Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It occured to Calvin Fischoeder quite immediately that something was wrong. Then again, there always had been something wrong, he had simply been ignoring it for a very long time.

Deep and dark and forlorn; it was a cavernous feeling, widening into an abyss. He laid there for quite some time, twisting and turning, comfortable yet unable to sleep. Mort was extraordinarily clean for a single man, one without a housekeeper. His linens were quite fresh, but they still smelled like him. Strange, how such comfort made that feeling inside of him start to ache.

This damned insomnia! It had tortured him all his life. Thank God he didn't have such responsibilities as Mort. He couldn't possibly handle having an occupation. Too impatient, too outspoken, and prone to boredom. He didn't understand how Mort could look at him with those big brown eyes, wanting and wanting and wanting, and simply turn away. Duty calls! Calvin wondered if he really cared about him at all.

He had to get up. He had to go somewhere. He had to do something…

Wasn't the first time. He was never able to sit still. But it was different. It had been ever since he'd pulled Felix’s corpse into his arms.

Calvin put on his shoes and jacket and went downstairs.

Mort was in his office, his pale face brightened further by his computer screen. He looked up when Calvin came in.

“Did you sleep well?”

Calvin knew he probably didn't look it. “I'm going out.”

“Out?”

“For a drive. Will you come with me?”

“Just a minute-”

“I have to go now. If you don't come with me now…”

Was that a threat forming on his tongue? He wasn't sure.

“... I think… that would be a big mistake.”

Mort shut his laptop. “No harm in stopping a little early. Let me get my coat. It might take a second.”

“My car has heat.”

“Your car?”

“What, you think the only vehicle I own is that dinky golf cart?”

“I guess I've never noticed you drive anything else.”

He gave a half-hearted eye roll. “Come on.”

The snow was still steadily falling, and boy, was it sticking. Soon their little avenue would be a winter wonderland.

The car Calvin had driven that day was a cream colored vintage convertible. When he saw it, Mort stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the hell is that?”

“This?” Calvin casually placed a hand on the spare wheel along the side. “Oh, just a piece from my father's collection. A real Doozy. You're not a car man, are you?”

Mort shook his head, and Calvin took an immense sort of pride in educating him.

“It's a Duesenberg Model J. He got it cheap back in the 40s and it's been outfitted on the interior to be a little more modern. Yep, 265 horsepower, this baby.” He chuckled and patted the framework. “How did you not notice it before?”

“Before…?”

“When you left Bob's.”

“Oh,” he shrugged. “I-I don't know I guess I was focused on the snow.”

Fischoeder side-eyed him slightly. “Are you absent-minded, Mort?”

“Not at all. It's the first snow of the year, you know. It came pretty late.”

“Get in before you freeze to death.”

Before long they had blitzed out into the rural reaches of town, where snow draped fields stretched as far as the eye could see and leafless trees clawed at the sky. The snow continued to fall, and though the roads became slick, Mr. Fischoeder was a very competent motorist, given the high speeds and the old automobile. They could easily get killed in a car like this.

About a half hour of silence had come between them, for the world at long last was still. Calvin knew the winding roads well, but he had no idea where he was going.

“What about your father?” he asked at last.

Mort perked up, “Oh, he died when I was eight.”

Jesus Christ, what did I expect? “I-I, uhm, my condolences.”

“Thanks, but you don't have to worry about it. I mean that I've processed it.”

“Was that what made you want to be a mortician?”

Mort chuckled, “No. When I was a kid I discovered some books on Egyptian mummification at the library; the kind in the 5th and 6th grade section. I guess that's where I got the spark. From there I got kind of fascinated with the human body. I even started planning my funeral back then! Lining up the little Playmobil toys… always the weirdo…” he paused, seeming to wonder whether or not to continue. “When my dad died… that was the most fascinating day of my life. I-I’ve never told anybody this, but… it was beautiful. I guess you never really appreciate how you've impacted the world around you until you see a funeral. There were so many people, so many tears, I mean- the energy . It's somber and heartwarming all at once, so much raw human emotion. Death brings people together in more ways than you can imagine, not just on a physical level, but emotionally. I don't mean to romanticize it, but what choice do I have? At the end of the day, it's a very romantic thing.”

Calvin wondered about that. Really, he'd never given it that much thought. No matter how he died, the disposal of his remains was to be extravagant; he had this whole plan on his ashes being dumped into a volcano - which volcano was still up in the air. He wondered what Mort would think of that, but he didn't want to ask. Just yet, it sounded ridiculous. And Felix was in the ground, so…

But he couldn't help thinking how cold it would be down there. He wanted something hot, something purifying. Why did he leave Felix down in the cold, suffocating dark?

“I hope I didn't freak you out,” Mort said. “I've never told anyone that.”

“Not even your girlfriend?”

“No. I guess we never… got that far.”

Was a landlord really more of his kind than another mortician?

“What about you?” Mort asked. “I mean, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

The road was infinite and pale before him. Calvin tightly gripped the wheel.

“I can't remember wanting to be anything,” he said. “My father had it all planned out. See, he taught me how to handle all his assets once I inherited them.”

Funny. Thinking about it now, his father had been teaching him how to deal with his death.

“I only ever knew my father as an old man. He had me rather late in his life.”

“It sounds like he cared for you immensely.”

“Indeed. But he wasn't exactly a family man. We spent a lot of time together, sure, but the only time we spent together at home was at the dinner table.” He looked over at Mort. “You had your mother, didn't you?”

“Yeah, still do. We spend the holidays together and go out to eat and to the movies sometimes. She's a great lady, I love her very much.”

“Oh. That's good.”

In reality it made Calvin strangely upset. Probably he was just jealous.

“I never got to spend time with her, really,” Calvin cleared his throat. “Ahem, my mother, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I was basically tied to my father. Then when Felix came along he was a needy little guy. It wasn't like I never saw her, but… I guess…” he sighed. “Maybe that's one of my regrets.”

“I see.”

“One out of a million, I suppose.”

“Mr. Fischoeder, I know it isn't my place to say anything… but I think you'd really regret it if you sold everything.”

“Why's that?”

“Your father worked very hard so you could have it, and you worked very hard so you could keep it. I think you'd feel sorry.”

“Oh, I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I'd be dead. I wouldn't be thinking anything because I'd be dead, just like Felix.”

Mort was silent in response.

“Does that scare you? That I want to kill myself?” Calvin asked, sort of half smiling, euphoric in that he'd finally said it. He felt like cackling, howling out the window like a madman, but he remained reasonable. “I can't feel sorry when I'm dead. I can't feel anything when I'm dead. And I know that you're the only person who understands that. Maybe you won't even try to talk me out of it. Maybe you'll come with me, if you're smart enough, brave enough.”

From the corner of his eye he could see that Mort wasn't looking at him. He, too, was watching the endless road flow into them, seamless in the growing stretch of white.

“Calvin…” If he was going to say something further it didn't escape him. Not until they'd been driving for a while, then at last he said, “Calvin, I've said I'm very fond of you. Well, th-the truth is, I, um… I'm in love with you.”

Calvin slammed on the brakes, and the old Duesenberg screeched and slid. So little traction between the speed and the slush that they didn't come to a complete stop for about 20 seconds.

Then Calvin turned to him. “Don't say that.”

“But I am,” Mort said, hugging himself, his hair askew and his eyes wide with fear. “Damn it, Calvin! I am .”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“ Yes , I do. Better than you. My head is clear. You think those thoughts are rational? Calvin, you are grieving.”

“I'm alone! ” he slammed his fist against the wheel. “I have only ever been alone.”

Mort took a moment for some deep breaths, trying to calm himself. “I know. I know what it is, to be alone. But you can't just isolate yourself.”

“That wasn't my decision. It wasn't anyone's decision, it just happened; it was an accident!”

“I know it was an accident. Maybe that's the worst thing about it. You can't even blame yourself.”

“I don't know about that. I was his big brother, I should've… I don't know… I should've been watching him. But we were both drunk, we always drink together… how was I supposed to…”

He turned away from Mort entirely, trying to stifle his tears. He'd gotten good at doing that all these years, but now he was faltering like that one time with father. But father had taken him into his arms then, and consoled him the best he could.

“You'll be Mr. Fischoeder when I'm gone. You can't be crying your… eye out over this sort of thing.”

“Calvin.”

As the tears streamed down his face he thought maybe the best course of action would be to make a run for it. Cut and run out into the winter, come back later for the Duesenberg. Or maybe freeze to death and not come back at all.

The steering wheel turned under his hand, straightening back out.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked the mortician.

“I guess I should be.”

“Then you don't love me.”

“... no, I… I was… hoping to make you feel better…”

“Do you know how cruel that is?”

“... yes, I know.”

He chuckled softly, discreetly wiping the tears away with his jacket sleeve, but they were very apparent on the white fabric. “Now you're lying to me. Good. Two people in love should only lie to each other, it keeps everything uncertain.”

“What's the matter with certainty?”

“The very definition.”

He shifted his hands on the wheel, and one incidentally covered Mortimer's. It was warm, heart-achingly soft. He thought he could die right then and be perfectly at peace, so that Mort wouldn't have to do a thing to dress up his corpse.

“I'm never certain of anything,” Calvin continued, looking directly at the little man. “Whether drunk or sober, asleep or awake. That's the only way men like me can live.”

“Men like you? You're as human as I am.”

“Don't try to contradict me.”

He straightened up and took a deep breath. Was he completely out of his mind? Probably. Most of the time he didn't know what he was saying anymore, or where his thoughts even came from. With Felix's death it seemed someone new and ugly had sprouted within him from all the sorrow and grief, rising up like the living dead just to torment him. He was tired. So, so tired.

The leather seats of the lovely old Duesenberg bridged the gap that would typically be between the driver and passenger seats. Calvin turned to Mort and grabbed him by his upper arm, pulling him over.

“Come here,” he sort of growled, more intense than he'd intended. “Now, don't you pull away from me.”

Mort held onto Calvin’s arms to keep himself from falling into him. He looked up into the big man's eye, and Calvin wasn't certain what he saw there. At once Mortimer was wanting and afraid, but not afraid of Calvin himself, afraid of something just past him, something terrible that lingered just over his shoulder.

“You're the only person alive who understands me,” the landlord said. “So don't fall in love with me. Then you'll be deluded, and I'll have no one again. Do you understand?”

Mort nodded.

He kissed him then, quite hungrily, as though it were the last time they'd ever get the chance. It was the way Mort reciprocated that doomed him, all gentle and sweet, holding onto him like that. Calvin Fischoeder was guilty all over again. Ashamed at having been so reckless, with Mort's love and his life. He did not deserve him, not one bit.

“Please,” he muttered against Mort's laugh lines. “Please don't kiss me like that.”

“I can't help it.”

Calvin softly laughed, “Then I guess I'm cursed.” And he sighed, “Maybe I ought to call you a taxi.”

“All the way out here?”

“Hey, don't insult me like that, I can afford it.”

Mort started kissing him again, so that it became quite warm inside the old car, between the two old men. Calvin's hands traveled all over his body, mystified by his shapes, all the gentle creases and curves. He tugged at Mort's tie, a most violent shade of indigo, so that it came loose and hung about his neck. Then he pulled the little man closer and closer, until they were practically atop one another, all so he could embrace that warm, pudgy little body, and nip all down his pretty soft neck. The heavy pulse in that artery beat against his lips, so he made such tender love to it. The powdered countryside was as good a place as any for this sort of thing.

In time - and a matter of kissing - they were driving home, thoroughly worn out. Calvin knew that the back of the Duesenberg served well for some good old-fashioned heavy petting, but seeing as how the weather was bad, he didn't want to be stranded should the old girl quit on them.

“I gotta be honest,” Mort said as they were coming back into view of the dense housing units. “I'm starved.”

“What are you hungry for?”

“I don't know, something easy. It's a little late… what about Applebees?”

Calvin side-eyed him, unsure if he heard him right. “... what kind of bees?”

“Nevermind. Well, I'm sure there's a pizza or takeout place still open. That's probably better anyway, I don't really want to dine-in.”

“On the contrary, I rather think you do.”

Calvin hung up his suit jacket and found his place on the sofa when they returned to Mort's apartment, slightly reclined with his legs spread. He listened as the mortician ordered Chinese take-out for them, his voice astoundingly normal from the kitchen.

Strange, how one could be on the verge of something drastic and atrocious, yet succumb to such domesticity. Calvin was used to constant conflict and bustle. How strange, indeed, to sit here unperturbed.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?”

Calvin slowly blinked. “Yes.”

He watched the soft little man shift through his binder of DVDs, divining the perfect film for their wondrous meal. In all the world, there was nothing more inviting than his tranquility; he was so tame.

“Come here.”

Mort looked over at him, his brown eyes almost repulsively innocent. Now, how could that be? Surely he knew exactly what Fischoeder wanted.

He came over and sat down next to Calvin, the binder in his lap. Then his eyes were appraising the big man's waistcoat, perhaps how the expert tailoring fit perfectly the girth of his ample stomach. “Would you like to choose?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, taking the deceivingly heavy binder of films and sliding it onto the sofa, placing a hand on Mort's knee. “You know what I really want?” 

He slid his firm hand up the inside of Mort's tender thigh.

“Oh,” the mortician blushed. “R-Really… our food will be here within the hour…”

“Would you rather eat first?”

“I-I don't know if I can wait.”

“Mhm. That's a good fellow. Patience is for the virtuous.”

Mort certainly didn't need any pills - not yet, anyway. He was perfectly ripe beneath Calvin's hand. So he rubbed him through the clothes, watching him shift slightly, stifling his moans.

Calvin leaned in, “Don't you worry your handsome little head about who will hear us, because I want to hear you. Understand?”

Mort nodded.

His fingers were at Mort's belt, masterfully unbuckling him and minding his zipper. Calvin caught his lips on his own just as his hand was delving below.

With their foreheads pressed together he whispered over his lips, “I want your moans in my mouth.” 

“You want me to- mm!”

Calvin firmly squeezed his hardness in hand, kissing him quickly to swallow his moan. “Yes, I want you to moan into me. Not so hard, is it? Well, I suppose this is.”

He worked the smaller man vigorously, kissing his breath away, the pathetic little moans that fueled Calvin with each release. Suddenly, Mort wrapped his arms around Calvin's big white shoulders and held him close, his head on Calvin's shoulder, panting into his ear and moaning into his neck. Supposing that it was presently alright to be held, Calvin allowed it. He passed his hand down Mort's length, and squeezed that sensitive head down below.

Mort cried out, then released into Calvin's hand. The big man kissed him as he lingered on that high, nipping his sweet neck and taking the last little pants from his mouth. His hand came up to the curve of Mort's stomach, curling his fingers under the bottom, that most vulnerable weight.

Calvin Fischoeder wasn't good at this sort of thing. He was used to getting up, washing his hands, grabbing his jacket and leaving. Anyway, he'd made short work of the little mortician, so it would make for an easy escape.

Except for the fact that Mort was still holding onto him, short, soft arms wrapped about his shoulders. And he thought that Mort was smelling him where his head rested upon his shoulder, taking in the lingering scents of cologne and aftershave and the Duesenberg's leather.

What was that thing people were supposed to do? He'd followed the same train of thought once before while tending to Mort… ah, yes. They were supposed to take care of one another. Well…

“Mortimer…”

“Mm?”

Oh, he wanted to! Soft and sweet in his arms, he wanted so badly to take care of Mort. But how could he? He was terrible at this sort of thing…

“I'll, um, pay for the food.”

The mortician released Calvin from his hold and sat up a little straighter.

“Oh, right, I forgot we haven't eaten yet.”