Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     "Rudyard, please. You simply can't continue like this. I know you think-"

     "Get out, Chapman," Rudyard interjected from inside a closed casket, his voice slightly muffled. "Go back to your sorry excuse for a funeral parlour and make some coffee or something." Chapman rested a hand on top of the casket, gritting his teeth in frustration. 

     "Rudyard, if you would just listen-"

     "Go away."

     "Listen, I'm only suggesting that you-"

     "Chapman, I am suggesting that you leave." Chapman tugged halfheartedly at the lid of the casket, which Rudyard was steadfastly holding shut. 

     "Please just hear me out-"

     "Are you really trying to tell me how to run my own business?"

     "Of course not. I'm just saying-"

     "Do you really think that you are qualified to tell me-"

     "That's not what I said-" Rudyard flung open the casket, knocking Chapman off balance, and sat up, staring defiantly at his rival.

     "Now see here, Chapman-" before he could finish his thought, the door of Funn Funerals opened and a short, elderly woman walked in, stopping in her tracks when she saw the two men almost nose-to-nose, red in the face, one of them sitting in a casket. 

     "Am I interrupting something?" she asked cautiously, preparing to back out the door. Rudyard vaulted out of the casket with surprising grace, narrowly avoiding kicking Chapman, who stepped out of the way just in time.

     "Not at all, ma'am. May I just say thank you for choosing Funn Funerals, and would you care to look at some of our floral displays, we do offer an excellent-"

     "That funeral parlour across the square, is it closed? I wanted to book a service with them, but there was no one there. I thought it was quite a shame; I've heard so many good things about Chapman's,"  the woman interrupted. Rudyard blanched, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him. 

     "They're closed. Incredibly out of business," he said quickly, before Chapman had the chance to get a word in edgewise. The woman looked slightly disappointed, but merely shrugged. 

     "Well, I need a funeral one way or another. So, young man, you were going to show me some flowers?" Chapman, sensing an opportunity, stepped forward to stand between Rudyard and his potential customer. 

     "Ma'am, I think you ought to know-"

     "Not now, Chapman," Rudyard hissed, elbowing him out of the way. The woman frowned. 

     "Chapman? As in Chapman's Funerals?"

     "Yes!" Chapman said hurriedly. "That's me."

     "But this fellow said it was closed."

     Chapman gave Rudyard a smug glance. "See, Rudyard? You weren't about to get away with-"

     "Are you married?"

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "Married. You tied the knot and decided to combine your businesses? I must say, that is absolutely adorable."

     "Oh, we're n-"

     "Married. Yes. That's us. We're very... married," Rudyard interrupted, forcing a broad smile onto his face while discreetly kicking Chapman in the shins to keep him from saying anything to the contrary. "Three years this... um, November. Now, I do believe we have a funeral to plan, Ms...?"

     "Williams. Now, I was thinking of a smaller gathering, and perhaps..." Rudyard quickly guided Ms. Williams over to the flowers, leaving behind Chapman, who looked as though he were still trying to figure out what had just happened.

      Ms. Williams spent half an hour discussing preliminary funeral plans with Rudyard, and by the time they were done, Chapman had collected his thoughts well enough to give Rudyard a piece of his mind. The second Ms. Williams left, Chapman pounced.

    "What was that?" he demanded, cornering Rudyard as he tried to discreetly slip into the mortuary. Rudyard glanced around nervously, looking for another escape route, but there was none to be found. 

     "Well, it would appear that my client thinks we're married."

     "Why."

     "Well, I couldn't have her going to you for a funeral, now, could I? You certainly don't need any more business than you've already got!"

     "For god's sake, Rudyard-"

     "It's unfair and you know it!"

     "Rudyard, I'm not trying to tell you what is and isn't fair, although I think the people of Piffling are perfectly within their rights to go to whichever funeral parlour they please-" ("You're luring them in with the chocolate fountain," muttered Rudyard), "-but that's not relevant right now. What I'm trying to understand right now is why you let your new client think we were married."

     "Not all of us handle pressure well, Chapman!"

     "We don't know when she's going to die. She looked pretty healthy to me, and we can't just have people thinking we're married for an indefinite amount of time. You either need to tell her the truth, or- or pretend to be married for god knows how long, and I think we both know which option you'd prefer, so just own up now. I'll even cut you a share of my profits after her funeral."

     "It'll be fine. We'll just keep up the charade until she kicks the bucket."

     "Or you could come clean," Chapman suggested incredulously. 

     "I'm not losing another customer, Chapman," snapped Rudyard. "We'll pretend to be married for however long it takes."

     "And do I get any say in this?"

     "No. This is really all your fault, if you think about it."

     Chapman took a carefully measured breath. "How exactly is this my fault? I certainly didn't lie to an old woman about our marital status."

     "I've been driven to this by your infernal business practices. If you hadn't... been nice to people, this never would have happened." Rudyard glared at Chapman, who stared exasperatedly back at him.

     "You do realize you can't force me to pretend to be married to you, right?" This gave Rudyard pause. Admittedly, he hadn't thought that far ahead. 

     "Well, will you do it?"

     Chapman pulled over a nearby chair and sat down, resting his arms on his knees, his demeanor becoming suddenly businesslike. "I'm willing to negotiate. Split the profits 50-50?"

     "No way. 80-20."

     "55-45."

     "60-40. And I get the larger share, it's my funeral home."

     "It's a deal." Chapman got up and shook hands with Rudyard, who felt very flustered all of a sudden. Obviously because of his victory, he thought as he watched Chapman walk back across the square. It felt good to finally win at something.

Chapter Text

     Rudyard was woken the next morning by a very irritated Antigone, who stormed into his bedroom at a quarter past five and furiously shook him awake. Rudyard could vaguely hear her saying something, and as he woke up, the words came into focus. 

     "-halfway through draining a corpse, probably a huge puddle in the mortuary now, and of course I have to deal with this because I'm the only one who wakes up at a reasonable hour!"

     "Your sleep schedule... 's worse than... than a... terrible," Rudyard muttered sluggishly, rolling over and burrowing under the blankets. Antigone snatched them away, fuming. 

     "Well, you're up now. Go deal with him, this isn't my problem."

     Rudyard, suddenly jolted out of his drowsiness, sat up and looked at Antigone with a vague sense of dread. "Him who?"

     "Were you listening to me at all? Chapman. He's at the door and won't go away. I'm going to clean up my mortuary." She stomped out of the room, Rudyard scrambling to follow her.

     Sure enough, Eric Chapman was standing in front of the window of Funn Funerals, looking annoyingly cheerful despite the early hour. Rudyard flung open the door, scowling.

     "What do you want? Don't you know it's rude to loiter outside people's homes at five in the morning?"

     "Good morning to you too, Rudyard. I really am sorry for dropping by so early, but we need to discuss-"

     "We open at eight. Come back then," Rudyard said dismissively, starting to close the door. Chapman stuck out his foot and pushed the door open again.

     "Look, I was thinking, and I realized it would look suspicious if we were 'married' and I lived in a separate, not to mention supposedly closed, funeral home," Chapman said frankly.

     Rudyard's eyes widened in horror. "No. You can't live here. Absolutely not." He noticed for the first time that Chapman had a rather large bag with him. "I'm afraid we simply don't have room."

     "I brought a coffee machine," Chapman sang, fumbling through his bag and pulling out a top-of-the-line appliance. Rudyard grimaced, faltered in the doorway, and finally stepped back to allow Chapman to come in.

     "Make some coffee and pick a casket to sleep in. Don't make a mess, don't be a nuisance, and don't touch anything."

     As Chapman was selecting a casket, Antigone emerged from the mortuary, wringing embalming fluid from her dress. "Did you get him to leave?" she asked Rudyard as she headed to the stairs. Rudyard hesitated a moment before following her.

     "Actually, um, not exactly."

     Antigone stopped in her tracks halfway up the stairs and slowly turned to face Rudyard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

     Rudyard fidgeted uncomfortably. "It's a long story." Antigone raised her eyebrows. "Well, um, you see, there was this customer who thought we were married, so now we have to pretend to be married until she dies."

     "Don't tell jokes, Rudyard. It doesn't suit you."

     "I wish I were joking, but unfortunately I'm dead serious. We have a customer who thinks that Chapman and I are married, and we've got to make sure she believes that until she dies so that we can provide the funeral."

     Antigone closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, scowling when she saw Rudyard still standing at the base of the stairs. "So you mean to tell me- and this isn't just some odd formaldehyde-induced nightmare- I can't believe- why would you- Christ, Rudyard!" She gave one last exasperated sigh and disappeared upstairs, grumbling under her breath.

     "Well, that could've gone worse," Rudyard muttered as he returned to the lobby.

     "I would apologize for causing tension in your family, but this is really all your fault," Chapman said. He had apparently finished unpacking, and was sitting in his casket reading a magazine. Rudyard chose to ignore him in favor of greeting Georgie, who had just entered the shop.

     "You're late. We've got a client who wants a maple coffin. Go make it."

     Georgie wasn't listening. Something had caught her eye, and it soon became apparent what it was. She made a beeline towards the coffee machine, a gleeful grin on her face. "We've got the coffee machine? Congratulations, Rudyard! That's- I can't believe you actually did it!" 

     Rudyard glanced nervously back at Chapman, who looked questioningly back at him. Rudyard had a brief inkling that he should somehow get Georgie to stop talking, but his realization came a moment too late.

     "Chapman's going to be livid when-"

     "Georgie no-"

     "-finds out you stole his coffee machine!" Georgie finished triumphantly, turning to face Rudyard. Her smug smile faded as she saw Chapman sitting in a coffin, wearing an expression of disbelief.

     "You were going to steal my coffee machine?" he asked in a wounded voice.

     "Oh... Hey, Eric. Didn't see you there... in that coffin. What are you doing here?"

     "Ask him," Chapman snorted, gesturing to Rudyard, who grimaced and sighed. 

     "Chapman will be living here for an indeterminate length of time."

     "Oh, god. You didn't burn down his funeral home, did you?"

     "Of course not!" Rudyard exclaimed, affronted. "You don't think I'd commit arson, do you?" Georgie gave a noncommittal shrug. "Well, in any case," Rudyard continued, "we have a client and Chapman will be getting a cut of the profit."

     "But why-"

     "Wehavetopretendtobemarriedbecausethecustomerthinkswe'remarriedsoChapmanhastostayhereuntilshedies."

     "You're kidding," Georgie said flatly. When Rudyard's expression stayed grave, she looked at Chapman, trying to gauge whether this was simply an elaborate prank. Chapman shrugged apologetically. 

     "It was his fault in the first place."

     "Wait," Georgie said, suppressing a laugh, "this was your idea, Rudyard?"

     "I didn't have any better options," Rudyard said defensively.

     Georgie raised her eyebrows, smiling at Rudyard as though they were sharing some inside joke. Rudyard frowned, confused. 

     "What?"

     Georgie just grinned.

     "What's so funny?" Rudyard looked back at Chapman inquiringly to see if he understood what Georgie meant. Chapman looked as puzzled as Rudyard felt. Rudyard turned to face Georgie again, only to find that she had left. "Oh, honestly- well, isn't that just typical. Why would she do that? I don't see what was so funny. This is a serious business matter, after all. You know," he added as an afterthought as he walked away to begin his work for the day, "sometimes I feel that I'm out of touch with humor these days."

Chapter Text

The thing about living with his rival and arch-nemesis, Rudyard thought as he sat at the desk filing paperwork, was that it was really very distracting. That morning alone, Chapman had had the audacity to breathe, walk around the front room, and sit in his casket reading another one of those infernal magazines, and Rudyard had had the misfortune of having to get work done in the same room as that endlessly irritating man. It was enough to drive one mad, and it was all Rudyard could do to drag his gaze away from his sworn enemy and sometime husband and get back to balancing the budget. It was at this moment, with Rudyard in a cloud of irritation and Chapman sitting in his coffin, placid as a rock face, that Antigone walked into the room. 

Or rather, glided in on cat-feet and somehow ended up squatting directly in front of the desk and making unflinching eye contact with a flinching, and considerably startled, Rudyard.

“AAH! What do you want!?” Rudyard demanded, recoiling to the very back of his chair. Antigone rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“Nothing.”

“You obviously want something if you’ve deigned to venture out of the mortuary to visit me, of all people. What is it?”

Antigone shrugged and pursed her lips. “Can’t say,” she said nonchalantly, casting a sideways glance at Chapman, who looked up from the latest issue of the Piffling Birdwatchers’ Society Quarterly and rolled his eyes. 

“Anything you can say in front of Rudyard, you can say in front of me. If that’s how we’re doing things,” he said pointedly. Rudyard scowled.

“Just because we are acting as spouses for the public, we are in no way required to continue this insufferable charade around my home. I have a right to privacy, thank you very much.”

Antigone shrugged again. “Can’t say it, then.”

--- 

“I just think there’s some deep-seated issue that’s the root of all this nonsense that Rudyard needs to address! I mean, this is absolutely preposterous! He’s really going to fake a marriage just to satisfy this stupid rivalry, and the rest of us are subjected to the consequences just for minding our own business! And he’s really going to act like this is all perfectly normal because he’s in denial that this whole thing has gone too far! I mean, it was one thing when our livelihood was threatened, but we’ve gotten business back! There’s really no need to go through this whole charade just for the sake of Rudyard’s stupid vendetta againist one boring man! And on top of that-”

“-it’s an inconvenience and a bother. I know. You’ve told me about five times now,” Georgie said as she spun around on an ancient desk chair, looking as though she would rather be anywhere else. 

“Well, I just have a lot of opinions on this, seeing as Ms. Williams is four years under the national life expectancy! I certainly don’t think this is a feasible solution unless she kicks the bucket in the next week!” Antigone huffed. She picked up several bottles of chemicals and mixed their contents far more aggressively than was necessary.

“Why didn’t you tell him, then?” 

“Because for once I don’t want to be the one responsible for everything!” Antigone shouted, slamming the jar of her finished mixture down on the workbench so fiercely that most of it splashed out of its container. “Not once in our entire lives has Rudyard taken the initiative to really solve anything! It’s always fallen to me to be the one who finds a solution and cleans up the fallout and I’m sick of it! I just want him to do some heavy lifting with that brain of his and realize something for himself, just one time! I’m done being our collective therapist when it’s not even something I’m good at!”

“Fair enough. But if we’re going off of past experience, I don’t necessarily think it’s super likely that Rudyard will take a second and have a nice long think. Not to say that you have to do it, because it’s not your responsibility at all, but-”

“You’re good at that,” Antigone said, snapping her gaze up to meet Georgie’s as though she’d just had the most brilliant idea. “You get… people.”

Georgie groaned. “Yeah. I’ll just sit him down and say, ‘Hey, Rudyard, let’s examine the inner workings of your mind and really think about why you felt that this was a reasonable course of action.’ That’ll go over really well.”

“I agree. Can you do it later-”

“I was joking. You know I’ll help you with literally anything else, but you could not in a million years get me to initiate this conversation. I think it’s something he’ll have to do himself.”

Antigone sighed. “Of course you’re right.”

“Doesn’t mean we need to be happy about it.” Georgie stuck her foot out suddenly, dragging it along the floor until she stopped spinning. “Want to go on an adventure?”

Antigone furrowed her brow. “What?”

“An adventure! You clearly don’t want to be around Rudyard’s ridiculous obliviousness, and we don’t have a backlog of bodies at the moment. Let’s just find something to take your mind off this marriage fiasco! I’m sure you’ve heard about the Piffling Film Festival that’s coming up. Why not go spend three straight days watching weird art films instead of being around here?”

“Well, that does sound quite fun…”

“Come on. You deserve it!”

“I guess I could just take a little break. I can let Mr. Mason marinate for a few days more, since his funeral isn’t until the end of the month. And I’ll just work ahead so I have the right chemicals all ready to go when we get back. I guess there’s really no harm in leaving the mortuary for a little while.”

“That’s the spirit! It starts tomorrow at three, so we can-”

“Quickly pack some bags and camp out at the entrance. I agree,” Antigone said, suddenly moving as though time were of the utmost importance. “Meet me back here in twenty minutes. I want to be the first ones in.” Jars were capped and scalpels were put away in a flurry of motion, and she made it halfway up the stairs before looking back to see Georgie staring blankly back at her, still in the spinny chair. 

“Antigone, it’s only six at night. The night before it starts. You do realize that it…” Georgie trailed off as she saw that Antigone was well aware of the timetable they were working with. “Alright. But give me thirty minutes. I’m great at packing bags for a swift exit, but not that great.”

Chapter Text

Eric was used to waking up to a silent house, but Funn Funerals was on another level entirely. Even with four people and a mouse moving around the building, it still managed to be quiet as a tomb- or perhaps a mausoleum. On this particular morning, Eric noted a particularly heavy stillness in the air as he drifted awake in his coffin, staring up at the ceiling, which was far more interesting than it had any right to be. There was a stain that by all accounts resembled blood, but it couldn’t be because that would violate so many health codes- then again, although Eric respected the Funns and their practice, he had to admit that they were no strangers to violating the health and safety standards of the mortuary profession. 

He was tempted to get up and start a pot of coffee, but the absence of a sun in the sky told him that to do so would be to disturb Rudyard’s sleep. Eric’s circadian rhythm was perfectly calibrated to wake him at half past four every morning, but in the short time he had been residing at Funn Funerals, he had learned that Rudyard was morally opposed to waking up any earlier than a quarter to eight. This gave Rudyard the perfect amount of time to roll out of bed and dress before slumping down the stairs, making a pot of coffee, and trudging over to unlock the front door and switch on the neon sign that said “OPEN” in aggressively glowing letters. The sign had been Georgie’s idea. 

Antigone was probably awake (when was she not?) but Eric had little desire to disturb her. The wrath of an interrupted Antigone was mighty, and anyway, Eric had more than enough on his mind to fill a few hours of coffin-thinking. This whole fraudulent-marriage deal had provided ample time for self-reflection. At first, Rudyard had forbidden him from interacting with customers, but Eric, bored out of his mind, had negotiated his way up to a kind of salesman position, enticing clients with that Chapman charm. And, of course, there were all of his pre-existing clients, who had asked surprisingly few questions about the merger of his business with Funn Funerals. As long as they were still receiving a Chapman funeral, Eric supposed, they didn’t care about his falsified personal life. Even with everything that had to be done around the shop, Eric still found himself deep in thought more often than not, and now seemed as good a time as any for some contemplating of all the life choices that had led up to lying in a coffin at Funn Funerals, waiting for the sun to rise. 

He had replayed the interaction with Mrs. Williams in his mind more times than he cared to count, usually wondering why he hadn’t put up more resistance to Rudyard’s scheme. It would have been so easy to interrupt Rudyard and correct Mrs. Williams, and yet he hadn’t. Eric ordinarily had no problem speaking up, and no matter how many times he thought it over, he simply couldn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation for his silence. There was, of course, the possibility that perhaps he hadn’t wanted to embarrass Rudyard in front of a client. That would be quite rude, after all, and Eric had confronted Rudyard the instant Mrs. Williams was gone. That must have been it. It just wouldn’t have been right to argue in front of a customer. For a moment, Eric pictured the look of defeat that would have crossed Rudyard’s face; it would have been almost imperceptible but for the dull disappointment in those dark eyes and the tight frown at the corners of his lips- 

Eric shook the image from his mind. It was irrelevant. He had agreed to this plan because he was an ethical competitor and that was that. And there was still the 40% cut from the funeral, which would be a decent sum, as Mrs. Williams was quite wealthy. Really, he had made quite a logical business decision. And if that logical business decision happened to involve faking a marriage to Rudyard Funn, well, that was just the cost of running a funeral home in today’s economy. Satisfied with this analysis of his own business acumen, Eric sat up in his coffin and reached for the stack of periodicals that filled the space between his feet and the bottom of the coffin, selecting the most recent issue of Mortician’s Monthly. 

This particular morning, however, the articles about new embalming practices and spotlights on noteworthy funerals failed to hold his attention. The sound of a newspaper hitting the front step provided a welcome distraction, and Eric vaulted out of the coffin and bounded to the door. The day’s news looked quite dull, on the whole, but the lineup of the Piffling Film Festival caught his attention. Eric had never been much of a movie buff, but he was suddenly struck by a novel idea.

---

When Rudyard rolled down the stairs, right on schedule, he was ambushed by the smiling face of Eric Chapman. Startled, Rudyard nearly fell backwards up the stairs and ducked around the other man with a huff, making a beeline for the coffee machine only to find that there was already a steaming pot of coffee on the counter. 

“I’ve had the most brilliant idea!” Eric exclaimed as Rudyard poured himself a cup while staring at the coffee with great suspicion. “We should go to the Piffling Film Festival!”

Rudyard, making his way to the small kitchen table, nearly spat out his drink. “Why?”

“Well, it would look kind of suspicious if we were married and never went anywhere together, wouldn’t it? We could go be seen in public and make sure everyone believes our story, and see some good movies to boot!”

“ You could go be seen in public and make sure everyone believes our story and see some good movies. I will stay right here. Thanks very much for the invitation.” 

Eric sat down across from Rudyard, staring at him incredulously. “Rudyard, the whole point is to be seen together. It kind of defeats the point if only one of us goes out.” Rudyard, temporarily stalled by this airtight logic, pursed his lips and stared into his coffee. “If you don’t want to go to the film festival, we could go do something else?” Eric suggested hesitantly. Rudyard sighed.

“The film festival is no worse than any other public outing. I suppose it would be good to keep up appearances.”

“We don’t have to stay for long. It starts at three, so we can just get there, watch one thing, and get out. We’ll be back here before you know it.”

“Spoken like someone who enjoys social interaction,” Rudyard said wryly. Eric gave a sheepish grimace. They sat in silence for a while, Rudyard sipping his coffee and Eric looking idly around, waiting for the clock to strike eight. As it so happened, they heard a soft tick as the hour hand clicked into place just as Rudyard finished the last dregs in his mug. Eric noticed the smallest smile dart across Rudyard’s lips at the perfection of his routine, and Eric grinned in spite of himself as the other man walked over to turn on the neon sign in the window. 

---

Business was slow that morning; Rudyard could have counted on one hand the number of people he talked to before the fateful hour of Public Appearance rolled around. All day, he watched the clock creep closer to three, growing ever more nervous about the outing Eric had planned. Pretending to be married in front of the odd client here and there was one thing, but lying to the entire village of Piffling at once was quite another. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by this whole charade, because it was all business and all in the name of winning, but Rudyard nonetheless felt a slight creeping unease about committing any further to the plan he had thought of so fortuitously. The people of Piffling had no reason to believe them, after all- hadn’t Rudyard and Eric publicly feuded for years? They couldn’t possibly convince the entire village that the whole thing had been fake! And even if they did manage to pull off such a preposterous scam, what next? Rudyard had thought he was prepared to pretend as long as was necessary, but as the prospect of having to be Eric Chapman’s fake husband became reality, he was filled with a feeling that he couldn’t quite place but which he supposed must be some new form of annoyance. 

At half past two, Rudyard looked up from the paperwork he was filling out and glanced over at Eric, who was rearranging the flowers around the newest display coffin. “Chapman. What does one wear to the Piffling Film Festival?”

“No need to look particularly flashy. It’s a casual thing. I’m going like this,” Eric said, giving a spin to show off his simple sweater and jeans. Rudyard gave him a quick, appraising glance before looking back down at his work. 

“I suppose I’ll just wear this then.” Rudyard was dressed in his usual gloomy colors, black trousers complemented by a black shirt and accented with a pair of battered black loafers. Today he had added a pop of color with dark brown socks, and had secretly been quite pleased with himself at his creativity.

“It suits you,” Eric said matter-of-factly. Rudyard snorted skeptically. “No, really. It’s very… you.” 

“Thanks, I suppose. Shall we head out?”

Chapman stuck the last few flowers into a nearby vase and loped over to the door in a few easy strides. “Ready when you are.”

Rudyard stood and walked over to the door, switching off the neon sign. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Antigone was having a lovely time at the Piffling Film Festival. The offerings tended to be  short films, yes, but quite good ones. Not even an hour after the festival kicked off, she and Georgie had already seen several films that had elicited reactions of rapture and confusion, respectively. Presently, they were walking towards the food tent, processing the last film they had seen. 

“-and all the tears ! What could they have meant?” Antigone muttered emphatically, walking several paces ahead of Georgie with the energy of someone who had just received a divine message. 

“I think they might’ve meant that she was sad,” Georgie said drily. “Since crying is traditionally something that happens when people are, you know, unhappy.”

“I just feel like it’s something deeper than that! Yes, she was unhappy, but once the killer’s identity was revealed, there was no more need for pretense! Surely, the filmmakers intended for us to-” she stopped dead in her tracks, nearly causing Georgie to walk blindly into her. 

“What’s… oh.” Georgie followed Antigone’s gaze across the crowd and her eyes fell on a familiar pair, standing next to a lamppost looking utterly out of their element. 

“I swear, these two will be the death of me. What are they playing at?” Antigone hissed, stalking through the crowd, which parted before her. Georgie hurried after her, smiling reassuringly at the confused faces on all sides. 

Rudyard spotted Antigone first. “Oh, hello! Lovely day for a-”

“Don’t ‘oh, hello’ me, Rudyard. Why are you here? You hate crowds,” she said, pointing at Rudyard, “and you wouldn’t know a good film if it hit you in the face,” she said, nodding at Eric, who was momentarily wounded but had to admit she had a point. “Why go on a date to the Piffling Film Festival, of all things?”

“Not a date,” Rudyard interjected at the same time Eric responded “Keeping up appearances.” They glanced at each other for a moment until Eric coughed awkwardly. “Yeah. Also not a date.” Georgie busied herself with staring at the ground so as not to laugh.

“We thought it would be best if the people of Piffling saw us together. You know, to really make sure everyone believes that we were secretly married all this time. Eric realized it might be hard to convince people, and appearing in public as a- together might lend us some credibility,” Rudyard explained. Antigone rolled her eyes. 

“Well, enjoy… whatever this is. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to obtain some rations and then watch more films. If we happen to attend any of the same screenings, please don’t make fools of yourselves.”

“I could go for a burger,” Georgie said, sidling away from Eric and Rudyard in an attempt to exit the conversation as quickly as possible. “How about you, Antigone?”

“Sounds grand.”

Eric and Rudyard watched the two women disappear into the crowd, then turned to enter the throng themselves. But no sooner had they been alone than they once again had company, this time in the form of Mayor Desmond Desmond. 

“Eric! Rudyard! A pleasure to see you out and about!” 

Eric and Rudyard greeted the mayor as enthusiastically as they could, which for Eric entailed a friendly hug and for Rudyard a muttered “hello.”

“You tricky lads thought you could keep a secret from all of us, didn’t you? Had us all fooled! But you know, Nigel and I always said to each other, ‘there’s something fishy going on with our undertakers.’ And look at you now!”

“I don’t know what could have given you that idea-” Eric began, until Rudyard elbowed him in the side.

“You guessed right, then,” Rudyard said brightly to Mayor Desmond, giving his best attempt at a sheepish grin. Mercifully, the mayor had been distracted by Madeline scurrying past and hadn’t been looking at him at that moment, and thus wasn’t startled by Rudyard’s expression one bit. 

“I must ask, though,” Mayor Desmond said, turning back to Rudyard and Eric, “why pretend? Surely it cost more to run two funeral homes for so long, even with all the business Chapman’s brought in.”

Eric chuckled a little too heartily, and Rudyard kicked him discreetly as if to tell him to tone down the acting. “We thought it would be a funny joke when I first arrived in Piffling, and before we knew it we were just in too deep! Silly, really.” 

Mayor Desmond smiled. “Such pranksters. How did you meet, then, if it wasn’t here in Piffling? Nigel and I were just saying how you must have known each other before, since I would have issued a marriage license and he would have conducted the ceremony.”

Eric and Rudyard glanced at one another, slightly panicked. A backstory was something that they had not thought of establishing, which in retrospect seemed incredibly foolish. Rudyard grabbed Eric’s hand and squeezed in what he hoped was a clear enough signal that he would take the lead on this one. 

“We met at that conference in London. The one I went to a few years back. We got paired up in a workshop on grief counseling and really hit it off. Stayed in touch afterwards, visited when we could, and then decided we’d had enough of long-distance and got married.”

“Three years this November,” Eric added helpfully. Rudyard nodded, thanking any diety that might exist that the mayor was incredibly gullible. 

“Well, that’s just lovely. We’re all so happy for you two, you know. It’s the talk of the town. Now if you’ll excuse me, I told Nigel I’d meet him by the big screen. Oh! Before I forget- Nigel and I would love to grab dinner with you two one day. A double date! It’ll be a jolly good time!”

It actually sounded like Rudyard’s idea of a nightmare, but he forced a polite smile. “Of course. That sounds… fun.” He and Eric bid Mayor Desmond goodbye and continued to meander through the crowd. They walked in silence save for returning greetings or accepting congratulations from passerby, and a good five minutes passed before Eric realized that they were still holding hands. He quickly detached from Rudyard’s grasp, wiping a surprisingly sweaty palm on his trousers. If Rudyard noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. 

They wandered for a few more minutes until Rudyard stopped abruptly. Eric turned and raised his eyebrows. “Had enough?”

Rudyard nodded. They made their way back through the crowd and down the road to Funn Funerals in silence. Rudyard couldn’t help but notice the way the sunset and streetlamps joined forces to bathe Eric’s face in a warm glow, playing off his infuriatingly perfect features to cast shadows that seemed to- He jerked his eyes away with some effort and busied himself with counting cracks in the pavement. Couldn’t let Eric think he was staring. Wouldn’t be appropriate conduct from a business competitor (partner?) and of course it hadn’t been happening anyway. Every so often, though, Rudyard found himself sneaking a glance over at Eric, as though to make sure he were still there. 

They arrived at Funn Funerals just after five, so Rudyard reckoned there was no point in re-opening the shop. Antigone and Georgie, he supposed, would be out for a while still. He idly opened the refrigerator to find half an onion, a single clementine, some cheese, and a box of three-day-old takeaway, which he threw in the trash with a grimace. Eric, who was similarly hunting for dinner, had slightly better luck in the pantry, in which he had found a baguette, two cans of beans, and, inexplicably, a bottle of wine so incredibly dusty it was difficult to read the label. 

“Looks like beans on toast tonight,” Eric said cheerfully. Rudyard groaned. 

“It’s been beans on toast for several nights.”

Eric, busying himself with starting dinner, chuckled. “Well, if you’re feeling creative, by all means make something else out of these ingredients. We could salvage the takeaway from the garbage and put some onion on it, then douse the whole thing in wine and light it on fire.”

Rudyard raised an eyebrow with about as much mirth as he could display. “Perhaps we could put some beans on the orange and have it for dessert.” Eric made an exaggeratedly disgusted face, and Rudyard smiled in spite of himself.

“So, beans on toast?”

“Beans on toast. But we could have the wine, too. And the orange. As a treat.”

The final spread somehow didn’t look as sad as it sounded. Eric prepared quite neat beans on toast, and Rudyard made the best cheese board he could with one variety of cheese. The wine was decanted into a pair of mugs that read “world’s best funeral director” and “world’s best embalmer.” (They had been a gift from Georgie early in her employment with the Funns). The clementine sat proudly at the center of the table, adding a pop of orange to an otherwise drab spread. Eric and Rudyard seated themselves and took a moment to admire their handiwork before tucking into their toast. 

They ate in silence, punctuated by the sounds of chewing and occasional clattering of a mug, the rustling of fabric as one of them shifted in their seat or reached for a piece of cheese. The lighting in Funn Funerals was always rather dim owing to the Funns’ determination to live as frugally as was humanly possible, and were it not for the beans on toast and the drab surroundings, Eric thought, they could have been in any old restaurant sharing a meal. As business partners. People had work meetings over dinner all the time, after all. It wasn’t as though he had sometimes, while lying in his coffin early in the morning, thought about what it would be like to have dinner somewhere with Rudyard. Nor was this the first time they had eaten together. But something- perhaps the lighting, perhaps the collaborative nature of the meal, hell, maybe it was just the wine talking- made this evening feel different somehow. Eric snuck furtive looks across the table at Rudyard, intently observing the precision with which he cut his toast, the decisive way he reached for the clementine and began to peel it, his slender fingers moving with a grace that caught Eric off-guard. Then Rudyard glanced up, and Eric quickly averted his eyes and arranged his expression into one other than the face of someone who had just been unwittingly biting his lip and staring at a man peeling an orange. Eric was so focused on looking anywhere but at Rudyard that it took a few moments for him to realize the other man was asking a question. 

“I said, do you want half?” Rudyard repeated, slightly louder this time. He held out half the clementine, which really only amounted to five tiny crescents of fruit. Eric looked up, attempting to look nonchalant.

“Oh, no- there’s not even that much to begin with. You have it.” This was clearly the wrong answer, as Rudyard only proffered the fruit more forcefully.

“Chapman! Look at this orange. I can’t possibly finish this whole thing.” It could’ve been a trick of the light, but Eric could have sworn Rudyard’s dark eyes were sparkling with laughter. In that instant, Eric sensed that he was precariously close to the edge of some cliff; he could jump as easily as anything. He accepted defeat. He reached out and scooped the sections of clementine out of Rudyard’s hand. 

“You win this time, Rudyard,” Eric chuckled. Rudyard grinned, an easy smile unlike anything Eric had observed before.

“Well. There’s always a chance for a rematch.” He stood and carried the empty dishes to the sink before Eric had a chance to respond. 

“You don’t have to-”

“Chapman, you cooked a lovely meal. It’s only fair that I do the washing-up.”

Eric smirked as he picked up the empty mugs and deposited them in the sink as well. “Wasn’t really lovely. It was beans on toast,” he said, leaning casually against the counter next to Rudyard, who was determinedly scrubbing at the plate that had held the cheese.

“Fine. A pretty decent meal, considering the circumstances,” Rudyard amended wryly, glancing over at Eric. Their eyes met, and Rudyard’s breath caught in his throat. His gaze flicked across the face that couldn’t have been much more than a foot away, a face which upon closer inspection was not as exactly perfect as he had once thought it was but was somehow better, with eyes that stared back at him with a glint that made them look almost hungry, and Rudyard was suddenly seized with an insane, overwhelming impulse to plant one soapy hand on either side of Eric’s not-exactly-perfect face and kiss his not-exactly-perfect mouth.

The plate Rudyard was washing dropped to the bottom of the sink and shattered, jerking them sharply back to the present. Eric and Rudyard busied themselves with plucking shards of ceramic out of the sink with exaggerated determination, as though they had come to some silent agreement that nothing had just happened. Neither spoke until they had finished, and then only to agree to an arrangement in which Rudyard washed the dishes and Eric dried them. Once the kitchen had been restored to order, Rudyard simply slipped past Eric, avoiding his eyes as he bid him goodnight in the most casual tone he could conjure up. Then the two went their separate ways, one headed up the stairs, the other to a coffin with magazines at the bottom.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Rudyard stumbled down the stairs at the usual time and once again found a cup of fresh coffee waiting for him on the table. This time, though, he picked it up without hesitation and sipped it appraisingly. “Good coffee.”

“Thanks. I made it the same way I always do,” Eric responded from his coffin, in which he was reading the day’s edition of Piffling Matters. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” Rudyard responded. This was, of course, a blatant lie. The relatively typical depth of the dark circles under his eyes hid the fact that he had barely slept at all, so preoccupied was he with the events of the evening, because it just didn’t make sense, did it? So what if he was on friendlier terms with Eric now, even if it went against everything Funn Funerals stood for. It was perhaps an unavoidable consequence of being in such close proximity for an extended period of time. But why on earth he had nearly kissed the man was a complete mystery to Rudyard. Of course he had had a string of brief, unsuccessful romances and dalliancesin his youth (before everyone on the island decided they hated him), but this was completely different. This was Eric Chapman, for god’s sake. Rudyard could have thought in circles for hours without making heads or tails of the situation, and to be quite frank, he had been doing so for the past eight hours. It had been exhausting.

Rudyard became suddenly aware of the fact that it had probably been silent for a bit too long to be considered normal, and cleared his throat. “How’d you? Um, sleep.” He regretted everything about the sentence almost instantly, but mercifully, Eric hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Oh, not the best. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your coffins are a great final resting place, but they leave a little to be desired when you’re a living person.”

Rudyard, who had never considered this before, was suddenly overcome with guilt at not having thought of his guest’s comfort. It must have shown on his face, because Eric immediately backpedaled, looking rather frantic.

“Oh! No, I didn’t mean- Rudyard, I understand that you don’t have much room here, and I’m more than alright with whatever accommodation you have to offer. Being a little sore won’t kill me! Trust me, I’ve slept in worse places, a long t-” Rudyard fixed him with a pointed stare, and he stopped short of finishing the sentence. “Well, I’ve slept in worse places, is all.”

Rudyard shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of that before putting you up in a wooden box for an indefinite period of time. Tell you what. Why don’t we switch off? Every other night, you take my bed and I get the coffin. It’s only fair.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“Chapman! It’s only fair.”

Eric sighed, rolling his eyes. “First of all, you can stop with the ‘Chapman.’ You and Antigone are the only ones who still call me that, and quite frankly, it’s weird. Second of all, it is not ‘only fair’ because this is your house and I’m simply staying here temporarily. I can put up with a coffin for a bed for a little while longer.”
Rudyard hmm-ed. “Alright. I will break my deeply ingrained habit of calling you Chapman-” (Eric snorted triumphantly) “-if and only if you agree to let me take the coffin every other night. Lose-lose situation. That’s fair.”

Eric chuckled. “Of course you’re a glass half empty person. Fair enough. I’ll shake on it.” He climbed gracefully out of the coffin and strode over to give Rudyard an overly formal handshake, which almost garnered a smile from the other man. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” Rudyard said drily. “I trust this arrangement will be mutually disagreeable, Ch- Eric.”

---

In actuality, the arrangement proved to be more agreeable than anything, at least after the first few days of hiccups. Rudyard only slipped up a couple of times in calling Eric by his first name, and Eric only protested a little when Rudyard proved to be dead serious about sleeping in the coffin. Soon they had settled into an easy routine. Rudyard, taller by far than Eric, needed to remove the magazines that Eric had been storing at the foot of the coffin, but the adjustment had been, on the whole, relatively painless. Rudyard’s bed, which had heretofore permanently resembled a sort of human-sized rat’s nest, was now made very neatly every other morning when Eric vacated it. Eric even fluffed the pillows when straightening up, something which Rudyard had not realized was an option. He had to admit it looked rather inviting. Certainly, the coffin was an uncomfortable place to sleep (something Rudyard felt worse by the day for not considering sooner), but knowing a freshly made bed awaited him the next evening made it somehow bearable. And so what if Eric Chapman had slept in that same bed the previous night? Rudyard could live with that. It wasn’t the end of the world. He barely even thought about it. It was so irrelevant, the thought hardly crossed his mind. Certainly not as he lay awake in a bed that now smelled vaguely of a shampoo that was not his own.

When Rudyard woke up one fine late autumn morning, he made the bed. It was something he had decided to try the night before, as sleep, for some mysterious reason, eluded him yet again. Eric made the bed every day. It was probably polite to do the same for him. Rudyard certainly didn’t want the man to think he was rude, or at least any ruder than he had already been. More and more, Rudyard found himself worrying about whether Eric was happy with the accommodations at Funn Funerals, a thought which he would have found ridiculous just weeks ago but was now almost preoccupied by. As Rudyard poured his coffee, he resolved to simply engage Eric in a conversation about things. Better to be safe than sorry.

“Eric,” Rudyard said stiffly. Eric, seated at the table with the newspaper as usual, looked up.

“Rudyard?”

“Are you, um. Have you found your time at Funn Funerals satisfactory?”

Eric cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was just… I wanted to see if there wasn’t something needing improvement. To make you more comfortable here. Since it’s been a while and it’ll, um. Be a while more. Until, you know.”

“Well, I’m not wishing death on Ms. Williams or anything. I’m perfectly fine staying here for as long as I need to. It’s not as though I’m trapped here. I’ve got all of my customers still, and I can access everything I need over at my own place. I appreciate you asking, though.” Eric pushed the newspaper to the side as Rudyard sat down, noting the relief that crossed the man’s thin face. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Eric reading and Rudyard sipping his coffee. It was not an uncomfortable silence- it never was, lately- but it made both men feel slightly antsy. As though something needed to be said or done or shouted to disrupt the stillness, but neither quite knew what would do the trick.

“It’s getting cold lately,” Rudyard observed, staring into his coffee.

“That it is.”

“We don’t, erm… We don’t have heat in the building.”

“Oh?”

“Too expensive.”

“I see.”

“So it gets, you know. Cold.”

“Right.”

“There are fireplaces in the bedrooms.”

Eric could not for the life of him look Rudyard in the eye. He fiddled with the corner of the newspaper and listened to his heart beat in his ears. There was something he wanted Rudyard to say, and there was something he was afraid Rudyard would say, and they were one and the same.

Rudyard, meanwhile, was focused with incredible intensity on getting his words out in the most normal way he possibly could. “We always have enough wood for the fireplaces because Georgie gets it. From, um. The woods.” He lifted his coffee slowly and took a sip. An incredibly normal-looking sip, he thought. “And so, since it’s getting colder, I just wanted to let you know that the bedroom will be warm. And if it’s too cold for anyone to sleep in the coffin, it would be alright by me if we were both warm.” Despite the morning chill, an odd burning sensation had slowly come over him, and he could feel a drop of sweat trickling down his temple as he willed Eric not to notice. He was fairly having palpitations. “I mean, it makes sense. I mean, there’s room. I mean, not if you don’t want to-”

Eric sensed it would be merciful to cut him off. “Thank you, Rudyard. I appreciate your offer. I have been a little chilly in the coffin lately. I wouldn’t mind at all if we shared the bed. It’s the most logical option.” And it was the most logical option, which was why Eric could not understand why he had been afraid that Rudyard would suggest it. Eric had shared many a bed with many an attractive man, sometimes for purposes as utilitarian as this one. There was absolutely no reason his stomach should be tying itself in knots on this particular occasion. True, Eric was appreciative of Rudyard’s physical attributes and enjoyed his company. He could acknowledge this just fine. But it wasn’t as though anything could be done about that. And it wasn’t as though anything needed to be done. They were temporary business partners, and that was that, and they could share a bed out of necessity. It was a flawless plan with no other implications. This was something Eric Chapman could convince himself of.

---

Eric found it harder to convince himself of the flawlessness of the plan as evening approached. He wasn’t concerned about anything happening- far from it. The thing Eric was frightened of, really, was the prospect of feeling more than he already did. It was enough, wasn’t it, to mildly pine for a sometimes-rival and off-limits acquaintance and business partner and possible friend? That was bad enough for his sanity. Adding another complicating factor into the mix would simply be too much for Eric to stomach. He would share the bed, yes, but he would also go on believing that his feelings were unrequited and that he and Rudyard were at best distant friends, and in this way, Eric thought he could manage.

Rudyard had not truly thought through the consequences of suggesting that he and Eric share the bed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had thought of perhaps the least likely consequence in great detail. What he had not anticipated was how distant Eric became. He had seemed a bit off the entire day, but by dinner, he was outright avoidant. He did not meet Rudyard’s eyes a single time over the leftover spaghetti that Georgie had kindly forgotten in the fridge, and Rudyard found himself increasingly worried that he had made some grave mistake, overstepped and thrown their delicate balance off-kilter. Eric offered to clean up the table, so Rudyard went upstairs, got ready for bed, and then just waited.

He thought the least awkward thing to do would be to fall asleep before Eric came upstairs, and for a moment, Rudyard considered feigning slumber. In the end, though, he thought about his options for a moment too long, and Eric came upstairs to find Rudyard lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Eric slid wordlessly under the covers next to him, and found that the bed was mercifully wide. Eric, too, pretended to find the peeling white paint on the ceiling absolutely engrossing. Even for a man with as many talents as Eric Chapman possessed, this proved to be challenging. There was a strange sensation that was vying for his attention, a kind of magnetic force acting on him, an almost excruciating heat emanating from the empty space between them. It felt as though his very molecules were being pulled against his bidding, and if he so much as moved a finger, he would disrupt some delicate balance and lose his fight against the force that threatened to overwhelm. Rudyard seemed unaffected, Eric thought, listening to his measured breathing without daring to look even a millimeter in his direction. It must be nice to be so unbothered.

Rudyard, on his own side of the bed, was intensely focused on breathing at a normal pace and volume. His heart seemed to be beating so loudly he could have sworn Eric could hear it too. There was a lump the size of a chestnut lodged annoyingly in his throat, and every time he swallowed, he swore it sounded like a gunshot. Rudyard prayed that Eric somehow remained oblivious to his frankly embarrassing torment. He wondered whether it was appropriate to bid Eric goodnight, and thought it over for such a long time that he wasn’t sure Eric was still awake. In the end, though, not even Rudyard’s racing thoughts could keep him from sleep, and finally, Rudyard succumbed to the welcome reprieve.