draw with me in the pit

Russell finally acknowledges his words, tossing a silent glare towards the Informant, but still content to ignore him verbally. The Informant only smiles in return, watching as Russell turns back to his task of combing through clovers.

He crouches down with him, still watching as Russell can only find three-leaf clover patches. His hands are covered in dirt, motions agitated in his desperation to find it and prove the Informant wrong. No, that isn’t quite right. He isn’t necessarily doing it for that reason, but for the original reason he came out here.

The Informant rests his head on his knee, curling his arms around his legs. They’re on the side of the building closer to the forest so the hospital blocks the worst of the cool wind coming off the shoreline. Still, with the sun setting, the air was growing chiller by the minute.

“It’s getting dark Russell. You don’t want to run into a Nightmare, now do you? They’ll just be worried if you return home too late.”

Russell freezes. His words invoke a series of different images, and the Informant’s ever present smile drops to a frown. Out of all of them, he never liked thinking about Yumi.

“You can’t change what already happened. And finding something like a four-leaf clover isn’t going to grant any of them enough luck to change it either,” the Informant reasons, continuing on quietly. “Shame you feel benevolent enough now that you would willingly give something like that away. It won’t do you any good now will it, Russell?”

He stands and dusts off imaginary dirt from his pants, waiting for Russell to do the same. Belatedly, he does and the Informant holds a hand out, which goes ignored.

“Let’s go home, Russell.”

The door opens, Russell still not bothering to knock when he knows this is where the Informant will always be waiting by the telephone, until the day he isn't. He looks up from his book, sitting on the couch and pretending to hold an air of nonchalant surprise.

“Who are you?”

What an interesting question, coming from Russell that is. One that simply has the Informant offering him the same smile like always.

“I’m the Informant, silly. Didn’t I already tell you that?”

He looks frustrated. Confused. His gaze drops to the floor, no doubt thinking over how to rephrase his question. The edges of the Informant’s smile curls tighter, crueler.

“Who do you think I am, Russell?”

His memory draws back to the first day they met, Gardenia’s harmless joke and how Russell went along with it. The fear and confusion layered deep underneath his answer is stark for the Informant. His fingers want to pry open that wound and tug out all the tangled thoughts he’s buried deep in it. All of Russell is a rotting wound under the thin veneer of bruised, scarred skin. It’s his job to drag it out. To remind him of his sin. Teach him to feel guilt.

What a tiresome, painful task it is, being born to be despised.

Still, if Russell wants to understand—if he wants to be rehabilitated truly, then he needs him. More than anyone else in this town, the Informant is the only one who can grant him any kind of sense for all those thoughts, sins, and pain he stored deep within.

Even now, he looks at him like he doesn’t understand. The Informant is an abnormal, outside element. All their neighbors have stories and mean something. Even those from the Dreamsend Inc. have an explanation. The Informant is nothing like them, and never will be. He can never be anything other than what he is. And for that, he will never know anything other than the utter disdain directed his way.

Russell balls his fists, shaking as he gets closer. The Informant thinks he’s going to strike him, but it’s much too soon for that. Instead, he collapses next to him on the couch, grips the sleeve of his shirt and continues to shake. Does he understand what the Informant is? Can he accept that answer?

Will he ever grasp how much more he could be if he just accepted him properly?

The answer has yet to be determined, Russell isn’t sure if he’s going to be rehabilitated. The Informant hopes he does, because then he’ll be able to give more. He can be useful in the way Russell needs him to be.

In a quiet, hesitant voice, he asks him a question.

He’s been following the messy, complicated thread that ties them together, and gets as far as Iwatodai’s train station before he spots him. Over and over in his dreams, Ryoji has seen that dorm bathed in blood and surrounded by stark shadows. And as he gets closer, every time there is a trail of bright, blue butterflies leading him up the staircase and to Minato’s door.

His hand reaches for the knob, but just like all the times before, he opens the door and finds a corpse waiting for him. The second his foot breaches the threshold, butterflies burst from the figure on the bed and he wakes.

Ryoji doesn’t really know the person he’s been dreaming about, and yet, he does down to his very core.

So when he feels that same tug and sees the butterflies leading him to the station, it isn’t surprising to see Minato there. He doesn’t know where he’s trying to go this late, but Ryoji knows it can’t be anywhere else other than the dorm, however much Minato may want otherwise.

In the end, they talk and Minato goes home. The butterflies follow him inside the train terminal, and Ryoji knows he’s only put off the inevitable. It’s not his time yet though. And for that, he is grateful.

There is nothing he can do for the others he sees, and he knows as he closes his eyes, in hours they will be coffins, submerged in those inky shadows.

It’s futile to resist, and often times, he doesn’t try to intervene anymore. Something about Minato is elusively special though, so he becomes an exception. He doesn’t try to warn the business man who has a trail of growing shadows follow him, nor the woman in the white dress with long, red hair whose clothes have phantom blood on them.

Instead, he makes himself into Minato’s shadow. A harbinger, unwittingly putting off what he knows can’t really be avoided. He’ll hold onto him as long as he can, convince him to hang in there just a little longer. To see what’s in front of him and just how little time he really has left—how little time they all have left.

Every night, he still dreams of that boy surrounded by butterflies, and watches with a small, helpless smile because he knows he can’t save him.

As the leaves fall from the trees for good, there are no games or solution he has to offer for what is to come. Only a choice. He could never change things, but with his new awareness, perhaps he can provide brief solace.

“You won’t feel any pain. You can forget about it until the end.”

“I can’t.”

Ryoji wants to beg more for the one thing he feels he can finally give Minato. Every other thing he has given has also been temporary, but this kind of peace could be enough. He sees it now. The resolve to live even in the face of death. The acceptance of their coming fate. He’s done what he can, and merely grieves everything else he cannot change.

“When we meet next, it will be for the last time like this.”

“I know.”

Minato doesn’t say anything else, but as Ryoji leaves, he feels forgiven. They are the wings of the same butterfly, and it isn’t until their last meeting does he realize what choice Minato really made.

For as elated as seeing Mello again made him, the reality was sinking in that he really wasn’t the same person. Every instinct and training Matt’s had tells him not to waver his aim, but truthfully he’s never shot it once, and has no plans of doing so at Mello. With this in mind, he lowers his weapon and tries not to feel depressed it takes the blonde moments later to do the same.

“So what are you doing here?” Matt asks, taking the chance to feign nonchalance and lower his guard as expected of him. It didn’t matter because Mello wouldn’t be fooled for an instant.

“You aren’t stupid, as much as you pretend to be—you know exactly why I’m here,” Mellow narrows his eyes. “The real question is why are you snooping around?” Delayed by his old friend’s stare, Matt belatedly answers, “…Looking for you.” Turning away, he moves to dig out his PSP; the action gives him a reason to look away, even though he is very much still paying attention. It’s with the same training he doesn’t flinch when predictably Mello slams his hand on the bedside table, inches from where his gloved hand just was pulling the handheld from the drawer. He’d never been one to appreciate being ignored.

“I’m not going back with you. I already told them, I’m not working with Near.”

“I wasn’t looking for you to do that,” Matt starts, dividing his attention because the conversation is more nerve wracking than he’d let on. “Is it so hard to believe, maybe, I just wanted to find you? I could help.”

Mello’s gaze hasn’t softened once, and at least the mocking expression it now morphs to is familiar.

“You? You know this is reality, right? One slip, you’re dead. And if you’ve been following me, then you already know I’m doing fine; as if I need a lazy airhead like you.”

Matt’s known the other long enough that he’s devolving to insults as a means of misdirection. He’s in over his head and doesn’t want to admit it—he’s been watching after all, and whatever he’s been through these last three years shows that truth quite well.

“You’re stuck right now though aren’t you?” Matt brings up and bites back the spark of satisfaction his statement brings in the way it twists Mello’s face into irritation. It’s still easy to do and that is mildly comforting, even if his old friend appears seconds away from pointing a gun at him again.

“I’m working on it,” Mello justifies. Matt snorts and finishes his quest in retrieving his handheld. Mello doesn’t stop him this time, but still looks annoyed.

“I could do it right now. Just tell me what you need and where and I could do it. That simple.”

The stare Mello gives him now is heavy—less angry and more calculating. He’s weighing the pros and cons of something, and Matt is equal parts terrified and desperate to sell his point. Something tells him if he lets Mello leave this motel room tonight without any kind of deal made, this is the last chance he’ll have at seeing him again. It’s already taken a long time to narrow down where he went, following cold trail after cold trail until he happened to be lucky enough to hear about a tip from someone in one of his servers in the United States. It was so unlikely to even be true—just a passing similarity mentioned, yet he came anyway.

Mello won’t let himself be found a second time.  

“I have all my stuff here, just tell me what you need Mello, and I’ll do it.”

“What are you looking for here Matt?” He begins quietly, hand gripping tight the rosary around his neck and the gun concealed in his coat pocket.

“Why are you here? I mean it, this really isn’t a game.”

“I never sai—”

“Go home. Go back to the house, and tell Roger that I never asked anyone to come looking for me. I’m not coming back! I’m so close Matt, and I’m not letting you or anything else mess it up for me!”

At that, Matt makes himself look away from his game and up. He really doesn’t know how many times he’ll need to repeat himself, but this has nothing to do with Roger or any of them. He doesn’t want to even think about what that sorry excuse for an old man had to say to him when suddenly number one is shipped off to fight Kira, while number two vanishes into the rain. The boy who only ever firmly remained in third is suddenly de-facto first in the house and next in line if anything else goes wrong—none of which appealed to Matt in the slightest.

When he gets down to it truly, even Kira means very little to him too. This has always been about Mello and nothing else.

“I’m not here for Roger,” he repeats, voice steady against the rising anger in Mello’s.

“I don’t need you for this.”

Matt ignores the twinge of pain his statement gives as he’d always known the sentiment here was more for him than the blond in front of him.

“I’m not saying that either. I’m offering my services, and you don’t even have to tell them it was me who did it. It’ll be easy.” Matt places his PSP on the bed and reaches for the drawer again. He digs out a little notepad and paper, jotting down his number and a secure way to contact him online, holding out the tiny sheet as an offering.

“Take it or don’t. I’m not asking for anything, just saying if you need me, I’m here.”

Mello continues his stare and Matt forces himself not to flinch when hurried, heavy steps come towards him and snatch the paper from his hand.

“Just stop following me. If I decide to, I’ll contact you. Otherwise, stay here or leave, I don’t care. None of it will matter soon, anyway.”

“Alright, sure thing Mell,” Matt directs his attention away again aware that took more of Mello’s pride then he’d likely ever admit. Sure enough, he’s barely given a goodbye before he’s storming away and slamming the motel’s door behind him.

It is a quiet climb. Stained glass surrounds the outer walls of the spiral staircase and the eyes painted in them watch as they ascend. Jon is long used to the gaze of eyes, but this time he is keeping a secret they want to feed on.

“So, can you see any better, now that we’re here?”

“No, but I can feel him still. He knows we’re here.”

“Great,” Martin mutters, unsurprised. It’s not like coming in with the advantage of surprise would be helpful anyway. As they round the corner, the glass gives way to cobbled walls and iron fixtures befitting the prison the old Panopticon was structured in.

“We’re close,” Jon warns, though there is little either of them could do to prepare. He thinks Martin might ask him once more, what their plan is, but either he’s tired of Jon’s ominous and unsatisfying answers or like him, knows there isn’t one. They climb a few more floors until there is only one large door left to open. Inside is a wide room that more closely resembles the top of a lighthouse, its windows giving the perfect view of countless domains, not that Elias needs them for a proper look considering anyone on the ground floor could give it if they still have eyes to spare.

Yet, there he is, as perfectly composed as always and staring down at the ruined world below them. He turns to greet Jon and Martin, and as he does, the cascading blinking eyes trailing down one side of his face and speckling his neck widen and stare.

“Have a nice trip? Breathtaking down there isn’t it? Of course, I only have the bird’s eye view, but from what I can tell it’s quite lovely.”

“Mhmm, people suffering over and over while a big eyeball in the sky watches. It was wonderful. Might have even seen a cow at one point,” Martin answers him with an eye roll. Despite his new monstrous form, Elias at least doesn’t seem to have changed much.

“Come now, Martin, it couldn’t have been that bad. You and Jon seem fine. If I’m not wrong, you even had a bit of fun on your way here. How does it feel, Jon? You can do so much more than just compel now, enthralling isn’t it?”

“I-It wasn’t fun. I only wanted to settle a score, nothing more. I didn’t enjoy doing it.”

Elias’s multitude of eyes settle on Jon and his skin crawls again. It was one thing when Helen insisted otherwise—the Spiral is centered on lies meant to hurt. They both know he didn’t find it fun, but to say he doesn’t enjoy it entirely…

“Mm, feels nice to not be so helpless, doesn’t it? Which reminds me, I’m supposed to be the last stop on your little hit list road trip, correct? Is there anything you’d like to discuss beforehand? I’m all ears,” he asks, his smile dancing on the edge of a joke that for once Jon understands and almost flinches at when he hears. Martin, however, doesn’t see.

“Do it,” he encourages, and while it’s something Jon hasn’t been pushed to do recently, he was waiting for it. Compared to Callum or Simon, this makes sense to do. Elias—Jonah—is the one who caused all of this. He’s caused so much suffering with his tugging of strings, but Jon is still shaking. It’s his fault too.

Beholding thrums between them, even nestled in the Eye’s blind spot, as Martin looks to Jon and Elias repeats Martin’s urging.

“Yes, Jon. Do it.”

The words feel like a compulsion even though they aren’t. Still, it’s the thing that draws the words from Jon’s lips.

“Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing!”

The static is loud and overbearing, but of course from where they are, how could the Eye twist itself in? Desperately it hears its Archivist calling, but the hunger it senses hardly comes from the one its stare is being directed towards. No, it is only Jon the Eye wants to devour right now. For when its heavy weight bears down on them, tries to bear down on Elias, he is absolutely thrilled. He’s watched Jon’s other ‘smitings’, and like all the other times Jon has tried to channel the power of Beholding against the man before him, he takes to it proud and rapturous.

“Oh, Jon,” Elias breaks the silence, softly. His skin prickles with shame, embarrassment and Martin’s heavy stare beside him.

“That was exhilarating. I wasn’t sure if you’d really go for it, but surely, you knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Wouldn’t work?” Martin asks, the words pointed and sharp. Their accusing tone isn’t directed at Jon, much too infuriated that Elias is still alive no doubt, but they punch the air out of him nonetheless.

“He’s too… it’s Beholding, of course…” Jon stammers, guilt clawing at his veins because he had a suspicion, if he could call it that by this point. He couldn’t tell Martin—perhaps maybe didn’t even want to, but as a result it only gave him false hope. Something Jon continuously felt awful trying to pry away from him.

A dry laugh cuts him off.

“No, no, of course. With the way everyone talks about you here, it makes sense. It’s just, of course.”

“M-Martin…”

“Yes, of course, Martin. Jon would never want to crush that precious optimism of yours, but it’s merely a wonder this place hasn’t managed to do so. Are you starting to get it now though?”

“Elias—”

“Aren’t you tired of it Jon? Had enough of the guilt? Plus, Martin really deserves to know doesn’t he? There’s so much you keep not telling him and that frustration must surely be wedging between you.”

“Know what Jon?”

It always came down to secrets and trust, didn’t it? And in the end, as much as he asked from Martin, Jon has never really been adept at sharing—giving back to make up for what he takes.

“He’s like me Martin, w-we… I can’t kill him. I know I told you I wouldn’t hesitate, and I thought maybe, I would still be able to do something but…”

“You can’t,” Martin finishes for him, soft and brittle. He isn’t angry. Jon, out of fear, breaks that respected boundary not to look, but the disappointment is crushing and painful. His attention snaps away when he hears the telltale click of Elias’s shoes on the floor.

“No, he can’t. And he wasn’t going to tell you, but really Jon what did you expect to happen when you got here? Were you hoping to be wrong?” He laughs at that considering just how much both of them know about the world and its inhabitants now. His hand reaches for Jon’s shoulder and Martin reaches out to try and stop him or put himself between them, but falters, pinned when Elias’s eyes glance towards him.

“Are you ready to join me now, my Archive? You may not be able to die, but it’s unpleasant to keep denying yourself from looking isn’t it?”

The possessive note in his tone makes his want to run because it only adds to the things he doesn’t know how to talk to Martin about. For as much as he loves him, there is a connection forged here and twined in spider’s silk that Jon hates and craves like the air he used to need to breathe. He is hungry, especially after that failed attempt to use the Watcher’s gaze, and Elias is trying to goad him not so subtly into doing something cruel, not realizing there is another option. One he does have the power for now.

He raises his scarred palm and cups Elias’s cheek. The voices and sights and pain and misery are a wafting miasma and while it serves to remind him he’s hungry, they are not the meal he is looking at. Jon tries not to think of Martin—not to dive into the desire to know just what this must look like and what he must be thinking as Jon reveals his intentions.

“Jonah Magnus, tell me about the first time you thought you were about to die.”

The pupils in Elias’s eyes shrink, and Jon feels ravenous as he drinks in for the first time fear evident in that normally arrogant expression. They may both be connected to the same power and share it’s horrible gifts, but its desire for terror is indiscriminate. There’s a crinkle in the line of Elias’s mouth and Jon watches his throat bob with a painful looking swallow as he tries to resist.

“Tell me. Tell me about the many days in that sick room. How the doctors said you wouldn’t make it.”

“A-Ah, but it was a chance recovery. Quite lucky, right?” Elias strains, still evidently in pain. Jon’s grip tightens, and he gasps.

“How did it feel to have them discuss your own funeral thinking you were asleep? Knowing you were so young and helpless. Your whole life falling to pieces right before your eyes and you could do nothing. How every cough, every wheeze, you thought might be your last. How sometimes you wondered if you would go to sleep to not wake again. Even long after you no longer felt that weak, your lungs never quite felt right, did they? And each mild cold after only served as a reminder it could happen again. That maybe it was already happening.”

Jon doesn’t want to think about how good this feels. To see the very man who’s driven him to this point crumple before him over centuries old memories. To watch him be the one full of fear for once.

Elias’s body can’t seem to make up its mind on whether it wants to flee or lean into this. He’s captivated by Jon using his power in this manner, but also it’s his own painful memories dragged to the surface.

“You may not be able to die now, but if you’re going to push me to it, you will remember how afraid of it you were—not even kings are exempt from fear. Now let me go.”

Jon moves to pull away and is more than grateful Elias doesn’t try to hold onto him or use him to help himself up. It’s uncomfortably satisfying to see him on the ground like this and Jon takes another shaky breath before turning to Martin.  

“We’re done here. Whatever it is we could do to fix things, it isn’t here.”

Martin stares between Elias and Jon who’s steadily heading back towards the door, still unsure what to make of what just happened. Getting out of there and away from Elias isn’t something he’ll say no to though and follows. The jealousy is still stirring somewhere, but it’s clear that whatever weird claim Elias thinks he has over Jon, it isn’t reciprocated. At the very least, it’s something Jon is demonstrating he wants no part of, and that’s enough for Martin right now. However, Elias’s voice stops them before they leave.

“You’ve done well, Jon. When all’s said and done, I’ll be here. The Panopticon is partly yours too, after all. None of this would have been capable, if not for you.”

Jon lingers at the door for a moment listening, but doesn’t deign to answer him. Martin catches up and is happy to let the door close behind them. The silence lingers for a few minutes as they make their way back down before Martin breaks it, needing to ask the obvious.

“Where do we go now? Do we… try meeting up with the others again? Come up with a new plan?”

“I don’t know,” Jon doesn’t mean to sound dismissive; he’s just drained from the encounter. It’s easier to not think of the others and try to see where they are or what they’re doing right now.

“We’ll figure it out when we’re out. I just… I just need a minute.”

“Okay,” Martin accepts, and quietly repeats.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t curious,” he tries to justify knowing it to be the truth, but one Jon will protest.

“Yes, but I’m not so rash as to mess with any of those cursed things; which leads me to believe you knew what it would do,” Jon retorts, as there are now too many concerns and questions arising that he doesn’t know the answers to and will simply have to wait out. It is possible Elias knows, but extremely doubtful he’d tell him.

At least if he was stuck in this state as well that had to mean whatever they were in for couldn’t be dangerous—just unpleasant.

He shifts back trying to squirm away from Elias who had only been getting closer. It wasn’t like he had very many places to go what with being on the edge of the sofa and a coffee table in front of him. Next time, he’ll think twice about Elias asking if he’d like to see something in such a vague manner when he’s over. Not that he wasn’t prepared on some level for it to be undoubtedly supernatural, but this was something he hadn’t necessarily signed up for.

During his complaints, Elias has now fully managed to straddle the leg that isn’t pressed to the side of the couch, and Jon is mentally cataloguing the notion that whatever the book did to them, it must have made him feel the need to be twice as physically annoying. Surely.

“Still unpleasant?” Elias whispers, mouth ghosting the shell of his ear. He raises a hand to gently tug at the corner of one of Jon’s cat ears, observing the way it flicks out of his grasp.

“Get out of my head,” Jon bats at his shoulder, but doesn’t try to move away. Rather than pull again, Elias has moved on to experimenting with different petting styles. Reluctantly, Jon finds himself relaxing when his scratching lingers between his ears and drifting to the base of his neck.

“You were fond of this even before getting these, but it is interesting to see how you react now,” Elias starts, pleased in the way Jon’s eyes unwittingly close. “See, you’re even purring.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles back though any bite in it is absent. He’s content and this was Elias’s fault anyway, so he should deal with the consequences.

“You are fixing this after,” Jon cracks an eye open to stare at Elias, who was still scratching gently at his nape. He closes it again soon after, trying not to stress too much about how strange it felt to have appendages he shouldn’t.

“After?” Elias muses, closing their distance again this time to nip at his earlobe. The hand Jon had been resting on the arm of the sofa flinches, tearing into the cushion. The discrepancy between one calm activity and one that gives a very different implication startled him, and he certainly did not feel bad about the outcome.

“I’m not paying for that,” he lets out testily, followed by a short gasp as Elias begins making his way down his neck. In lieu of a proper response, Jon’s only given a hum before the bites turn sharper, harder. There’s a slightly different edge to it than usual, as if whatever the tome did even managed to sharpen Elias’s teeth, but it’s a detail he only thinks in passing.

As much as he complains about it, beyond familiarity, what makes these things bearable with someone like Elias is he can see and read his boundaries before even Jon realizes them. In that regard, he trusts the man. He shouldn’t, case in point with this whole situation, but he has only ever promised him the eventuality of answers and assurance they will be to his expectations. Jon may not enjoy or have wished for the experiences he’s had, but he knows deep down he doesn’t necessarily regret them as much as he should. Not when he knows now just what they’ve done for him. The answers they gave. The power.

He’s lost himself in that sometimes. The Knowing and the Seeing. He is forever seemingly a moth to that blindingly atrocious, yet beautiful light.

Something he had denied and feared for so long, but with Elias there’s freedom to it now. Acceptance. Even if his patience is constantly tried.

He inhales sharply as a hand unbuttons enough of his dress shirt to fondle a nipple. Gently, ever so gently that he barely catches on in time, Elias shifts his legs apart enough to press one knee to approximately where his crotch would be hidden under the folds of the skirt. A whine leaves him unintentionally because through the fabric it barely feels like anything at all, even as his cock twitches in response. Jon doesn’t need to voice his complaints—he knows Elias can hear them and feel them, but he knows similarly he won’t actually do anything until he speaks up.

Adjusting for discomfort immediately without question is one thing, making him beg as a form of consent is another.

“How would you like this?” Elias asks so simply. It’s the option for an out, but the question has thoughts and images rushing through Jon’s mind. Things they’ve done. Things he wouldn’t mind again right now. The burning question of whether their current ailments are causing any influence, and if that was another thing Elias knew and refused to share. Somehow, he doubts that part—which lends itself further to the theory that Elias had his own ideas and irritatingly is keeping them to himself.

The man in question smiles at him in a chiding way, applying a touch more pressure with his nails against the skin of his chest. “I believe I asked a question, Jon.”

Hesitantly, he grinds into that knee, still thinking things over. The question does make him want to hide, squirm away into that place he can go to when they start proper if Elias lets him. Usually though, like now, he’s dragging him out bit by bit—quite appropriate of one who wants to watch and strip him bare both physically and mentally.

He isn’t afraid of sex. On the surface, it is a messy activity that occasionally is worth the pleasure that comes with it. It’s the intimacy that comes with it, however, that truly scares him. That raw sensation of uncontrollable openness Jon has no way of hiding from. It’s terrifying, enthralling. But he’s found acceptance—Elias has accepted him. Wants it. Wants him.

Jon doesn’t vocalize what he’s thinking, but he does focus on one image. The fantasy of it playing behind his eyelids broadcasted for Elias and he must be feeling kind if he isn’t still pushing Jon to speak.

It might have something to do with putting them in this situation in the first place. Even then, Jon is surprised he’s being so nice.

“Very well, we can do that.” With all the grace Elias normally has, it feels even more fluid this time as he slinks off him and stands. Delicately, he leans down and presses the stop button on the tape recorder. They both know if it wants to keep recording, there will simply be another one waiting for them in the bedroom. Whatever else their new forms cause in this regard though is something even Jon is fighting himself on wanting to catalogue—not that he sincerely believes what they’re about to do has any relevance to how the tome has changed them.

He turns and heads there now, and in a daze, Jon moves to join him feeling much less graceful in comparison.

Jon typically hates showing skin wishing to avoid the sensation of feeling exposed. When clothed it’s easier to hide and vulnerability aside, it’s also simply easier to pretend his body isn’t nearly as scarred as he knows it is. Considering who’s looking, there won’t be the lingering and questioning stares like those of strangers when he’s on the tube. Right now at least, it’s freeing if only for the sheer fact his new tail has a little less pressure from the elastic that was pinching it to his back as he slips the skirt off. If this lasts longer than the next day or two, he’ll have to make adjustments to his clothes, but such a mundane fact is the last thing he has on his mind right now.

Elias is once again watching him seated from the bed, and that shiver returns as to why he doesn’t normally like to be naked. His expression reflects how effortlessly the man has mentioned that watching him is one of his favorite things to do, and Jon personally can’t understand it even now. It at least made sense when he was plotting; quietly maneuvering all the pieces on his elaborate board game, but maybe in a way he’s still doing that. After all, he had freely admitted that Jon learning his place on the board and coming to willingly take those moves on his own wasn’t a part of his initial plan—just one he seemed happy to see nonetheless.

Slowly, he unbuttons a few more buttons of his dress shirt, but ultimately leaves it on. Elias doesn’t comment, not even to tease on how it was more notably the top buttons below the collar he slips apart, and merely continues to watch. The way his ears flick just slightly, alongside how well he’s come to know the man are the only indications Jon has on any of it. His steps take him to beside the bed, and after a beat of hesitation, he straddles one of Elias’s knees and braces his hands on his shoulders.

Immediately, Elias’s hands find purchase on Jon’s hips, one hand drifting closer to his lower back. Jon lets out a shaky breath as that hand brushes just below the waistband of his pants where his new tail meets his skin. Jon shifts so it’s more of an embrace than a balancing act, wanting instead to hide in the crook of Elias’s shoulder as he slowly begins to guide himself along the other man’s thigh, moving closer so he can rut at his chest. He can feel himself already leaking and it’s embarrassing, not at all helped as the hand on his lower back starts playing with the sensitive tail he never asked for. As he’s starting to get comfortable, Elias tugs on the tail. Not sharp enough for genuine pain, but testing the sensation to see how Jon would react.

What he likely wasn’t expecting was for Jon’s hands to tighten their grip, impulsively shredding down the cloth of Elias’s dress shirt, tearing it enough for slivers of blood to rise at the newly made cuts.

It’s satisfying hearing the exhalation of pain soaked pleasure, a sure sign that the bastard got what he deserved and wouldn’t try that again. It’s less satisfying when it only dissolves into a chuckle as Elias moves his hand away, instead navigating Jon away from where he’d been trying to hide and into a kiss. He indulges him briefly, before biting Elias’s lower lip. None of this dissuades him though, and irritatingly Jon can tell it’s acting as encouragement.

At some point during the kiss, he’s moved back to holding him, and in short work, Elias slips the hand holding Jon’s waist under his thighs, lifting him just slightly to shift him properly on the bed. The movement is a little jarring, but more so that his tail seems to move on its own out of the way of being crushed by his back.

Elias hisses in a not quite human way himself as he slowly removes his now ruined shirt. Jon doesn’t feel the least bit sympathetic, instead a little entranced by the severity of the lines staining the back now facing him. An odd impulse to lick at the wounds flickers through his mind, and while he’s quick to dismiss it, it definitely catches Elias’s attention.

He sits back at the edge of the bed and looks over his shoulder at the Archivist sprawled. There’s no need to say out loud what his eyes say for him. So Jon sits up again and slinks forward to splay his hands on Elias’s back taking in the extent of the damage. In that same daze, he’s moved forward the rest of the way, tentatively licking up a bead of blood along the stripe of reddened skin. Jon feels more than hears Elias’s sigh and he snaps out of it.

“Elias… what exactly did you intend when you read from that book?”

A shiver wracks through Elias and Jon is startled as he didn’t think he’d been asking that earnestly. In truth, he hadn’t really been thinking at all.

There’s a pause as he catches his breath, and with deliberate patience to prove he’s still in control, only then does Elias offer an answer.

“I wanted to see what you would do,” he twists around, a familiar smile in place as he knows it isn’t a satisfactory answer at all, however true he means it. Jon’s frown speaks as much.

“Now then, will you let me finish undressing or were you not finished?”

His irritation bleeds into arousal as even though he’ll complain about everything else regarding their current state, Jon has been given the reins with this one. He remains where he is until Elias has left for the adjoining bathroom and then tries to get comfortable. It’s easier when there aren’t eyes directly on him, even if he knows truly that he’s never really free of them.

The brief sound of the faucet is calming, and by the time Elias returns his annoyance, while still present, has simmered back down. He joins him soon enough, and all at once again he feels the dual maddening sensation of being quietly observed in all its assurance and fear. He watches too though, as Elias kneels on the bed above him and traces his hands up Jon’s thighs causing shivers in their wake. Elias’s hands are still slightly cold and damp, and being exposed like this always makes him fidget.

“Would you be a dear and tell me what it is you’d like again? I believe in all that excitement, it must have slipped my mind,” Elias asks, fingers now playing along the waistband of Jon’s panties, not quite taking them off, but teasingly letting the silk fabric brush against his cock. Whatever amount of kindness he’d attributed the man earlier clearly meant nothing, and the smug smile presented towards him now only makes him bare his teeth.

“What does it matter if you’ll do as you like anyway?”

Elias lowers himself, his hands having abandoned their place at Jon’s waistband and now rucking up the bottom of his dress shirt. His breath ghosts the skin of Jon’s stomach before biting down and sucking harshly. Jon yelps and reaches for Elias’s head, though he doesn’t attempt to pull him off so much as tugs at his hair in response to the treatment—almost pulling at one of his cat ears instead. He only feels him moan in response, not letting up until he’s satisfied the mark will be a vibrant purple. The momentary lick Elias gives before pulling back has Jon thankful again that their tongues hadn’t been changed as well.

“I’m sure you’ll give me your input regardless. Now then, shall we?”

If he wasn’t busy panting, Jon would call him out for being a bastard, but judging from his expression Elias knows well enough what he’s thinking. Feeling Elias rub his hands along his sides is placating to a degree, but the motion is also a gentle reminder that he’s waiting for an answer.

“I-I don’t want any penetration—but between my thighs is fine,” Jon finally gets out, a twinge of annoyance at being forced to admit it out loud. The desire is in equal parts wanting an easier to clean mess and because he can’t see a particularly comfortable way to prepare for anything more with the state their nails are in. A fact that is likely obvious and one the man above him could have realized on his own, but he’s almost certain putting Jon in situations like this where he must confess his desires is pleasurable in its own way.

Still, for all his irritation, Elias moves back up and distracts him with a kiss. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s genuinely trying to ease the jittery sensation he’s caused or chase after it. It works in calming Jon down enough though that when he feels the palm of Elias’s hand brush and rub at the bulge threatening to escape his underwear, his nervousness doesn’t get in the way of enjoying it.

His noises are their own quiet admissions that he’s enjoying this and Elias happily swallows them all, pinching Jon’s lower lip between his teeth again as a reward. Jon has already seen the lengths Elias will deny him if he tries to quiet himself or close his eyes.

“Hold yourself for me,” Elias tells him, leaving one final kiss on the scar adorning his neck. Once they break, anticipation pools in Jon’s stomach. He’s slow and deliberate as he moves away again, finally sliding down the slightly soiled silk from Jon’s waist and watches him. It’s mystifying still for Jon, being looked at like this considering what he knows his body looks like. Yet, Elias looks at him like he’s everything, as bizarre as that feeling is.

“My Archivist… do you want to see for yourself?” The man muses in response no doubt once again reading what he’s thinking. Jon intends to say no or ignore the sentiment, but like the times before he’s shown anyway.

Through Elias’s eyes, he watches the man trace the remnants of worm holes, long scarred over. He trails down his arm and lingers on his hand, palm holding his burn scar as his thumb brushes along the faded pink scar Michael left him. He shivers again with the weight of that gaze. It’s more than simply being Seen when Elias talks to him like this he’s found.

It helps a little, oddly enough. Jon will never quite understand it beyond knowing Elias had a vision and a plan for him, but to be gazed at like this is nice.

Moments after, it’s disorienting to return to his own line of sight, and it takes him an extra minute to realize he’s supposed to position himself. He raises his hips, uncomfortably shifting to hold his legs together and hates the way Elias leaves him hanging like that. His prick is pressed against his stomach smearing precum, and he wants to look away out of embarrassment. The man is obviously just enjoying himself, but Jon’s tail swishes in impatience.

“Sheathe your claws, I was just admiring the view,” Elias reassures and closes their distance, taking a hold of Jon’s calves and places a hand on his hip. It helps significantly in easing Jon’s tension, no longer needing to hold himself up on his own. His breath hitches soon after though as he feels Elias position himself between his thighs. The sight is somehow more erotic even though what they’re doing is a mere pantomime of the act itself—though, it’s likely the similar enough sensation along with watching Elias’s cock move in and out that gets to him.

Jon doesn’t even quite know where to focus his attention after a point. There’s the aforementioned view of the act in question, his own body in frame next to it and then there is Elias. Usual, perfectly composed Elias is wonderful to view like this. Jon has more than once thought the man was obnoxiously beautiful to the point where his tastes and sense of decorum were annoyingly impressed upon Jon. Even the moment he’d divulged wanting to once more express himself outside the confines of what was thought to be strictly male business fashion, the man was relentless in his gifts of long silk skirts and dresses designed for galas he’d only attend once, maybe twice, if negotiated, a year.

Like this though, that carefully constructed image he pieced together fell to pieces. Jon knows by now, Elias isn’t ‘human’, that he himself is becoming less human as the days go on, but right now they’re doing something that feels unlike whatever godly status Elias strives for.

It’d be easier to lose himself in the sensation if allowed to close his eyes, but Jon knows and already sees the disappointed stare that would greet him if he tried. Perhaps more threatening is the awareness that Elias would do more than just that. His disappointment while devastating is nothing compared to the teasing and repeated denial he’d impose to get what he wants. To ensure that Jon knows better and acknowledges not only that he will watch, but that deep down Jon would prefer to see too.

Elias is mostly quiet above him, the set of heavier breaths come from the movement involved and surely the pleasure he’s feeling. Jon’s legs feel just as messy the more he feels Elias move, his member spreading slick precum between his thighs with each thrust.

He doesn’t notice himself how good the watching and the sensation of it make him feel, but Elias must as he shifts their position just slightly. Opening Jon’s thighs more, he slots himself in easily, instead moving the hand he’d been using to help hold the Archivist’s legs up to instead grip both their pricks and stroke them together.

Jon moans and arches into his touch, having it hit him all at once how desperately he’d been wanting that and wanting Elias close. Without needing to speak it, he’s granted the kiss he wanted, too lost in the feeling to realize how noisy he’s become with his mouth now open. When Elias tries to move back, Jon chases his mouth. The kiss resumes with a chuckle that Jon quickly silences with another bite.

“Eager thing aren’t you?” Elias teases him when they break next and too swept up in it all, Jon doesn’t even register the inhuman growl he lets out at being teased or denied contact once again. As to which bothered him worse, even he doesn’t know. Never once does it occur to Jon that he’s become less dependent on air when they kiss and that each time they break it is for different reasons entirely. Elias is pleased nonetheless from that reaction, and rewards him by increasing his pace just slightly.

His vision shifts dramatically as release hits him, Elias once again making his point loud and clear. Layered across his skin are dozens of eyes rapidly opening, and if he isn’t mistaken, there’s a few on Elias himself no doubt wanting to capture the event as thoroughly as possible. It borders on overwhelming. The fear of acknowledging himself like this—seeing the way Elias practically adores it.

Jon comes back to himself slowly, unsure if he’s uncomfortable by having to view himself that way or by distinctly how filthy he’s aware his stomach and legs have become. What’s worse is, as he looks down when Elias gets off the bed to fetch a washcloth for them, Jon sees his tail is still there.

There is absolutely no reason to think sex would fix this. Nothing suggested as much obviously, but it was a momentary distraction from how much the situation irked him. Now that it was over, he’s also aware that Elias likely had meant it as such. A poor attempt at changing the subject and maybe an even poorer excuse of an apology. No, the man wasn’t sorry in the least bit—he probably was genuinely excited by the inhumanity of it given how pleased he looked at… the eyes.

Jon shivers as he recalls that part too. It isn’t the first time he’s seen it, and while he’s made his choice, acceptance only comes sparingly. Whatever it meant to become the Archivist was something he’s given into. This change, he thinks trying to ignore his new appendages once more, however, he direly hopes is temporary.

“I’ve been meaning to quit,” Jon shares a bit defensively, though it has been a half-hearted thought with even more abysmal attempts. He’d never really been one to handle stress well and seemed to come back to it no matter how many days he’d managed to avoid lighting one. It doesn’t help that in general his attempts to find anything of use or lucidity at the Institute have only ended in fairy tales and irritation.

“I can help, if you’d like,” Elias offers and there’s something in his tone Jon can’t identify that makes him uneasy. Reminds him of why exactly the remark he’d made managed to bother him.

Lately, if Jon isn’t mistaken, Elias has taken an interest in him. In his arrogance, he would like to think it had something to do with his work, though the reality is it’s doubtful anything he’s done as a mere researcher would be enough to catch the attention of the head the Institute. No, the exchanges they have more rely on things expressed during his initial interview that he’d put out of his mind. Considering how busy the man usually is, he hadn’t been sure whether to chalk up the interlude between their meetings to be one of sudden disinterest, or if he had been actually dealing with other matters. It comes as a strange relief that the latter appears true, though as usual, he is uncertain as to why.

Either way, needlessly, Jon has impressions on the mind. And while he does not believe in the idea of changing yourself for approval, he also can’t deny that it would be an utter shame to lose this man’s attention over something as simple as a cigarette. Against his better judgment, though, ‘Would it really be such a bad thing if he quit?’ Jon wonders—the stick in his hand steadily wasting away to ash.

“How do you propose to help?”  

Wordlessly, Elias holds a hand out, expectant. Jon stares at his hand, then up at him.

“May I have the rest of what you have on you? I wouldn’t be so cruel as you force you cold turkey quit as it isn’t always safe, but I can help in moderation.”

Hesitantly, Jon digs in his pocket and drags the pack out. He places it in Elias’s waiting palm, trying to ignore the momentary brush of their fingers. Next, he asks him about his habits. About how many does he burn through a day and when, before carefully counting out how many he thinks he should have between now and the next time they meet.

“I cannot make you stop entirely, but I would be delighted if you manage some restraint. Tomorrow, if there are leftovers you refrained from smoking, I have a surprise in mind. If you cannot manage it, well, then there’s always next time, but this is a good starting point wouldn’t you say?” Elias asks rhetorically, and Jon feels strange looking at his smile. Intrigued at what he possibly thinks would be a worthwhile surprise. He licks his lips and lets himself have a puff before the whole thing burns out, using the excuse that he needs to exhale to look away from Elias and his odd smile.

“I’ll do my best I suppose, if you’re that serious about it.”

“Excellent,” he hears Elias say, but doesn’t look at him, fearing what he might see.

                                                               -

Of the seven handed back to him, there’s only one he has to give. Jon had almost used that one too—forever a victim to sleepless nights and itching for something that might put him at ease.

Still, Elias placates him and they repeat the same exchange. Jon hands him his new pack, unopened, and Elias counts out the next set he’s allowed. It’s difficult to read his expression again as while he had at least one to give, something about the exchange still leaves Jon feeling like he’s disappointed him. Elias doesn’t say as much, but it strikes him like it’s true anyway.

“While your progress is slower than I might have anticipated, I’m a man of my word.”

He digs through a drawer in his desk momentarily, before bringing out a stack of papers.  

Jon stares at it suspiciously, unsure how it is much of a surprise at all. It mostly just looks like… work.

“Feel free to read it here or take it with you. It’s a copy anyway, so you may do what you like with it, but I think it may be of some interest.”

After another moment of hesitation, Jon takes the stapled packet, glancing over the front to confirm it is indeed a statement. He must make a face as Elias laughs.

“I promise it isn’t another assignment. I just would like you to read it and maybe share your thoughts.”

His eyes are already wanting to skim over what it is that Elias would think is interesting to him. With a stiff politeness that was beginning to feel silly given their current arrangement, Jon nods shuffling the papers closer to his chest and stands.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Elias doesn’t betray another hint of what it might be and is suspiciously business like in his dismissal. Their meeting had hardly reflected that, but it isn’t something Jon intends to comment on. Whatever was going on, the answers might already be in his hands and with a bit of frustration, he knows he’ll have to wait until the evening to really dig into it. He can only hope next time he’ll garner some kind of understanding.  

                                                              -

He isn’t sure if he’s smoking because of what he read, or because he doesn’t want to see what else Elias has for him. Either way, by the time he’s crushed the butt of his last cigarette into the ashtray his stomach is swimming with a mixture of relief and regret. He’s lying a little when he says he doesn’t want to know more—it’s the whole reason he even started working at the Institute in the first place. A fact Elias apparently bothered to remember from his interview. It’s terrifying though, the reality it could be real and not simply a fabricated tale that has an easy to stomach explanation. Something he’s spent a long time trying to convince himself of, even while knowing himself the supernatural must exist.

Lying farther away on top of all those issues is the root of what started this all. He’s thoroughly swallowed his fear in smoke and will have no spare cigarettes to give tomorrow. It hasn’t done anything for how scared he feels, and worse he loathes the dread piling heavier at whatever signs of disappointment will be waiting on Elias’s face.

Or maybe, there won’t be anything there at all.

He still doesn’t know why Elias is doing all this, and he even admitted quitting won’t be easy.

It isn’t the first time he’s had a dream about the statements he’s investigated. Even if he steadfastly denies the claims and feels justified as he comes up with nothing for many of the cases assigned to him, certain instances in the investigation or in the initial tales themselves if the giver is a good storyteller are enough to get to him when he sleeps. He always feels a little silly for that in the morning—writing it off as an over active imagination and a life too focused on work.

Still, this dream surprises him for its sheer vividness compared to the others.

In front of him is a familiar parlor full of comfortable looking couches, some with hand-embroidered cushions, plants tastefully decorating its corners, and a vast amount of paintings taking up almost all the available space of the walls. He has never been in this room. Never seen it, but it’s nostalgic—the type of room you’d expect in a period piece drama or at a grandparents’ home.

The words filter in, and the scene shifts. There is a woman now seated at one of the settees, her gaze untrustingly glancing about the room. The room is empty otherwise, only with an entrance way into it from the front hall, and a side door leading to another part of the house.

The woman reaches for her purse, makes a move to open it before sighing and changing her mind.

She was running late. It was a bit odd, and I was starting to get a little antsy. I hate being in that room in general, but, well, it was hard to request waiting somewhere else politely. I mean the poor old woman was pretty much on her own—I just wanted to check in like I did every Tuesday afternoon, and then be on my way. Really there wasn’t anything wrong with it. When you got past the decorations… it was actually rather cozy.

Wildly, the woman twists around at the large family portrait hanging just behind her seat. There wasn’t anything particularly odd about it. A big family of six, stiff and bunched together, neither smiling nor frowning. Simply existing. Staring.

What I didn’t like was how narrow it was. How little space it felt like was actually in the room; and worse you… when you were in there by yourself, the pictures had a weird sense to them. I can’t explain it. It just felt like they were watching you.

She quickly looks away and takes a deep breath. Then, she stares directly ahead. Jon panics, feeling like she is now looking directly at him, but her expression quickly breaks down into anguish and terror. Fear clear across her face, she whips her head instead to the other side of the room now and fixates on a door there. Shakily, she raises and rushes toward it. The door hadn’t been there before, and the moment it closes, isn’t there at all.

You have to understand; I know it sounds crazy, but it was the only thing that felt right at the moment. I-I think I knew the door wasn’t there before. I had been in that room a million times before, I knew pretty much every inch of it because it was so horrible to be there, but that’s why I had to go through it. I just wanted to get away from all those creepy eyes staring at me—

Jon cannot see inside the door—Trisha Wellen was unable to describe properly or in any coherent manner what was beyond that door. Just that it felt like she was stuck there for a very long time, until suddenly she wasn’t several days later. What terrifies Jon more though is the undeniable truth that he had been one of those eyes behind the paintings, and despite knowing everything in her statement did nothing.

It was a dream. Ms. Wellen was shaken, given her statement, but it and the follow up were enough to scare him, clearly. The fact she has been listed missing for a little over a year as well doesn’t help matters. There is nothing he could have done to help that woman as the event in question happened two years ago and it was just a dream.

He is out of cigarettes and feels cold.

                                                              -

“Why did you give me this?” Jon starts their conversation, by dropping the statement back on Elias’s desk, maybe a tad harsher than intended. He doesn’t address the actual reason for these meetings first, and based on Elias’s expression, he finds that awfully amusing.

“Now then, irritability usually doesn’t crop up until after a few days of deprivation. I know you’re better than that Jonathan,” Elias tilts the conversation in a different direction purposefully. Jon feels pinned under those eyes, accusing him of weakness in what the other knows is an unfair assessment.

“You know exactly what has me ‘irritable’,” Jon starts, his eyes flicking away again, but only to land on a series of portraits of the previous heads of the Institute. He shivers involuntarily remembering the words that brought him in here. When he can look at Elias again the man is still staring at him as if sizing him up. It’s difficult to tell whether the reaction he’s displaying is one that feels actually reasonable or whether he’s somehow failed whatever test this was supposed to be.

“Please, sit,” he directs, the words feeling more like a command than a polite suggestion. Once Jon is obedient in the matter, he continues speaking.

“Let’s try this again. How are you feeling this morning, Jon?”

“I’m fine, just…” he almost admits he’s unnerved, maybe worried, “confused. I haven’t ever seen a case like this. It’s jarring to see something that might be credible I suppose, but who knows? I certainly have no way to contact Ms. Wellen about it. I can only assume it has some truth to it because I can’t fathom another reason you’d show me it.”

The why still lingers heavy in his throat, but considering Elias’s reaction when he’d opened with that he isn’t sure he’ll get that answer. From the way he’s looking at him, it must be true though, as frightening as that reality feels to accept.

“Does it discourage you?”

Jon isn’t sure which aspect of their arrangement Elias is referring to with his question. He was never particularly dead set on quitting smoking to begin with, merely went along with it out of curiosity, and the vague notion that he knows it would be better for him. If he’s talking about what he came here to find, then that’s a more complex answer.

He isn’t discouraged, so much as sent back spiraling to things he doesn’t want to admit. All along, he’s known that these things exist in the world and that even if his own encounter felt so brief, he couldn’t be the only one to have an experience like it. Denying that for so long simply felt easier. Bearable.

“No, no I need to know… just surprised to see something that didn’t feel fabricated.”

“I told you it would be a surprise. If you’re still interested, I assure you there are more in the Institute if you look hard enough. For now though, let’s get you sorted out.” Seamlessly, Elias changes the subject once again and waits patiently for the same exchange they’ve been making. He clicks his tongue when Jon has nothing to offer him from yesterday, but dutifully counts out the amount, taking one less than he’d given the day before, which Jon does not comment on.

“I understand why you felt it necessary to use them all, given how shocking this must be, but if you do wish to stop, best not to make a habit of it.” He’s trapped again by Elias’s eyes and he tries to squash down the definite sensation he’s disappointed him. Why that matters so much should be the more alarming question, but instead Jon quietly pockets the box again and chooses his words carefully.

“If I have more questions… will you answer them if I can keep up with it? Or was this the only surprise you had?” Jon asks, tone just slightly bordering shaky.

It makes Jon shiver for a moment, and he looks away instead to the plaque on the front of the desk. Vigilo. Audio. Opperior. The institute’s motto mocks him, reflecting perfectly Elias’s chiding.

He sighs. Puts down his pen and steeples his hands; the perfect image of a boss pretending to sympathize.

“Jon, do you know why I picked you as the new Head Archivist?” He asks, that patient tone threaded with weariness as if he’s about to explain something simple to a child. Jon feels a prickle of irritation just hearing it, knowing that not only will he have to humor it—that unfortunately, he is a little curious.

“No. Frankly, it came out of nowhere—not that I’m not appreciative of the opportunity, as I’ve already said,” Jon answers, though starting to wonder if that was entirely true given just how deeply uncared for the archives have been. It’s a big and irritating job, but he also can’t deny the particular things that have come to light since he’s started. Things that he had come in here to try and sort out to little avail.

His hand moves to hold his side, trying not to think of age old memories of a young man and fuzzy limbs. Of a different cursed tome and how even now he seems unable to feel any less helpless than when he’d been eight.

Elias smiles at him, and he doesn’t know what it means. Politeness, surely, but it feels off. Wrong.

“You have a tenacity to scour for the truth, which is something I admire. I know many of the statements we get in have a tendency to be… less than reputable. Many would be bogged down by that and give up—but I can tell there is something you’re seeking and I know you have the drive to reach it,” he explains lightly, the praise sounding genuine before it dips.

“However, that is also why I cannot encourage you to seek things too recklessly. Finding, let alone containing any of these books would be a waste of time and a needless risk I will not push upon anyone here. If they happen to find their way to us, then by all means, but otherwise, if we know what it can do from the statements, there is no other need to find—”

“But what if it gets someone else? We have a storage for these things and—” Jon’s interruption has him leaning forward and placing a hand on the edge of the desk, not quite slamming it before Elias cuts him off.

“Jon, what is it that you are hired to do right now? You were a researcher, but what is it that you do now?”

“I-I, you know. You made me Head Archivist.”

“Yes, and what does that mean? What does an archivist do?”

Jon swallows, before answering. His voice feels too faint for such a simple question.

“Well, an archivist archives. Should anyway, Gertrude didn’t seem to do so in any manner, but… we organize and catalogue what’s been given. Make sense of the mess, I suppose.”

Elias is smiling again. “Good. So can you understand how this doesn’t fit in not only your duties, but under any of the institutes values or positions? We take stories, we follow them up. We look for truth, and we archive what we have learned. Anything else beyond that… is not our concern.”

The ticking of the clock resurges as Jon’s head spins. He can’t understand what it is about the conversation that feels so unnatural, but important. It’s different than the last few times he’s raised this concern, and yet, he cannot figure out what it is that Elias is telling him differently now that matters so heavily. His silence must weigh just as much, because what feels like minutes later, Elias’s voice reaches him as if on the end of a tunnel.

“Jon, are you alright? You look a little ill,” the man starts, now standing and moving around the desk to help ease him into one of the chairs he forewent sitting in. His hand lingers on Jon’s arm and it should bother him how strangely pleasant it feels. He prefers not to be touched, let alone assisted with something like this.  

“I’m fine?” He answers, still with that stilted far away feeling, his response coming off more as a question than a certainty. Elias is still close and waits an extra moment before squeezing his shoulder, drifting back to the other side of the desk.

“Well, take the next few moments to compose yourself. Wouldn’t want you to take a tumble on the stairs.”

He takes a shaky breath as at present it can’t be handled. The nurses said it was sudden, but he has a feeling his mother has known for a while—just didn’t want to tell him evidently. Martin never got to say goodbye, but what would there be to even say.

He’s still at work. There’s statements to record, follow up calls to make and filing to do. The head archivist office is empty too though, and that’s another wide open sore he doesn’t know how to handle either.  Somehow the archives have only grown even quieter than before, and that’s probably the only thing that let’s Martin handle the rest of his shift.  The solace to have whatever breakdown he may or may not be having in peace with Basira in the library upstairs, and Melanie who knows where.

Once he’s composed enough, his lunch break ends up being spent discussing the paperwork involved for the time off he needs to take care of this with Rosie, and a couple other calls. His mouth feels like it’s full of glass as he tells Rosie he’s okay and means it. For each moment Martin accepts that he really isn’t as heartbroken over her death as he should be, it chips at his heart even more. He’d never really managed to feel like a good son, but surely that must be the worst thing of all? To have your own mother pass and feel relief. Like she was just a burden he could now be rid of. The circumstances are unique, and he almost agrees that he’d like to go home, but oddly the thought of doing so feels worse. Really, there isn’t anywhere he can think of that he’d like to go right now.

He lets out a surprised yelp as the new director who he’d yet to properly meet aside from two very awkward conversations prior is suddenly in the tiny assistant’s office with him. Martin doesn’t really know what to expect having barely conversed with him. From the vague accounts about the sea captain Peter Lukas in statements, he certainly seems as much of a specter as the Lukas family has been described. At least, he felt that much until a large palm is presented his way for a handshake. The smile accompanying it is hollow, but it definitely distracts him from initial impressions of the sea-weathered, pale man who drifted in quiet as a ghost.

“Hello Martin. Rosie said you’d likely be down here,” he starts, hand still waiting, “I’ve been meaning to come down and have a chat—is now a bad time?”

Martin warily, and mostly out of politeness, numbly takes Peter’s hand. It’s cold and as perfunctory as expected. They’ve already been introduced, but apparently whatever conversation this will entail is business related enough to warrant it. Not to mention it, he can’t say he remembers their previous conversations too well.

“Well, what is it that you want? I-It isn’t the best time, but honestly I don’t think there’d be a better one,” Martin explains with a dry laugh. Peter seems unaffected by his tone, breezing onto the subject at hand.

“Couple things actually, I’ll get the easy stuff out of the way first. Any news about our Archivist?”

“No? I don’t think so—Basira would have said something, probably. I haven’t been by anyway,” Martin bites the inside of his cheek as this isn’t something he really wants to discuss, especially not right now. It started to get more painful each time he’d go and see there was no change. For two months, Jon has been in that not quite dead state, and with his own mother’s death now fresh and painful, the emotions are mixing. His chest aches because maybe for Jon’s sake too it would be better if he could just pass, as much as the thought actually hurts.

“Hmm… well one less thing to worry about. On that subject though, I wanted to see how you felt about a promotion of sorts when you return. Condolences, by the way.”

Martin tells himself it’s the way he brushes it aside that bothers him. Jon being brushed aside is one thing—a complicated tangle of feelings he doesn’t have space to sort through, so he holds that thought somewhere else. A promotion that’s all. After such a thoughtless and likely meaningless statement that is all Peter Lukas came down here to say.

“By the way,” Martin repeats, unable to keep the incredulousness out of his tone. He’s speechless.

“Oh, do forgive me. I had assumed the way you’d spoken about it and refused counseling or even accepted a longer time off meant you weren’t really bothered. Can’t say I blame you; parents aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. You certainly don’t seem too broken up about it,” Peter justifies and watches him carefully. There’s no sympathy in his eyes and while Martin hadn’t expected any, his words are cutting, cold and empty.

What’s worse is he’s not wrong.

“Of course I am, she—she was my mother, she’s the reason I was born in the first place. Isn’t that enough?” He argues, weakly aware it’s difficult to believe in his own words.  

“So what? Look Martin, in the end we only have ourselves. Whatever she was—whoever she was, it doesn’t matter now, and frankly, it doesn’t really seem like it did before she died. Now you have time to move past it. Figure out who you want to be.”  

Martin wants to keep chasing the anger, deny him and let it all come pouring out. He still has it in him, knows it’s in the tremor of his voice and his arms that won’t stop shaking.

“Go where? It’s not like there’s anything left. What promotion did you even come down here to propose?”

Finally, Peter shows a little interest.

“You Beholding types really do love questions. It’s simple though, I need an assistant to reorganize this place. Someone like you. You’re the only one suitable for it, really. And in return, I’ll help you figure things out and maybe even get back at Elias. It’ll be fun.”

Oddly, seeing the captain only act so animated because he asked the right question, and not actually because he’d expressed an emotion is a relief. It should feel frustrating that it’s seemingly ignored, but mostly it’s just nice it isn’t denied.

“Is that all?” Martin asks, exhausted.

“Mm… almost. I’m familiar with funerals, so if you need advice on arrangements, ask away,” Peter finishes as he returns to the same blasé indifference he’d started their conversation with. It was another sentiment surely he either didn’t mean or knew Martin had no intention of taking him up on.  

“That’s… surprisingly kind of you. I think I’ll be fine on my own though.”

“Suit yourself,” Peter answers with a smile that looks almost pleased, before he’s gone as quietly as he came in.

The role of dancer is one that has been molded around them. Embedded so deep that they no longer know who else to be—what else to do—other than follow those repeating familiar unending steps.

You deserve this fate.

You’re perfect for this.

This is who you are and who you were always meant to be.

The voice is no longer distinguishable and its words questionable. Was anyone else ever actually there? Who said these things? It was you all along. For there is only ever you, doing this pas de duex for one.

See? It hurts, but you like it. You understand it and crave it because it is the only thing that makes sense.

If it didn’t, why do you still do it? If it didn’t, why do you keep on dancing?

This is all you are and all you will ever be.

The others don’t get it. Why you continue this dance, but complain of the pain. They don’t see how much you need the purpose, the role, your very own starring role suited for you alone. These threads aren’t really there, as much as they tell you. They make it sound so easy. And you cry and shudder because you have tried and you have stopped, but that music goes on and on.

It’s so loud and you don’t even feel it anymore. The ache is something you feel to your bones and need. You can’t remember why or when you started dancing, but surely there was a reason and the pain is something integral and necessary and you deserve it. Want it. Need it.

The Spider’s direction is largely unneeded by this point. It’s just fun really. She just wants to be there—all those little praises, the gentle whisper and guilty conscious of when the dancer forgets for a little while. Rides the simple feeling of dancing and everything is good. She’s there too though, for the fools who think they can leave. The goading and the agony that comes with forgetting. Believing in the false hope that is ending the dance and its music. The dance doesn’t have a step for cutting the strings, and the knife was not given to you for that reason.

No matter how long you manage to stop. That music never really stops does it? It quiets and some days you think it isn’t there at all.

But it will always be there. And when you need the Spider, when you remember who you really are and run out of options, she will always be there. She will help you relearn the steps, and like a good puppet you will say thank you. She is the only one who understands at this point.

One day, you will make her truly proud. On that day though, you know the dance will end. For what does she need with a dancer who doesn’t need her strings anymore?

At that point, perhaps if she loves you, maybe you will learn how to direct as well as you dance. You know all the steps. And it does feel good doesn’t it? It doesn’t hurt anymore. Doesn’t it?

You long for either day really.

You long for the day you no longer need to dance, knowing that it may never come.

“Being a nosy voyeur again?”

“I believe I am allowed to enjoy a party in my preferred method. I don’t see you out there mingling either, dear,” Elias retorts, turning his gaze away from the crowds flittering down below to watch his partner steal a swig of his drink.

“That’s Nate’s job. Company head and all that—I’d rather be out on the water again, but…” He does a shrugging motion both in reference to statement’s obviousness, as well as a vague indication he was supposed to be here doing… something. Given his family was hosting, putting in an appearance that he promptly turned away from most likely.

Elias is already accustomed to this and only makes a mild noise of understanding without vocalizing that the concept didn’t seem so bad at the moment. He was feeling rather weary and in desperate need of a vacation himself, though with the length that the captain preferred to be out on the water, he doesn’t think that would be enjoyable. A weekend sounded nice though.

“I take that it was another year spent well isolated then? Certainly sounded like you had little to report.” There’s a thread of humor unsaid in how quite a few of his calls went unanswered, which spoke for itself well enough.  

“Oh, nothing too strenuous, no. Did some spring cleaning of the crew; spent a couple months in València,” Peter looks wistful as he recalls it. As if by imagining it, he’ll be back in that Spanish seaside losing himself in crowds and drawing others to become just as lost. Not that Elias was peeking, much.

“Ah yes, I received your ‘care package’. Can’t say I’m too fond of potentially disease causing artifacts, but the Cuva Vella was nice to see.”

“I don’t have the same skill sets as your lot, so there’s no knowing if it’s really from the hospital they claimed, but it looked like a nice vase either way.”

“Well it’s in Artifacts now so…” Elias responds hiding how distrusting he feels in regards to the man’s true intentions, knowing for a fact it did have something attached to it. He, of course, is going to continue to feign disinterest—something he’s seemed to pick up as a reflexive instinct to match Peter.  

“And here I was going to get you flowers,” The captain laments, though the sincerity of it is muddled behind a grin which appears to contradict his words. Elias doesn’t care to look to clarify for himself, and only answers him with an eye roll.

They stay the remainder of the party, out of sight and catching up themselves. Elias shares what gossip he feels like discussing, despite knowing Peter likely only cared to the extent of using the information to avoid as many extra conversations or meetings of his own. At some point, he must get sick of hearing about it though, and abruptly raises his head from the perch of his palm and suggests they leave.

It’s the free time Elias has to spare, he tells himself, beckoning him to follow Peter out into the night, leaving his own car to be picked up in the morning. The venue is closer to Kent and he knows they aren’t too far from the Moorland House, but isn’t surprised when it’s that same building Peter sometimes calls a home they arrive at instead.

They exchange coats and a chill settling in the room, an imitation of the past times they’ve been here—along with it, there’s an underlying hunger, once more waiting to spring free. He hadn’t been looking or expecting a longing to be there, and yet, after so many, many months apart, why wouldn’t it be?

They follow similar, yet different steps this time. Elias is more familiar with this place now despite only having been in it a handful of times before physically. He is a detail-oriented man. The model ships and carved wooden birds are still tucked away in corners meant to be dismissed. No new paintings aside from the empty coastlines he’s already seen—no doubt a gift from Simon if he detects something else alongside the strokes of that vast ocean captured in the frame.

It’s pleasant, the way Peter stares at him. Equally ravenous for what they no doubt came here for and for attention he doesn’t want to admit, all wrapped up with a lovely sheen of genuine discomfort at how deeply Elias is seeking out the person hiding behind this farce of a home. This room is nothing like the cabin he has never actually set foot into on the Tundra, and it is a place he doubts he will ever be allowed to visit.

No, this place is nothing to Peter. Merely, a place to sleep when he’s forced to anchor. A reluctant tie to society and its dregs, which Elias has happily helped wrap around his legs.

Something in his expression must have changed for Peter reaches out to him, a cold embrace at his back and an even colder kiss at his nape. He doesn’t turn to face him right away, enjoying the strange pleasantry. If he gets his way tonight, giving Peter this now is only fair.

“For a moment, I thought you were taking us back to the Moorland. Though, we are still a little ways off from an actual holiday aren’t we? You will take me there sometime, won’t you?” Elias asks, placing a hand over the one holding his side. They both know he isn’t talking about the house itself. Peter may not know it, but he remembers visiting Mordechai there—truly, it had more to do with that basement and what Peter felt about it than anything else.

“That eager to see? I keep telling you, if you accept my proposal—” He breathes, by his ear, amused until Elias twists around and cuts him off.

“And when exactly would we fit in this ‘wedding’? You’re hardly moored for long and I have an Institute to run. You always struck me as the type to remain engaged for as long as you could, so I would think this arrangement is far better than the alternative.”

Peter’s eyes darken, and it strikes Elias for the first time how deep those still waters really run.

“You… actually like the thought of it. You’d like to call me your husband,” He moves his hands up to cup the man’s cheeks, before delicately moving them down along Peter’s beard to play along his neck. His fingers trace down his pulse enjoying the rapid thoughts accompanying it.

“A connection of your own definition, but one none the less… Are you that worried I’ll leave you behind? Bit hypocritical don’t you think?” The smile he directs isn’t necessarily meant to be cold, but it is piercing in a way he knows is uncomfortable.

“Not really. I’m aware it wasn’t as common in your day, but anyone can get a divorce rather easily now. Marriage isn’t the contract you’re imagining it to be.”

“No, maybe not, but that’s all the more reason for me to wonder what it is you imagine it to be. You can ignore it all you want later, but right now you will look at me and tell me,” Elias starts, stilling his hand to hold at the back of Peter’s neck, keeping him in place to meet his eyes. He doesn’t have an Archivist’s compulsion, but he has intimidation and the invasive, burning reminder gripping tight into the pale man beside him that he cannot run right now.

“Peter Lukas, do you really want to marry me?”

For a man capable of having almost anything he could desire, arranging his life to be as self-indulgent as possible, it’s uncommon those desires ever actualize in the form of wanting another person. Someone so used to the world around him rejecting his existence that he’s learned to soak in it, and pretend he loves it, wearing it as a second skin. And maybe, to a degree he does actually love it. The utter and unabashed way you can love yourself when there isn’t a need to think about another soul in the world.

And that is why at the root of it someone like Elias is both perfect and terrible for him. Because he’s so afraid of being seen, it’s only natural the Eye would show interest. And Elias wishes to know him so intimately exactly because he hides. All the while, he can know with certainty that such a fascination is surface level, having very little to do with the fact it is Peter specifically he is showing interest towards.

It is why Peter spells all the justifications in the world for their relationship. It is why he can indulge in the easy nature of being seen, but not being cared for, until sometimes, it feels like he is wanted—like he wants and wants and will be denied. Abandoned once he’s been found because he knows Elias doesn’t hold on to anything for long.  Besides bones that is.

“Yes,” is all Peter will admit to, impossibly small, but it reaches Elias and warms him in a way that he knows is more than just affection. He rewards the admission, stroking his cheek before learning up to kiss him properly. It doesn’t even occur to him immediately the words were never actually spoken, but plucked from the captain’s head.

There will be many nights where this doesn’t mean anything, but for tonight, there is a vulnerability Elias doesn’t know when or if he’ll have the pleasure of seeing again. In truth, there isn’t really a way they could right now, and he had never imagined himself a married man. Defining what they have would be too much for both of them, but making it a comfortable illusion confined to a ring that he doesn’t have to think about if he doesn’t want to is a preferable solution.

The kiss is chaste, and this time, it is him breaking away and walking to the bedroom, removing his clothes with a practiced patience, expecting Peter to follow suit. Peter flips from fidgety to irritated, finally catching onto what was just discussed, and Elias soaks in the emotions radiating off him hidden in the rustle of clothing. Without a word, he retrieves some coils of rope and lubricant from the bedside drawer, and simply waits and watches.

Peter’s second guessing why he brought him here and Elias is patient—the captain will come to his own conclusions in the end. Either way, Elias knows he will play into the game set up tonight and he only smiles when Peter finally lies on the bed. After a beat, he resigns and raises his arms to the headboard.

Methodically, Elias twines the rope around those presented wrists, and prompts Peter to test the tightness.

“Comfortable?” He asks, looking down. It’s just the ropes he is referring to here, and the flicker of a scowl he receives is indicative that at least Peter has accepted how things will go.

“They’re fine,” He answers him, muted and tense. It pleases him to see him restricted like that, such an easygoing man who usually was so fond of startling others looking instead so impossibly small for someone of his stature.

“Excellent,” Elias murmurs, tone light and notably excited. He stays on top of him, and resumes the languid kisses he’d intended to give before their conversation began. While Peter had been annoyed minutes prior, he can feel the interest in his prick as it hardens, bumping into his backside. He bites the pale man’s lower lip, feeling all at once a rush of cold air exhaled with a moan.

Elias begins to trail those kisses south. Unlike his partner, he prefers to not only take his time, but leave a lasting imprint. There isn’t any doubt who he’s with when it comes to Peter, no, but the man is so obsessed with giving just enough to make a person want more. A lingering note of dissatisfaction, enough to draw in that hungry voracious need for contact he feeds on.

For Beholding though, it is about the experience. About learning and cataloguing all those little things, people don’t even know about themselves necessarily until they’re in the act. Especially the things they don’t know—don’t want to show.

It’s unavoidable like this for Elias not to look. Once the captain is drawn in, feeling really comfortable, he opens that eye and takes a gander at just what marriage means for a Lukas like him.

When he looks, he sees shadows of people. More like impressions or ghosts really, and yet, all come together to welcome a new member. The Moorland House from the outside is about the same as he remembers it. A foggy almost forgotten place that only served as a temple and a tomb.

He sees dances where there is no feeling, stilted haunting music, and tables so far apart from one another that you’d think the room was empty even with the party clearly going on around them. Even the couple in question, once their vows and first dance finished are far apart from each other. As if they were strangers on separate sides of a dance hall—which perhaps, they were.

And that was the problem though wasn’t it? Elias isn’t meant for the Lonely—isn’t willing to truly join that family. Peter knows this. He knew it from the beginning and knew what he was getting into when approaching Elias with even the semi-serious notion of a date, but he’s comfortable with it. With maintaining the distance they already have, only with the facsimile promise of belonging that he could and would never truly have.

Truly what a heartbreaking notion that is so very pitiful and suiting of the situation. Something finally that Elias understands.

As he comes away from that, it’s written across Peter’s face with trails of unwanted salty tears, and etched into his heart. All Elias is doing is plucking away at scabs, poking at a raw gaping sore he never had any intention of soothing.

“Oh Peter,” Elias says softly, no real sense of comfort in his voice. He’s enjoying how far he can stretch this, and it’s with a reluctant, rare mercy he withdraws from the other place he wanted to see in that house. If he tries to look anymore, well, there won’t be anything left—and that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

DECEMBER 2005

They never do marry. Even when a legal approximation could be considered, there are too many things, and good reasons, that stop it from ever happening. Still, in the end, Elias goes far enough to accept an engagement ring and they make believe it is real, knowing it isn’t just him who often removes it. Honestly, he’s more surprised Peter didn’t take this as a proper sign to simply end the game, not that he’s seen him for longer than necessary the past couple years. Whether that’s his attempt to instill that loneliness he’s so craving or… something else, Elias is too busy to care.  

How do you love a man who has no ability to perceive it? Who, in fact, reflexively rejects every attempt at genuine affection?

Elias even hesitates to necessarily ascribe that much feeling to whatever it is their relationship has become. It has enough characteristics for the applicable term of lovers, but there is a history Jonah holds with that word, which has always had an underlying cruelty he can never seem to shake. The both of them do really.

He’s had lovers in the past. Strings of men who’d sing his praises until they saw the depths of him and either were in too deep to get away, or ran as far as they could. Peter was neither of these types of men. They were similar in such a way that it was both a relief and irritating. Men of their nature can attribute as many pretty words and intentions as they want to the way they treat each other, and he knows for as much as Peter can feel for him, what they share is mutual. Perhaps, it’d be better to say they tolerate each other.

Even if there are times that Elias wants to bridge that narrowing gap and see what else is lurking under the surface, he knows such a reality would never exist. And further that he cannot describe the feeling which draws him into wanting that as anything but the endless need to unravel that which does not want to be seen. An itch caused by mere fascination that could and would only end in painful tragedy. If he were a kinder man, maybe he could see himself comforting what he found behind that empty smile, but he knows himself too well. If he had his way, he would utterly destroy Peter and maybe regret it, but he knows he would still do so.

That is why he does not entirely begrudge the man his fleeing and disguises. The way he will run hot and cold and pretend so frequently that he could drift away at any moment, leaving Elias a forgotten memory. It’s his own way of dealing with it, and it’s fitting payback to only scratch at wounds Elias himself pretends don’t exist.

They don’t love each other so much as the idea of what it would be like to be with each other. A thing that in practice never quite turns out the way it’s played out in the imagination. A momentary lapse where it’s easy to pretend that affection is real, a relationship forged on understanding unperceivable to anyone else around them.

Someday, it’s going to destroy one of them—and Elias does not plan on it being him.  

MARCH 2006

“Yes, Peter? I do believe this is the first time that you’ve actually been early to an appointment,” Elias addresses the now sudden form of his partner in the chair across his desk. He doesn’t look up from the stacks of department expenses he’s trying to catalogue and update to a budget’s spreadsheet, also laid out on the desk.

“I’m here to cash in a favor.”

“Right, my unfortunate guess regarding Mr. Rayner last year,” he starts, waiting on the captain to prod the conversation along.  

“I’m not asking for much, just to give a little back you could say for a project of mine. Requires some specific construction, placing and people in mind, which that eye of yours would be just great for,” Peter explains, laughing at his own joke.

“Your project, yet my work, I see. I wasn’t aware you were looking for a secretary,” He muses, reading over the budget expenses from the research department as he listens. He had hoped to have this aspect of his day squared away before dealing with whatever it was his ‘husband’ wanted to talk about.

“Real estate agents and contractors are so annoying. You love talking to people though, so you’ll probably have a blast. And it’s not like I won’t be there—I have it all planned out, I just need to find the right people to do it. So all I’m asking is for you to do a little research, which is something this place does, is it not?”

“And will I be privy to this project, or will that be a secret for me to figure out?”

“Haven’t got a name for it yet, so no. It’ll be fun—certainly more so than the little experiment Fairchild’s gotten my family sucked into,” He sounds bored, maybe even a bit bitter at that.

“Oh? Right, I heard about that. Do wish I could see how well that will work, but with Mr. Rayner involved, it’s doubtful. Although, if they make it out, maybe I’ll see about them giving a statement.”

Peter shoots him a withering look over his priorities, but Elias ignores it. Luckily, the whole thing has nothing to do with him.

“It just seems like a waste overall.”

“Sometimes it’s about the quality, not the quantity.”

“Say that when you can fund your own Institute,” Peter quips back. There’s no arguing with that necessarily, but it is funny enough that Elias gives him a bemused smile not deeming it with a response.

“Well, I’ll let you know how thoroughly afraid whoever gets stuck up there is and we’ll decide on it later. Now, is there any sort of time table for this other juncture of yours?”

Peter hums, deciding finally to give Elias just a few more pieces to work with.

“Soon as possible, I’ll send over what I have in mind. I’m sure you’ve already heard the rumors, but a supposed extinction might be coming, so the sooner the better. While I’m at it, I’m also including that you won’t interfere when things kick off, but that’s to be assumed, of course.”

For all the rituals attempted over the years that Elias has witnessed, none of them—including his own first attempt—completely worked, so he really doesn’t have any intention of trying to ruin things. However, he also has been paying a little attention to what his current Archivist has been up to and knows that there’s always the chance she will do something. In that regard, perhaps it would be kind of him to give Peter a warning, but he doesn’t control and can’t consistently predict the things Gertrude Robinson deems necessary to handle. She appears to have her hands quite full with stopping other rituals, so for all he knows it will slip under the radar.

“Well, if it comes, it comes. You know I’d much rather watch and see what happens than make any effort to stop either you or any new power emerging. I’m simply curious as to whether it’ll be enough to do anything.”

“Right. Of course, you would say that.” Peter says, and it should bother him that he can’t quite tell what he means by it. Though, from the stare Elias is receiving that feeling is mutual. He has his own pieces being moved along right now and the coming of another power matters very little in regards to what he’s attempting to do. He, unfortunately, also just hasn’t found the right person for it, yet.

SEPTEMBER 2007

Time and technology has diluted it, but there is nothing quite like starlight on an open deck far, far away from any overpopulated, glaringly bright city. Such a sight almost makes Peter understand what it is that Simon sees, but it isn’t the Vast, which is capturing him right now.

It has been a rather bad year for Peter Lukas.

While he hadn’t done much more than provide resources and keep an ear out, the Daedalus experiment had eaten up a chunk of time and money that he couldn’t even feel arrogant about. His bet with Elias on that may have been won, but the man had seemed oh so indifferent to his other little project being ruined. They’ve spoken before about Gertrude and the type of woman she is—still the thought of having all his work tossed away over a newspaper article is infuriating and humiliating.

The waves of the Atlantic can never disappoint him, and for Peter that is a relief beyond measure right now.

There was no need to ask Elias if he knew. If Gertrude was set on it, she would have done it just based on the rumors being passed around, and of the indistinct and few impressions he’d garnered, even he likely couldn’t have done anything. No, what Peter really didn’t want to see was the absence of interest—a blank gaze, perhaps with a hint of that smile he always held, which further spelled dubiousness. He isn’t even sure why it feels vaguely like a betrayal on Elias’s part when technically he hadn’t done anything. When did that start to bother him though? It should be a comfort, a reminder.

Peter watches the waves idly lap at the side of the Tundra and wonders what changed. Moonlight faintly glints off the ring on his finger, and he imagines throwing it into the ocean.

Alone, he can gaze at the stars and the moon and feel at peace knowing there is no one else to share this sight with. No one else he would want to share this sight with. He sailed over eight thousand kilometers away from the one person who he might have considered wanting to share it with, and he’s not entirely sure just when it will be that he returns.

JULY 2011

Vardø, Norway

Peter stares at the phone buzzing on the hotel’s nightstand, wondering once again what possessed him into getting one, let alone keeping it on his person. Convenience in this era often requires time specific urgency, he supposes, but it still didn’t have to be something he liked, let alone abided. As such, when he sees the caller ID as none other than Elias Bouchard, he has half a mind to ignore it. It wouldn’t be the first time, and whatever it was he wanted to talk about could easily be contained to a voice mail.

So he lets it ring. He turns another page in his book, but instead of the notification of a waiting voicemail, the phone lights up once more. Elias is still calling and that is new.

With a sigh, he picks up. Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t start with any pleasantries. He must know that since Peter has actually decided to answer, he doesn’t have long.

“You’ll still be in Vardø for a few more days correct? I need a favor.”

“Maybe. Depends on exactly what you’re asking for?” Peter complains, shuffling the phone to better squeeze between his ear and shoulder. If he can tune his sometimes husband out well enough, maybe he can still focus on his book. He’d long stopped bothering to chide the other man for keeping an eye on where he is, so he wasn’t planning to even ask how he knew.

“I need you to pick up Ms. Robinson and one of her assistants in Dikson. They need a lift to Zemlya Sannikova, and I figured you would be in the area and have a working vessel.”

He barks a laugh because while he understands, the request is ridiculous.

“Oh you are something else, Elias. Exactly why should I do this favor for you, let alone her? You’ve already racked up quite a debt with me already.”

“Because dearest, you might also want to ensure that the Distortion doesn’t get its way. Of course, if you’d like to exist in that kind of world, who am I to stop you? I’m sure knowing her, there’s another plan up her sleeve, but I figured why pay the extra expenses for a ship when I have you.”

He frowns reflexively at that wording. It isn’t necessarily that he doesn’t like the notion—the implicit possession they both hold of each other and the ease with which that label doesn’t have to mean anything. Peter himself was a firm believer of absence making the heart grow fonder and steadfastly pushes that to its brink, finding the delightful way Elias tries to pretend like he didn’t miss him at all when they next meet. He also ignores the fact that sometimes it was actually true.  

“Hm, so you won’t be paying for the fuel needed to get there and back? What payment should I expect then?” Peter’s voice dips at that, finally finding some ground in this conversation that feels comfortable.

There’s a shift of clothing barely audible on the other side of the phone. A pause and he can almost see the calculating and playful smile on Elias’s face.

“Hurry back and you’ll find out.”

The phone call ends before he can answer, and it’s a strange, vaguely defeated sensation caving into his chest at the prospect of returning. Of seeing whether Elias felt anything by his absence and if that will sustain him or preparing for Elias to try and take something else from him.

Doing what he does best, Peter simply shuts the phone off entirely and returns to his novel.

Dikson, Russia – Arctic Sea

A few days later, he finds himself docking at the port town Dikson. Gertrude is waiting with someone who must be the assistant Elias mentioned, flitting and looming around her as if he can keep the blustering winds from reaching her. What really gets Peter about the sight is that he is the one who looks like he could be flattened at any moment, wild blonde hair lashing about almost as bad as his fretting. He doesn’t make an effort to greet either of them though, and merely goes as far as indicating the Tundra is here and ready. He leaves the settling of their new cargo to his crew and returns to his cabin.

Gertrude surely knew where they were heading as that had been another aspect to the fun chat he’d had with Elias, which hadn’t come up. Zemlya Sannikova doesn’t actually exist.

It isn’t until they’re further out to sea, still at least another day away from nearing their supposed destination, does he take to checking in. Night has fallen and everyone is either where they’re supposed to be or trying to fade into the background as best they can. Neither of these things concern Peter as he walks the deck of his ship. The ends of his navy scarf are trying to whip away from him and absentmindedly, he considers replacing it soon. Another gift from Elias that he didn’t actually dislike, but it was getting old.

The cold of the Arctic is familiar, albeit bordering the edge of just too much. Certainly, too much for anyone else on board, which makes it regretful he can’t stay there himself. He doesn’t remain above deck as long as he might if they were anywhere else, and instead hides himself back below.

Despite all the maps stored in Peter’s cabin, sure enough when they reach the spot Gertrude directed them to, there is an impossible island in front of them. He idly watches the pair bundle up twice as much, her assistant fails in trying to take the backpack’s weight for Gertrude and Gertrude… she simply looks at him with those eyes again. They’re worse than Elias’s stare, he decides.

“We won’t be long,” she assures, voice hard. And soon enough, he can’t see either of them anymore.

The perverse urge to abandon her here hits him, but he had already agreed to the favor and heads back to his cabin to wait out however long her business will last. One or two of his crew express interest in looking for themselves and he has to send them off to do something else, wondering if he misread them that badly. No one aboard should care about what’s happening on that island that cannot and yet does exist.

He waits in his cabin and scratches down on one of the maps about where they must be. It isn’t really with any intention of returning—he has no interest in the Spiral.

Eventually, Peter directs his gaze to the necklace he’d received almost a decade ago, hanging on his cabin's wall and left uncovered for their little trip. He assumes Elias would want to watch—be there in his own way. Yet, as he always knows, the captain remains alone. He is intimately aware of how Elias's eyes feel when weighing upon him, and as such hates that he is relieved and disappointed when it is missing.

London, United Kingdom

Elias is distracted. He had every intention of watching while going through the motions of interviewing new employees, but he is floored by the young man taking the seat across his desk. It is not so much that he finds himself incapable of multitasking like he usually would, but oddly that he doesn’t want to.

A gift dropped right in his office is very hard to ignore. And he is a gentleman first and foremost, knowing that the Mother takes priority over his passing fancy and wayward Archivist. Someone already marked by the Web and yet still just as painfully curious despite the event. He observes it all and hopes this one works out. That he has finally found his Archivist.

“I think you’ll fit in quite well here at the Institute, Jon.”

By the time he looks back to the Tundra, it’s over. Gertrude has returned to the ship leaving another assistant to an unfortunate end, and Peter is engrossed in a book, looking utterly indifferent even with the eyes he must feel directed on him now.

Reluctant as the captain was initially, the favor is done. And after Gertrude is dropped off back in England, their meeting is brief. He doesn’t join him this time or take Elias up on what he’d had in mind, however vulgar he had implied it over the phone. Truly, Peter doesn’t really want to be there at all. There’s a hollow smile in the way he says perhaps next time, and leaves again. The lingering chill eats away at him more than he expects, but at the same time, it feels different.

He wonders if his husband will ask why he wasn’t watching earlier, or if he even noticed. He wonders with all that heavy, cold nothingness expanding ever so slowly between them, if Peter has taken his ring off.

“You’re right it is uncanny,” Peter breaks the quiet, looking amused. “If you’re going to switch identities, it might be best to work on changing yourself just a little bit more than that. Don’t want the wrong people catching on after all.”

That makes Elias laugh. While it was a concern with some people, the majority haven’t cared in the past. “You’d be surprised the things people choose to forget. As of right now, everyone seems simply surprised at my sudden promotion, complimenting me even for gaining some sense of maturity. There are few who would care to examine it further.”

“If you say so. If you’re done for the night, care for a round of poker?”

The look Nathaniel casts him is enough to nearly give away himself as to why that’s so silly an idea, but as long as there isn’t anything dire put on the line, it sounded fine enough. Knowing full well apparently what Peter can get up to, and likely eager to leave, Nathaniel declines before heading off—though curiously not before striking up a conversation with one Mr. Fairchild, which Elias is regretting having to divert his attention away from listening to.

Balancing alliances really was sometimes more trouble than it was worth.

“Your lot struck me more as the kind who preferred solitaire, but sure,” He answers after a beat, directing their game to one of the now empty dining tables.

Their first bet is so laughably commonplace that normally Elias would shake his head and leave the then young Peter Lukas standing. A thing that likely wouldn't have bothered him in the least. Regretfully though, while a simple game of cards is boring, the stipulation has Elias curious.

"I win, you let me take you out on one date," Peter offers, shuffling the pack, which Elias likely should be watching more closely. Given his current interest however, it sounds like this might be a game he doesn’t want to actually win.  

"An interesting gamble for one who consorts with The One Alone… up to something are we?”

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He throws back, face contorting into a facsimile smile that rings hollow despite the amusement that has to be there ghosting his lips.

Peter was right though. He did want to know. He always did. And if it weren’t for the mirage now obscuring that information from him, it wouldn’t be necessary at all. Frankly, it was interesting enough on its own that he was finding himself getting the attention now when this was hardly the first time they had met. It’s been a good night overall though, and he isn’t complaining about the game. There’s something surprisingly lively in the pale sea weathered man across the table he hasn’t seen from any of his family in a long time.

"And if I win?" Elias asks, even though he is already picking his cards from the deck.

"I'll bring you back a ‘souvenir’ from my next voyage."

Perhaps, it was also the fun that came with for once not having all the answers or easy access to them that made the game seem appealing. Outside of business, the Tundra’s Captain had never been one to prolong visits, merely squeezing out what favors he could while communicating quite clearly what was either being offered, or needing taking care of. It was the status quo of most dealings with the Lukas family. However much Elias was curious about some of the secrets hiding under the Moorland, or below deck of the Tundra, it hadn’t been something he was willing to risk too much on finding out.

Now that this gambler’s streak has been posed in his direction though, those answers might find their way to him finally. Racking up favors of his own to cash in on later didn’t hurt either.

Peter wasn’t one to play without strategy though, even if it was obvious his methods were motivated by self-indulgence more than anything. He hums while he picks and discards cards, keeping the same bemused expression throughout. It would be easy to peek, and Elias almost does before he remembers he’s supposed to be losing. It’s just too tempting to look beyond the cards in front of him and see what he’s really getting out of this. What drives that particular needless streak to tempt fate again and again? What was it about the game that scratched at the bottomless insatiable pit that no doubt lurked under the surface? How deep did that hole truly run and what would happen if he tried to gaze upon it?

Abruptly, Elias decides to fold his hand.

“Now, now, you weren’t peeking were you?” Peter asks splaying his hand to reveal a royal flush. Elias doesn’t need to read his mind to know he’s pleased about his luck and the cards he’s been dealt.

“I win,” He states needlessly as Elias stares at the cards on the table, wondering what he’s signed up for. He had wanted to know, but having just a smidge more preparation as to what he was getting into would have been nice.

“Yes, I suppose you have.”

MAY 1996

The actual date isn’t arranged until later given how long it actually takes for Elias to properly settle in as the new head and do just enough needless bureaucracy to seem as if he’s shaking things up compared to his predecessor. For the most part, it goes about as well as he expected.

His staff are shocked at his turn around, but supportive and encouraging. A few of the changes he’d been wondering how to implement come easily avoided as his secretary kindly fills him in on the day to day schedule he was already well acquainted with.

Meetings with various department heads are handled, and aside from a couple moments of suspicion from Artifact Storage’s head and his current Head Archivist, they all go swimmingly.

He’s busy until mid-April when the reminder comes in the form of a crisp, salty breeze trailing in from his office doors before they shut with no indication they had ever even been opened.

“I’m heading out to sea at the end of May.” The voice attached to his windy guest supplies, and he tries to ignore the irritation at knowing the chair across from his desk will need a cleaning with how suddenly damp it is. Prickling instinct tells him Peter had been expecting him to forget, or suspecting he was trying to get out of it somehow, but he’s still far too interested.

“I assure you, I hadn’t forgotten. I’ll arrange a reservation and phone you the details. I expect to have a few lingering obligations the rest of the month, but is early May alright for you?”

“Yes, sounds lovely,” Peter responds pointedly sounding as if he couldn’t care less about the event in question. His detachment only contorts Elias’s expression into a barely contained laugh however as it comes off so forced and almost childish when the man before him had been the one planning things all along.

“If you prefer, whatever it is that you were considering could easily be handled here instead. I merely presumed you would rather the event to be in a more decadent location.”

“Speak for yourself. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say you’re even excited. Since the moment I mentioned it, you’ve been imaging something. You’re telling me the opportunity to arrange it falls in your lap and you’ll eagerly give it away?”

There is a certain degree of leverage and caution Elias has been careful to hold in every situation, and it is that same caution which has kept him alive this long. Right now, there is an interest in keeping a valuable donor entertained as he isn’t quite interested in diminishing his status with the Lukas family in any capacity. Alongside it, unfortunately, is the acute reminder that one of Beholding’s trappings is the thrall of a good mystery encouraged especially by trepidation. A question or experience worth having will lead him into many events of action or inaction that even he knows can be unpleasant, unfortunate or cruel.

A dinner with Peter Lukas doesn’t necessarily spell any of these things. At worst, he’s being goaded into something, but he can’t quite grasp the picture of it as the man’s emotions remain a mystery to him. He hates that he thinks he might be excited in that regard. What helps though is as much as his attempts to portray a sense disinterest, his mere interest in him at all is palpable and that is far more fascinating than anything else.

“No, you’re right. I’ll arrange it. I won’t leave you waiting for too much longer,” He promises, only feeling a twinge of insult at the lack of response and emptiness his office now exuded. Their business was finished for now and he had too much else to worry about anyway.

Their 'date' ends up being at a posh restaurant that makes Elias feel more like he was attending a business meeting than a private dinner. That rang closer to the truth anyway. It was a common choice for meetings that felt too important to simply be held in his office. Still, he isn’t in the least bit shocked to be taken to a table, and have the man keeping him waiting appear seemingly out of nowhere the moment his eye has moved away to take in the décor.

“For the one who proposed this little get together, it’s awfully rude to arrive late,” Elias jests, staring a moment longer at a painting on the wall before sliding his menu across the table for Peter to look through having had plenty of time to already make his choices. Despite the reservation being made for two, it’s obvious at this point that he’d snuck in for this prank, and at the moment, he doesn’t find the same joy in causing their poor server discomfort.

“’Fraid being fashionably late is what’s in now, but you’re still as old fashioned as ever, aren’t you?” Peter jokes right back as he glances through the options available. If he’s bothered by his play being ruined, it definitely isn’t noticeable.

“If you’re fishing for stories, that’s a little personal for a first date.”

He flashes the menu down momentarily to give Elias a look, but breezes past the accusation. “Have you got a wine in mind, or shall I pick?”

“I think something red for the evening would be fitting, if you’re agreeable.”

Peter hums in assent and their server returns looking bewildered anyway, both at the new patron at the table, as well as the fact the table itself seemed to manifest from nothing. Since it was Elias’s choice in arrangements, he forewent the need for a private table, instead preferring to be in the middle of things. Peter likely hated it.

Despite his claims from earlier, the server’s momentary jump has amusement crinkling the edges of Elias’s near permanent public smile. Not fearful enough to be as enjoyable, but the taste of it is something he’s keen to anyway.

Surprisingly, Peter keeps their table where it is after, even being kind enough to let the restaurants patrons exist close enough for Elias to see if there’s anyone nearby with an interesting enough story. Over time, he’d like to think he had developed a prowess for idly glancing through the thoughts of others, even while engaged, but be it carelessness or because Peter is well attuned to how much or how little attention is being paid to him, he notices.

“Hmm… so you really do just peek into other people’s heads. Best keep my eye on that.”

His gaze now weighs heavy on the imposing man across from him, a crashing of waves against the rocky shorelines as jagged and painful attempts to keep him out arise. There was no time to brace or attempt to hide like he had before. The Lonely do not wish to be Seen, and yet, Peter Lukas chose him for company tonight. He is playing a wager currently against himself, testing a theory on whether or not the body now hosting Jonah Magnus can actually hear and see the depths of him. It’s overwhelming and irritating, the answer was worth it, but that accursed Eye should look elsewhere.

Truly, as a courtesy, Elias painstakingly shifts away from the glimpse he’d retrieved and forces himself to behave as their server comes to take their order. He’s starving in more ways than one and it is increasingly difficult not to narrow down on the meal in front of him so desperately trying to obscure himself from view again.

“What’s wrong? Are you not having fun?” He asks, taking a sip of the glass in front of him and just barely hiding his smile in its rim.

“I think I got you all wrong at first. You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”

“Now then, it’s only fair. You could have just asked instead of tempting me to take a look. When you go about things like this, why, it only makes it seem like you wanted me to try,” He levels a look at Peter, but does nothing more than settle for the crowd around them, still not finding anything of interest when the pinpricks of fear are so close.

“Really, Elias? Do forgive me for presuming, you wouldn’t answer outright. I had heard rumors about it, and now I know to be more careful.”

The caution solidifies itself in the form of a thick mist now clouding the thoughts he’d been trying to listen to earlier, and Elias tries not to feel a little disappointed the captain’s back to hiding. It’s in his nature after all.

“Well, if that was all, I would still prefer to finish our meal. If it makes you more comfortable, I can pretend you aren’t even here.”

He says it as a joke, but finds himself unsatisfied when Peter betrays nothing on how the comment actually makes him feel. Of what little he saw before backing off, it really is interesting how contradictory the man in front of him is about attention.

In truth, it’s peculiar that Peter would deem this worth his time when normally the thought of a moment alone shared with another person is at most a pain and at worst excruciating. Was confirming for himself a terrifying theory a risk worth undertaking? Given how long he’s had to do so, there must be another factor at play. As for what that could be, it’s hidden in the glimpses of memories and impressions Elias had only just started to scratch and peel away at.

They’re interrupted by their meals arriving, but it allows a pleasant break. Before the topic can be shifted away entirely, Elias decides to apply the very method he’d just suggested, not that he thinks it will get him anywhere.

“So if it was merely a means to confirm hearsay, what made now the prime opportunity to test your little theory? Why wait twenty years if it was that worrisome?”

“Honestly? I thought you were boring. I still think your methods are, and I can’t say I understand the thrill of it, but you do seem genuinely different than before. Unless that’s your attempt at acting.”

“Ah, that. Yes, it is what was expected of James, so set in his ways. People expected an older, reserved man who led the Institute with dry efficiency. Something I could understand, and play along with. Elias though… he had a better sense of humor. You would have got along with him, I think. So in tuned with the notion of enjoying himself for his own sake. Content to stay in the furthest recesses of Artifacts Storage and idle his time away. He had good enough credentials and estranged enough family that he was perfect for what I had in mind,” He finishes, looking almost fond. Whether it was born from genuine nostalgia over memories that weren’t really his, or a meal he apparently had enjoyed, it wasn’t clear. Sometimes that line became blurry even for him.

“So that’s it then? He was just irresponsible enough that you got to toe the line between stuffy James Wright and what a reformed, but better liked nobody?” Peter looks amused himself at the thought of it. “Which are you really then? What actually happens to them when you take their eyes?”

“Funny… is that really something you actually want to know?” Elias asks in equal weight of genuine curiosity and an underlying cruelty that speaks of what asking that question would really mean.

Dear avoidant Peter found himself actually curious, and more than that fact merely being true, watching the notion be processed, feared and promptly denied flash across the pale man’s face was breathtaking. It’s enough that he isn’t even bothered when their table flickers out again, almost taking Peter with it. He cuts into his meal and doesn’t need to fear falling to the Lonely, for it isn’t really him trying to escape.

Jonah Magnus does not particularly care who he’s become, but he is finding himself very much interested in who Peter Lukas really is.

SEPTEMBER 1998

While normally Elias is proud to show off the halls of his Institute, he knows that Peter’s seemingly innocent notion of taking a look around is nothing of the sort. It’s been quite some time since he’s met with the man proper, but he can see it isn’t really the building or its inner workings motivating his quiet observance.

At first, he was content to simply watch himself. The wayward captain would find his way to his office eventually. Then, he began to notice better just what kind of employees he took extra care in watching.

With a sigh, he resolved to fetch the man himself and end things before someone actually went missing. Thankfully, the library where he’s been glancing at some of the researchers is only a floor down from his office. When he reaches its entrance, for a moment, he catches himself staring as it really had been too long since Peter had dropped by. Elias only had himself to blame considering he’d been the one to push buttons he knew not to, but even now, he still finds himself staring down the large man before him with an insatiable need to unravel all the secrets he has tucked away. Intrusive and needling was just as much in his nature as it was in Peter’s to flee and seek solace by himself. Two who could not meet, and still he can taste that longing and fear years later prickling beneath the surface.

It really has been too long.

“Ah, Peter! I was wondering if you got lost. Did you have a separate inquiry with the library? I’m afraid many of our volumes aren’t typically out for loan, and I would rather not imagine the inevitable water damage.”

The spell of Peter’s anonymity is broken, and Elias sensing how it must get on his nerves, doesn’t break the greeting smile accompanying his words.

“No, just wondering at the sorts of people you find to work here. They all seem to have… something about them. Wondered if any would be interested in sailing,” He answers with a barely there edge, a hint of humor that Elias was beginning to find funny himself, not that he’d admit it.

“Now Peter, I don’t believe loaning my employees out was a part of our contract.”

“As if you don't regularly feed off the nightmares this place gives them,” He mutters back just loud enough for Elias to hear.

“Yes, well you'd be surprised how difficult it is to find replacements, not to mention the paperwork.” Finding a delicate balance between people who were both suited for this place, and would have little to lose if they found themselves in unfortunate situations was actually more difficult than it looked. With how fast and frequent Peter burned through his crewmates, it was definitely the kind of thing he wouldn’t understand.

“I’ll give them back eventually if you're going to whine about it.”

“You and I both know you can’t guarantee that, though, perhaps I’ll consider it another time. Get back to me in a few months when performance reviews come in.”

He breaks his gaze from looking up at Peter as he feels a familiar stare coming from the other end of the hall. An elderly woman who has a brisker pace than one would assume, and a messenger bag slung by her side, could only be his current Archivist glaring daggers at the pair of them.

Elias isn’t bothered by it, used to her behavior and merely directs his attention to her for the brief moment she passes by.

She pauses as a courtesy, and he greets her with the same polite distance typical of the majority of their interactions. There is only an extra moment where she extends that same glance towards Peter, making no note of what she thinks of the Tundra’s captain, and in fact, makes no attempt to greet him properly at all.

“Gertrude.”

“Elias.”

She continues on heading towards the stairs, and he does not try to see what it is she is up to—it hasn’t reached a point where he needs to intervene, and he has no interest in pushing her in any particular direction. She’s excellent for what he needs right now, if a bit erratic and unpredictable in execution. It’s very likely she will not live up to what her position is meant for, but at the moment, keeping her around has its benefits.

“She’s…”

“—interesting, yes. Best not to get on her bad side though,” He interrupts, enjoying the needling fear Gertrude has managed to nestle in Peter. Elias knew only a fraction of what the woman was really capable of, and he was interested to see where it brought her in the end. “Now then, if you’re finished here, care for something from the canteen before we start? It is lunchtime.”

FEBRUARY 2000

“Have a nice trip? I got your present,” Elias asks as he tries to compose himself over any potentially obvious startled gestures as Peter makes himself known out of the corner of his eye. He can appreciate a man who’d rather quietly wait and watch, but he doesn’t like the glee likely found in surprising him. He had scheduled a meeting, but it seems waiting at the reception desk was not as fun as appearing in the hallway next to him on the way back to his office.  

“Yes, and don’t mention it, really. I’m just surprised he made it out; I lost money on that little stint, as fun as it was. Was his statement about it any good?” Peter huffs, though Elias can tell it is more about the loss of another victim that disappointed him. He waves to Rosie on his way back upstairs, grumpy captain in tow, and waits until they’re fully in his office, before replying.

“Oh, quite. He even almost remembered your name.”

They discuss the new year and he seamlessly dodges the pointed questions about how the Institute is taking all the fallout of a media disaster that Elias would have worried more about had the majority of their donors not been aware it was all nonsense. Really, it was mostly unneeded work on top of the usual load he already had to deal with at the end of the year.    

PR concerns aside, it lead to more attention from those too curious for their own good, ultimately providing just a couple more patrons than expected.

“Right, I actually had a gift for you as well. Think of it as a thank you from the Institute for your continued support,” Elias breaks from the topic and reaches to take out a long jewelry box from his one of his desk drawers.

He watches as Peter opens the box, amused at the man’s hesitancy. Inside is an ornately detailed nautical compass, looped with a chain to be used as a necklace. It is innocuous enough, capturing both an aesthetic the captain likes, while holding a practical use that any sentimentality which could be gleaned from it is easily dismissed. Nearly dismissed anyway, as when examined closer, the center dial holds a small, almost undetectable eye.

Peter huffs another laugh, and Elias is pleased when the gift is accepted. He had been careful to frame it as simply a thank you gift, but the unintentional timing of their meeting has a dual meaning. It is a few days past the fourteenth, but had he pushed their meeting to be on that date instead, it would have been too overt.

“I was wondering actually if you were still free for the evening. You’ve returned from a trip quite recently, yes? I thought we could try another dinner that isn’t actually a ploy for information.”

“Are you trying to say you missed me, Elias?”

Crossing his legs, Elias leans over his desk, enjoying briefly how vibrantly that truth is reflected back at him, drenched in the same scared denial as usual. Choosing to be kind, he indulges the captain.

“And if I were?”

There’s a beat where Elias wonders if he’s miscalculated, the urge to tell for himself how his words have been received beyond the vague sense he’s getting rises temptingly, but Peter breaks the silence before he gives in.

“As long as I get to pick tonight, fine.”

With a smile that could or could not be genuine, Elias simply pulls over a pad on his desk, pen poised.

“Then when and where am I meeting you tonight, Mr. Lukas?”

It isn’t the same restaurant as before, but high end enough that the private seating area they’re ushered into upon arriving denotes such. Surely it is payback for the last time, but Elias can’t help wondering if it was really such a smart idea. After all, while it shuts out everyone else, all it does is narrow down the room to only the both of them—even if Peter tries to hide from him in plain sight.

The dinner is enjoyable, with a different kind of playfulness compared to the obvious games of their former one. No deep revelations are had necessarily, but the simple fun that comes of constructing a private dance only they know the moves to. Peter keeps his distance, but tries to pry in his own way about the rich and lonely past he believes Jonah to hold. Elias pokes and prods for the things Peter doesn’t want to admit, the things that made him the lonely man sitting across from him.

For every step they take forward, the other takes one back. And so they turn in circles never quite meeting in the way they want, but never quite wanting to give up the piece they have to in order to connect.

Who will find their opening first? Who will win and who will lose? Is it a game either really wants to win? Do they really want it to end?

Elias isn’t sure what it is he really wants from Peter—equating him to most men he’s been acquainted with over the years as nothing but a piece in his game and a kind companion until they’re thrown away. Whether that be for an explicit purpose, or because time makes them reach their End, either way he has lost many. The capacity to feel it is often so deeply intertwined with those old friends’ misery that the memories themselves are steeped in regret, fondness and a harrowing emptiness. An old tale that he remembers, and occasionally wants to reread, but can never really be experienced for the first time again.

Right now though, Peter is new. New and hiding his own secrets that Elias wants to take and make his own. He can start to see some of that picture in the way Peter looks at him.

It’s what possesses him to agree in continuing their evening. He follows him back to a decadent penthouse that he knows is only lived in for maybe a month or two at most during the year. Peter takes his coat and hangs his own, while Elias glances for what echoes there are of what he’d glimpsed before. He doesn’t get long until they’ve left the main room and entered the bedroom.

For the briefest moment, he misses the height of James Wright as Peter cups his face and drags him up into a kiss that has all the passion of someone who knows they’re being compared to someone else. The Tundra’s captain does not want to be considered special, and appreciates that Elias doesn’t think of him that way, but he knows there is something there. A sentiment that has blossomed regardless of the tenuous relationship they hold as neither friends, nor enemies. Opposing forces in a war they have struck a convenient alliance over.

“Who are you thinking about right now?” Peter murmurs into the shell of his ear, his beard brushing his cheek.

Elias closes his eyes and pushes Peter out of his mind even though the man is encasing him. The feel of his hands gripping his hips to hold him so close, snaking their way up to undo the front buttons of his suit’s jacket. It’s the closest he’s been to another human being in decades. Not that either of them were really human anymore.

He raises his arms to drape them more properly around Peter’s shoulders and opens his eyes. Their gazes meet, and for once, the captain’s eyes reflect something that isn’t just a hazy mist, but closer to a storm brewing on the horizon. “Looking for a story even now? Or do you actually want it to be you?”

Rather than answer, Peter reaches for his tie next, pulling it down enough to loosen his collar and leans down to bite Elias’s neck. The pain is sharp and momentarily distracting, but soon enough Elias is undoing buttons on Peter’s dress shirt.

He would prefer to take his time with this and savor the moment. Memorize the details and paint a vivid enough picture that he can recall it easily, but between the irritation of Elias’s non-answer and the desperateness to avoid genuine intimacy, Peter allows him no chance to try.

Even the bite he’d left would likely disappear in short time, not nearly as painful as it should be to indicate a bruise that will take its time leaving.

His suit jacket is pulled off him, and in turn Elias reaches for Peter’s belt the moment he has his hands again. He can feel that clammy chill on the man’s stomach as he rucks up his dress shirt, and it’s unnatural and delightful. It’s been so long since Jonah has been with someone even remotely understanding of the reality of their world, and he doesn’t need to say anything when it’s understood right back how desperate he suddenly feels to be touched.

It should bother him, Peter using him to feed like this. There is no real concern, but that caution again should be screaming and reminding him who is here. He wants to see and know what a man who wants nothing to do with anyone else will do when put in a situation like this. He wants to remember the people he has chosen to place deep within his memory, despite the fear and pain that it will consume him.

Loneliness could never truly consume him though, and in the back of his mind he knows that somewhere, but right now, it’s thrilling.

The haste of their meeting has already brought them to the bed, a detail Elias is bothered to have missed, suddenly lost in memories he did not willingly bring to the surface. He runs his hands over the chest above him, taking in the soft give of skin and smooth nicks of scars he lets himself peer into.

To share like this isn’t cheating or a means to end the game entirely. Simply a reality of the intimacy they’ve chosen, and it’s enough. He sees voyages gone off kilter, and a sharp wood carving knife nicking the fingers roaming his sides. He sees the sting of rope burn from adjusting sails and a horizon with nothing in sight. He hears thousands of words left unsaid, whispered in the night to no one. He sees a woman. She has no face, but he feels so cold seeing her.

“That’s enough.” A gruff voice interrupts him, those same hands guiding his chin to look up.

“You’ve seen enough,” Peter repeats, reaching for the tie Elias doesn’t remember him removing, and lifts his head enough to use it as a makeshift blindfold.

“You can think of whoever it is you want to, I don’t really care,” His voice is steady as he says it, and Elias only smiles quietly, knowing how much it really is trembling deep down. Still, he abides the request.

He isn’t entirely sure why it’s dear, old Barnabas Bennett that comes to mind in that moment.  Maybe it’s his association to the Lonely, and namely that precious, desperate fear of being lost to it that has Elias—no Jonah—thinking on exactly why he failed to conquer it. Beyond the pettiness lodged deep in quite a few of the Lukases he’s had the pleasure of knowing, the man he remembers on more than one occasion was far too eager to propose himself for company. Even in his last moments, suggesting that their acquaintanceship was something special, and sentimentality is what pushed Jonah to reward that longing.

Still, the distinctions are easy to separate. Cloth may prevent him from seeing, but it’s large, calloused fingers currently thrusting inside him, opening him up. He leans up into it, chasing the sensation and pretending for Peter’s sake it isn’t him. He knows though as those fingers pull out and shift to hold his wrists down, thick thighs bracing his own, they don’t match the pitiful man in the depths of his memory.

It’s a little frustrating actually. For how good he feels, their physical connection is the tightrope between connected enough to know there’s someone in the room, someone here close and intimate, but too far to pin down. Peter gives and pulls, moving away from him while providing Elias just enough to let him know someone is there—might be there.

Elias pushes back, feeling the sudden need for genuine effort on Peter’s part to keep his wrists down, and it’s an irritating goad against how deeply he wants to feel this properly. It’s the only touch that feels real in that moment as that formerly punishing pace trickles down in response to his antics.

And yet, the phantom trailing of the beard that tickled his cheek when they kissed upon first entering the room is there again. It’s so little, but enough to kick everything else back into perception. That tiny sliver of vulnerability—the trembling hesitancy and fear it’s dripped in feel like an oasis.

Elias feels it fill him, stomach suddenly warm compared to the chill that’d settled over him and before he knows it, there’s come splattering his stomach. His ghostly lover lingers a few thrusts more, but soon enough he only is given two more of those illusionary kisses, this time on each wrist.

They hurt surprisingly. And by the end, he realizes quite distinctly he can't remember Barnabas's face. Many of his old peers share that fate, but acutely in that moment, gazing upon that wound once more fills him with a wallowing ache Jonah usually can ignore.  The vast majority were men of high repute making portraits findable for sure, but a painting can only capture so much. Being a man who lived for stories, it may be far crueler to chase that grief and realize their missing voices bothered him more.

With his wrists now free, he unties the blindfold not at all surprised to find Peter nowhere in sight.