SOMEONE IS WATCHING !

HE  NEVER  FEELS  RESTED  ANYMORE. there’s  only  so  much  horror he  can  swallow before  he  begins to  choke  on  it.  he lives  surrounded  by  the  rotting corpses  of  a  time  when  he  was  free  from a  prison  he  was  blissfully unaware  existed,  when life  was  normal and  no  shapeless terrors  grinned  at  him  from  the  corner of  his  eye  or  crept  at  the  heel  of  each  step.  he  didn’t know  jon  then.  sometimes  he  thinks  it  would  be  easier  if  they  were  never  close  at  all,  if  he  didn’t  have  that  memory to  taunt  him  and  spit  kerosene  onto  his  sparking anger,  subdued  as it  may  be  for  now.  it  would  be  awful enough  if  jon  had  ruined their  relationship  when  it  mostly existed  as  potential, but  how  much  more  visceral his  rage  when it  is  rooted in  intimate  wounds. even  after  their  conversation,  after  his  apology, tim  doesn’t  know  how  to  forgive  him.  he  doesn’t know  how  to  heal.  if what  it  takes  is  time, he  has  a  sneaking  feeling they  don’t  have  much  left.  

tim  is  awake, scarred  hand  enveloping scarred  hand.  he  cannot  see  jon’s  face  where  it  is  buried against  his  chest, only  unruly  dark  locks  that  instinct  desires to  touch  and  run  his  fingers  through, but  he  doesn’t. he’s  not  sure  why.  it  doesn’t  matter.  almost absently,  he  thumbs over  jon’s  hand,  feeling  the  splash  of  scarring  that  had  not  been  there  before,  and  then  the  divot  of  a  much  more  familiar marking.  he  hasn’t asked  yet  where  that  fresh  scar  came  from,  and  jon  hasn’t mentioned  it.  his  spare  hand  rests  between jon’s  shoulder  blades, gently  securing  him  against  his  chest.  it’s  nice,  and it’s  not.  he’s not  sure  how  that  could  be.  

HOW  IS  HE  MEANT  TO  SAVE  THEM  FROM  THIS  SILENCE?       once, the not - saying was easier.  the crevasse carved between them had meant that their not communicating could drift in the icy void, not harming, not so heavy.  not so close to them that jon could reached out and grasp it, and pull himself close, and fill his lungs with the scent of it.  tim’s anger is sulfiric.  it smells like gunpowder, and jon doesn’t want to be a fuse, but how is he supposed to quell the flame burning through him  ----  the want to know and know and know, to save and save, even when it will destroy them?  maybe it’s too late.  it’s all over, and everything is gone, and this isn’t a body against jon’s, but a pyre.  he pushes his face into tim’s chest, his nose still cold.  does he smell like smoke?

WHAT  IS  MARTIN?  MIST,  OR  MEMORY,  OR  NOTHING  AT  ALL?      jon used to know.  he’d been unimpressed at his colleague, unwanting of his kindness, cruel, even.  but he’d known martin.  known his steadiness, and except in some moment of deception, in a way, needed it.  but something is different now, and it isn’t just the knowing  :  it’s where his knowing runs out.  its in the empty spaces he sees in martin that didn’t used to be there.

he who stands in front of him is not the martin jon remembers, and he is not the one he used to see.  jon stares and stares, and sees martin, but something is never right.  he cannot look away, but never learns anything.  it’s not the thing that has stolen sasha, it’s not a different form in front of him.  it’s something inside. 

it’s as unclear as staring head - long into heavy mist.  jon’s eyes are not the problem.  it’s a more fundamental sight  :  it’s the pieces of him that are becoming that have detected this newness.  he knows that he doesn’t know something, and the paradox of it makes his head ache as it had when he’d wandered within the distortion, or felt paranoia crawling as a cold sweat down his bony back.  he needed martin.  in a strange way, that he cannot understand, that is new to him, he’d needed him  ----  and it doesn’t feel good, when martin thinks he hates him.  had he been so cruel, or is his ignorance withholding something crucial?  does his anchor moor him, or does he grip him as they sink, drowning, toward the ocean floor?

“  of course . . .  martin, of course you’re wrong.  ”   jon uncertainty wavers in his voice, and he clears his throat, and a tape recorder is running in his pocket, unbeknowst to him.  “  you’re not a good assistant but you’re not a waste, you’re not worthless.  not to me.  ”  he’s never been one to convey emotion, but there’s a tension in his throat that he cannot ignore.