, fine. Yes. I never got over him, and I know it's sad and pathetic, but I didn't judge you for breaking up and getting back together with Chris like fifty different times."
"True." Lexi conceded. "So how did you guys leave things? Are you back together?"
"No, I mean he lives…really far away."
"Out of state?"
"Way out of state." Violet said gloomily.
"And long-distance relationships never work."
"I know."
Lexi put her hand over Violet's with a small smile. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"If it's meant to be, it will all work out."
"What, like destiny?" Violet snorted with laughter.
"You don't have to pretend to be all cynical." Lexi grinned. "I have this crazy theory that you believe in destiny and soulmates just as much as everybody else."
"What are you basing that on?"
"The fact that you've been in love with the same guy since you were fifteen." Lexi rather astutely pointed out, patting Violet's hand before going to the fridge and getting them both a beer. She twisted off the caps before sitting back down with Violet. "I actually think it's really sweet. I feel like I know you even better now. You were always so hard on guys, and I could never figure out why, but now I get it…you were just comparing all of them to him."
Violet took a sip of her beer, her lips curving into a small smile. "Thanks, Lex."
"For what?"
"For not calling me crazy."
Lexi shrugged. "Hey. You feel how you feel." She clinked the neck of her beer against Violet's with a grin. "So tell me all about him."
Constance smiled triumphantly when she heard the back door open later that same night. She knew Larry would come crawling back eventually, tail firmly between his legs.
"That didn't take long." She crossed her arms over her chest, ready for Larry's apology.
But it wasn't Larry who walked into the kitchen. The figure was too tall and broad-shouldered to be Larry, but his face was mostly hidden in shadows for a moment, Constance squinting to see better, her heart suddenly speeding up with excitement. "Tate? Honey, is that you?"
"Don't you wish." It was Eli, in an all black three-piece suit, his wavy blond hair slicked back, and a long distinctive scar over his left eye from his run-in with Violet now defacing his handsome features. Eli put his hands in his pockets. "Hello, mother."
Constance looked more annoyed than surprised by his appearance. "Well, well. The bad seed returns."
"That's how you greet your last living child?" Eli walked towards her, his odd, almost graceful stride eerily similar to his mother's. "I'm the only one who survived you, mother. That has to count for something."
"What do you want, Eli? Applause? It doesn't exactly inspire a mother's pride when her son proves time and time again that he's a soulless psychopath."
Eli snorted with laughter. "Like you're some saint. Where's your little deformed boyfriend tonight?"
"Laurence is my business partner."
"Right. Some business. He does your taxes, you suck his cock." Eli shook his head. "What is it with you and this guy? It's been thirty years, and you're still stringing him along. It's just pathetic at this point."
"Says the grown man coming home and begging for his mother's approval." Constance laughed cruelly. "You know, Eli, I had it all wrong. You were never the strong one. At least your brother found someone to love him and moved on from this place. But you're still here, all alone, circling this house like an ugly old buzzard. When you were younger, and I'd see that darkness in your eyes, I knew you were going to be a killer. There was no two ways about it. I often considered the possibility that I'd be doing the world a favor by just smothering you in your sleep."
Eli pressed his mouth together, his jaw twitching slightly. "So what stopped you?"
"If I killed you in this house, I'd never be rid of you. That was the one silver lining of your sweet brother dying in your place. Everyone loved having him around, just like when he was alive. You'd be nothing but a virus infecting this place. Just like when you were alive. You don't deserve to be here. You deserve to be in prison. Ideally due for a lethal injection."
"And what do you deserve?" Eli asked, crossing to her, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. "You know what they say. Monsters aren't born. They're made. You're an old adulterous whore who murdered her husband and maid for the exact same sins you'd been committing for years. You can't stand the sight of me because I'm just like you. We're both conscienceless killers. And we both got away with it. You only hate me because I'm all the nasty little parts you hate in yourself."
"I don't hate you, Eli. That would imply some kind of feeling towards you at all. You bore me. All I want…all anyone wants…is for you to go away."
"Shut up!" Eli shouted, pulling a gun from inside his jacket and whipping his mother across the face, Constance falling to the ground but not crying out, just clutching her cheek in furious silence. Eli stood over her, pointing the gun right between her eyes when she looked back up to him.
"You're not getting rid of me, mother. We're the same. And you and I are staying here, together. Forever."
Constance, even literally looking down the barrel of a gun with blood seeping between her fingers, didn't flinch or show a flicker of fear. She just stared evenly back at him, her voice cool and calm. "A murder-suicide? How unoriginal of you."
Eli clicked off the safety of the gun. "See you on the other side."
"Drop the gun, Eli."
Eli didn't turn around at the sound of Larry's voice, but his finger hesitated on the trigger. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking slightly. He hadn't counted on Larry returning. "Come on, Larry. I'm doing you a fucking favor."
Constance watched in silence as Larry slowly walked up behind Eli, speaking in a low, calming voice. "Drop the gun. We can get you help."
"I don't want help. I want to be with my family." Eli's voice broke, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he turned his head slightly to the side, speaking to Larry. "And I don't mean you."
"All I ever wanted was to be a father to you boys. Not being there for you and Tate is the biggest regret of my life."
Eli blinked rapidly, starting to lose his nerve. Constance's eyes flicked to Larry with an expression he couldn't quite read. He didn't dare hope it was love, but it was closer than she'd ever come to it before. She slowly rose to her feet, still clutching her cheek, her eyes still on Larry's.
"Get down! Get the fuck down!" Eli shouted, his attention fully back on his mother.
Constance gave Larry a small nod, and he seized the opportunity of Eli's momentary distraction, grabbing his arms from behind and pinning them behind Eli's back, the gun clattering to the floor and misfiring as the two men struggled. Larry cried out as the bullet pierced his stomach, Eli using all his strength to push back against him, sending them both crashing into the kitchen cabinets, shattering the glass in the cabinet doors. Both men were too stunned by the impact to move right away, Eli recovering first, scrambling to his feet and diving for the gun on the ground at the same time as Constance, Eli a second too slow, his mother operating purely on survival instinct and firing two shots directly into his chest.
Eli crumpled to the floor, looking up at his mother and letting out a weak cry of surprise when he saw Tate suddenly appear behind her, his twin brother taking in the violent scene with wide eyes. Constance seemed to sense Tate's presence, struck with a sudden bizarre impulse, grabbing Tate's hand and pulling him forward, her voice strained and insistent.
"Now, Tate. Now it's your time." She clasped Eli and Tate's hands together, Eli trying to speak but choking on blood as he writhed in pain on the floor, Tate looking at his mother with a horrified, confused expression.
"Tate…" Eli finally managed to say it, Tate looking down at his brother, Constance gripping their hands together with vice-like strength, not letting Tate pull away or Eli let go.
Suddenly, Tate's body started convulsing like he was gripping an electric fence, his eyes rolling back in his head as Eli let out one final cry of agony. In a brief moment, all the lights in the house went out, and when they came back on, Tate's spirit was nowhere to be seen and Eli was unconscious and silent, his slightly twitching left hand the only remaining sign of life.
Constance heard police sirens outside—one of the guests must have called the police after hearing the sound of gunshots— red and blue lights flashing outside the windows of Murder House, and when she heard a small groan from Larry, she was suddenly isolate a terrible thought whirling through her confused mind—if Larry died off Murder House property, he'd be gone for good.
She crossed to his side, nearly slipping in his blood as she fell to her knees, looking down at his half-closed eyes and taking his good hand in both of hers. "Laurence. Look at me."
Larry's head lolled to the side, using all of his strength to look up, smiling as always at the sight of her. "Constance." He said her name like he was savoring it, like he was perfectly happy with her name being his last word.
"I'm so sorry." Her grip tightened on his hand, both of them surprised when her voice came out slightly choked.
"No. Don't say that, baby." Larry shook his head. "This is all I ever wanted."
Constance's brow furrowed with confusion, but before she could ask him what he meant, the police burst through the front door, guns drawn as they raced into the kitchen. "Hands up! Hands up!"
Since Constance was the only person on the scene still able to stand, she was the only one who obeyed, her hands clasped behind her head as she took in the scene, including the still-open back door, and quickly formulated the only suitable explanation. She broke down in tears before she turned around to face the police, putting on a very good show of being a distraught, terrified innkeeper. "A man…broke in….he attacked me…he shot my son and my boyfriend…he was wearing some kind of mask…I didn't see his face—but when he heard the sirens, he ran out the back door."
One of the cops took off out the back door, the other one taking in the blood-soaked crime scene. The paramedics loaded Eli on the stretcher first, Constance clasping her hands together as she watched. "Is he still alive?"
The female paramedic checked Eli's pulse. "Yes, ma'am. He's holding on. We'll take good care of him, I promise."
"See that you do." Constance said sternly, turning back around to the medics who were checking Larry for signs of life. "Well?" she demanded.
The paramedics exchanged a look, clearly dreading having to give her this news. "He's gone. I'm so sorry, ma'am."
Constance felt a huge wave of relief wash over her. He'd died on house property. He'd be back. But she forced an expression of stricken grief onto her features. "No…please, there must be something you can do." She buried her face in her hands, breaking down in tears.
By now, the front foyer was full of bed and breakfast guests watching the scene play out, the whole group huddled together, hands clasped over their faces in horror. The cops had called for reinforcements, and the newly arrived officers were guiding the guests away from the crime scene and into the study for questioning.
"Guest records, get the guest records…" One of the officers hurried to the front desk, printing out the list of everyone currently staying in the hotel.
An older male officer gently put a hand on Constance's shoulder. "Ma'am, we just need a brief statement, anything you can tell us about the intruder, and then we'll give you a ride to the hospital to see your son."
"Of course. A-Anything I can do." Constance said, watching Eli's chest rising and falling on the stretcher as they wheeled him out of the house. Through some miracle, one of her sons was still clinging to life on that stretcher.
But which son?
"I think he's coming to." The paramedic leaned over Eli, shining a light into his dark brown eyes as the car pulled up to the emergency entrance to the hospital.
"Son, can you hear us?"
"Y-Yes." Eli's voice came out as a weak groan.
"Can you tell us your name?"
Eli looked up, appearing more lucid as his eyes focused on the paramedic's face. "My name?"
"Yes."
"It's Tate. Tate Langdon."
A/N- Until next chapter! Next time— Tate has to adjust to life outside of Murder House (and in his evil twin's body), Constance recruits Violet to give Tate a place to stay as he "adjusts", Violet graduates and enters into her adult life as a starving artist and Starbuck barista while she tries to figure out if living together and having lots of sex with the newly alive Tate means they're finally in a real relationship, Patrick attempts to be a good boyfriend and utterly confuses Chad, Ghost Larry infuriates Constance by not immediately reappearing, and Violet's college roommate Lexi invites Violet and Tate on a couples vacation to the coast. I love reading your reviews—and I hope everyone has a Happy New Year!