[CW: lots to come! This is a pre-warning warning.]

From the noise of idle chatter and other flippant conversations in the church, one couldn’t have been blamed for mistaking Lyle Brennan’s funeral for some sort of dinner party. It was remarkably well-attended, for all the years the man had spent hiding away in his estate. So much so that they’d required the space of the church – at least, that’s what his mother claimed. Malachi knew that she simply hadn’t wanted to entertain them all herself.

Had anyone ever truly liked Lyle Brennan? Certainly a number far smaller than those that showed up for his death had spent all that much time with him during his life. A hermit on his best days, a deeply unpleasant visitor on his worst ones; only the least intelligent among them had ever taken Lyle at face value, but he was… or, he had been… a necessary evil.

A very wealthy, secretive, and unfortunately well-connected necessary evil. Malachi dreaded the company his death attracted: for every family friend that’d never heard of his existence, there was an old associate of his father’s that afforded him some teasing comment or a leer. Like he was still the little creature they’d met years ago.

December sent a biting chill through the opened doors, isolating his cold hands to the pockets of his coat, where his fingers fiddled with the spectacles he’d plucked off his father’s corpse before the others had arrived. If his mother or Levi noticed, or cared, they hadn’t mentioned it yet.

Dressed so fine and proper, they were, like the family of the deceased should have been. And with them, a tall figure that bore no resemblance, yet that wore more signs of visible distress than either one.

Malachi hadn’t even bothered to wear his Roman collar. Hadn’t bothered to make any effort beyond donning the black suit one of mother’s servants had set out for him. There was a darkness that clung to the hollows of his face, and made a slender priest look all the more over-tired.

Another set of old friends passed by. Offered their insincere condolences to mother and Levi. Ignored him. Fuck this.

Malachi made his way out of the church, taking out a smoke from his pocket and lighting it as soon as he did.

[[CW: yep. earning that tag.]]

Was there anything better than a funeral? The women wept. The men pretended they didn’t. The hors d’ouevres were served with tears and regret. He’d even managed to rope Zack (and hopefully one more) along for this one. All he had to do was flirt prestige just out of his reach, and there came Zack, trotting along like a pedigree bitch.

Zack swung up his pocket watch, catching it like the schoolboy he was and checking it like he had somewhere more important to schmooze.

“How long should we wait for him?” Zack said, that abominable short, monotonous accent from whatever ghetto he’d crawled out of thick on his words.

His staccato voice carried, all the more for them crowding the door.

“Come now, Zack-” Chris started, honey-smooth to the ear.

“Zech,” rejoindered that staccato baritone.

“If there’s any time for patience, my friend,” Chris went on, “it’s a funeral. Can you imagine how hurt Mrs. Brennan or her son might be if they could hear you fretting?”

Son, singular.

“Sons, you mean?” ‘Zack’ corrected, though it hardly sounded in a nice way.

There was a ‘tsk’ of a laugh, and a light shuffle.

“One rich orphan,” Chris answered. “That’s for sure.”

It was just Chris’ luck that said rich orphan stepped out, lighting a smoke in that moment. The shift was immediate – Chris’ face, twisted in a smile with a well-dressed compatriot of similar age, suddenly looking to Malachi with the most polite, concerned look.

Zechariah, on the other hand, waved smoke away from his face and sneered.

“Need to-,” he paused, clearing his throat and coughing, “pay my regards to the widow,” Zechariah excused, and moved promptly in away from them.

“I’ll catch up,” Chris said with a wave, unperturbed.

Lyle’s little orphan had some inches on him now, but his precious vow of poverty seemed to be keeping him light. Until recently, Chris had showed even more open contempt than his father had for Malachi. His father just viewed the creature as one of his clients’ exotic little pets. Then, polite smiles – like they had been friends all along.

This piece of shit was explicitly in line to inherit, after all. Even over Lyle’s own flesh and blood.

“Congratulations,” Chris said, like celebrating Lyle’s death was some sort of private in-joke between two men who’d never even had a conversation together.

No. Chris had taken great pleasure in ordering Malachi to fetch this, fetch that, put olives in his martinis, cut the crusts off of his sandwiches. Make the little creep earn his keep in London. Speaking of – Chris dug a cigar case out of his breast pocket and opened it up, fixing one between his teeth.

“Light me up?” he said, pleasantly, holding his cigar out to him.

Should have known that more vultures would show up to feed on his father's carcass.

These ones were young, but like the older crowd that had made up most of his father's social circle, they were not entirely unfamiliar. Not the taller one, in any case.

No, Malachi could distinctly remember – despite the “niceties” he was blessed with now – that one being just as bad as the rest. Worse, even, if one were going only off of things that one could plausibly say in polite society.

Slender fingers tugged idly at the warm collar of his coat. Had this young, vicious thing ever seen him with the holy collar he’d neglected to wear? It’d have been quite the contrast to the one he’d worn before.

Malachi watched without comment as the shorter one went inside. His… rather blatant distaste for the smoke he exhaled went ignored. It was far from a habit of his, but his father had always hated it.

Congratulations, greeted the parasite. What was his name... Hurley?

Yeah. Right. What the fuck was there to celebrate but the added stress this whole situation unloaded onto him? Malachi considered him with a narrowed gaze as he took out a cigar. The money? The estate?

Well he could fantasize about getting a part of it all he wanted.

He leaned forward on his next inhale, and lit the parasite’s cigar with his cigarette.

Not bound by the obvious outward appearance of a priest, and knocked more than a little off-kilter by the dead man in the church, he’d felt rather… impulsive, since his return to London days before.

“Ever lost anyone?” he asked, before shaking his head. “No. Don’t answer that, I don’t care.”

Malachi revised, “have you seen many corpses?”

His eyes followed those spider leg-fingers to his collar – or more precisely, his lack thereof. The corners of his sympathetic smile quirked into something sharper, quicker, but it vanished quick as a snowflake on the finger.

He’d heard the orphan was a priest these days. Funny. He’d never seen him at this church, or any other church worth going to. Was it even true? He supposed the creature cut his hair these days, but any man could clean up with enough prodding or enough frat brothers to descend upon him in the night with grasping hands and scissors.

Oh, yes. The screaming, the flailing, the begging and the tears. That night had been so fun it had practically been sexual. Was it sexual if he still fantasized in mind and body about how it could have gone even farther? No matter.

He let the cigar linger on the cigarette, enjoying yet another side-by-side comparison of this cretin’s life and Chris’. Even his smoke was hardly a fifth of the size of Chris’ creature comforts. Once it was lit, he pushed it forward hard on the end of the orphan’s. Could he smother it out, bend it out of shape with the same practiced ease a child could fry ants with but a magnifying glass?

“Thank you,” he said, smiling, settling in beside the illegitimate heir as easily as he had the Jew.

Sometimes, he wondered whether or not Zack was really rich.

The bastard’s eyes narrowed, and Chris’ heart sung in easy victory. This one had always had an uncontrollable temper. Lyle had warned of it, after all – over and over.

Maybe he could make something of it. He took a long, indulgent drag of his cigar, then turned his head straight at the orphan’s face to exhale it. There was a thick, garlicky smell intertwined with the tobacco. At the same time, Chris kept his cigar off to the side. Fresh smoke was too good for him.

“There’s some mummies on display,” Chris non-answered, face as serene as a lamb’s. “I can’t say I stop by the mortuaries often.”

Never mind that he visited them more often than the brothels.

“What about yourself?” he asked conversationally, eyes ahead.

Back the cigar went between his teeth, even but already yellowed from a far more frequent habit.

Bitch, Malachi kept tucked between his teeth.

Least his cigarette hadn’t bent to the point of breaking. He kept it fixed at the corner of his mouth, rested between the frown that curved his lips. When he pulled out another match and struck it against the church wall, he considered pressing it into Hurley’s hair.

But – no. The smell. The smell would be awful.

It relit his cigarette instead. Burnt itself out on his tongue, and then dropped uselessly to the cobblestone or whatever the fuck the stones beneath their feet were.

Smoke suffocated his next inhale, thick and pungent. Malachi’s tongue glided across the sharp edges of his teeth as if that’d push the scent out, but all it did was agitate the blackened spot left by the match. His low hum sounded as dissatisfied as he looked.

Mummies. Mummies were… well, he could not say that he’d ever seen one up close, but they were not what he meant. Neither did the mortuaries interest him.

A far cry from the indulgent, luxurious fashion in which the parasite enjoyed a cigar – like it was as natural and expected of him as breathing, like it was a measure of status, of wealth, of disregard – Malachi smoked his cigarette like a man in desperate need of distraction. Of something to occupy his mouth, to push with his tongue, to bite if it so displeased him. He exhaled from the side that Hurley was not standing on.

“I conduct a lot of funerals,” Malachi non-answered in turn.

“They say you’re not supposed to burn them,” he added on, seemingly without purpose. Perhaps it was.

He turned to face the parasite – which is to say, he angled his body to block the wind for him. More of a habit than smoking was.

“What are you here for? To pay your…” what had that other one said?

“Ah- to pay your regards to the poor, dear widow?”

Chris admired the bent cigarette like an artist his sculpture. Was destruction not an art itself?

Everything the orphan did seemed to please Chris in a morbid, patronizing way. What a cellar dwelling creature. Using his own tongue to put out a fire. Every part of him was expendable: his tongue, his collar, his wretched little homeland. Why else did his keeper send him off to a priesthood? Clearly not because he was useful in any way. No, no.

Like Jesus Christ, the best thing this wiry pest could do is get nailed to a cross. Bled for his wine, and peeled for his communion flesh. ‘Til then, he could keep lighting Chris’ cigars. Lighting his cigars and humming his misery. Oh, sweet misery. Chris smiled without a care in the world.

Then wrinkled his nose when he watched the desperation that this poor, grieving orphan sucked on his own smoke with. Pitiful. He sucked that thing like a greedy little whore, but he had already aged past his prime. That, finally, brought a strange, contemptuous pull of his lips back, like he was witnessing his mother’s newest pet soil the rug. He let out another held puff of smoke, watching the incoherent shapes before him.

“What a shame,” Chris said, tapping off his cigar and letting it hang, burning.

Wouldn’t it be bragging rights to smoke a mummy? Oh, look. The bastard was shielding him from the wind. He supposed if he served as a curtain, he could have some dregs of good tobacco. Chris took another puff, smugly amused anew.

He chuckled and shook his head at the orphan’s interrogation inquiry. He could neither imagine Mrs. Brennan losing the beauty sleep, nor Levi being alert enough to perk up to the passing of time if it meant not money.

“Zack is such a suck-up,” Chris commiserated. “Someone told him Levi hid diamonds up his arse, and I’m fairly sure he’s in there checking.”

Then, Chris actually looked him in the eyes. Searching. What was this little vermin missing in his life, other than the lovely inheritance likely headed his way? He was out here, alone, talking to Chris. He clearly liked him as well as Chris liked him, and yet he still chose to smoke with company. This time, Chris made the laborious decision to turn his head and exhale his smoke off to the side.

“Your … mother, and brother, have enough people looking out for them,” he pointed out. “Who’s looking out for you?”

What a shame indeed. It was such a peculiar thing, to oppose the burning of something already dead and gone. Was a corpse any more important than the tobacco rolled tight into his cigarette? Certainly the latter could at least provide some sort of use. All a corpse did was rot in the ground.

It was not an opinion that a Catholic priest should hold. No, he knew the reason. A body could not rise from the ground for resurrection if it had been reduced to scattered ashes. It was just… a shame, as Hurley so eloquently framed it.

Malachi couldn’t have said he was paying the parasite any more attention than he was to his own thoughts, but he still looked at him when he chuckled. Oddly enough, a sound he heard frequently at funerals. What were they, but a good excuse to mingle and make one’s self look empathetic and well-connected?

Hurley replied to a question he’d already forgotten he’d asked.

Zack… he didn’t know any Zack. Must have been that shorter one he’d brought with him. If it was Levi this Zack was going for, it wouldn’t be that hard to check – but the diamonds? Those were his.

Everything was his.

The time it took for Malachi to blink, once Hurley bothered to return his stare his gaze, bordered on absurd.

What was he supposed to say to that? ‘God?’ That probably would have been a better answer.

Instead, he shrugged. The only one that’d ever looked out for him was currently in the church, waiting to be put into the ground. He was looking out for himself, but that didn’t count. From the desperate state of him, he wasn’t doing a very good job. Malachi pulled the bent cigarette out from his lips and exhaled off to the side.

“Why?” he questioned flatly. “You’re not feeling sympathetic now, are you?”

He wasn’t laughing at his own expense, at his fresh corpse father’s expense. All closed up and proper when he wasn’t slipping.

But he had slipped. All Chris had to do is find another patch of ice – or maybe bring it back to the same one.

The silence stretched. Chris took another pleasurable inhale of his cigar. It was like eating a cake, but it made a girdle less relevant. The only way he got a boy thinner is if there was literally nothing for him to eat.

“Oh, little orphan,” Chris smiled, with a cutting sincerity. “No one feels as bad for you as I.”

Was there any room for a kind misinterpretation? Chris made certain there wasn’t: he snubbed his barely smoked cigar on the brat’s expensive, ‘little orphan’ sleeve. He carelessly chucked the mostly unsmoked cigar on the ground, as though its lone mass did not cost double all of the slender little sticks in a box he was enslaved to.

“Let’s see what death’s done for the old man.”

Hurley was perhaps the only person that’d ever called Malachi little.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when he felt the burning end of the cigar, pushing hot against his sleeve. Malachi flinched away from it instinctively, jerking his arm back, but not before it left a hole in the black fabric and a red mark on his skin.

Cigarette forgotten, he pinched his sleeve between his fingers to get a better look at it.

Mother would not be happy about that. The suit likely wasn’t one of Levi’s, considering the sleeves and trousers did not end far above his wrists and ankles. Had she purchased it just for him, or borrowed it off of some other tall degenerate she kept in closer company?

Malachi shot Hurley a glare. That vicious little bitch knew he wouldn’t do anything more.

He snuffed out the bent cigarette with the heel of his boot. With a swift pivot, he stepped to the door and held it open for the younger to pass through.

“Hanged himself,” Malachi whispered, stepping in behind him. “So they say.”

That much had not been disclosed to the public, of course. Mother had told most of the attendees that it was Lyle’s bad heart that did him in, so as not to lie completely. They’d done a well enough job painting his skin in its usual pallor before they’d put him on display, yet Malachi felt compelled to let the parasite in on the little secret. Why?

Who fucking knew. It gave him a rush to play with fire.

Miriam Brennan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, standing near her dead husband without looking at him. Her little prop was as dry as her face.

Repeat a lie enough, and it becomes the truth. Besides – the feeling it invoked was far more important than the accuracy. Little, little, little, surrounded by men bigger than he would ever be. If he couldn’t cut him lower at the knees, then there were other ways.

Chris watched Malachi’s face intently for the first time. Didn’t take a whole lot to press a cigar out on a surface, after all. That the surface happened to be stitches and cloth and then fragile skin? Delightful, but secondary. There it was. That little flinch that meant he’d won.

He crinkled his nose at Malachi’s glare as though he were in on the joke, rather than the butt of it.

As expected, he did nothing. What could he do? There was no Lyle to insist his little orphan be left in one respectable piece. No Lyle to cower behind in the shadows, or make excuses for him that no one believed but everyone swallowed anyway because it was Lyle. The corpse was barely cold – what better time to relish in this nothing’s further fall from grace?

Zechariah, surprise surprise, was making one-sided conversation with Levi’s wife, while Levi butted in to talk about this holiday or that restaurant they had been to before his father had-- you know. Zechariah’s gaze flicked to them briefly before pretending he never saw them come in.

Chris smirked, but tucked it away once he saw the immaculately made-up widow. He slowed his step. Leaned his head back to whisper only two words back to his ‘little,’ looming shadow:

“Show me.”

Then, he was headed to Mrs. Brennan with the most carefully practiced forlorn look.

“Mrs. Brennan,” he intoned. “I am so sorry for your loss. Barely older than my father. He should be by later to pay respects, by the way.”

He wouldn’t be. That’s why he sent Chris. As far as his father was concerned, she’d forget he was even absent as soon as he sent the condolence chocolates. Such techniques had worked on his children, after all.