This is part of the House Party universe. It’s one way their story may end. THIS CONTAINS CHARACTER DEATH.

The House Party is an AU set in the 1920s/1930s. Elijah is an American student and Viggo is an artist. The story tells of how they met and their life together. There are various offshoots to the story, and this is one of them. It is not the only way their story will end.

The End of the Story

Viggo climbed out of the taxi, his limbs stiff and heavy. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to see him …

"Is everything all right?" The taxi driver looked at him in concern, and Viggo forced himself to smile and nod. "Well, just be careful, all right?"

"I will." For the first time, Viggo felt every one of his fifty-six years. He wanted to turn around, climb back into the taxi and beg the driver to take him away from this, take him back to a time when his world had been nothing but sunshine and love.

But he couldn’t. Instead, he approached the building in front of him, climbing the few steps and pushing through the glass doors, his nose wrinkling at the distinctive smell of hospitals; disinfectant, sickness, an underlying stench of complete despair.

"Excuse me." He stopped a harried-looking nurse. "I wonder if you could tell me where I would find Ward Six? I’m looking for Elijah Wood."

"It’s down that corridor." She pointed back the way she had come. "Go down to the bottom and turn left. It’s right in front of you." She took a step away and then looked back. "Are you Viggo?"

"Yes," he said. "I am. I’m sorry, do I know you?"

"No." The nurse smiled. She had pretty dark eyes, Viggo noticed, full of too much sadness and knowledge. "I work on Ward Six. Elijah’s waiting for you." She reached out and put a hand on his arm, and the simple touch almost made Viggo come undone, making him take a deep, wavering breath.

"I got here as fast as I could," he said, clearing his throat as his voice wavered. "Travel is so hard at the moment."

"I know." The nurse moved her hand and nodded down the corridor. "He’s a beautiful man, inside and out. He talks about you all the time."

"Does he?" Viggo tried to smile. "He’s the most beautiful creature in the world." He hesitated. "Tell me … is he very different?"

"No." The nurse smiled gently. "He looks tired and pale, but …"

"Thank you." Viggo stepped back. "I should go to him."

"Of course."

Viggo made his way down the corridor, pausing when he reached the door of the ward. His eyes went straight to Elijah, lying so still and quiet, and he swallowed hard.

As if sensing his presence, Elijah’s head moved, turning toward the door, and he smiled. Viggo, unable to resist, smiled back, some of the grief dissipating slightly. If Elijah could still produce that room-lighting smile, then surely things weren’t so bad?

"Hello," he said, covering the ground between them and hooking a chair with his ankle, pulling it close so that he could sit by Elijah’s side. He picked up one Elijah’s hands, cold and clammy and softly kissed it. "I got here as soon as I could."

"I’m glad," Elijah said. His voice was low and tired-sounding, but his eyes were still bright, shining with love and life. "I didn’t want to die alone."

"Don’t say that," Viggo begged, turning Elijah’s hand so that he could rest his cheek against the palm. "You’ll get better, I know you will."

"You’ve been talking to a different doctor," Elijah said, almost laughing but then coughing as he realised that he didn’t have the breath to spare, his lungs ruined beyond hope of repair.

"How did we get here?" Viggo asked softly, feeling the tears springing to his eyes. "Elijah, we were going to have years and years together."

"War happened." The light in Elijah’s eyes faltered slightly and his fingers tensed against Viggo’s cheek. "The fire happened." He smiled. "I made it through so many horrors and I end up being killed by a chemical fire." His fingers moved again, soft against Viggo’s cheek. "Don’t leave me until it’s over."

"I will never leave you," Viggo promised. "I’ll be here until you’re sleeping."

"Talk to me," Elijah said, his ruined lungs protesting again. "I love the sound of your voice; I always have."

"What shall I talk about?" Viggo asked, reaching out and stroking Elijah’s hair, smiling at the grunt of appreciation it produced. It had become Viggo’s habitual caress during their time together, never failing to calm Elijah. "Does it hurt? Do you need something for the pain?"

"No." Elijah shook his head. "I’m just tired. Nothing really hurts now." He turned his head. "Would you kiss me?"

Viggo stood up immediately, ignoring the scraping of the chair on the floor. He leaned over Elijah and kissed him softly on the forehead and either cheek before resting his lips softly over Elijah’s. It felt like a homecoming. It always had, and suddenly a huge sob tore through Viggo’s body.

"Don’t," Elijah whispered, their lips still touching, one hand lifting to tangle in Viggo’s hair. "Please don’t." He pushed the back of Viggo’s head, bringing their lips together, the kiss soft and familiar.

"Talk to me," he said again when Viggo pulled away.

"Do you remember how young you were when we met?" Viggo once again lifted Elijah’s hand, holding it against his cheek. "How you gave up everything and followed me to Paris?" He kissed Elijah’s palm. "When you walked into the studio, I knew it was you even without turning around. The light that you carry with you …" he shook his head. "I just knew." Again he began to brush Elijah’s hair back from his forehead. "The life we made for ourselves." He smiled at Elijah, his lips trembling, trying to control his emotion as Elijah frowned slightly and shook his head.

"All the travelling we’ve done," he said, having to clear his throat again. "You learned to fly, Elijah, and it was the most beautiful sight I ever saw."

"Thanks to you," Elijah said. "All thanks to you."

"No," Viggo protested. "You did everything. You even played matchmaker to Maude, remember? Who would ever have thought we would still know her now that she’s a grandmother? People love you, Elijah. You are so easy to love."

"I miss Dominic," Elijah whispered, coughing slightly, the sound making Viggo wince. "His daughter wrote to me last week, did you know? Telling me that he left the painting of the reflecting pool to her. Do you remember that painting?"

"Only too well," Viggo said. "He said he wanted it to be an heirloom, didn’t he?"

Elijah nodded, his eyes drifting closed. "Shot out of the sky," he said. "At least he went quickly."

"I should go," Viggo said. "You need to sleep."

"No, don’t go." Elijah’s eyes opened wide, almost panicked. "I’ll get all the sleep I need soon enough. I don’t want you to go."

"Let me at least find you something to drink," Viggo protested, standing up and kissing Elijah’s forehead. As he stepped backwards he collided with something and turning around he saw a oxygen cylinder, the mask hung almost jauntily on the top of it. He closed his eyes briefly.

"I don’t need it," Elijah said. "Not right now."

"I’ll go and get you some water," Viggo said, stepping away. "I’ll only be a minute."

He made his way toward the nurses’ station at the end of the ward, politely asking for a glass of water. The nurse on duty smiled and went to find one. She came back with the glass and a doctor, which set Viggo’s nerves jangling again.

"Mr Mortensen?" The doctor held out his hand. "My name is Hobson. I’m Elijah’s doctor."

"I don’t want to leave him," Viggo said. "He doesn’t want me to leave until it’s over."

Dr Hobson nodded, his eyes serious. "I have to tell you that it won’t be long. The nurses, who are far too romantic for their own good, believe that he has been holding on until you came. Now you’re here – " the doctor shrugged – "I’m sorry, Mr Mortensen."

"Is there really nothing you can do for him?" Viggo asked, glancing over to the still form in the bed. Elijah was never still. "We haven’t done half the things we said we would, been to half the places we said we would visit. We have so many plans."

"I’m sorry. His lungs are ruined," Dr Hobson answered. "The smoke he inhaled had so many chemicals in that the damage was impossible to repair." He narrowed his eyes. "He should be wearing that oxygen mask. It will ease him."

"He doesn’t want to," Viggo replied. "I’ll make sure he wears it when he has to." He ran a hand over his face. "He came to me, did you know that? Almost seventeen years ago now. He was so young, so beautiful. So much life in him…" Viggo trailed off. "I’m sorry," he said. "I’m sure you’re busy."

"I am," Dr Hobson admitted frankly, "but that doesn’t matter. Mr Mortensen – Viggo – I have seen many sights in this war, many horrible, horrible sights. Too many people have died. Elijah is another statistic. But I have seen his face when he talks about you, seen his eyes light up and fill with so many memories." The doctor shrugged, embarrassed. "You gave him a good life."

"He gave me the whole of mine," Viggo replied. "How long do we have, do you think?"

"Brutally? However long he can give you. However long his lungs will work." The doctor looked at him compassionately. "Hours only."

"So soon? He’ll go so soon?"

"He should have gone days ago, by rights." Dr Hobson shrugged. "Maybe the nurses are right. Maybe he did hang on for you."

Viggo nodded and made his way back over to the bed. Elijah opened his eyes at his approach and although he didn’t smile or speak, his eyes softened.

Viggo put an arm around Elijah’s shoulders, helping him sit so that he could drink, trying not to weep at the bones pushing against his hands. Elijah had always been light, delicately built, but now… there was nothing.

"No more," Elijah said, moving his head weakly, and Viggo obediently let him sag back onto the pillow, putting the glass down on the stand next to the bed.

"I never thought I could be so happy," he said, sitting on the bed this time, uncaring of the rules. "The years we’ve had together haven’t been enough, could never be enough, but they have been so wonderful." He raised Elijah’s hand and kissed it. "Thank you."

"I’m not scared, you know," Elijah said. "Not of dying. But I don’t want to leave you. You’ve had so much pain in your life, and I was determined you would never be hurt again." The sentence had taken a lot of strength out of him, and he closed his eyes for a second. "Don’t want to leave you," he said again.

Viggo stood up and quickly pulled the curtain around the bed, affording them some privacy.

"Why did you do that?" Elijah asked when Viggo sat on the bed again. "I’m not going to die just yet, you know."

"Because I don’t want to share you," Viggo replied. "Because I want to tell you how happy you have made me over the years, and that is nobody’s business but ours." He pushed Elijah’s hair back from his forehead. "You have beautiful hair. Do you remember when you grew it long? You were a true bohemian."

"It seems such a long time ago," Elijah said. "Things have changed so much." He smiled and Viggo smiled back, unable to resist. Elijah’s smile had always been infectious.

"I don’t want to leave you," Elijah said again. "I don’t want you to miss me."

"You’re not leaving me," Viggo said. "I carry you with me – every part of Paris will hold some memory for me." He kissed Elijah’s cheek. "You will always be there." He rested his face against Elijah’s, desperately trying to will some of his life force into the fragile body next to his.

"I’m selfish," Elijah said, and when Viggo pulled away he saw that the tears had started. "I don’t want you to find somebody else. I want you to keep me with you."

"I will," Viggo promised, gently wiping at the tears with his thumb. "Just so long as you promise to wait for me. I don’t want us to be parted for any longer than is absolutely necessary."

Elijah smiled and swallowed his tears. "I don’t want to die," he said. "I’m not scared, but I don’t want to die." He raised his arms painfully slowly and wrapped them around Viggo’s neck. "Lift me up," he whispered. Obediently, Viggo lifted Elijah into a sitting position, pulling him as close as he dared, listening to the breath whistle in Elijah’s lungs.

"Remember the night we met?" Elijah said, his voice so quiet as to be almost a whisper. "It was so hot. I didn’t believe England ever got so hot – " He paused and swallowed again.

"Don’t talk," Viggo said. "Please."

"Tell me about the night we met," Elijah whispered, pulling away and sinking back onto the pillows. "Come lie with me."

Viggo kicked off his shoes and stretched himself on the narrow bed, pulling Elijah to him until they were settled in their long-familiar position, Elijah’s head tucked comfortably under Viggo’s chin.

"I remember every detail," Viggo said, his hand, as ever, stroking through Elijah’s hair. "I remember you walking into the room of that big ugly house. It felt as if I had been struck by lightning – a coup de foudre." He smiled, even though Elijah couldn’t see it. "I have felt that way every day since." He kissed Elijah’s forehead. "Even when we argue, I still feel that way – that’s why you always win all of our fights."

"Really?" Elijah didn’t raise his head. "I always thought it was because I had the more logical mind."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

They lay quietly for some moments, Viggo’s hand stroking incessantly through short, dark hair, listening as the breath whistled painfully in Elijah's lungs.

"You know where I want to be buried, right?" Elijah said finally. "As close to the statue as you can get me. I tried to organise it when I knew what was going to happen, but it was hard…" He tailed off, and Viggo’s eyes closed in pain.

"I know. I’ll arrange everything, don’t worry." He sighed, aware that his voice was wavering badly. "Elijah, I can’t…"

"You don’t have a choice," Elijah said, reaching up to press his fingers against Viggo’s lips. "Please do this last thing for me."

"Remember when I was trying to teach you to cook?" Viggo said, desperately trying to change the subject. "You set the apartment on fire. I can still see you standing there looking at the flames, laughing as if you were possessed." He felt the ghost of a laugh from Elijah. "It was only because Mathilde was there that we weren’t burned out of our home."

"You distracted me," Elijah said. "You came out of the bathroom completely naked. You looked like a god. How was I supposed to concentrate on something as mundane as cooking?" He paused. "I’m not sure how Mathilde felt about it though."

Viggo laughed, the sound shocking and alien in the subdued misery of the ward, but he couldn’t stop himself.

"This is nice," Elijah said when Viggo’s laughter had stopped. "Comfortable." He moved his head slightly against Viggo’s shoulder.

"It is," Viggo agreed. "We can pretend that we’re in our own bed. Soon, one of us will have to get up …"

"Probably you," said Elijah. "What with your age and everything."

"One of us will have to get up," Viggo continued. "And the other one will complain about it…"

"And then we’ll both end up in bed again," Elijah said, his voice fading again. "And you’ll touch me and kiss me, and I’ll start to fidget because you’ve always been more patient than me."

"So then I’ll laugh at you because you’re starting to scowl at me, and I’ll kiss you until you start to make that noise in the back of your throat." Viggo scowled himself, at the stained ceiling, trying to hold back the tears as they talked about something that would never happen again. "And then – well who knows? When you were young, you would always let me push you down, hold you still while I loved you, but as you got older, you began to get so adventurous. Which would you like today?"

"I’m tired," Elijah said. "I’d let you hold me down, wrap my legs around you while I felt you inside me. We always fit together so well, don’t we? From the first night, we just fitted together." He coughed and his breathing hitched. Viggo held his own breath, waiting to see what would happen.

"You carry on," Elijah said finally.

"I would push into you and watch your face. You always get this look – as if you’re surprised by what’s happening to you. And then I would start to move inside you, and you would … would cry out and beg me … and .." Viggo tailed off.

"And?"

"And I would have to start counting or think about what we needed for the galleries, because otherwise I would come immediately and you would laugh at me. So I would think of other things, and all the time your body would be clenching around mine, moving with me. So perfect."

"And when it was over?"

"We would sleep, or doze, or just rest together. Your head on my shoulder, tucked under my chin."

"Like this?" Elijah said, his hand stroking Viggo’s belly.

"Yes, like this."

"I’m tired now," Elijah said, his voice breaking as breath faltered once, and then twice. "I think I’d like to go to sleep." With an effort Viggo could feel, Elijah raised his head, and Viggo gazed helplessly into the huge eyes that had captivated him so many years ago. "I’ll be waiting."

"I’ll find you," Viggo promised, his arms reaching to hold Elijah close, not so gentle now that it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t know how long they lay there; he didn’t even know when it finally happened. His mind had wandered until he could almost believe that they were in their bed and Elijah was sleeping peacefully after loving. In a minute he would pull away and go and make him some breakfast – chocolate and the dark bread he had grown to love so much.

The voice breaking into his daydream was annoying and he did his best to ignore it, but when somebody touched Elijah, his eyes snapped open.

"What?"

It was Dr Hobson. "Mr Mortensen, you have to let him go now."

Viggo’s arms tightened and he looked down at Elijah.

"I thought he was asleep," he said. "He said he was tired." He rested his lips against Elijah’s cool forehead before pulling back and studying the face he knew better than his own. "He doesn’t look like he’s asleep though. He just looks – dead." He looked up at the doctor, knowing his face was creased with foolish confusion. "He said he was tired."

"He was tired." A new voice made him turn around. He vaguely recognised the nurse with the kind eyes.

"I thought you were going off duty when I saw you," he said.

"I was," she agreed. "It’s a new day now. You’ve been with him for almost a day." She put a hand on Viggo’s arm. "Come along now. He was tired, and he’s at peace now." She pulled slightly. "You have to leave him now. We’ll take care of him."

Viggo slid off the bed, closing his eyes against a rush of dizziness, then looked down at the still figure on the bed.

"I don’t think I can," he said. "I don’t think I can leave him." He looked between the nurse and Dr Hobson. "What am I supposed to do?" He reached down and took hold of Elijah’s hand between his own. "He’s cold." He began to rub Elijah’s hand between his own. "Have you ever noticed how small his hands are? Such beautiful hands…" He tailed off as tears welled up. "Such a beautiful man." He let go of Elijah’s hands and instead reached to frame the beloved face between his palms. "I won’t be long," he whispered, and kissed Elijah’s lips.

"Viggo?" Dr Hobson’s voice was soothing. "Leave him now."

"What are you going to do with him?" Viggo asked. "You’re not going to hurt him are you?"

"Viggo, he’s gone." This time it was the nurse. "He told me that you and he both believe that the body is just a shell, that it’s the soul that counts. His soul is flying free now."

"Flying…" Viggo laughed, a heartbroken sound. "He deserves to fly…" He looked down at the figure on the bed again. Just a shell, but still beautiful.

"Please, Viggo…" Viggo looked up at the nurse and nodded, obediently stepping away. If he didn’t leave immediately, he would never leave, and they would have to drag him off Elijah’s – body. At that point, Viggo’s mind shied away, refusing to go any further. Refusing to think about death and decay and the loss of all that mattered to him.

He moved blindly away until somehow he found himself outside, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, finding it hard to believe that the world could just continue as normal, that the death of this most beautiful creature hadn’t had some kind of profound effect. A sudden flapping of wings, startlingly loud in the still air, made him look up, watching as half a dozen pigeons, startled by something silly, flew around in a wide circle, before settling again. Elijah would never be something as staid as a pigeon, Viggo thought. He would be something light, fast as a dream … not something as staid and ungainly as a pigeon.

"Oh, God…" Viggo collapsed on the steps of the hospital, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, rocking and rocking, beyond tears. All that was left was a well of pain that seemed never-ending. People stepped around him, casting glances of mixed sympathy and embarrassment. Too much loss had already been suffered in this war; people were becoming hardened.

He couldn’t stay there, couldn’t sit and hope that he too would die; he had to get up, find a phone. He had to call people and tell them what had happened – tell them that his love was dead.

**

On the day of the funeral, Viggo stood blankly, watching as Elijah was lowered into the ground. He was surrounded by their friends, by Dominic’s children, standing strong and brave as they said goodbye to their beloved Uncle; by Freddie, old before his time, shambling and red-faced, but still as loving and kind as ever. By Maudie and her husband, their children. And by all the people who had loved Elijah. So many people.

Viggo felt so alone. So old.

"You’ll come back to America with us," Maude had said, her hand on his arm. "You can’t stay here alone." She had looked into his face. "You’re so lost."

"I can’t leave," he had replied. "I feel close to him if I’m here. I don’t want him to be any further away from me." He had seen the look on her face and made himself smile, although he had a terrible feeling it looked more like a rictus of pain. "Just a silly old man’s fantasy," he had said. "He’s here, you see, all around me."

"Viggo…" Maude’s eyes had filled with tears.

"No, I’m fine," he had said, kissing her gently. "If I’m mad, it’s just grief. It’ll fade."

And now he watched as Elijah was lowered into the ground, and it took every atom of willpower not to throw himself into the grave, beg whatever deity was listening to take him as well.

**

And so he took solace in painting, the way he always had. The light had gone out of his work; now it was infused with grief. He produced some of his finest works in the period following Elijah’s death, but he was careless with them, letting them pile up in dusty corners of his studio, barely finishing one before starting on another.

It was in the spring, almost a year after Elijah had left him that he felt his first glimmer of hope, the first lightening of the gloom that had enveloped him.

He was in the cemetery, talking to Elijah, sitting on the damp grass.

"It’s not too bad, now," he said, his hand resting on the ground. "I see you, though. All the time. It’s a comfort because I know that you’re sticking to your promise, that you’re waiting for me. I don’t think it’ll be too long now." He dug his fingers into the earth. "I feel so – isolated. Our friends are wonderful, but I think my heart’s gone out of it. I’ve learned so many lessons from you though, you would be proud. I’ve changed the will, made sure that the businesses will be taken care of." He laughed. "I would never have done such a thing before I met you!" His smile faded and he looked around at the silent, sun-filled glade. "I don’t think you’d be too happy with me if you knew how empty I felt, but I can’t help it." He blinked back the too-ready tears. "I just wish you would tell me you were here, that I’m not just imagining you."

He sat quietly and then, just as he was about to stand up, a flutter of wings made him look up startled. A swallow – a bird as light and fast as a dream – shot out of the trees surrounding him and circled quickly around Viggo and the grave, dipping and swooping, so full of the joy of living that Viggo’s breath stalled in his chest – before soaring away into the bright blue sky. Viggo followed its flight until his eyes stung, and then he felt his lips stretch in a smile.

"Thank you," he said. "I love you." He didn’t look at the ground as he said it. He looked at the sky. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way out of the cemetery, his step lighter than it had been for what seemed a long time. Halfway up the street the swallow returned, dipping and swooping around him, accompanying him until he got home. At some point the swallow’s sheer joy had lodged somewhere inside Viggo, and he felt the ice beginning to melt. Elijah was flying free, just waiting.

Viggo looked up at the sky again, and smiled.

The End

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