#widower!percival

@mostpeculiarmademoiselleetmsieur ​

in response to this

Percival didn't understand the concept of unreality until the day before his seventh anniversary. Seven--seven years married, seven years happy, seven for good luck and seven for...well...far more than Percival ever expected out of life. After Grindelwald... There was so much that happened after Grindelwald Percival could never have imagined. He presumed his life over. He was sure they'd only find his corpse. But they found him alive, and in turn, he found--miraculously--reasons to live. He found love, built a family, developed his career. He traveled, he laughed, and he was...happy. Percival was happy.

But his most recent case lead to a sting, which lead to a confrontation, which lead to an out-and-out battle. For all the chaos, he was grateful to have someone as skilled and experienced as his husband at his back. They'd worked together for so long, their lives entwined in every conceivable way, Beau was an extension of his own intent, and vice-versa. So much so, in fact, that how seamlessly they operated made them damn near a force of nature. Percival's magic sang to Beau's, and Beau's responded in harmony. Hexes and spells flashed and exploded around them. Buildings crumbled. Their teammates fell. Between the pair of them, however, they were safe. It wasn't their first skirmish, and Percival was certain it wouldn't be their last.

Until it was.

As surely as they magic harmonized, Percival recognized the moment Beau's answering call fell away. First, to something quiet--he'd been hit. Percival responded immediately, casting something protective around them as he tended his bleeding husband. The wound was severe, but nothing Beau hadn't survived in the past. He bled profusely, but Percival had seen so much more blood. Sure, Beau might be sore and recovering for their anniversary, but Percival didn't doubt they'd celebrate somehow. Those assurances, those facts of Percival's universe shattered.

Beau's magic fell silent.

His breathing stopped, and no matter how Percival forced air into his lungs or compressed his chest, it wouldn't resume. His chest stilled, and no matter how he shocked his husband's still heart, it wouldn't beat. His lips paled, and no matter how Percival pressed his against them, they would not warm.

Percival didn't mourn. How often had he believed his end near only to be jarred back to reality by a slap to the face or a painful hex in Grindelwald's custody? How often had he jolted from his bed sheets after such a ludicrous scenario to find it just another nightmare?

When MACUSA sent their teams, Percival was almost, well, not quite amused, but fairly sure of himself. He'd wake any moment in his bed with Beau beside him. Sure, the image of his husband dead in his arms was distressing, but Beau would shake him conscious soon enough. Percival was certainly fussing, wrapping himself in sheets Beau would help untangle from his flailing limbs. Any moment, now...

The nightmare dragged on, but he was certain it was a nightmare. Percival was missing time, but for once, there was an odd sort of comfort in it. He knew it would all fade away with the dawn of a new day. Though, how long it continued planted budding seeds of anxiety in the back of his mind. Percival's panic telegraphed fairly loudly when he came to his nightmares. Beau had to have sensed it by now. Why hadn't he woken Percival?

Beau's funeral was exactly as Percival would have imagined it. Mourning pierced his indifferent facade as the casket was lowered into the ground. Belle's sobs, Velia's soft cries, Maurice's silent tears--they were a family he never deserved, a family he never imagined having, and they mourned. Beau was gone--here, anyway. Belle's hug felt real, as did Velia's tears against his sternum. He couldn't meet the heartbreak in Maurice's eyes--he couldn't meet anyone's eyes--so surely this was a nightmare. He lingered at the grave and its freshly piled dirt, read and reread the headstone. A simple: Beauxhomme Lafayette-Graves, beloved husband, brother, and son. And the dates. Current dates. Dates not yet passed, because this was a nightmare.

Vaguely, Percival recalled an anecdote from one of his professors at Ilvermorny: a dreamer can't read in his own dream. Percival reread his husband's headstone. Beauxhomme Lafayette-Graves, beloved husband, brother, and son.

Percival reread his husband's headstone.

Beauxhomme Lafayette-Graves, beloved husband, brother, and son.

More time lost.

Percival stumbled into their shared apartment and collapsed into the sofa in the den. He could read Beau's headstone. It never changed. It wasn't--it hadn't been--

Oh, God.

@mostpeculiarmademoiselleetmsieur

What grounded Percival to this plain and this life snapped when Beau's magic silenced. Unteathered as he was, his limbs were numb extensions of coincidence. There was no intent in his actions, nothing but static in his head. His consciousness took a backseat to the precedence of basic survival, his magic surging forth involuntarily when he threw himself into harm's way. With every case, every skirmish, every argument with Seraphina, Percival hoped he'd drop dead. He prayed for an accident, for a reason beyond the chasm between his ribs. Suicide was the coward's way out, but his beloved husband, the light of his life, had been the well of strength for him to solider on. Always, Beau was either at his back with encouragement, or by his side for support--and now he wasn't.

Liquor couldn't numb a numbing pain. It only loosened his lips, weighted his tongue. Exhausted from the burden of existence without his husband, Percival would stagger into this bar or that club, find someone through the whiskey haze and smoke that maybe looked like his beloved from the corner of his eye. It was never Beau--never could be, never would be, and Percival never wanted another--but a warm body was a warm body, and they came together like a car crash. Hands on his flanks, pawing at his waistcoat. Breath in his ear calling him 'handsome' or 'sir.' He took them home, and he took them apart.

Their lines were uncharted, foreign to his hands Their eyes, never the right shade of blue, never gazed at him with more than fleeting lust. How they touched him was too hard, too soft. They were ill-fitted suits for his needs--tight in the sleeves with seams ready to burst, buttons sent to ricochet as they tore. Torn like the bed sheets of the guest room where they gripped them tight. How many fingers had twisted in this fabric? How many voices had sighed or moaned into the pillows? How many hips had Percival bruised in his crushing grip? But no matter who he brought home or how sensuously they arched and writhed for him, they never said his name right, never said they loved him loud enough to drown out the echo of his husband Percival always chased.

This night was to be no different than any other. Drunk, Percival drifted into the den to further imbibe, anticipating that his query for the evening would gravitate to the guest room's warm glow. A moth--so many moths--when what he sought was a butterfly.

Papillon.

Percival imagined it with Beau's particular lilt, the curl of a fond grin as he corrected Percival's accent. He threw back his drink to muffle the memory.

Wandering down the hall with a fresh flood of inhibition, Percival found the guest room vacant, and instead, the master suite's door sat ajar. A soft lamp was lit within, but the righteous fury abruptly pounding in Percival's veins sharpened it, brightened it. Percival stormed into the room violently enough for the door to slam into the wall, but the moth--always a moth, so easily crushed, so meddlesome--was already cast aside.

The memory Percival hoped to stifle roared.

"Get out! Get the hell out of my home you jumped up little putain! Salaud! Salope! Get OUT!"

Percival didn't have time to marvel or mourn. An unseen force ensnared him by the lapels and slammed him with inhuman force against the wall of the bedroom. Finally, the kiss was right, the touch was right. The yawning chasm of his yearning, the one carved by anguish were his heart used to be, slowly filled. His eyes closed, praying to finally wake from this dream within his nightmare. He whimpered when the phantom let him breathe. Steal his breath. Stop his heart. He didn't know who he was without his husband.

There was no difference between the bed and the wall for its impact. Here, Percival slept alone. Here, the pillows were soaked with saline and solitude. Here, the sheets never tore. Here, where half the bed was always made, always vacant, always cold.

“Tu es mienne,” the phantom snarled, climbing on top of Percival. “You are mine. You hear me? Mine. I’m still here. And as long as I’m still here–whether or not you hear, see, or feel me–you are mine, Percival Graves-Lafayette. Mine. And I will always be here. Always.”

"Yours," Percival whimpered. "Always yours, Beauxhomme." There was only the faintest outline of his husband above him, like a photograph faded over time; and were it not for how Beau clawed his clothes off, he would have dismissed it as another whiskey wish. His skin sang with the rake of nails hardly seen, red ridges scoring his flanks, his thighs, his chest. It was the first true sensation he'd felt in weeks.

With hands brutally pinned above his head, a familiar grip with unimaginable pressure, Percival keened. His wrists creaked, but the phantom never faded, never relented. Hand shaped bruises bloomed along his hips, his throat. Tears scored his cheeks as he surrendered to the fever dream--because that's what it had to be. Ghosts didn't exist beyond hallowed, magical ground. Places like Wizarding schools or holy places, where the veil is easily pierced, places more sacred than their apartment--where he'd built a home and a life with his husband. But it was sacred to him, which was why he'd never invited anyone to their bedroom suite.

A touch like Beau's hand, a sensation like his mouth. Stripped bare and vulnerable, Percival moaned and whimpered, forced to feel everything he missed. Biting kisses left his lips swollen and tingling, teeth marks shadowed his shoulder, his chest. It was pain and it was pleasure and Percival begged for more. He begged and he pleaded and he swore his allegiance to whatever it was that imitated his husband, whatever convinced him it was his husband.

@gravemagicks

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, as Beau watched his husband fall into a self-destructive spiral in his grief. More often than not, Percival would come home from work drunk and exhausted--or injured. And adding to that, he would also often bring men home with him. Younger men, tall, lithe, sandy-haired and blue-eyed. Men who looked so very similar to Beau.

Beau knew what Percival was trying to do. He knew how much his husband missed him. He knew this was only an attempt to numb the pain of loss--Percival still wore his wedding band, he never allowed the other men into their bedroom, he never faced them during sex or kissed them or called them ‘sweetheart’ as he had done with Beau; he never showed any sign of wanting to replace him--but it still hurt to see him with other men. It still made Beau jealous to see them allowed to touch the man who had been his for seven years, when Percival couldn’t see or hear or feel any of Beau’s attempts to let him know that he was still there.

Beau couldn’t touch Percival as those men could, and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t touch his husband without slipping through him, hated that Percival couldn’t see or hear him. Hated that the men Percival brought home--brought into their apartment--could bring his husband some manner of pleasure while he himself couldn’t.

Then it happened.

One night, the young man Percival brought home simply invited himself into the master bedroom rather than following Percival to the guest room, where he’d entertained the countless nameless others.

Beau. Saw. Red.

He threw the young man--lookalike, imposter--from the room without so much as lifting a finger.

He had no idea how he’d done it, but right now Beau simply didn’t care. He was too pissed off at the interloper to care how he managed to do anything. He was a spirit--and right now he was a vengeful one.

“Get out! Get the hell out of my home you jumped up little putain! Salaud! Salope! Get OUT!”

The man hadn’t even scrambled to his feet before Beau had turned on his husband and shoved him against the wall, pinning him and claiming his mouth in a heated kiss before throwing him onto the bed--their bed, his bed. Percival was his.

“Tu es mienne,” he snarled, climbing on top of Percival. “You are mine. You hear me? Mine. I’m still here. And as long as I’m still here--whether or not you hear, see, or feel me--you are mine, Percival Graves-Lafayette. Mine. And I will always be here. Always.”