Chapter Text
Alastair had been waiting for Matthew to visit the Fairchild’s Grosvenor Square home for months.
People could not often tell from looking at him, but he was a man who enjoyed a good jest. He was privately amused by the fact that others often perceived him as serious or uptight; in reality, he frequently viewed life as one large game. He aimed to laugh, he aimed to amuse.
But, more than anything else, he aimed to befuddle and confound. And there was no better target for his chaffing than Matthew, foolish sop that he was.
So, when he came to the Devil Tavern to inform them in a self-important tone that he was staying with his parents for a week, Alastair felt a spark of excitement in his chest. Fortunately, he was not prone to displays, so he raised an eyebrow instead. “You’re just staying at your parent’s house for no reason? Angel. I ought to send them my condolences.”
Matthew flopped over, a ridiculous gesture. “I think you’ve confused a sympathy card with one meant for a joyful occasion. My presence is always a blessing, Carstairs. When are you going to learn that?”
“When it’s true,” Alastair informed him. Beside him, he felt Thomas shift slightly; he was resting his head on his hamsar-am’s shoulder, feeling his steady presence shake with contained laughter. His Tom wove his arm more tightly through Alastair’s than before as James and Matthew began to squabble about whether or not Matthew was fat-headed, and he suggested that Matthew’s head might be filled with nothing but stuffing and nonsense. Perhaps it was simply an empty vat of Wilde nonsense. Alastair truly did not care, though he did like to poke fun at Thomas’s fool friends.
But what he remembered that night was this: Matthew would be in his parent’s house for seven whole days.
He opened the small box he stored in his desk drawer to reveal a clouded golden key. Wiping it off on his shirt, he smirked.
-
“Where did you get the key?” Matthew asked now. He had screamed like a little girl moments before, and Alastair knew that he likely looked more than amused at the sound.
“Well,” Alastair said, “I’ve had it for years. But when I finally determined never to be home to Charles again, I forgot to return it.”
“Oh, you forgot, did you?”
“It would have been rather awkward to return, so I simply failed to,” Alastair corrected. “I did not wish to experience his boorish idiocy for a single moment more than was absolutely necessary, so I stowed the key away in the bottom of my desk. Surely even you can understand that.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose I can. I must admit that his being away in Idris has been a nice change of pace. No need to hear about powerful political alliances. Or about Oscar being unhygienic.”
Alastair scratched Oscar behind the ears. “What a blockhead. The hound is far cleaner than he could ever dream of being.”
Matthew hummed his agreement. “Very well, then. I accept that you wished to avoid my brother’s distasteful nature. But what was your reason for coming here? Could you not have chucked that out with the rubbish?” He indicated the key, and Alastair rolled his eyes as if to tell Matthew that he was being an imbicile to even suggest it. But Matthew pressed on. “Surely even someone so drab as yourself had better things to do than convince me that The Man Himself was gracing my home with his hallowed presence.”
“The man himself? Do you mean Oscar Wilde?” Matthew nodded, and Alastair snorted. “Surely even someone so lightheaded as yourself cannot think that I intended for you to latch onto the idea of a deceased celebrity playwright haunting your home. Surely you could not think that such a ridiculously lunkheaded idea might even occur to me.”
“You have many strange and incomprehensible ideas,” Matthew informed him. “Do you remember the time that you suggested we drop blunt object onto the Watchers from our Institute windows? Or the time that you insisted that you were the reincarnation of Freidrich Nieztche?”
“That was obviously a boldly false claim considering that I was born long before Nieztche met his untimely end. You take me far too seriously.”
Matthew waved him off. “Well, then. Do continue telling me of how you executed your pointless master plan.”
So Alastair did.
-
Once he had ascertained that Matthew was to stay at the Fairchild’s house for a full week, Alastair determined that he had the time to start with small jests. A grand gesture would have been fantastic, something such as removing all the furniture from his room or stealing his books to hide in the closet. He even briefly considered installing all-new wallpaper in various styles that he was sure Matthew would consider a disgrace to the aesthetic movement, but actually altering anything seemed like a violation of his space. Besides that, it would not be entertaining to switch everything up in a manner that Matthew immediately noticed.
A longer prank would be a better one, Alastair decided, so he would enter his room every day and move the furniture a couple of inches to the left. This would truly throw Matthew off, he reasoned, in a harmless and humorous way. He could do other things as well such as turn books upside down on the shelves.
Alastair worried briefly about whether or not this was an immature lark, but he liked to think of it more as a social experiment than a schoolboy jape. After all, Matthew’s reactions to most situations were odd and unpredictable; Alastair wished to figure out how he would respond to this one.
But that first day when he went into Matthew’s space, it was simply unbearable to maneuver through the space.
It was so incredibly messy.
“Angel,” he whispered to himself, hearing the annoyance in his own tone. Oscar wagged his tail at Alastair, who praised the powers that be that the hound liked him enough to behave around him. He scratched the dog on the head and told him how good he was before getting to work on making his bed.
Perhaps Matthew would scream like a banshee when he noticed that his clothes were folded and his dresser was free of debris.
He could not have seen a clean space in years, based on the current state of things.
-
“Wait,” Matthew said. “Wait, wait, wait. You went in to inflict horrible antics on my bedroom furniture and instead did me a favor?”
“Yes,” Alastair agreed. “Now would be the appropriate time to thank me for my painstaking services.”
“Those services being breaking and entering? No doubt you’re in a long-suffering, sorry state.”
“Technically, there was no breaking whatsoever. Only entering.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Continue.”
-
Matthew did not react to the cleaning, and Alastair had not precisely expected him to. The Fairchilds had servants; Matthew had a henpecking mother. So he went back two days later and rearranged his furniture in what was sure to be an irritating and frustrating configuration before leaving.
Alastair supposed that he could have begun to enact his original plan of moving things about slowly, but he simply hadn’t the time. His weeklong window was shortening each day, and he only had five nights remaining. Moving everything about all at once was simply a more prudent plan at this point. It created exigence, at any rate.
Alastair had not told Thomas of his prank when they went back to the Devil Tavern. He had considered doing so; he did not think that his Tom would sell him out. He may even be amused by the possibility of messing around with Matthew, assuming that the jape was harmless. And yet, he did not say anything. He did not wish to put Tom in a bad position with his friends if he thought that Matthew would be displeased by the whole enterprise, and he very much did not wish to be forced to come clean prematurely.
But he did not account for how well Thomas knew him.
They walked arm and arm into the Merry Morons’ Devil Tavern room as Matthew nattered on about ghosts and hauntings. This seemed fairly normal for a woefully odd chap like Matthew, and yet…
“Why are we discussing hauntings?” Alastair had to ask.
Matthew raised an eyebrow, which was a rather amusing look on his admittedly clever face. “Why are you asking so many questions outside of your area of expertise?”
Alastair, who considered himself a smart man with a broad repertoire of knowledge, continued. “What do you suppose my ‘area of expertise’ is?”
Matthew smiled slightly. “Being a twat, mostly.”
Thomas laughed brightly, and Alastair’s heart warmed even as he shot Matthew a look. Thomas spoke, then. “Seriously, Matthew,” he said in a mild voice, “why are you conversing about such unfortunate matters?”
Matthew’s tone was laughable. “If you must know, I believe my parent’s house is haunted,”
“Haunted?” Thomas sounded genuinely surprised. “As in, ghosts?”
“Sounds like dreadful business,” Alastair said, the likely meaning of Matthew’s words dawning on him. “If I were to entertain this theory – which, by the way, I am not doing – what would make you believe your bedroom haunted?”
“I never said it was my bedroom.”
Shite.
Matthew looked moronic, but he was, in fact, quite smart. Alastair often forgot this. He kicked himself internally, a reminder that a cle ver brain underneath twenty different hair products was still a working mind. He hoped that his voice was steady enough as he continued. “You’re right. I simply assumed, as a haunting in any other location would impact your poor, innocent parents. A haunting in your personal space makes sense. I’m sure that you have scorned many, many phantoms.”
Layla and Lucie began to squabble about writing a book on Matthew’s haunting, which Alastair thought could be amusing. And yet, it was rather beside the point. The moment he noted this, Matthew began to describe in detail the things that Alastair had done to his space. And there was no doubt about it:
Alastair was the ghost.
He could have laughed. Of all the foolish explanations Matthew could have come up with, this was an unexpected oddity. He wanted to reveal himself, mock Matthew then and there. And yet, something stopped him. “Well, I pity the ghost that would haunt you, at any rate. I’m sure you will do something more shocking than a dead man ever could dream up. Tom, do you wish to go read up on hauntings with me?” Alastair very much hoped that Thomas would agree to this. He was not sure that he could sit there for much longer without revealing himself by expression or gesture. And, though Matthew was surprised that Alastair wished to assist him, Thomas did agree to come with him.
His hand was warm in Alastair’s as they turned and left the room. They made their way out the door in silence, and once the warm summer air hit their faces, Alastair laughed. His hair whipped around in the wind and he met Thomas’s laughing eyes. “Hauntings? Of all the rubbish…”
“It’s you,” Thomas said. “Isn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question. Alastair knew that the jig was up. He sighed as they started to walk down Fleet Street, glamoured and hidden from the prying eyes of mundane commuters and rabble-rousers. “Yes, Tom. I am a disembodied spirit that has chosen to haunt Matthew Fairchild for want of other fun things to do with my newfound invisibility.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “So,” he said, “what is our next prank?”
“Our?” Alastair raised an eyebrow.
Thomas chuckled. “Surely you can’t think that I wish to miss out on this.”
“I wasn’t sure whether you would,” Alastair admitted.
“I absolutely do,” he reassured him, and Alastair felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He knew that he loved Thomas for many reasons, but this was yet another one to add to the list. “And,” Thomas continued, “I have an idea for how to improve the quality of the jape.”
“You don’t find it immature and stupid?”
“I find it immature and fun,” Thomas corrected. “Especially if we do go with my idea. But we must hurry if we want to pull it off, so I’ll explain everything as we walk as fast as we can in the general direction of Grosvenor Square.”
“Or, better yet, let’s remove our glamour and hail a hansom,” Alastair suggested, taking out his stele. “Your fool friends are sure to walk home; let’s take this surefire chance to beat them.”
“I do love you, you know,” Thomas said, kissing Alastair quickly on the mouth before unglamouring himself.
“I do,” Alastair agreed, and they chased down a hansom together.
-
“Thomas, that traitor,” Matthew said now. “The next time I see him, I suppose I must dramatically stumble back as though stabbed. Et tu, Brute? You know. I have been sorely wronged, terribly slighted, horribly misaligned. I cannot believe that you, Alastair God-Help-Us Carstairs, would be so cruel as to turn my one and only True Thomas against me for the sake of a boyish slight.”
Alastair smirked. “It was his idea,” he informed him, “to recreate The Canterville Ghost.”
-
“You’re telling me that Oscar Wilde wrote a tale of a wretched haunting?” Alastair paused. “Quite the diverse repertoire for a comedy playwright.”
“You’re simplifying Wilde’s works a lot,” Thomas informed him affably. “He’s written a great many things, including academic essays and university lectures. There are comedic plays, sure, but there are also stories about tragedy and horrors, and-”
“Oh, dear God, are you turning into Matthew? Am I to listen to you wax poetic about Oscar Wilde at luncheon or while I attempt to set your poetry to song? When will I get my reprieve, in the haze of sleep? Or will you natter on about Dorian Gray in my dreams, too?”
“I enjoy Wilde,” Thomas said. “I’m not a rabid enthusiast like… some others. But I’ve read Dorian Gray, and several short stories. And have seen some of the plays at the Vaudeville with Matthew and James and… and Kit.” He paused. “Those were good nights, I think. I have good memories.”
Alastair’s heart softened. “Well, I’m glad you have those. Good memories.” He felt something similar to a stab of jealousy, but that could not be right. He was not envious of Thomas. His Tom deserved all the good in the world, and he could not be sad that he had gotten his due.
But Thomas smiled at him, glancing at Alastair sideways. His voice was soft as he spoke. “Well, we are making more good memories now. I rather like these moments, when we get to mess about together. I might say they become my favorite memories, in fact.” He paused. “But in this moment, we must get to work.” His tone was businesslike as he bossed Alastair about. This would have bothered him, but it was far, far more entertaining than not. “Take this red paint, water it down, and slather it on that sheet over there. I’ll replace it. Put the sheet above the bed, and I’ll put the paint on this plastic film before sticking it in front of the fireplace.” He paused. “Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Alastair said with a mock salute, and Thomas laughed.
Once they were finished, they laid out some seemingly random objects at the foot of Matthew’s bed. Alastair filled what had once been their paint bucket with water and placed it next to a tub of butter and a wire that Thomas had produced from what seemed like nowhere. “Well,” he said, “I think we are finished.”
“As do I,” Thomas agreed. “We should likely go now, to avoid a potentially awkward encounter.”
“Fair enough. If Matthew were to return…”
“It might be amusing for a moment, but we would miss out on four very fun days of pranking,” Alastair agreed.
“Yes, and I would in fact like to continue with this,” Thomas informed him.
“As would I,” Alastair agreed, grabbing Thomas’s hand. “Let’s run,” he said, and they did, laughing.
Once they turned the corner, they glamoured themselves again. “Angel,” Thomas said, smiling down at Alastair with bright hazel eyes. His cheeks were pink, his tie askew. “That was exhilarating.”
“What can I say? I’m filled with entertaining ideas. Especially when it comes to messing with that nitwit.”
“Matthew’s not a nitwit,” Thomas said, always loyal.
“I know,” Alastair said. “Between you and me, I’m rather fond of him and his stupid blond head.”
Thomas ruffled Alastair’s hair. “I know you are.”
“But I’m far more fond of you,” Alastair reassured him.
Thomas bent down to kiss him.
-
“Do skip this part,” Matthew said. “I fear it will upset my constitution.”
“I always thought that you were one for great romance,” Alastair said in a steady voice.
“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “but you two are sickeningly in love.”
-
The day after they had enacted Thomas’s Canterville Ghost idea, Matthew’s brain seemed to disintegrate even further. “I do believe I know the identity of my household spirit,” he informed the group, and it was all Alastair could do not to choke on his coffee. Perhaps they had been found out. Thomas was an awful liar, and he was sure to crack even under the lightest questioning. But when Matthew spoke again, Alastair had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “It’s Oscar Wilde,” he continued. “I am blessed. My personal hero, come to engage with me? When I had my epiphany, I feared that I might keel over, I was so star-struck.”
With great effort, Alastair spoke. “Oh, so now Oscar Wilde is the ghost haunting your hallowed halls.”
“You don’t need to sound so disbelieving. Can you truly picture anyone better-suited to a Wilde haunting?”
With long-suffering judgment, Alastair responded. “I cannot picture any ghost choosing you as a victim to haunt.”
“Well, you’ve no taste. I’m great company.”
“I don’t feel as though I’m currently experiencing greatness. Grudging tolerance is my immediate state.” The jibes came so easy to Alastair. It was simple to goad Matthew, to pick on him, to entertain him. It was especially easy to do so when he knew that Thomas was off at Grosvenor Square yet again, enacting the next step of the clever plan that only his azizam could come up with.
“More fool you,” Matthew told him. “But, yes, I do believe that Oscar Wilde may be my ghost.” His eyes darted about. “Where’s Thomas? Is he busy contemplating his wasted youth?”
Alastair attempted to misdirect him. “What wasted youth?”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Well, no one is haunting him.” He sounded as though being haunted was the mark of a life well lived.
Alastair thought this ridiculous. “Perhaps that is because he is a wonderful soul who would never infuriate a vengeful spirit.”
“We don’t know that the spirit is vengeful,” Matthew argued. “Perhaps he simply wishes to emulate my daily hair routine.”
“Well then, the poor sap clearly requires more help than we can give him.” Alastair rapped his knuckles on the side of his armchair before standing up. “I do need to get home now. To answer your question, Thomas is preoccupied in an attempt to rearrange our bookshelves. A boring but necessary endeavor for those of us who have not goaded a long-dead spirit into doing our housework and redecorating. I truly should make note of your way; it sounds far easier.” He smirked. “Tell Oscar I said hello.”
“The dog or the ghost?”
“The ghost,” Alastair clarified. “Do bring the dog to me shortly. I quite miss him. I really would like to figure out where he gets his charm and goodness from, since it is clearly not his owner.”
“You’re quite rude,” Matthew chided. “Did you know that?”
Alastair smirked. “I would be offended if you believed otherwise.”
-
Now, Matthew looked at Alastair with mock anger. “You lied to me,” he said. “Thomas, that Judas, was here that day, wasn’t he? Creating the colorful stains before my fireplace.”
“Oh, yes,” Alastair confirmed, and Matthew crossed his arms. “Very much. I feared that he alone would slosh brown and green paint everywhere, which was not my aim. I didn’t wish to destroy anything.” He paused. “Even I know what limits not to test. I trust that Tom was careful with your things and did not accidentally cause them to meet a clumsy end?”
“No…”
“Why do you sound uncertain? Must I replace anything?” He sighed. "That would be such an inconvenience."
“No. Nothing was destroyed, though I’ve half a mind to give you a made-up shopping list. But…”
“Do speak without obscurity, Fairchild. All of this dramatic trailing off is unbecoming.”
“You said brown and green,” Matthew said. “There were also yellow stains. Where did they come from?”
Alastair scratched his head before replying truthfully. “I’ve no bloody idea.”
“Well, that’s sure to haunt me in the middle of the night now,” Matthew said, shuddering visibly.
“Is that better or worse than having a ghost about?”
Matthew spoke with utmost certainty. “Far, far worse.” He paused. “What of the cake?”
“Oh,” Alastair said. “Yes. The cake. Shame on you for eating that.”
-
The night before Alastair had left the cake out for Matthew, he and Thomas had been curled up in the Lightwood’s parlor. He hoped that they might move in together soon; it wasn’t as though they were not spending most of their evenings beside one another, anyway. They sat in a companionable silence, Alastair reading Nieztche’s Beyond Good and Evil and taking a copious amount of critical notes in the margins. Thomas pored over a Latin book that Alastair had given him for St. Valentine’s Day, periodically mumbling the words to himself in a low voice.
Alastair was not sure that his hamsar-am noticed that he was saying them aloud, but he did not point this fact out. He did not wish to make Thomas self-conscious; if he did, he would lose those beautiful whispers. So he continued scribbling, comfortable in his silk dressing gown and safe beside the love of his life.
“Ego sum comedere panem,” Thomas muttered, looking frustrated. “Declensions are hard.”
Alastair snorted, deciding that Thomas acknowledging him must mean that he would not be deterred by an interruption. “Declensions are amusing puzzles,” he argued. “What’s that you just said? Something about bread?”
“I am eating bread, hopefully,” Thomas said.
“You hope to be eating bread? I think we may have some in the cupboard.”
“No, I hope that is what I said. ‘I am eating bread.’”
“I’m sure you are correct,” Alastair told him supportively.
“I’m not,” Thomas said, and laughed. “Though I’m reasonably confident, which is more than I can say about ‘ego humi sedeo et panem manducans.’
“Which means?”
“I am sitting on the floor and eating bread, supposedly,” Thomas said. “Though I may accidentally be saying that I am eating bread off the floor, which would cause several woeful misunderstandings. Even worse, perhaps I am saying that I am eating the floor itself.”
“An amusing visual,” Alastair agreed. “Though no one could possibly think you’re eating off the floor, either. What kind of idiot would do such a thing?”
“Matthew,” Thomas said.
“I don’t even have so dismal a view of him as that,” Alastair argued.
“No, that’s not a conjecture. I have seen Matthew eat off the floor several times.”
“For what purpose?”
“Alastair,” Thomas said seriously, “Matthew will eat nearly anything so long as it looks edible.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Oh. When we were young- right after we left school- Uncle Will gave us a talk about… ah…” He scratched his nose. “Being at clicket?”
“Ah, an 1811 classic term, yes.” Alastair smirked at the odd sex euphemism. He would need to up his game and do some research so he could best the nonsensical phrase. He was still holding onto ‘do the deed of darkness’ for a rainy day with few amusements; perhaps it would come soon. “I truly do love this jest, you know. The need to one-up you keeps me on the edge of my seat.”
“In any case,” Thomas continued, ignoring this, “Matthew took both the banana and the bagel and consumed them the moment that Uncle Will had finished his awful lecture. Horrible business, I really wished he had shut up sooner. Matthew asked a tremendous number of ridiculous questions, but the most horrifying thing was when he began to consume the… the props.”
“Dreadful business,” Alastair agreed.
“Yes, which is how I know he will eat anything.”
“That was years ago. There is no way that our Matthew would consume strange and unknown sweetmeats.”
Thomas looked curiously at Alastair. “Our Matthew? Did you just claim him as a friend?”
“Well, I have been to his house several times this week, and I see him nearly every day. He’s at least an unshakeable acquaintance.”
“And you’ve faith in him, too, to think that he would not eat food that he does not know the origins of.”
“Yes,” Alastair agreed. “I suppose I do.” He paused. “Care to make a wager with me?”
“Depends on the wager.”
“Let’s say that the ghost of Oscar Wilde were to leave something truly delectable upon Matthew’s bed,” Alastair began.
Thomas looked horrified, but entertained. “You wouldn’t.”
“I certainly would,” he said. “What would you wager that he would not ingest such a confection?”
Thomas considered this. “I would play cards with you for an hour.” It did not sound like much, but Thomas was truly terrible at games, and Alastair was always in want of someone to sharpen his skills on.
“Two hours,” Alastair countered.
“Alright. What if I win?”
“I’ll make kuku sabzi,” he said, citing Thomas’s favorite Persian dish.
Thomas’s eyes widened. “That takes hours for you to make.”
“Yes, it does. I’m confident that even a lout like Matthew will not eat the cake.”
“Well, then,” Thomas said. “We have a wager.”
They sealed the deal with a kiss.
-
“Ah,” Matthew said now. “Well, I do apologize, then.”
“You needn’t apologize to me,” Alastair said. “I was obviously going to cook it for him regardless.”
Matthew looked amused. “Is that why Thomas seemed so intent on putting my having eaten the cake on the ‘official record?’ I was unsure of what that meant, but this is beginning to make a bit of sense.”
“I’m sure it is what he meant. But you should listen to him. There likely will not be arsenic in your cake, but it is deplorable and disgusting to eat food that you do not know the origins of. You could find yourself vilely ill or worse. It would certainly be quite undignified.”
“And you care about this for what reason?” Matthew raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” Alastair said, “like it or not, I do frequently consort with you.”
“Unfortunate, that.” Matthew clicked his tongue. “So, that was your last haunting?”
“Well, I can’t very well continue the jape now, can I?”
“I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t fall for it again.” He narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I need to start plotting my revenge against you. Be prepared, Carstairs. My master plan is on the horizon.”
“Oh, I’m sure that horrors await,” Alastair said in a flat voice.
Matthew stuck out his hand.
Alastair looked at it blankly. “Do you wish for me to clap it? Because I’m not sure I wish to. You do, after all, eat strange food. Surely you also touch odd items.”
“Please do give me my house key. I cannot leave for over a year knowing that you might choose to darken my parents’ doorstep at any given hour.”
“That’s reasonable.” Alastair deposited the key into Matthew’s hand. “However, I must note that I know the location of every spare key, and I have notably little restraint when it comes to making jokes at your expense.”
“I’ll move the keys,” Matthew told him. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“I can also scale the roof by touch,” Alastair informed him.
“I don’t see how that would matter, with no method of entry.”
“It doesn’t. I just wished to share.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “And I just wish to share that I am already plotting my grand revenge,” he said. “As well as how to rope Tom into it.”
Alastair clicked his tongue. “You will fail at the latter, at any rate.”
“Perhaps,” Matthew said. “We’ll just need to wait and see, now, won’t we?”
Alastair nudged Matthew’s shoulder on his way out the door. “Good night, Matthew,” he said. “Oh. One more thing.”
“What?”
“The real ghost in your closet says hello.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes. “I’m not enough of a fool to fall for that.”
Alastair shrugged. “All I can do is relay the message. Unfortunately, I cannot influence your reaction to it.”
“Goodbye, Alastair,” Matthew said, closing the door behind him.