Title: this is the sound of my soul
Fandom: The Haunting of Bly Manor.
Characters: Peter; background Rebecca/Peter.
Prompt: Relief.
Rating: M.
Length: 1208.
Content warnings: Graphic mentions of death, mentions of ghosts and references to abuse. Spoilers for 1x05 and 1x07.
Author’s notes: Title is from Spandau Ballet’s "True."
Summary: His throat aches.


His throat aches for several long days.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror is a rarity. Sometimes he can see a flash of himself from the corner of his eye and other times, he stares at the glass and doesn’t see anyone looking back.

Perhaps he never sees himself at all. Maybe it’s a trick of his mind. He wants to see himself so badly that perhaps he conjures it up—he’s done it before, believing so tightly that his mother would be there for him, that she’d open his bedroom door and free him from the confinements of his little cage.

But unlike the birds that swoop along the grounds of Bly and perch themselves on the thick branches, he only feels his prison grow smaller.

The large hallways feel tight for his broad shoulders. He lurks in the classroom and begs for Rebecca to see him, but when she peers at the glass and her little compact mirror, all she sees is herself. The sharp arch to her brows, the points to her lips. He stands behind her and wills himself to be seen, and yet she peers at the mirror and sees nothing but herself.

*

His throat aches worse when they laugh.

No one notices as he clears his throat. He stands in the kitchen and glares at them all as they eat, spoonful after spoonful. They laugh like a stone being tossed into a pond and the ripples barely touch him. He wonders if anything touches him now. He rots beneath the surface of an otherwise pristine lake, and they sit at their table with their full plates and laugh.

Rebecca’s smile is bright as he stands across from her, willing her to peer down at her glass and see him. He stands behind her as she insists on washing the dishes, and tries to imprint his silhouette through the thick glass.

Despite pressing his hand against the panel, she never sees him. He knocks his hand against the window and his knuckles make no sound. He picks up a stone to throw at it and the glass doesn’t shatter.

It’s both terrifying and lonely, and Peter doesn’t know how he feels as he stares at the dark window and doesn’t see himself looking back.

*

His throat aches less near her.

In the quiet of her room, he’s able to breathe. He can suck in air and feel it enter his throat and dry out his mouth. It travels down his chest and into his belly, and he can feel it expand before he lets it all out.

Despite his noise, she never hears him. She was the only person who ever did.

When he’s able to catch a glimpse of himself in her mirror, he stands impossibly close to it. Desperate to catch it, he keeps himself as close to it as possible as if that can intimidate the mirror into allowing him to imprint his soul inside of it.

He blinks repeatedly and finds he never wavers, and even as he tosses a stone into the pond of his reflection, he sees himself staring back. Pale, gaunt, and healthy and lively all at once, Peter wonders just who is staring back at him.

He wants to inspect every pore that he can see, every sharp line of his face, every bruising and hair. He doesn’t look any different to what he remembered from before—before it happened, before he lost.

Tilting his head upward, he can see the finger marks that had bruised and taken his life. Her fingerprints are small for a woman with such a vice-like grip. Rebecca’s fingerprints had left nothing in their wake for him to hold onto.

*

His throat doesn’t hurt when she’s in the room.

It make the most sense to him; he likes it most when he can see her. Life is less lonely with her body warmth heating up the room like a hearth.

He wants to press his ear against her nose to hear her breathing and he wants to slope his mouth against hers to taste her sighs, but Rebecca flutters about like a bird, moving impossibly fast for him to ever keep up. She moves in a way that’s meant to make her untouchable, and he wonders just who it is she’s trying to fly from.

When she’s still, he takes advantage.

He stands in front of Rebecca with his hands in his pockets and observes her quietly. She pierces through him and onto the glass. He stands in front of her to try and block her, but she smothers him down instead.

She is just as beautiful as he remembers; the strong arch of her neck, the sharpness of her jaw, and the kindness of her eyes peer back at him as he stares at her.

For a moment, Peter can pretend she can see him.

He tilts his head as she tilts her own, and he watches as she observes herself with a curious gaze. He thinks to tell her how beautiful she is, but it sits on the tip of his tongue and weighs it down along with an assortment of words and things he never got to say.

She turns away and he catches a glimpse of himself, standing alone, with her nowhere in sight. Her back summons his reflection forward, and he can see himself standing in her bedroom. He overshadows hers as she prepares for bed.

When she glances up at the mirror, her brows furrow. It’s in that moment he thinks she sees him—really sees him, as she had on the lounge, as she had every time he had shed himself of his armour and let her inside of him.

"Peter?"

Inhaling deeply, he feels a tightness in his chest expand. He lets out an incredulous breath, feeling the weight on his shoulders of his trench coat lighten. His lips curve upward and he feels light—lighter than ever before, his wings unfurling, his feathers no longer weighing him down—and tears prick his eyes.

Opening his mouth, he only releases the first letter of her name before he notices her furrowed brows deepen into an uncertain frown. Her eyes are restless and unsettled.

He’s lost her.

*

His throat tightens at the edge of the lake. He lifts his hand to wrap around it and try to smother the burning.

When he stares at the surface of the lake, he sees his reflection. Face gaunt, hands hollow, his skin slowly peeling away. It’s a sight that looks familiar to him. It’s the reflection he’s seen of himself long before he ever died.

The women sleeps peacefully near him, her face smooth, her eyes lifeless. Her hair is thick and it weighs her down like stones. His mouth is open, eyes wide, and his neck looks twisted and out of sorts.

No matter how hard he tries to summon the water to thicken, it remains a thin glass sheet for him to peer into, a mirror into the belly of his broken soul as he stares at himself as the reeds sweep across his hair and decaying face.

Peter stares at the lake and wishes for his reflection to disappear.