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Lancelot was a ghost.
Lancelot was a ghost with before-life trauma, easily falling into two halves if making even the slightest movements.
As a ghost, this special technique was completely useless, since on the contrary to what most people believed, they could not see ghosts, not mention being terrified by them. Lancelot could not taste, touch, or move, gradually realising there was only hollowness awaited him in the afterlife. It was even worse when his ghost body separated, both halves just kept frantically searching for each other yet not able to reach out, a feeling that could only be described as heartbreak that tearing up his soul.
Lancelot simply decided he would never move again, thus he would not split up again.
Fortunately, he was at Percival's house, a place he could wish nowhere better.
Not that they were in a relationship, Lancelot never revealed his feelings to the other man; considering his current state, maybe it was for the best.
However, they were intimate in some way. That they visited each other’s home on a regular basis, that they hanged out after either one had a long mission, that they helped each other pick wallpaper for their new offices, that they even sometimes watched terrible comedies together and laughed as if those scenes were the funniest in the world: all seemed perfect.
He did miss laughing freely without fearing falling apart. Now was not bad though.
Being in the house, he could see Percival, opening the front door, moving around cooking, watching TV on the sofa. He could hear Percival, whistling while taking bath, doing exercises in the gym room, gently snoring in dreams.
Of course it was not creepy, at least not upon the underworld standard. He was a ghost, therefore, entitled to do so.
To be honest, Lancelot felt a little sad since Percival acted like nothing happened and just went on with his life. Sure, his recommended candidate needed his support and his energy was vastly consumed by this election, but still.
Guess it was what a ghost had to bear, Lancelot could deal with it.
Today was the day Percival's pupil became Lancelot. Lancelot the ghost could not say he was pleased, but it was impossible to keep the title for himself forever.
Percival came home late and reeked of Martini, such an old-fashioned choice. James watched with amusement as Percival staggered through the living room towards his direction, and rolled under the sofa at a drunken attempt to sit on it.
The sound Percival made stirred something soft in the ghost. James always knew the other man was a light drinker, and behaved poorly after three glasses of Martini. Percival would have clung to whomever next to him, usually James, who would have absolutely no problem in indulging him.
But the noises went on a little long, long enough that James started to worry. That was when he realised it was not snoring he heard, but a stream of suppressed weeping muffled by Percival's tailored suit.
James did not anticipate this.
Just as he was shocked by his finding, Percival lifted his head to lean on the sofa, holding a photo to his chest. A photo James could tell which after seeing the writing on its back.
"Percival and Lancelot."
Percival had already ceased crying, leaving a trace of glistening marks along his cheeks. Summoning all his power, James moved and immediately fell into two pieces, the left half smashing at the arm of the sofa, the other rolling a little further, trapping Percival's body in between.
This was the closest position he could manage as a damaged ghost that resembled a hug.
His left was crying for his right, and the right, the left. James couldn't care less. He was heartbroken anyway.
FIN.