Page 23 of How I Met Your Murderer

We climbed just one flight of stairs—I was still worried about his knee, and we didn’t need too much height for a killer view on account of the castle sitting on a hill tall enough to provide a stunning panoramic view. Glass doors opened to a little balcony off Síofra’s room, which Caoimhe had already furnished with ornate metal chairs and a table.

Raff sat in one and kicked his boots up onto the stone rail, stretching his long legs. I hovered on the other, just beside him, close enough to pretend I could feel the bite of the wind and the night air. Close enough to imagine what it would be like if we really were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder.

He tilted his head back, eyes on the sky rather than the fields or forest sprawled out below us, and sipped his tea.

“You ever do this?” I asked, quickly pointing as a silver streak dashed across the black.

He grinned, catching the shimmer of the star before it was lost to view. “Not really.” He paused, took another sip of hot tea. “Didn’t have time, I guess. Didn’t think about it, either.”

“You do now,” I pointed out. “At least tonight.”

He didn’t look at me, but his voice softened in a way that reminded me of what it was to feel warm. “Sure I do. Probably have time tomorrow night, too, unless someone decides to burst a pipe or terrorize the decorators.”

“And lucky for you, you’re with someone who can show you all the constellations if you’d like. It was a hobby when I was alive, too—astronomy,” I said with a touch of pride, pleased by the look he gave me. One that was as awed as when he saw the shooting stars.

“You’re really something, Eric,” he murmured, his breath displacing the steam of the tea. “You’ve this mind that reaches farther than half the people I’ve ever met. You look up and see whole galaxies, and you spin new ones in your head, too, with those games of yours. I’m starting to think there’s nothing you can’t do.”

Another streak of silver shot past, and we both nearly missed it.

I wasn’t sure what to say. No one had ever spoken to me quite like that before. But Raff didn’t seem to mind the quiet. He just settled deeper into his seat and breathed out slowly, finally letting the cares of the day—and the night—begin to leave him.

I spent more time watching him than the meteor shower I had always loved, at least while I was sure he wasn’t looking. He’d never know.

And I’d never admit it. What would be the point?

But sharing the softest part of the night with him felt like the beginning of something we might never get the chance to name. Something I would hold onto all the same, a moment cupped between my hands in wonder for the rest of my eternally damned days.

nine

Faces in the Flame

Eric

After that first night, we kept on watching the stars after making our nightly rounds. We didn’t plan on it, never discussed it, but simply fell into it: Raff would take the lead by putting on the kettle, signaling that he planned to stay up, and we would sit on Síofra’s balcony while he sipped his tea and I soaked in the moments of what felt like really living.

It was nice to have a friend again, even if only for a few months. I was going to make sure he stayed alive. I was going to watch him drive away in that van one day. I was determined. Goodbye would hurt, but not as much as the alternative.

He deserved only good things, because that’s what he was, whether he fully realized it or not: good. He had that solid, athletic sort of build tempered by a bit of softness that made him seem human, approachable. But what mattered more to me was that he didn’t wear any of that muscle like a trophy. He was always the first to offer help, to the living or dead—fixing a flat tire for Jordy, running Caoimhe’s errands when she didn’t have enough hands, talking Brigid and Muireann down when they got into a heated territory dispute. Asking Caoimhe for permission to return Síofra’s bedroom to its original layout.

He worked hard during the day and the better part of the night. And after, we would unwind together.

Under the stars’ watchful gaze, I told him how I’d gotten the scar on my cheek just under my eye. The one shaped like a crescent moon. I had rescued my cat Pixie as a terrified kitten who was stuck in the crawlspace under a shed, and when I had pulled her out, she swiped at me, terrified by the movement and strange scents. I never resented her for it. I got anxious in small spaces, too.

It only just occurred to me while telling Raff the story that Pixie wasn’t a kitten anymore. That had been such a long time ago. Pixie had been old when we went on vacation, though not concerningly so—but that meant Pixie was even more gone now than I was.

For a while, I couldn’t say anything at all, and Raff sat with me through that, too, forgetting his tea until it was stone cold.

Eventually, because I knew he wouldn’t scoff or dismiss me, I also told him how my parents hadn’t been proud of my games even when The Shattered Crown started to hit big. How I kept at it anyway with my sisters’ encouragement.

Weirdly, Raff still blushed whenever I brought up gaming, even though he clearly admired what I did. And I rambled about it a lot because I liked seeing the color in his cheeks. It just suited him, kind of like a character trait you didn’t plan—one that suddenly makes their whole backstory click when it comes to life at the table.

I told him what it had been like to have type one diabetes. How tired I got of looking at a plate of food, any food, and seeing math in my head before getting to think about how much I’d enjoy the taste. How it could wear anyone down, no matter how well-adjusted they were: the finger sticks, the needles, anticipating the sting every time my stomach growled and how I was finally coming around about making the switch to an insulin pump. It was one of those things I had planned to do after vacation.

He told me about improving technology for the disease, like how his young cousin wore a continuous glucose monitor which let her see her blood sugar on her phone.

As I showed him my callused fingers full of tiny holes, I blurted, “I’d do it all over again, though. The infusion site changes, the fatigue, the stress of all the highs and lows. I’d rather live with some extra challenges in my day than not have a day at all. I used to say I wanted a permanent break from it, but—this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Raff’s eyes met mine and held them like he was looking deep. Like there was so much to me, even in death, that he wanted to see. That was worth seeing, because he kept on looking, not making any secret of it.