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“Here,” says Roman, handing Peter a glass of water. It’s the morning after the full moon, and Peter is curled into the armchair in his trailer, looking half asleep.
Peter downs the whole glass in one gulp. “Thanks,” he says.
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” Roman settles back onto the couch, the cushion still warm from him sleeping on it all night. “I only got it for you cause I don’t want you to like, die or something. I know how useless you are after you change.” He doesn’t add that Linda had given him a stern talking to about taking care of Peter and making sure he was hydrated before she left for work.
Peter snorts quietly.
“What?” says Roman. He checks the time on his watch. 8:28. If he leaves now, he can still get to school on time.
“Nothing.” Peter looks exhausted but there’s still a gleam of...something in his eyes. It’s unsettling, the way he always looks at him like he knows something Roman doesn’t. “You don’t think I notice but I do. You’re always...looking at me.”
“Yeah, cause you’re so fuckin’ ugly,” snaps Roman.
Peter pulls the blanket up a little around his shoulders. “Uh-huh,” he says, eyes already drifting shut. He doesn’t sound like he believes Roman. Roman’s not sure he does either.
“Fuck you, Peter,” says Roman, but it seems like Peter’s already asleep. He sighs, and grabs a pillow from the other end of the couch, manhandling it into a comfortable position under his head. He might as well get comfortable.
On Friday, Roman’s already loitering outside the front of the school by the time the last bell rings. The front doors open and a stream of students flood out, some heading towards the parking lot and others to the buses. Peter’s one of the last students to appear. He’s walking slowly with Letha, the two of them laughing about something, too far away for Roman to hear.
Letha smiles when she sees him. “Hey Roman,” she says brightly. “We were just talking about you.”
“All bad things, of course,” says Peter. He’s carrying Letha’s bag.
Roman frowns. “Of course.”
“Well,” says Letha, turning to Peter. “You two stay safe while you’re playing detective, okay?” She takes her book bag from him and slings it over one shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Roman watches her go, her ponytail swishing with every step. “You sure seem to hang out with my cousin a lot, Rumancek.”
“I guess.” Peter shrugs. “Are you gonna drive me home or are we just going to stand here?”
They head into the parking lot, where the Roadster stands out like a shiny red thumb amongst a sea of black and grey cars. Roman slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition. “What are you guys doing tomorrow?”
“Shopping, I think,” says Peter, fiddling with the stereo.
“Without me? Should I be worried?” asks Roman jokingly. It sounds forced even to his ears, though Peter pretends not to notice.
“You can come if you want to.” Peter flips past a classic rock station, pauses, then flips back.
“No thanks.”
The car feels too quiet, even with the strains of some old rock singer coming through the speakers. Roman glances over at Peter, who’s staring out the window at the trees passing by. In this rare quiet moment. he looks tired and worn, like a thousand secret and terrible things are weighing on his shoulders.
Suddenly, Peter’s quiet and knowing voice echoes in his brain. You’re always watching me. “Shut up,” says Roman.
“What?” says Peter, turning away from the window with a confused expression. “I didn’t say anything.”
Right. “Sorry,” mutters Roman. “My mistake.”
A little later, Roman screeches to a stop outside Peter’s trailer.
“Well,” says Peter, gathering his books. “I think this is my stop.” He opens the passenger seat door and pauses. “See you tonight?”
Roman nearly chokes, covering it with a cough. “What?”
Peter gives him a confused look. “To dig up the grave? Remember?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” says Roman quickly, feeling his face heat. “The grave. I’ll bring the shovels.”
Peter nods. “I’ll bring everything else.” He’s almost at the stairs down to the trailer when Roman calls out to him.
“Peter?”
He stops, turning around partway. “Yeah?”
“You ever just…” Roman flounders for a moment. “..feel wrong? Like, different, I guess?”
Peter sighs. “I’m a werewolf, Roman. Of course I do.”
“Right,” says Roman. “Sorry.”
For a second, Peter looks as though he might say something else. Then the moment passes, the spell broken by a bird call deep in the woods. “I’ll see you tonight,” says Peter finally.
“Tonight,” Roman agrees. He watches as Peter descends into the trees, before gunning it. He doesn’t take his foot off the gas the whole way home.
“You almost done?” says Roman, standing at the edge of the grave. They’ve been digging for a while, and the coffin still isn’t visible. In the dark, the open grave looks almost bottomless, like a wide open mouth waiting to swallow them up.
Down in the hole, Peter pauses to lean on the shovel, panting. “Why, do you have somewhere to be?”
“No,” says Roman, jamming his hands in his pockets. “It’s just taking forever, is all.”
“Well, if you’re getting bored, Roman, you could always help.”
“I’m supervising.” Roman pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights one before passing it to Peter.
“You’re an asshole,” says Peter, shaking his head almost fondly. “Besides, I just hit the coffin.” He passes Roman back the cigarette, and uses the edge of the shovel to pry the coffin open. “Go get me a jar from my bag, it’s over there.”
“Why do I have to go?” grumbles Roman, though he’s already getting up.
“Would you rather do this?” There’s an audible squelch and Roman shivers. He can’t really see what Peter’s doing but he can guess.
“I’m good,” says Roman, passing Peter a jar. After a moment, Peter passes it back. Roman raises it to his eye level and grimaces. “Fuck, there’s intestines in here.”
“Yeah,” says Peter. “What did you think we came for?”
“I don’t know, hair? Something less disgusting?” Roman pauses. “Eugh, why does it smell?”
“What, you don’t like the smell of decay in the morning?” asks Peter, bending over again. There’s a horrible snapping noise, and another squelch. “Pass me another jar.”
“No one likes that smell, Peter,” says Roman, handing over an empty jar. He puts the full one back in Peter’s bag, where he doesn’t have to look at or think about its contents.
“Huh,” says Peter conversationally, wiping his forehead. “I kind of thought you would.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” says Peter. “Just that you’re….weird, is all.” He finishes lamely.
“Gee, thanks,” says Roman darkly. He’s just putting the second jar away, when a noise in the distance calls his attention. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Shh!” Roman turns around, flashlight in hand. “I swear I heard something.” He squints out into the darkness, the beam of light from the flashlight bouncing over gravestones and shrivelled wizened trees.
“Are you scared?” says Peter, hopping out of the grave. “It was probably just an owl or something.”
“No, I think it was—” Roman suddenly stops. There’s voices in the distance, and they sound like they’re getting closer. “That.”
“Fuck,” says Peter, snatching up his bag. “That’s Chasseur. We gotta go.” He grabs the second flashlight and breaks into a run, Roman following him as they sprint towards the car.
They reach it at the same time, Roman jumping into the front seat while Peter throws his bag in the back. “You better not break a jar, Rumancek, I do not want dead girl juice all over my car,” says Roman.
“Just go, man!”
The car’s wheels screech as Roman hits the gas, peeling out of the parking lot and out onto the road. They drive in silence for a few minutes.“That was close,” says Peter finally, looking behind them at the dark road. “But it looks like they didn’t follow us.”
Roman nods, heart still beating wildly. He glances over at Peter. “You have blood on your face.”
“What?” says Peter. “Where?” He wipes his face, missing the spot.
“Here.” Roman reaches out and wipes the streak of blood off Peter’s forehead. It’s so bright against the skin of his hand; it almost looks fake.
“Oh. Thanks,” says Peter.
Roman nods, still staring at his thumb. It’s mesmerizing, the way the light catches the liquid. If he concentrates, he can smell it, coppery and sweet.
“Jesus, Roman, the road!” Peter’s voice jolts him back to reality, where Peter has a hand on the wheel to keep them from swerving into the trees.
Roman wipes his fingers on his pants and grips the wheel. “Sorry,” he says.
“What the fuck, dude?” Peter shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“I got distracted,” mutters Roman, staring at the road. Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Fuck!” he says, hitting the steering wheel sharply. “The shovels.”
“The police came by yesterday,” said Roman, dumping his bag on the floor of his bedroom. “They found the shovels.”
Behind him, Peter snorted. “How did they know they were Godfrey shovels? ‘s not like they were made out of gold.”
“They were labelled.”
Peter laughs. “Of course they were. Is there anything your family owns that doesn’t have your name plastered all over it?”
“No,” says Roman. “What would be the point of that?” He frowns. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’re suspicious but it’s not like they’re gonna arrest me for grave robbing when they don’t have any evidence.”
“They might arrest me,” says Peter. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and gestures to it. “Do you mind if I..?”
Roman shakes his head. “Go ahead. Anyway, what are they gonna arrest you for? They don’t know you were there.” He laughs. “Just ‘two deviants’, is what they said.”
“You’re a fucking deviant, all right,” says Peter, laughing. He passes Roman the cigarette.
Roman takes a drag and pauses, holding it in his chest till it burns. “I saw you with Letha today. At lunch time.”
“Yeah, I know,” Peter says, leaning against the vanity. “I saw you staring at us. You’re not exactly subtle.”
“You guys looked pretty close.”
“We were just talking. She pities me, is all.” Peter shrugs, then shakes his head. “What do you care anyways?”
“I don’t.”
“Really? Cause it sounds like you care. A lot, actually.”
“Just don’t fuck her, alright?” says Roman, glaring at him. “I swear to god I’ll kill you if you do.”
“Why?” Peter looks at him, a trace of amusement in his voice. “Cause you wanna fuck her or cause you wanna fuck me?”
Roman’s heart skips a beat. “What the fuck, Peter? Of course, I don’t—she’s my cousin.”
“I’m not your cousin.” Peter raises an eyebrow.
“Shut the fuck up, man,” snaps Roman, a foreign panic rising like bile in his throat. “I’m serious.”
“Jesus, okay,” says Peter, raising his hands in the universal gesture of ‘chill dude’. “It was just a joke.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t fucking funny,” says Roman. He snatches the cigarette out of Peter’s hand and takes a drag. “Let’s go see your cousin.”
“Okay, yeah.” says Peter slowly, looking at him strangely. Like Roman's a puzzle, like he's trying to figure him out.
Roman heads for the door and pretends he doesn’t notice.
After school the next day, Roman drops Peter off at the liquor store instead of the trailer. “Go get your cousin some nice tequila,” he says.
“You’re not coming?” asks Peter, already halfway out of the car.
“Nah, I have a party.”
“Where?”
“In your mom’s panties,” quips Roman. “Where else?”
“Aw, come on, man,” says Peter, wrinkling his nose. “It’s just weird now that you’re like friends with my mom.”
“More than friends,” says Roman, leering at him.
“Fuck you, Roman,” Peter laughs. “That’s disgusting.”
“So is this fucking party. It’s at the institute, obviously, so it’s going to suck balls, but my mom will have my ass if I don’t go.” Roman sighs. “I don’t suppose you want to come with me.”
“To a function with your mom?” says Peter incredulously, putting a special air on the word ‘function’. “Count me out. She’d shoot me on sight.” He gets out of the car and closes the door behind him.
“Yeah,” says Roman. “But it’d be fun.”
“Go to your party, I’ll call you later.” Peter pats the hood of the car fondly. “Give you the full report.”
Peter comes by around midnight, slipping through Roman’s bedroom window like he’s done it a thousand times. Roman watches him come in from his vantage point on the bed. He takes another sip of his whiskey. “Thought you were gonna call,” he says.
“I did.” Peter lights a cigarette, the glowing ember flaring briefly in the black room. “You didn’t answer.”
“Oh,” says Roman dumbly. “I guess I didn’t hear it.”
“Anyways, so Destiny channeled the spirit of Lisa Willough—” Peter pauses. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” says Roman. He stops. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“I can smell it,” says Peter shortly. “Werewolf nose, remember?”
Roman sits up and loosens his tie. It feels tight still, nooselike, so he pulls it off and tosses it on the ground. “Gimme a cigarette.”
Peter sighs, and passes him the one that he’s been smoking. Roman takes a drag, and lets the smoke curl out of his nose. Today I have seen the Dragon, he thinks. It sounds familiar but he can’t remember where he heard it. “How was the party?” asks Peter.
“It was okay,” says Roman. He remembers the music, the way Olivia’s hands lingered on him as she straightened his tie. “I guess.”
“You guess?” Peter snorts. “Free drinks, free food, what’s not to like?”
“I don’t know.” Roman frowns, thinking. He downs the rest of his drink. “Does your mom, like, touch you?”
“Like hug me? I guess.” Peter comes closer, just another shadow barely illuminated by the moon. “Yeah, she does. Why? Does your mother hug you?”
“Not like yours does,” says Roman. His brain feels muddy and thick, full of thoughts all fighting to be on the surface. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Peter moves, takes a step closer till he’s right at the foot of the bed. “Roman, are you okay?”
“No,” answers Roman honestly. He sits up suddenly, and the world swims around him. Like this, he’s practically inches away from Peter’s face. Peter brings a hand to Roman’s face and cups his cheek, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. Roman swallows hard. He wants...something, anything. He wants not to be alone any longer. He wants Peter. “Peter, I..”
“I know,” says Peter, and kisses him.
Later, they’re lying side by side in Roman’s bed. Roman is sticky and sated and unfortunately sober, though strangely he doesn’t mind as much as he normally does. The room is quiet, but it’s a companionable kind of silence, the kind you can settle into like a warm blanket.
“Sometimes I feel like you and I are the only people in this whole fucking town.” Roman’s not sure where that admission came from. Maybe he’s not as sober as he thought.
“Yeah, that’s cause you’re a big homo,” replies Peter breezily.
Roman snorts. “You just sucked my dick, Peter, I don’t think you can call me a homo.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, what did you mean?” asks Peter, rolling over to look at him.
“I….” Roman pauses, struggling to find the right words. It’s like they’re resting right on the tip of his tongue, like something important, some earth-shattering realization is floating just out of reach. He’s right there, he can nearly taste it, whatever it is, and it tastes almost like blood... And then a bird calls somewhere in the woods outside, and the spell is broken. “I don’t know,” he says finally. Whatever it is, it’s gone, like a curl of smoke fading into thin air.
Peter looks at him thoughtfully, before nodding. There’s something sad about his gaze, like he’s actually miles away. “I guess you don’t.”
“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” says Roman, a little annoyed. “You know, Peter, sometimes when I talk to you it’s like you’re having a completely different conversation.”
“Oh, yeah?” says Peter teasingly, all traces of sadness gone. He leans in closer to Roman’s face. “Then stop fucking talking.”
Then they’re kissing, and all coherent thoughts fly out of Roman’s head.
"Forgive me, for all the things I did, but mostly for the ones I did not." - The Secret History