TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

What makes a tragedy tragic?

Oliver has always thought that it's the preventability of it all. The lover kills himself in vain over a girl with a heart still beating. A soldier smothers his faithful wife over a misplaced handkerchief. A boy drives his motorcycle into a tree because he forgot to put in his contacts.

It's been almost three months now since that night. Three months of seminars and flyers and the world's most macabre round of icebreakers in which they each stated their manner of death in place of fun facts. Three months of pointedly not looking into Finn O'Connell's file. Three months of living in the HALO headquarters.

They're lodged in a Victorian mansion atop the White Cliffs of Dover that is visible and accessible only to Angels and In-Betweeners like him. Oliver thinks there are worse places to stay. When he can't sleep, he listens to the soft whooshing of the waves as they crash against chalk. When he feels like he's going to buzz out of his skin, he walks to the very edge of the cliffs and sits down, long legs dangling above the drop, tempting a death that has already claimed him.

It's poetic in a way. (To Oliver, most things are; months of A-Level English Lit have conditioned him into trying to find a meaning even where there is none.) Like Oliver's existence, the cliffs are liminal. They mark the boundary between Britain and continental Europe; the land and the sea; the transition between the known and the unknown.

On the guided tour along the premises that Dana took Oliver and the other recruits on during his first week, she pointed out the lighthouse perched in St. Margaret's Bay. "Back in the day, it was used to help ships safely reach the coast," she told them. "I want you to think of yourselves like lighthouses. Bright and tall and steadfast."

She said more—things about their responsibility and about being beacons of light for their assignees—but Oliver wasn't listening anymore. Instead, he stared down at the wild slate-grey waters and thought about the copy of King Lear on his bedside table back at the Walkers' house.

He still thinks about it every time he's here. So, apparently, does Dana.

"There is a cliff, whose high and bending head looks fearfully in the confined deep," she quotes in a deep pitch as she comes up behind him.

"Bring me to the very brim of it, and I'll repair the misery thou dost bear," finishes Oliver. He watches her sit down next to him with a faint smile. "Did you memorize that line just for me? I'm touched."

"I knew you'd like that," Dana laughs. She gives him a quick once-over, taking in the way his black coat billows behind him in the wind, his long hair whipping around his face as he looks out at the sea. "Every time I find you out here, I think I've landed in a Caspar David Friedrich painting."

"First Shakespeare, now the German Romantic movement?" Oliver fans himself with one hand. "Keep talking and this will get proper romantic indeed."

Dana laughs again, a bright sound that gets carried off by a gust almost as soon as it leaves her mouth. It's an obvious joke for several reasons. One: the fact that Dana is a lesbian and Oliver very much gay. Two: the tiny problem of him being hopelessly hung-up on his ex-boyfriend. Three: the whole being dead thing, he supposes.

"I have to butter you up for what I'm about to say next," Dana says.

Abruptly, Oliver's smile falls. His eyes drop down to her lap, where she's holding Finn's file. On the cover, there's Operation HALO's guideline, ANGEL. It's an acronym that Oliver had to learn by heart within his first week here.

A is for Answer. Always respond to the call of your assigned human.

N is for Nurture. Foster a close working relationship. Establish trust while remaining professional at all times.

G is for Guide. Give advice, teach coping strategies, point out resources and support systems already in place.

E is for Encourage Independence. Begin the detachment process by encouraging your assignee to face difficult situations alone using the tools you gave them.

L is for Leave. Once the goal of the intervention is met, contact should cease to allow for a return to normal life.

Oliver's eyes linger on goal of the intervention. That is what Dana is here for; what she's been trying to get out of him for weeks now. Before his work can begin, he needs to set an objective. Normally, this is done by Dana or one of the other mentors, but since Oliver knows Finn better than any of them, she assigned him the task.

"I'm going to need you to give me something, Oliver," Dana says. "It's been almost three months. You should've reached out to him two weeks ago."

Tearing his eyes away from the file, Oliver fishes a hair tie out of his pocket and sets about pulling his hair into a messy ponytail.

"I know it's hard to think about him," Dana amends. "But just think about how difficult all of this is for him."

Oliver pauses briefly to throw her an unimpressed glance. He refuses to feel guilty over his stalling. Nothing about this situation is anywhere in the vicinity of normal. He will not let his afterlife be dictated by arbitrary deadlines.

"Think about the competition, then." Dana nudges her knee against his. "You're giving the others a head start. You do want to have your contract renewed another year, don't you?"

Oliver, finally having bent his unruly hair to his will, responds with a non-committal shrug. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He wants to be back in the common room in the mansion. A few days ago, he managed to log into Spotify on one of the ancient computers (which was a small miracle; most internet sites are banned here to prevent them from trying to contact someone from their past lives). He itches for one of his playlists to drown out his thoughts, for the fleeting feeling of normalcy he felt as he lay on the worn-down couch, eyes closed, mouthing along to the familiar lyrics from his favourite albums.

When Dana speaks again, her voice is softer than it was a moment ago. "He misses you, you know. He thinks of you almost every day."

Oliver's breath leaves him in a soft whoosh. "What's the exact question?"

"Please define the goal of this intervention as precisely as possible," Dana reads. "They basically want you to think about what Finn needs the most."

Oliver hesitates. He knows what Finn needs. He also knows that what Finn needs and what Finn wants are often two very separate things.

Wordlessly, he takes the file and the pen from Dana's hands and writes into the form: The intervention has met its goal when Finn O'Connell feels like he can be unapologetically himself; when he learns to accept help; when he's truly, properly happy.

Next to him, Dana nods. "Nice," she says. She taps a finger on the file. "Are you sure you don't want to have a look at what's in here?"

"No. I already know everything I need to know."

"Are you ready to finally see him, then?"

"Yes." Oliver directs his gaze at the waves again, the sea just as troubled as he is. "I think I am."

***

Oliver isn't ready at all.

For a moment, sitting on the cliffs, he thought he might be. Now that he's padding along the familiar corridor of Finn's family home, he wonders who he thought he was fooling.

He's not prepared to see the first boy he ever properly liked and then broke up with again after being dead an entire winter. How could he be? How could he be cool about any of this?

Thinking about Finn with intention—it took him weeks to manage this new way of travel; he thinks he much preferred riding Lucretia—dropped him right into the living room, where Finn's mother is currently watching re-runs of Love Island, completely oblivious to Oliver's presence.

His steps are soundless as he nears the door to Finn's room. It's left slightly ajar. Oliver peers through the crack—and freezes.

Finn O'Connell is there (fortunately), still the prettiest boy Oliver has ever seen (tragically) and currently spinning around on his desk chair (mystifyingly). His eyes are shut as he whirls around, a blur of motion. Watching him, Oliver feels slightly sick.

After a few seconds, Finn abruptly comes to a stop. He opens his eyes. Takes a deep breath in through his nose.

And then his gaze falls on Oliver.

He blinks rapidly, eyes struggling to focus. Unlike before, he actually looks like he's going to be ill now.

"No," he murmurs. He squeezes his eyes shut again, the heels of his hands pressed against them like he wants to rid himself of the vision in front of him through sheer force of will. "No no no."

Oliver tries to speak. Fails. When the words finally come, they're not the ones he expected. "I'm sorry."

At the sound of his voice, Finn's hands drop. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed as they flicker over Oliver's frame, entirely unchanged from the way he looked on the last day of his life. "I'm really going insane, aren't I," he whispers.

"Finn." Oliver takes a small step forward, fully entering the room. "It's actually me."

Finn ignores him. Pinching his own arm, he chants to the ceiling: "He's dead. He's dead, you know he's dead. He's—fuck."

"I'm not a hallucination," Oliver tries again. "I died, but I came back. I can't really explain how, but I—"

Changing tactics, Finn scrambles for the Bible on his bookshelf and holds it out like he's a priest preparing for exorcism. Oliver gestures at the cross earrings dangling from his very own ears with a long-suffering expression.

With many of Shakespeare's plays, there's a point where things are so tragic they tip into comedy. Oliver thinks that this might be that point. He decides that it doesn't feel very comical when one is living it.

"Stay back," Finn orders, still brandishing the Holy Scripture. "Go back to—the other side, or whatever."

Oliver lets out a helpless laugh. "You watch too many horror movies, Finn O'Connell."

What little colour remained drains from Finn's face at once. It's as if in uttering his name, Oliver has spoken some kind of spell; from one second to another, Finn drops the Bible and crumbles on the edge of his bed, his hands laced together behind his head.

Oliver knows that pose. He knows that breathing pattern, all shallow and irregular.

Finn is having a panic attack.

From down the corridor, Finn's mother calls out, "Everything okay, Finnie?"

"Y-yeah. Just d-dropped something," Finn manages, his voice cracking midway through the sentence. He doesn't raise his head again to look at Oliver, too busy struggling to pump oxygen into his lungs.

Oliver watches him for a few seconds, frozen. It was so much easier sinking down next to him on the bathroom tiles with some half-formed assumptions and a smart quip. He doesn't have any jokes left in him now, no quiet affirmations—just a lump in his throat where his words should be and a feeling of guilt so potent he can taste it.

In the end, he does the thing he does best. He disappears.

****************************

you know i love a little angst 😋

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! was this how you expected their reunion to go? and what do you think might happen next?

i'm back from LA, which was honestly the BEST time. i met so many writer friends, got to speak on a panel and a q&a and presented some of this year's wattys winners! honestly 10/10, i'm so sad it went over so quickly :,)

that is all from me! today's song is haunt by bastille because what is this story about if not hauntings!!!!

p.s. this sounds so silly, but it would mean the world if you guys would comment on this story! i know it's not something that most people do anymore on wattpad, but comments are genuinely the main reason i post on here instead of keeping this all locked in a word doc for myself. there are like 200 of you but i only ever hear from a handful. talk to me, babes!! i promise i don't bite 🥺💖 (to those who are already commenting: ily and i owe you my firstborn ❤️)