Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jonathan Sims is a man of many interests. He finds philosophy and the natural sciences fascinating, he is perplexed by his girlfriend often and loves when he finds out new things about how or why she works, and he loves to contemplate the meaning and mechanisms of existence even when those around him aren’t interested. He likes to make things, to have solid objects that can represent all the knowledge he holds.

He spends all his time on said interests- he learned how to bind books from scratch when he went through a writing phase in year eight, tried to put together his own documentary with a small film camera in Year 10 about cats to impress Georgie, and his first job was at a library where he tried(and failed) to get a group of teenagers his age into philosophical debates with him. 

The point was, Jon had made a mark on his secondary school. I mean, sure, his friends consisted of his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s ex, who forcibly befriended him when he was outed and proceeded to try and push him to be some kind of transgender messiah that brought news of ‘the binary is a lie’ to his peers. Nikola tried her hardest to get him into punk rock and anti-conformism or whatever she called it, but he never got into her whole lifestyle. She was fun to go out and get wasted with, though, he has to admit, even if he never managed to understand her.

Human lives are so fascinating, he muses. We spend so long thinking ourselves to be the most important in the universe, to be such logical beings, and yet our whole lives can be so small in comparison to everything.

Jon reminisces on his teenagehood silently as he unloads his car, straining through his memories to see what they amounted to. Georgie, who insisted on staying at her shitty job at the petrol station down their block, is going to take the tram up in a week. He would have stayed at home and waited for her, but every time he entered the living room, his grandmother would stare up at him with her dead eyes scanning him up and down, as if she wanted to memorise his presence but couldn’t bear to go through the process of watching him leave. She was always silent, and there are… some things he can’t handle sober.

As he reaches his dorm, his stomach begins to churn. His head is already throbbing after the six-and-a-half-hour ride, he jammed his key in the lock until it gives, stumbling into his bedroom like he’s already drunk.

Two twin beds are pressed in opposite corners of the room, one desk sat next to them. The walls were a pale grey, the light covered in dust bunnies that left stark blobs of shadow across the room. There was no barrier between the two sides, so Jon takes the one closest to the bathroom, marking it with his suitcase on the bed.

His entire life, crammed into two boxes and whatever he could fit into his pockets. Maybe he can get some time in the empty room to call Georgie. He pulls out a flip phone that he got off eBay, making sure the battery is at full before taking a long swig from his ‘water’ bottle. 

Jon

I just got to my dorm. Do you want to call? My roommate’s not here yet.

Georgie

yeh i get off work at 6 ttyl

u pretentious asshole with ur punctuation and capitalization

ur goin to hell

He smiles to himself, about to reply when there’s a large thud in the hallway that makes him jolt. A very white woman with bright red hair and a bulging garbage bag slung over her shoulder kicks down the front door with her tall combat boots. She stops chewing her gum for long enough to holler out the hall, “Mum, my roommate’s already here, you can leave now!”

“Morana! That’s no way to talk to your mum!”

The woman- Morana- mimics her mum silently, sneering out the door. She chucks her garbage bag at the empty bed, a few books spilling out as it lands. Jon thinks his heart is going to burst out of his chest. Is he about to witness a fight? He wouldn’t be surprised if Morana started throwing punches at the woman in the hall, given the look on her face.

“See you next summer,” she hollers, muttering you bald bitch under her breath before slamming the door shut and locking it, stopping to look Jon up and down. He’s managed to wipe the shocked look off his face and get off the corner of his bed he instinctively cowered in.

Her skinny ripped jeans reveal what looks like tattoos almost everywhere, and he thinks he can see some poking out her shoulders, barely hidden by the armless band T-shirt. He can make out the faded words Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death. She’s covered in enough piercings that 25% of her weight could be made up of just the metal. She stands in a dark contrast to even the muted colours of their room. Despite Jon’s two years on testosterone, she towers over him with a larger frame and confidence that seems to shrink him down.

She sticks out her hand. “Gerard Eric Keay, he/him.” 

Jon mentally cursed himself for assuming and took his hand. “I, um. Jon. You’re, uh- you’re trans? Me too!”

“I know. I requested a trans roommate so I wouldn't get fuckin’ hatecrimed. God, the Brits are the worst. Ireland was so much better.”

Gerard collapses onto his bed, ignoring the books that stab into his back. “Freedom at last,” he cheers, oblivious of Jon’s presence. He turns to rummage through his garbage bag of belongings and pulls out two boxes of black hair dye mix. His snakebite hoops glint as he grins, turning his gaze at Jon.

“Have you ever dyed your hair?”

Georgie dyed his hair pink when they were both fifteen. “No.”

Gerard shrugs. “It’s fun. You should try it.”

Jon eyes the split, dry tips of Gerard’s hair. It was a different red than his roots like he’d dyed it, bleached it, and tried to pretend he’d never dyed it at all. “No, thanks.”

Gerard shrugs, moving on to his next question. “What're your pronouns? You didn’t say after I gave mine.” He can hear the malice laced through those words and shrinks into himself as much as he can manage.

“It’s, erm. He.”

The punk/goth/emo... something narrowed his eyes. “You look pretty uncomfortable right now. Is that some kind of, like, cis-passing coping mechanism?”

Georgie had said the same thing, once, when they were in high school. They were drunk in his grandmother’s attic, lying on their backs. The radio blared pop music to cover their conversations, not that his grandmother would complain.

“Hey, at least you don’t look like a 12-year-old boy at 17 years old,” Jon jokes, and Georgie shoved him off her. “What?” It takes him a moment to register it, where he is and the look on Georgie’s face. 

“You- You-” Her mouth is open, like she has words she wants to say but her throat won’t register them. “Being with you is sometimes like dating some goddamn cis white boy, but it’s worse, because you’re not, but you’re trying so fucking hard!”

She stormed out of the attic, stumbling as she stood up. The next day, she greeted him the same way she always did and never brought it back up. She was probably too drunk to remember, but it had always bugged him.

“I don’t know.”

He shrugs, pulling out a tape recorder a few seconds later, sliding in a cassette tape into it and messing with the dials. A gentle tapping drum rolls in, then an acoustic guitar rolls in gently, playing a fast chord that sounds like something that would play in the fast-paced western films his grandmother loves. A gargling, raspy voice comes in as a mimic of toned-down screaming, “Evelyn sits by the elevator door/it’s been thirty-seven years since James died/on Saint Patrick’s day of 1964/she could not hold it against him…!”

Gerard is nodding his head along as the person scream-sings through his speaker, seemingly oblivious to how loud it goes. Jon’s headache is growing steadily worse, so he downs a few Advil with his gin and pulls his phone back out.

Jon

My roommate’s a Nikola.

God Himself is too late to save me.

Despite still very much being at work, a new line appears on his screen as quickly as was possible on the difficult keyboard. Georgie, from a poor family, also still had a flip phone.

Georgie

lol

this iswhat you get for leaving me to go to work every day by myself

Jon

I asked you to quit early and drive up with me.

Georgie

tis called being poor, jonny boy

Jon

Which I can’t possibly imagine, George.

Georgie

>:P

He lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s cracked slightly, the off-white colour setting his teeth on edge. The plaster was popcorned, and he knew it’d be rough and would flake away. It was likely old and some other student had lain on the same bed and wondered if the ceiling would ever break and crush them while they slept. Was that possible? Technology has advanced so far already, but mistakes happen. Designs weren’t checked scrupulously, the construction workers had a bad day, mould went unnoticed and broke the structure of the building… Were all the rooms like this? Was it safe?

Jon

do you ever wonder if humanity is worth anything, or if we just want to think we’re important?

*Message has been deleted*

Jon

When you move in, I hope you know I’m practically going to be living in your dorm.

Georgie

I would expect nothing less

—

Annabelle Cane twirls the cord of her landline around her finger and twists her face into a smile. “Of course, Mr. Miller, I’ll get your payment to you in the mail as soon as I can.” She nods, even though she knows he can’t hear her. A part of selling the illusion of respect over a phone is to act along with it. “Yes, sir, I understand. Thank you so much for calling. Uh-huh. Bye-bye now.”

Once the phone is back on its base, she frowns. Capitalistic bastard.

She turns back to her open closet, tapping her finger on her chin. She’s covered the back of the wall with a bulletin board, there’s a box of tack and a stack of paper to the side… all that’s left is string. She types a reminder on her phone to get some next time she goes out, shutting the closet door firmly. Her roommate is a stuttering freshman who looked terrified of upsetting anyone in any way, but she doesn’t ever underestimate anyone- that’s how she’s gotten so far in life.

Just in case, she’ll order a combination lock for the closet.

She flops on her bed, kicking her legs and humming to herself. She’d been there for nearly two weeks and only seen her roommate once, which irritated her a little bit, but it gave her plenty more time to do other things. Dorms had been open for 11 days so far, but the rest of the school was closed off until yesterday. Typically, students would start moving in… today. 

She grabs the giant bag of mini housewarming gifts and checks her outfit in the mirror. Her black corset and 1800’s style black skirt that sweeps her feet cover the platform heels that render her 6’4 and stand in stark contrast to the white fishnet top she wore underneath all her layers. It was hot as hell in this building, but she looked hot as hell, so it was worth it.

She did this for the first two years of college. It was a money-consuming tradition, but it’s best to put on a good first impression. When she turns to the door next to hers, she braces herself for Gerard Keay and knocks firmly on his door.

The only response she gets is rock music slowly increasing in volume. 

Fight every fight like you can win;/An iron fisted champion/An iron willed fuck up.

Well. at least she knows he hasn’t changed since their last conversation. She pulls a pair of iron knuckles out of her bag and slams them against the door with all her upper arm strength.

“Hello?” A short Black man answers the door, and in the background, Gerard yells, “JUST SHUT THE DOOR, JON, SHE DOESN’T ACTUALLY HAVE FEELINGS.”

Annabelle smiles faintly down at him. “I can assure you I’m not a philosophical zombie. Gerard just thinks that because of an accident last year- but let’s not get bogged down with details.” 

She’d found nothing about him online- no social media whatsoever, at least not one with his name. She found a few things when looking for someone else in their hall, Georgina ‘Georgie’ Barker, a 2011 post of two people sitting on a couch; a boy with a large poster board with a large block of text and many red strings, grinning widely, and a girl who was rolling her eyes in what seemed to be an affectionate manner. The post read ‘when your boyfriend wants to explain a rare disorder that he spent all week researching FOR FUN instead of movie night. girls get yourselves a jonathan sims this man is of the best breed’. With more digging, she saw that he went on her Youtube channel a few times, mostly whenever she was covering something philosophical.

His eyes light up and they shift the smallest bit so they’re staring directly into her eyes. “Those are really interesting, actually, with the questions they propose about what consciousness actually is and whether or not it can be tied to a physical reality or not.”

“David Chalmers has done some excellent work on the subject. The man’s a genius, but the idea that bein’s that are purely biological and can have some asset that’s not tied down to their biology… as an aspirin’ psychologist, I just can’t agree with that.”

“Don’t let her fool you with her mind games, Sims! You can discuss zombies later.”

Annabelle rolls her eyes. “Good luck with putting up with them all year, Jon.”

Now that he’s looking her in the eyes, she wishes that he would stop. His eyes stare intensely at hers without shifting or blinking. She’ll just have to get used to it if he’s going to be her new neighbour.

“I didn’t catch your name.” God, even his voice is unnerving.

“Annabelle Cane. I live next door.”

“God, we know, and no one’s happy about it!” Gerard grabs Jon by the back of his shirt and pulls him back into the room, attempting to shut the door. She wedges her platform between it and pulls out the first thing she can find in her bag. It’s a bag of pre-ground coffee that she practically shoves into Jon’s arms before Gerard slams the door shut and turns his music back up.

America and justice/Are not synonymous/For all the fights,/For all the songs,/All we said/All we have is these pictures of us.

Well. That could have gone worse, Annabelle thinks to herself as she moves on to the next room. Michael Crew and Helen Richardson. Mike is an astronomy student and Helen Richardson is an aspiring doctor, but given her history of psychosis, she’s going to face a lot of barriers. The Spiral would just love her. Perhaps it already did… she’d just have to see.

She’d bought a box of tea that promised to strengthen immune systems for the two of them to share, although no one was there when she knocked. She shrugs, moving on to the next.

A woman who would be Annabelle’s height if it weren't for her heels swings open the door. “Hey,” she says gruffly. “What is it?”

Annabelle smiles as sweetly as she can. “I’m Annabelle. I’m passin’ out housewarmin’ gifts before the school year starts.”

The blonde stares at her for a few seconds before extending her hand. “Daisy.” She’s wearing nothing but sweatpants and a sports bra, the backwards baseball hat pushing all her hair behind her face. Annabelle knows how to keep her gaze on someone’s face, but this woman’s testing her strength.

Pretending to be busy rummaging through her bag, Annabelle tries her best to remember everything she’s learned about Alice Tonner. She posted rarely, and most of her content was photography of nature or odd things she found in public. Annabelle’s favourite was a donation box that said “Clothes and Shoes Dropoff Box” where someone had covered the ‘S’ in ‘shoes’ with a black sharpie. Her roommate, Timmothy Stoker, posted ridiculously often and thought himself funny- lots of footage of harmless pranks or photos of whatever he was doing at the moment. 

She picks out a bamboo plant, smiling brightly. They were difficult plants to kill, and always made a good gift. 

Daisy gives her what seems to be a lazy grin, which she manages to make look casual. “Are you staying in this hall?”

“Room 313, proud third-year resident!”

Daisy nods. “I was living at home last year, finally got enough money to move in here. We should go out for drinks sometime.”

Annabelle smiles warmly. She doesn’t have to tell herself to play it cool, that’s her natural response. “I’d like that.” 

The next few dorms pass in a blur. A woman in a scholarly outfit is on a call when Annabelle knocks, and mouths her thanks silently when she receives a calendar of the school year with the breaks and final weeks marked in red. Each new month also had dates of revolutionary scientific breakthroughs on it as well as holidays, something she hoped would be appreciated. It took a lot of time to find. In the dorm next to that, there was a woman in a hijab shouting at her apparent roommate, whose candles had set off the smoke alarm and neither of them knew how to dismantle it. She made a mental note to come back to them later.

The next door’s by a woman who looked like she hasn’t showered in weeks and her skin appears to be sagging off her skeleton, looser and thinner than it should appear. The other woman has blue hair and large, expensive red headphones slung around her neck and looks her up and down judgmentally. If that’s Melanie King, then the woman next to her must be Jane. Annabelle offers them a bathroom kit complete with cruelty-free toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, soap, lotion, and moisturiser.

Melanie gives her a serious nod. “Thank you.”

“No problem at all. Oh, by the way? You might want to go to the library today, get your books in advance. This is the day everythin’ opens back up, an’ the library’s usually empty of all required readings before school even starts.”

There’s a mailbox at the end of the call, and Annabelle finds the package in her bag and checks to make sure there’s no return address. She supposes she could just slip it in the mailbox- he’s already been marked by the Eye, though, and she thinks it’d be more dramatic to send it through the actual mail.

By the time she returns to her room, Martin’s by the stove watching the kettle intently. He startles slightly as she swings the door open and flops on her bed as dramatically as she can. “Good afternoon, Martin.”

“Hey, erm, Annabelle. Want some tea? We’ve got caffeinated, caffeine-free, sugar, honey, milk- I-I brought my stuff from home today, and, heh, I think it's a pretty wide variety of options?” He shuts his mouth firmly and looks as if he wishes she would leave. That wouldn’t do.

She glances at her closet briefly when he looks away. It hasn’t moved, and she can see the doorknob is in the same position that she was before. Perfect.

“So, how’s your mother doin’?”

“Good, good… She, erm, doesn’t really like the new retirement home? But the care is good and we can, well, y’know afford it, so… I mean, she looks better? I guess they’ve been getting her to eat a-and that's good, I suppose.” He shifts uncomfortably, moving the kettle onto a padded coaster before it starts boiling and hurries to grab two mugs, nearly shattering them on the floor.

She accepts a scalding mug of tea, placing it gently on her bedside table. She curls up comfortably, watching Martin in a way that comes off as gentle concern. “Sounds like she’s looking better.”

“Erm, I guess.” He hunches over a little further and moves to grab some sugar. “Do you want anything with your tea?”

“Honey sounds nice. You’re very good at this,” She adds, and he turns a bit pink.

“Yeah, Mum liked tea. Well, not drinking it, but I think she liked having something warm to hold? I don’t know.” He’s chewing the inside of his cheek and is tense enough that she wonders if she should recommend some kind of meditation. He should probably see a psychiatrist, too, if she wanted him to feel better. But for now…

“Do you like to read?”

“Yeah! Not, not really long novels and stuff, but I enjoy, like, short stories a-and poems, stuff like that. I’m majoring in English, so…”

She nods like this is new information to her. “I start a book club every year, and I was wonderin’ if you’d like to help me select some readin’ material and come to a few meetin’s. It’s pretty fun, usually just some people from our hall and a few others. We drink a bit and have… philosophical discussions, I suppose you could call them. Pretty casual.”

He still looks like a deer caught in headlights, but maybe this can get him to trust her a bit more. If he doesn’t trust her, then he might go through her things. He’s too shy to be her subject, sure, but maybe… well, she’d have to see what happens. There weren't any controllable factors yet, she’ll have to set that up in the first few weeks before school. Her hallmates all have distinct personalities from what she’s gleaned so far, many of them marked. 

This year is going to be fun, she thinks.

—

The smell of smoke wafts from the bathroom into the main room despite the shut door and open window. The room’s foggy as though someone was showering, but the smoke makes their lungs wheeze whenever they inhale too sharply. Gerard, high off his ass, was lounging on the sink, one foot resting on the top of the toilet as though he may fall at any second. Jon thinks he’s high off the secondhand smoke, and that’s most likely true, but he doesn’t care. Gerard’s a lot more fun when he’s not sober.

“We’re going to get in so much trouble when they catch us,” Gerard giggles. “I hope it gets into the vent system and Annabelle gets high for no reason.”

Jon barks out a laugh. He didn’t like Annabelle too much- Gerard evidently had some kind of thing against her, but she also looked at him like she was sizing him up like he was some puzzle for her to solve. He’d got enough of those looks over the year and always steered clear of those people. Well, except Nikola. He couldn’t help what she did.

“The door to the roof is on our floor,” he says the instant the thought pops into his mind. His headache is gone, thankfully, perhaps due to the insane amount of probably illegal painkillers that Gerard had stored in his garbage bag/suitcase.

“Ha! I know how to pick locks.”

He jumps off the sink, his ankles buckling and twisting when he hits the floor. With a yelp, Gered is on a pile on the floor. Jon tries to mask his laugh with a cough to be polite, but his roommate can't contain his own laughter.

Jon gives him a hand up, both of them lightheadedly moving for the door. It takes Gerard three tries to lock it behind them and he almost trips when attempting to kick in Annabelle’s door. It takes him even longer to get his picks through the keyhole, much less manoeuvre them. Jon almost screams when the lights flicker, and the two of them say shhhhh at the same time.

They burst through the door and onto the roof and the humid England air hits them like a brick. It rained while Jon was driving up, as it did most days, and the clouds have since clumped and drifted away from the sun. The humidity is enough to make him even more lightheaded. Gerard swears at the sun before peeling his shirt off.

Jon tries his best not to stare. Georgie often tells him that he doesn’t have a dial when it comes to looking at people- either he’s staring with all the intensity of God or his gaze is fixed as far away from them as possible. She said it’s more like a light switch, except no one knows how to switch it on or off.

But he’s never been friends with another trans person before, except online, and they didn’t seem to like him much when he did that. Gerard holds himself with all the confidence in the world, like he’s seen his body and couldn’t be bothered in the least. He’s lucky in that his hips are small and his breasts are barely noticeable, especially under a sports bra. He doesn’t have that awkward inward curve of his shoulders that always caused neck and back pain for Jon. He looks nice, too- he manages to make his black jeans and sports bra look like the most masculine outfit anyone could wear, despite his narrow shoulders and protruding hips. 

Maybe it’s the tattoos- he can make out some dice, plenty of eyes and swirling patterns in the background, most of them so intertwined he can’t tell where one design starts and another begins. They get a little slopier as they move from his ribs to his side. His shoulders are covered in realistic waves that don’t look like the rest of the tattoos. If Jon stares at them for too long, they begin to shift ever so slightly. Down his spine, on each pale bump, there’s a simple eye decal, the kind you’d see on a logo. If he looks, he can see a single dot of green in the centre of the pupal.

He notices Jon’s stare and grins. “Is this because you’re attracted to me or because you’ve never talked to another trans guy before?”

Jon’s heart leaps in his chest. “Is it obvious?”

“Dude, you have no idea. I mean, you had this whole look about you, like you’re used to being the only person like us in the whole room and it's your fault if everyone else doesn't understand. It’s a very isolating look.”

His stomach twists, he knows he's not easy to read- he’s used to confusing everyone around him. Gerard looks straight through him and Jon isn’t sure if he likes what he sees. He has to stop himself from hunching forward and bites the inside of his cheek.

Gerard gives him a look, and Jon thinks he's beginning to feel ill. “I know you have questions,” he sighs. “You can go ahead and ask them.”

Jon lets go of something inside that he didn’t realise required holding back. “Gerard, how are you so comfortable with yourself? I mean- dysphoria is common enough and I-I mean, you don’t seem bothered by-by any of it. Why?”

The goth shrugs. “I mean, it’s just- it’s just my body. My Flesh suit, if you will. I can customise it with my hair dye and piercings and clothes and makeup. I’m on a waitlist for hormones, which is killing me to wait for, but at the end of the day, I’ve got all the control over my own body. It’s mine, and I can only change it so much. I think… I think if I spend all my life chasing after the perfect cis-trans-male mix, then it’d be unfair to all those guys who never get to do that. I mean, would I be more of a man after testosterone? No. I’d still be the same exact person up in my head. I’ve got to be the trans guy who isn’t what people expect for- for rep, I suppose. I’ve got boobs, and there’s not much I can do about that right now. And they’re good-looking! It’s pointless to try and hide them.”

When he pauses, Jon feels his gut twist when he thinks Gerard’s done talking. He almost asks why? When he resumes talking again.

“Also, like. There’s something very punk about the whole thing, and that’s the scene I’ve always felt the most at home at. Excluding a few fucking skinheads, the whole point is nonconformity. And at my mom’s house, it was punished. So being a man and owning a body that most of my community told me that I’m supposed to hate.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have dysphoria. Some of us don’t, but that sort of thing is subjective, I guess. What makes me dysphoric is the idea of my body looking like someone’s ideal trans body. 

“I want the top surgery, the hormones, hell, maybe even bottom surgery one day. But I want it so that I can express myself however I want. And right now, to not conform means to refuse to hide anything, even if it makes me uncomfortable. Does that make sense?”

Jon shakes his head. “Not to me. I understand it in the same way I could conceptualise being a cis woman.”

Gerard nods. “I mean, it's kinda cool to be like this, right? Whatever part of my body feels inaccurate, I can just simply disagree with. I have more agency over myself than ever. Like, I love the name Gerard, but it feels stiff, so I have my friends call me Gerry.”

Jon can notice that he hasn’t asked him to call him ‘Gerry’. He doesn’t comment.

“Mum hates it,” he continues, mocking her- “It’s Morana, dear, it's a special name!”

There’s something strange about hearing someone like him deadname themself. He swallows his discomfort and lets him finish.

“Anyway, I love nonconformity in all aspects of my life. So naturally, conforming to anything makes me dysphoric. And it makes my life hard- I want a very stereotypical transition, which I’m conflicted about. But I’ve decided to do it on my own terms of not doing that normally. Lots of my trans friends have called me bad rep or you’re the reason Tories hate us! Y’know, all that bullshit.”

Jon’s only ever heard that from cis people. He can only imagine what it would be like to hear someone like Georgie say that he’s the reason all queer people are discriminated against and clenches his fist.

Gerard sighs, and then looks at Jon. “Was that too much? I hope I haven’t made you feel bad or anything.” He puts his face in his hands and laughs almost hysterically. “God, I never would have said any of this sober.” He flops on his back, cringing as his bare back hits the concrete roof. 

Jon lets out a long sigh. “No, it’s all good. I… I like understanding people. Trying to understand people.” Maybe the smoke from the bathroom is starting to set in, because he says outside of his thoughts, “Sometimes I think people are the real corruption in the world. Like, the leading anarchist thought idea is that human nature, outside of systems of power, will rise up to fix problems because they have nothing to gain from leaving a problem out there. But I don’t think we’re capable of doing good. Of destroying obviously bad hierarchies, maybe, but… I don’t think we’re capable of organising together to do good.”

“He says to the anarchist,” Gerard jokes.

Jon shushes him. He’s finally getting to expel these thoughts and he doesn’t want to stop. “We all think we can solve our problems by fixing some issue out there, but we’re just gonna create new norms. Like, if you tear down the idea that all trans people hate their bodies and can’t stand to show the world what we look like, what about people like me? We’d then be the deviation of the norm and we’d be the ones punished for it, and there are more trans people with severe dysphoria than those without. Humans can’t fix problems. We’re too flawed.”

Gerard hums. “I don’t want to think like that. Too… pessimistic, I guess.” he leaps to his feet. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go to the library and see if they have any of Emma Goldman’s papers. Maybe that’ll change your mind.”

Jon doesn’t think so. He’s heard of her works- impressive, but not life-changing. He shrugs, taking Gerard’s hand up. He’s dizzy still and nearly collapses on the stairs. He knows that he can’t get rid of it with a drink, but he still takes a gulp before leaving their hall. He didn’t want to spend today doing things, but he’s still excited at the idea of having a trans roommate. A cool one, too, one who wasn’t crippled by self-hatred and currently drowning in his existential crisis.

“Hi, miss, where’s the section on anarchist writings?”

The librarian gives him a long stare that says, Of course, that’s the section you’re asking for. The nameplate on her desk reads Ms. Gertrude Robbinson. Jon tries to shrink into himself as much as he can.

She sighs, pointing to a shelf in the back that says philosophy. “There’s labelling on the shelves. You can figure it out.”

He salutes her and starts running towards the stacks. Jon sighs and follows after him, feeling annoying. He’s staring at his feet as he walks, painfully aware of how his hips swing and his shoulders aren’t quite so broad in his shadow. He takes a deep breath, prepared to force himself to look away and find Gerard, and-

He walks straight into a woman. She’s standing in the middle of the corridor, reading from a book titled ‘Keeping Rare Pets’. She doesn’t react for a moment, and then her face twists to face him. The rest of her body is as still as stone. She’s a pale green and her hair is dirty and caught in clumps.

The book thunks onto the floor, forgotten. There’s a perfect circle on her neck that’s bright red like someone pressed a hole puncher into it. Her skin felt papery and thin, and he steps backwards quickly.

He opens his mouth to apologise when she grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him into a random stack. Her nails dug into his flesh and stung like they were coated with red vinegar rather than nail polish. She’s shoved him up against the wall, and he hates that she’s an inch taller than him. She opens her mouth and he expects her to start talking, but instead, she starts… frothing at the mouth? The saliva that pools in her mouth is white and bubbly, and her lipstick smudge makes her look like she’s bleeding.

And then something in her mouth… wriggles. A clump of squirming white mass emerges from the back of her throat and before Jon can even think to shove her off him, she’s spat the mass of worms onto his face.

They’re cold and slimy, and he half expects them to slide off his face and land on the carpeted floor with a thump. Instead, they latch onto his skin and… biting isn't the right word. It's like they push in the right place and his skin parts around the worm's head, and it’s when one starts to tear into his cheek that he begins to scream. It’s like exposing taught, rug-burned skin air after it’s been paper-cut.

She clamps her hand over his mouth, bug-out eyes staring directly into his as if she’s well aware of the rest of the worms digging into his soft neck with less bone to protect it, one crawling down his arm to reach his wrist.

She leans in to watch the look on her face, a greedy glint in her eyes. “Can you hear them,” she croons. “Can you hear them sing?”

Jon knows he’s not particularly strong, but he tries to throw as much of his strength into thrashing.

She doesn't move, only digging her nails in harder. “They’ll get us all, you know,” she’s salivating, and he sees something pulsing under the flesh of her neck, poking its pale head out of her skin before burrowing back under. “You don’t have to worry about- about love or acceptance. We will all be one and it will be glorious.”

Red begins to dot his vision, and the last thing he sees is the bookshelves before his head hits the floor.

—

When he regains consciousness, it feels like someone’s grabbed one of his bones and is trying to pull it out of his flesh. He screams and tries to pull away, but something holds him down. There’s something hot and wet on his face, dripping down his cheek and into his mouth. Blood, which he promptly chokes on and tries to scream again.

The pulling stops and instead of the red-hot pain in his face and neck, it’s replaced with a dull throbbing.

His vision begins to clear and he can see Gerry standing above him, triumphantly holding up a wriggling worm. He drops it on the floor and Jon scrambles to the corner of his bed, as far away from the thing as he can get. Something squishes and Gerry repeatedly slams his platforms on the ground. 

Jon wraps his arms around his stomach, clenching his jaw. Gerry shifts his gaze over to Jon. “Hey, man, are you good-?”

Jon promptly vomits onto the dorm floor. Gerard must have been forced to carry him here- he vomits again, only acid reflux coming up and dripping out of his mouth onto the floor. It left a rancid, sour taste in his mouth. He’d have water when he was sure he wouldn’t just throw it back up.

Gerry doesn’t even look phased, he only grabs a trash can and a garbage bag to put where Jon is crouched over, reaching. Once he’s sure that Jon and the worms aren't going anywhere, he digs through all their things, looking for wet wipes. He swears, storming out into the hall and slamming his fist into the next door.

“Is that vomit on your shoes?” their voices are slightly muffled through the thin walls.

“Fuck off, Annabelle.”

“You came to me,” she points out.

“I just need some damn wet wipes.” His voice shifts from the hall to being on his left, probably having shoved past Annabelle to get into her room. “Oh. Hey. New roommate? Did you scare off your old one?”

Annabelle’s laugh is soft and velvety and makes Jon’s skin crawl. He wonders if it’s possible to hurl again.

“Um. Hello?” someone he doesn’t know practically squeaks out. “I’m Martin?” he phrases it as if he’s unsure.

“Gerard, he/him, get out of my way and let me get some damn wet wipes.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll, erm- yeah.”

Gerry slams the cupboards around, something thudding on the carpet before he storms out and slams Annabelle’s- and Martin’s, he supposes,- door. Gerry jumps onto his bed to get Jon’s vomit out of his shoes, grumbling under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Jon rasps. His throat scrapes and burns when he speaks, so he doesn’t elaborate.

“Don’t worry about it, man, you were almost eaten out by worms; A little vomit’s not that bad.”

That doesn’t stop the churning in Jon’s stomach, but he supposes he’s got nothing left to throw up. However, that doesn't stop him from gagging and choking over the trash can for the next ten minutes as Gerry summarises what happened while he was passed out.

“Oh, and I called your girlfriend. Her shift just ended and she’s on her way up. Took me forever to figure out how your phone works.”

And just when he thought he was done vomiting, now he traded that feeling for wanting to die. He grabs his phone from the nightstand, dialling her number as quickly as he can.

Despite driving, she picks up before the first ring is over. “Gerry, is he OK? I’m about half an hour away and I’m already breaking the speed limit, but this rental can take more if you need me- why isn’t he in a hospital again? I mean we can’t afford it but if we have to”

“Georgie, Georgie, I’m fine. I- it could have been worse.”

“It could have been WORSE? Jonathan Sims, you were eaten by worms! You passed out for four hours!” 

He cringes, holding the phone a little farther from his face. “Yes, but I’m up now. Gerry, erm. Dug the worms out. They burrow very slowly, actually.” He chuckles at this, she does not.

“Jon!” He faintly hears a horn beeping and Georgie yelling, “Move, you fucking son of a bitch!” She slams the horn down once more, and then she asks, “Does it hurt too much? I know you have ibuprofen so I brought Tylenol and allergy medications because they’re, y’know, anti-inflammatory? And don’t drink! That’s really bad for your stomach if you combine alcohol with medication.”

“Yes, Georgie, thank you.”

“Do you want me to stay on the phone? I can, if you want, my battery should last until I get here-”

“I think I’ll be good. See you in half an hour.”

“See ya then. Love you, Jon.”

“I love you too.”

A few seconds after Jon sets his phone down and curls back up in his blanket, Gerry laughs, “I cannot believe you’re straight.” There’s a bit of worry behind his voice, as if he’s not sure if he should joke, so Jon laughs and doesn’t correct him.

“I’m a perfect picture of masculinity,” he drawls, and they both laugh again. 

Gerry glances him over, then at the locked door. He’s stuffed the seams with a blanket and plugged all windows and drains, then double-checked them and a new book lies open on the counter that he’d instructed Jon to never touch. He tosses him some bandages and a disinfectant wipe. “I’ll put on a kettle of tea.”

Chapter Text

Jon groggily drags himself out of bed. He’d hit the snooze button for hours on end, unable to fall back asleep but unable to get up. He’d forgotten how much of a hell school was over the summer, even if he loved all the discoveries. The red clock screams TWELVE FORTY-THREE in his face, and he switches his alarm off. He grabs the counter while getting up, unsteady on his feet. His heart feels like it stutters in its place and he struggles to breathe while waiting for that period to stop. 

After a few beats, his vision unblurs and he sighs.

Groggily, he grabs himself the half-empty cup of coffee Gerry must have forgotten to finish. It’s cold and bitter and nothing like tea, so Jon adds a shot of vodka into the cup and takes a long gulp. It takes about an hour before his mind starts working again. Georgie was going to spend the weekend since she hadn’t been able to see him in so long.

He moves towards the small stove to put on a pot of water for some ramen ‘breakfast’ when someone pounds on the door. He jumps out of his skin, his racing heart shaking his whole body. It makes him painfully aware that he’s not binding and his breasts are peaking out from his thin t-shirt. Despite his squarer face and deep voice, he couldn’t fool anyone without his binder or a hoodie, he can’t, he can’t- they- they’ll hit him or yell or stare or- or- or-

“Jonopenthefeckingdoorpleasepleasemanopenthedoor-” Gerry’s talking rapidly, just loud enough that Jon can hear, still pounding on the door as if his life depends on it.

He quickly unlocks it and Gerry tumbles through the doorway in a flash. He slams it shut and locks it, panicky glancing towards the locked window. When he relaxes enough for Jon to get a good look at him, the first thing he notices is all the blood. It’s dripping down the side of his head, caked into his long, black hair. Then he hears the hyperventilating and sees the puffing of his face, the red gash on his jeans, and all Jon can do is whisper “shit.”

Gerry tries to flash him a smile. “What a way to start the school year?"

“What- what happened to you?”

“Yeh should see the other guy,” he croaks before collapsing onto his bed. “Get me some alcohol wipes and some bandages and a cup of water.”

Jon shuts the stove off, swallows down his panic, and does as Gerry says. He has no idea how the bathroom is organised, so Gerry calls out directions from where he is lying down. He dumps them onto the desk and tries to collect his thoughts. He- he doesn’t need to know what happened, he just needs to- needs to-

“Water, Jon. I’d like some water.”

Right. Water. He could do that.

Jon pulls a chair up next to Gerry, guiding himself through deep breaths. He pulls on a hoodie and hunches, waiting as patiently as he can. He can feel the questions bubbling up and can hardly think about anything else besides stopping himself from asking them.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to ask. He uses a wet cloth to help Gerry get the blood out of his hair, looking squeamishly at the damage. The wound is jagged and still bleeding, but Jon holds back his vomit. Gerry clenches his jaw at the touch, but he tries his best to relax and begins talking.

“I- I was just goin’ to return some brushes to the art classroom and I- I had to use the bathroom on the way back- goddamnit, Jon, that burns.”

“I-it could get infected-

“I know, I know.” He grits his jaw and takes a deep breath. “Ok, go ahead.” Jon tentatively presses the alcohol wipes back on the head wound and Gerry winces but doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

“Then this guy- he looked like every other fecking Torry in this hellhole- came up to me while I was washing my hands and asked what the hell I thought I was doing in here, this is the dude’s bathroom. And I said I know it’s a guy’s bathroom, that’s why I’m here, idiot.”

If it was possible, more anxiety pools in Jon’s stomach.

“And he says, y’know, all self-righteous, Yeh shouldn’t be in here. And I realise there’s no one else in the bathroom and I start to panic, and like an idiot, I tell him if his idea of manhood is not having a pussy, then a cunt like him shouldn’t even be in here. And… he laughs. Like I'm being friendly. And I can’t even think to get out, I’m so feckin’ pissed, so I punch the guy in the face- and then he grabs me and starts slammin’ my head into the sink and so I kick him in the dick and try to shove him off me- and- and-”

His face would be completely blank if it weren’t for the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes and staining his pale face. Jon doesn’t know what to say so he stays silent.

“And he grabs, um. He grabs a knife. I don’t know why he had it, and it was so tiny and I- I’m big, but cis guys are always stronger. They’re always stronger.” He gestures to the cut on the lower half of his leg. “He was aimin’ for my stomach, I think, I- it was all so quick. I moved just in time, and- I think he broke one of my ribs.” The last few words are spoken in a whisper.

In two months, Jon has seen Gerry strike a pose when someone called him a fag, start a fight with some girl that said something about him just being ‘basically a quirky straight girl’, and stand up in debate class to argue for the laws that protect trans healthcare even when he was assigned to argue against it. “It shouldn’t even be a debate.” He’s never seen Gerry scared or offended or even upset by it. Only angry.

It’s scarier than all the blood on him, to be honest.

He takes the bottle of wine that Gerry’s been drinking probably too fast and pours himself a tall glass. Gerry grabs it back. He looks like he's in a trance, staring at the cut on his leg. “I’m gonna have to take my shirt off.” he closes his eyes. “If I have to go to the hospital, I’m goin’ teh burn down this whole fecking building.”

Jon gets up to leave. “If you want, erm, privacy, or-”

Gerry seizes him by the wrist, staring dead into his eyes looking like a cornered animal. “No! Just- just don’t look. But please don’t- please don’t leave me here.”

Jon sits back down quietly, hoping to calm his racing heart. His vision is already swimming from moving so much, but he’ll push through it. Gerry’s the one with the problems right now, he can focus on that.

“Ok,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

Gerry takes a deep breath, centring himself. He stares at the ceiling, still breathing heavily. Jon turns around respectfully, and a few seconds later he hears Gerry sigh. “OK, none of my ribs are broken. Yeh can turn back around.”

“My phone’s on my desk. Can yeh get it for me.” He’s speaking so quietly that Jon can hardly process it, but he nods.

Gerry shakily dials a number, presses the phone to his ear, and shifts so he’s using the wall to sit upright. He presses the wet cloth to the deep, ragged cut on his leg. Jon thinks that if he clenches his jaw any harder his teeth will crack and shatter, and he opens his mouth to say this and then closes it. It’s not going to help.

Gerry opens his mouth to say something when the other line picks up. He makes some kind of strangled noise before bursting into tears that explode from his eyes as if he’d just broken down a dam. 

Jon can hear the voice on the other side- a soft, androgynous voice that demands worriedly, “Gerry? Where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m home, I-I-I just- fuck, can ye come over?”

“Gerry, what happened?”

He’s full-on sobbing now, gasping for breath and choking on tears. Jon hates it, the way he scrunches up his face and clenches his fist, shuddering through breaths as if he’s trying to use the remainder of his strength to be quieter, be smaller, to collect himself but it’s just not enough.

“Hey, hey, love, take a deep breath, just- just breathe with me, OK? Breath in, 1, 2, 3, 4… out, 2, 3, 4… that’s it, keep doing that, ok? You said you were in your dorm?”

Jon feels like he’s stumbled onto something private and pulls out his own phone to give Gerry some space.

Jon

gerry had an accident nikola has medical supplies right

can you get some strong painkillers and lots of bandages from her please

make sure she doesn’t come over here i cant deal with her right now

Georgie

im omw wtf happened

Jon glances at Gerry, who's still crying and babbling into the phone. “OK, I’m coming over, just- just stay where you are, just- Jon’s with you? It’ll take me 15 minutes to drive over, just hang on, OK?”

Jon

we can go over it when you get here

you might have to leave tho idk if he wants company or if he'll freak out

Georgie

k stay safe

“Do you want me to hang up while I drive?” Michael’s asking over the phone, obviously starting to keep his voice gentle and calm, like Gerry’s a wounded animal.

He’s stopped crying for the most part, but when he declines the call he buries his face in his hands.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Yeh know somethin’, Jon? I hate being like this.” Jon’s eyes widen slightly, but he knows better than to interrupt and make it harder to say. “I can talk as much as I like about how great the community is and how- how much I take pride in being different. But I really, really hate it. And I kind of hate myself, too.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he whispers softly.

Gerry shrugs. “Just my lot in life. What’s that saying, ye can only play the hand yer dealt?”

Jon thinks things like that don’t make sense. You can always change your place in life, that was one of the pros of democratic socialism. Or did Gerry mean you can’t choose to be cis or trans? He’d be right, but he can always change how he presents, and weren’t the two things close enough? It was to him.

Georgie and Michael arrive at the same time. Michael’s blue eyes are red and practically trips over himself to make sure Gerry’s fine. He grabs Gerry’s hand and Gerry snorts. “Ya look like you were the one beat up in a bathroom.”

Michael starts crying again at that, and Gerry shushes him. “It’s fine, it’s fine- hey, don’t cry, man, I’m sorry. Remember Justin from Year 11? This wasn’t that bad in comparison…”

He just keeps crying harder. Georgie, who looks just as concerned as Jon, whispers, “Is this the cis version of white guilt?”

“I guess,” he whispers back.

“I brought you antibiotics, a blood pressure monitor, shit ton of bandages, rubbing alcohol, medical thread- Jon, is he going to be OK?”

He looks at Gerry, who's currently poking fun at how Michael’s eyeliner was running and trying to get him to smile. He can’t think of the words, can’t force them through his closed throat, so he just nods. I hope so.

—

The next day in Speech and Debate, Jon nearly falls asleep at his desk for the third time. Michael brought in an air mattress and was up all night with Gerry, whispering to each other when Gerry couldn’t fall asleep. It was cute, sure, but he’s half certain he will fall over when he has to get up.

Gerry insisted that he was fine and they should all just go to class, but that doesn’t stop Jon from worrying. What if someone asks about his black eye? What if he gets in trouble for fighting? What if someone else tries to do something? After this, Jane Prentis and her flesh-eating worms felt like the least of his worries.

These worries don’t just apply to his safety. As they’re assigned partners for the first project of the year- the topic is climate change- Jon wonders if his partner would want to do the project with him if he knew that Jon wasn’t cis. Probably not. Would it be different in another school? He curves his shoulders in slightly, aware that they’ll ache later and no Advil would be able to block it out.

His partner sticks out his hand. “Hi, I’m Tim. I think we live in the same wing?”

Jon wouldn’t know, since he seldom leaves his room except to go to the library, where he would sit cushioned between tall shelves in a place he’s certain no one will interrupt him. “Jon,” he says, biting his tongue to stop it from sounding like a question. He feels small, even though they’re both sitting at desks opposite from one another. He moves to shake Tim’s hand, but Tim pulls away quickly and laughs.

Jon laughs too, a bit uncomfortable- he can’t tell if Tim’s making fun of him or if he’s just being friendly.

“Anyway, climate change. The Big Bad that we college students definitely have the power to change. What side are you on?”

Jon digs his nails into his palm, trying to sum up the extreme complexity of the topic in a singular sentence. “I, er… I think that climate change is inevitable with or without human intervention, but we’re doing too much to speed it up and we have a responsibility to do something to stop killing our world.”

Tim blinks. “Damn. I just usually repeat what Sasha tells me, but that sounds pretty well thought out. Do you know stuff about this already?”

“Ehhhhh, a little bit. Probably enough for this project.” He doesn’t mention all the hours he’s spent on youtube watching college lectures on this subject. He got the hint for all of secondary school- no one wants to listen to the nerd ramble about things no one cares about. At the time, he didn’t have anything to lose, but uni can be his fresh start.

“Great,” Tim exclaims. He looks and talks a bit like some kind of frat boy, but there’s something on his face that makes the knot of worry in Jon’s stomach relax a little bit. He reminds himself that just because he’s comfortable doesn’t mean that he’s safe and tries to keep a watchful eye on everything that’s said.

By the end of class, all Jon and Tim have managed to get done is compare their music taste(vastly different) and complain about how far apart their classes are. He sort of wishes that they’d get some work done, but he doesn’t want to act, as Georgie puts it, as if there’s a stick up his ass.

As if thinking about his girlfriend summoned her out of thin air, Georgie grabs Jon by the arm as he’s leaving class, and he jumps slightly. “Jesus, Georgie!”

“We’re getting tea for you and coffee for me. C’mon.”

“Do I get a choice in the matter?” He asks, and she laughs and in the moment, there is not a more beautiful noise.

Georgie’s tall even without platforms. She walks with a kind of confidence that makes Jon wonder if she has the peripheral vision to see everyone else. She’s pulled her afro up into a frizzy ponytail and isn’t wearing any makeup. Jon slips his hand in hers and she squeezes.

“Everything’s alright?” She whispers, glancing at Tim as they leave. “You didn’t get partnered with an asshole?”

He nods, unsure of himself anyway. He’s very tired, and he has one more lecture left for the day. Intro to Ethics was one of his favourite classes so far, mostly because one could hold any opinion as long as one had the logic to support said opinion. Everything was up to interpretation, which meant Jon wasn’t constantly afraid of answering wrong. He loves subjective things, because its so fun to pick apart every single angle 

“So, Annabelle’s hosting a book club tonight. It’s girls only, plus Martin I guess, so you’re not invited.” She says that knowing that he doesn’t care. She orders their drinks and Jon takes their local paper off a stack.

“O…K?”

“Well, you’re checking in on Gerry, right? Cuz we have maths together, so I won’t see him until tomorrow. He needs more than just Michael to look after him.”

“...Sure.” he doesn’t know how to do that. He knows how to be normal, to exist in the same space as him. He knows hes blunt and uncomfortable to have serious conversations with- what if he makes Gerry feel worse?

The cafe softly glows yellow, the corners a bit darker, and student art hung and priced all over the walls. The chairs were rickety and hand-painted, each one unique. Jon wonders how the cafe kept them from chipping. Georgie collapses on a stool by the tall, long table that’s pressed up against the window, taking a long drink of her coffee. Jon follows after her, yawning.

“10 AM is too early for a class to start.”

Georgie laughs halfway through her own yawn. “I can’t believe we did 8:00 every day for years.” 

There’s not much in the paper, aside from a few things about an election that won’t take place until May. There are too many Tories running, as far as Jon is concerned. He shares said opinion with Georgie, who shrugs.

“Politics will be politics.”

Jon makes a face at the paper. “I can see why Gerry has decided himself an anarchist.” This draws a chuckle out of Georgie, and Jon can’t help but feel proud of himself.

“The anarchist movement has always been ahead of its time,” she says wisely, pulling a piece of paper out of her notebook. “Hey, I was thinking of getting a new tattoo. What do you think?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tim, who had his arm around a tall girl in a long, yellow skirt and billowy white blouse. She looked like every ‘light academia outfit’ that Georgie had pinned on Pinterest. They were arguing, but she was smiling and his eyes sparkled when he looked at her. Bickering, maybe?

“Jon. Jon. Earth to Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Tattoo. Opinions?”

“Looks fine. As long as you're not colouring it realistically.” She did that once, with a cat, and covered it over.

“Obviously not.”

He thinks he can feel Tim’s eyes on him whenever he turns back to the paper, so he sits facing Georgie so he can keep both of them in his line of sight. Tim’s sitting at a table in the back with the girl, dramatically flopping over the table while the girl enthusiastically flipped through a thick, annotated book. Ok, maybe they’re just studying and not following him.

He keeps an eye on them for the next ten minutes, though. He still feels prickles on the back of his neck, a distinct feeling of being watched.

Uncomfortable, he tells Georgie that he has to go back to his dorm to get a few materials for Intro to Persuasion and Propaganda. He keeps glancing behind him, sure he’ll see something that will alert him to the other presence. There’s something there, there has to be, he’s just not looking correctly.

The instant he enters their hall, he can hear Gerry’s music through the walls. He’s playing it through a tape recorder, how he manages that Jon has no clue. He checks the mail out of the habit of doing so for his grandmother, surprised to see a paper package with his full name written out in curly, decorative letters. It looks almost printed, so he ran a finger over it to feel the imprint that the pen had made.

There was no return address.

He opened the end of it, peering inside. There’s a thin stack of light brown paper like someone's soaked it in tea. It doesn't smell like tea or coffee, though, it smells old. Jon sets it on his bedside table and turns to Gerry, who’s splattering paint on a canvas. A large glob of red nearly smacks him in the forehead and Gerry hollers his apology over the music, clicking the STOP button. It blends in the carpet well enough that Jon knows he’ll wait another day before scrubbing it out.

“Ooh, mail!” Gerry peers over Jon’s shoulder. “What’s it say?”

“Er, I’m not sure. I’ll look at it this afternoon, I suppose. After making myself some lunch.” Georgie had threatened him about his eating schedule enough that he had the words eat some fucking lunch tattooed into his brain at this point.

Gerry takes one look at the old papers and his pierced eyebrows shoot up. Jon could have sworn there was only one ring in there last night, but maybe he was remembering wrong. “Well, I have Intro to Painting in a half hour. Record it for me if I’m not here, yeah? It looks cool, and I don’t wanna miss out on anything.”

“I can just wait until you’re back,” Jon protests, but Gerry waves it away.

“You’ve probably got nothing better to do, and if I leave you alone you’ll probably mess with my painting.”

Jon peers at the self-portrait. It’s done in the style of political posters, stark black red and white suggesting that it was anarchistic. Gerry’s hair was neon red in this, and his eyes looked right at Jon in some kind of stubborn determination. It makes him feel a little uncomfortable, so he turns to grab his books and shoves them into a bag.

Gerry flopped on his bed. “Transexual revolutions can never succeed without tearin’ down the authorities that created the binary,” he says like it's a quote. Jon grunts some kind of acknowledgement. “I wrote that in a zine when I was, like, fifteen. I’ve been going through my journals and thought it was cool. Plus, I mean, I can turn this in teh class and play the marginalisation card.”

“...Is that some kind of coping mechanism?”

“...No. Maybe.”

“Do you have a therapist or someone to help you with coping and processing?” He can hear his own flat voice and cringes at it. “A third-person perspective helps monitor and provide aid, and we apply cognitive behavioural therapy to almost any issue and it has been proven to be helpful for people without any major issues in their life.”

“I want to make fun of that sentence so badly.”

“Just answer the question, Gerry.”

He sighs, picking at his lip ring and twisting it in and out. Jon, who never had the stomach for piercings, feels his gut twist as he waits for his answer. “Yeah, in the past, but it was, like, basically conversion therapy. So not much desire to go back.”

“Oh. Well.” He’s not helping with an approach like this. Jon reaches into the fridge and pulls out two beers. “There’s always an alternative form of therapy.”

Gerry laughs, and Jon finds himself grinning back.

—

Annabelle sits with her legs crossed in the foldout chair the library provided. She got there early to reread the book. She glances over the number of chairs once more, all set up and ready; drinks that she persuaded Ms Gertrude to bend the rules to allow, extra copies of Inkheart for those who didn’t have one, and some loose leaf paper.…

This was their third meeting, and they were about halfway through the book already. She’d gotten Martin to open up a little more- well, hm. She’d gotten him to talk more comfortably with her about books and tea and his classes, but he’s very good at talking about his life without including any exact details. She knows what he’s doing, and he’s very good at it- unfortunately, it seems like he has no goals with his concealing nature and is only doing it out of self-preservation. Hm. Pity. She’ll get to him eventually, she knows.

Daisy is one of the first to file in, about five minutes early. Annabelle greets her with a kiss on the cheek, smiling generously. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

“Mornin’.’ Annabelle’s voice is more of a lisp and Daisy’s a drawl, but she likes the way they both skipped over the same vowels and rolled the same letters. It gives her spiders in her stomach, but the pleasant kind.

“Enjoy the chapters?” she asks, pouring herself a cup of lemonade.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Daisy whispers in a conspiratorial tone, “but I just come here for the company.”

“I won’t tell,” Annabelle whispers back, winking.

Martin and Basira are the next to walk in, talking about what Annabelle can only assume is their shared English class. Martin’s been very excited about the book they’re reading and Annabelle listened to him talk for a half hour about character archetypes and intentional flaws, something Annabelle only understood through real life. She’d listened and commented when appropriate, following along and looking at him the whole time. It had been a bit difficult to sit through if she was being honest.

She has to admit, though, he does make wonderful tea. And she’s glad he’s opening up, even if it’s only a little. Maybe he’ll still be useful, but their neighbour…

There are plenty of options for her candidate. She’ll start with Jon, see how that goes. She doesn’t want too many of those Statements to be out there, just in case someone like Jonah gets wind of what she’s doing. 

Then comes Sasha, Helen, and Melanie, arguing loudly over… ethical medical practices? Annabelle keeps one ear turned towards them and mentally runs over what she remembers. Sasha is going to be a law major, Helen an aspiring doctor, and Melanie a creative writing major. Helen thinks theoretical debates are pointless, there’s plenty of rants on her youtube. Sasha loves the theoretical and intangible, and Melanie… it looks like she’s just arguing to have fun.

Melanie taps Annabelle on the shoulder. “Manuela and Julia emailed, they’re running late. Something about study hall?”

“Have you heard from Jane?” She asks even though she’s been watching Jane ever since she disappeared.

Melanie shakes her head. “Nah, I think she went home or something. Our dorm has started smelling normally again, so I’m not complaining.” She plops herself in a seat next to Helen. “And, to be fair, ethics are definitely super important. But, like, that doesn’t mean some moral rules shouldn’t be rewritten.”

“Oh, silly you! All rules are unimportant in the long run, since they’re subjective.”

Now it’s Sasha who interjects loudly, but Annabelle turns her attention to Georgie Barker, who is chugging her tea- no, she drinks coffee- like her life depends on it. She throws herself into the open chair next to Melanie. “English Lit is going to fucking kill me.”

“Oh, god, same.”

“At least you don’t have to take neuropsych,” she jumps in, rolling her eyes. “I’m so done with watching the Ameba Sisters on Youtube just to understand the vocabulary.”

“Oh my god, I remember watching those videos! My bio teacher followed them, like, religiously.”

“Man, I miss high school,” Georgie whispers into her coffee. Melanie pats her on the head.

They chat about their classes and when Manuela and Julia arrive, they work on their homework for the rest of the meeting. Martin has his notebook for knitting projects out and is scribbling things down every five seconds, Georgie excuses herself to get more coffee, and they spend a grand total of ten minutes discussing Inkheart. Annabelle tries not to be too disappointed. It was lovely(and productive) to catch up with all of them. 

Daisy stays to help Annabelle clean up; they’ll have to hurry if they want to make it to class on time. They exchange brief, flirty comments, going silent when Ms. Robinson stops by to ask how the meeting went. 

As Daisy zips up her leather jacket, Annabelle’s keen eyes catch the imprint of a sheath knife in her interior pocket. Daisy catches her eye, grimacing. “I keep seeing this guy wherever I’m headed back to my dorm. Mike Something-Or-Another. He looks like- well- he makes me uneasy.” Mike Crew, she guesses. He lives in their hall, Helen’s roommate. “I’m not gonna, like, knife him or anything. It’s a precaution.”

“No, no, I believe you. It’s important for women like us to be able to protect themselves. Especially since… what happened to Gerard.”

Daisy’s brow furrows. “What happened to Gerry?”

Annabelle shakes her head, pauses before clicking her tongue. “I shouldn’t say. It’s his business, but… be careful.”

She watches as every feature on Daisy’s face sharpens. “Alright.” She kisses Annabelle on the cheek. “See you tomorrow?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight? Martin’s going to visit his mum and, well, if you’re not doing anything…”

Daisy’s face twists into a disappointed shape. “Ah, I promised Basira we’d have a sleepover, the type we had back in high school. Y’know, popcorn, movies, nail polish… I’m trying to get her to listen to the Archers… I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, don’t be! It was jus' an idea. Some other night, maybe?”

“I’ll check my schedule.”

—

Daisy’s feet devour the floor as rapidly as she can without running. The walls of Oxford are tall and the tinted sunlight seeps in through darkly-stained glass, her shadows left warped and distorted. It’s uncanny, and she doesn’t like how her stomach twists.

She’s so busy watching every corner turn and jerking her head up to search for something she could have sworn was a bird but was only a trick of the light, and just when she thinks she's paying as much attention as she can to her surroundings when she slams into a boy with pale white hair.

“Crew, I swear, if I catch you following me one more time, I swear to God, I’ll-”

But she doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Calvin Benchley spreads his arms as if he’s expecting applause. “What, no ‘ello for your child’ood friend? Tsk, tsk, Alice, thats just disrespect’ul!”

—

Jon clears his throat, peering at the recorder to make sure it was running. His grandmother had used them for notes sometimes, grocery lists and the like, but he wasn’t sure that he was using it correctly.

The first piece of paper was formatted like a short story and, true to Gerry’s request, hadn’t read any of it beforehand.

“‘Um, Statement of Alex Müller, regarding… a, um, strange being that’s been following him home. Statement… Statement begins.

“I think people are noticing that I’m losing my mind. In my psych class, my desk mate has been inquiring about the fractals I’ve drawn in my notebook, and I swear that someone is following me home- or something, because now that I think about it, there is no way it's human. It’s tall- actually, long is a better word. I keep trying to get a good look at it, to convince myself that it's just me misperceiving a human.”

Jon doesn’t like how his stomach curls, the way he can feel the acid rising in the back of his throat. It feels like the last time he tried to go 24 hours without a cigarette- dry, like someone's carved a cavern into his chest.

“Every time I turn around, it disappears or leaves my line of sight. It keeps getting closer to me. Until yesterday I always got to my flat before it reached me, but yesterday it spoke to me, just before I entered my flat.

“‘I’d watch where you’re going if I were you, I’d hate for you to get lost.’ It wasn’t human, nothing about that trilling voice was human. Its close-cropped purple hair was a blob around its face, obscuring most details. The only other thing my brain held onto was the tiny spirals that made up the freckles splattered all over its face.” Jon can see it, in his mind’s eye, so clearly. He doesn’t like how that makes the aching in his chest lesson.

“I tried to escape into my flat, only to realise that my plain wooden door was the same shade of purple as the thing's hair. I screamed, turned around, and it was gone. I went to my neighbour's flat and had some tea with them. By the time I got back, my door was back to blue. 

“This is an institute for the supernatural, right? A research place? You guys have to have something about keeping safe, about prevention, or- or something. This is one of several places I've been. Please. I don’t know what’ll happen if it comes back.”

Jon glaces at the anecdote at the bottom of the sheet, like a footer. “Oh, erm, statement ends.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “That was, uh… it looks like something out of my grandmother’s cosy horror novels. I don’t know what he was referring to, there, but… ah, well. I’ll show Gerry this, I suppose. Certainly, it’s odd enough. And it looks like there’s more of these… stories in the package. We’ll, um… go through them later? I need to lie down for a bit.”

The stop button makes a sound like a hole-puncher, and Jon feels his skin crawl a bit at the impact. He stumbles over to his bed, heart pounding so heavily he can feel his body shaking. The fall knocks the wind out of his chest, and he wonders if somehow his frail body is dying. If he’ll begin to rot and latch onto this bed and if he tries to stand, fungus and rotted flesh keeping him suctioned to his bed.

God, how can such little things take so much out of him? He never wants to leave this bed.

But someone knocks on the door and something automatic kicks in. He clings to the wall, but he unlocks and opens the door to see Michael and forces a smile. “Hi, um, my sister kinda kicked me out of her dorm and I figured I might as well help Gerry out by trying to organise the fridge.”

Jon stares at him for a second before his vision starts to slip back into place. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”

Michael’s got the same awkward hunch as Jon, he notices. Before thinking, Jon blurts out, “do you have scoliosis, or is it social anxiety?” His face flushes as he realises how blunt that probably came off, but bites his tongue, as it’s probably too late to take it back.

“Scoliosis, actually. Not the, um, dysphoria, like Gerry or you. My back’s just kinda funky, as my doctor likes to joke.” He pauses. “They don’t joke, it’s actually quite serious."

Jon nods, not sure how to respond to that. Michael’s already begun putting on a pot of tea, not even bothering to ask if Jon wants one. Gerry probably mentioned Jon’s dehydration, he realises with a scowl. He’s only passed out once this week, and he was fine, thank you very much.

He accepts the tea when it’s done though- it helps fill the emptiness in his chest, but he still feels like his throat has dried out. Maybe he just needs a smoke.

“How’s Gerry? Have you talked to him recently?”

“Um, we talked a little bit about getting him therapy? He was strongly against the idea, though.” 

Michael nods, biting his painted nails. “I can see why. But he hasn’t, like… done anything? I can’t tell if he’s drinking more than usual; he’s open about a lot of things, but I can never get clear answers on that.”

Jon shrugs. “I mean, no? He’s playing his music a lot and he’s up at night, but not much besides that. He’s really into those Against Me! guys. It’s actually kinda funny.”

“Have you listened to Transgender Dysphoria Blues? They came out with it last year, when Laura Jane Grace came out. Gerry’s obsessed with the album; think I have all the songs memorised.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Is this normal for friendships between guys? I wouldn’t really know.”

Michael, apparently, is able to turn several shades of pink. Jon clears his throat, the words I’m bisexual, actually, don’t worry about it! caught in his throat. He shoves them down; he doesn’t want to come off as weird or annoying.

“So… how are your classes?”

“English is hell, oh my god. Like, I don’t know how it's possible for something to be this annoying. Art is fun, but like, a night class? I don’t know why they have those. I think I’m losing my mind with the amount of work I’ve got. Like, I keep having these mild hallucinations, and my doctor says that's normal for beginning of the year stress, but I’m constantly terrified that my meds have stopped working, and… Year thirteen was hell and I barely graduated. I mean, my therapist thinks I can handle this year, but… I... I don’t know.”

Jon nods, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to that. 

Michael gives him a half-assed smile. “Plus, I’m worried about Gerry, and that takes up about 90% of my headspace. It’s driving me a bit out of my mind, actually.”

“Yeah, me too.” That’s a lie. He can hardly even think about it when he’s not in his dorm. It’s like he lives in a world made up of just himself, and it takes conscious effort to remember anything else. He hates feeling like that, so self-centered. If he could re-map his mind, he would do it without hesitation.

“I wish there was, like, a mentally ill society or something here. I wish I could contact other skitzophrenics outside of, like, the internet or whatever. It kinda sucks.”

“I suppose.”

“Gerry said he’s the first other trans person you’ve met. That sounds kinda lonely.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says quietly. “Well, it wasn’t all that bad,” he amends. “My best friend is a lesbian and my girlfriend’s bisexual, and there was one gay dude who always had my back whenever someone said anything. He once got suspended for me, too. I… I always feel a little… guilty, complaining so much. Because at least I had someone, y’know?”

Michael shakes his head. “I pretty much just had Gerry, plus some friends from the ward. It’s pointless to feel bad about complaining, ‘cause someone, somewhere always will have suffered more than you.”

“Hm.” It’s obvious Jon disagrees, but they leave it there. He hears a clicking sound in the background and flinches. Was Michael messing with Gerry’s tape recorder?

“Anyway, how are your classes?”

“Group work. I’m not sure how so many students get by without working.”

Somewhere behind them, a door creaks open. “We all lose our minds at some point! Around 50%, if you’re in the US! They really have some problems over there, don’t you think?”

Jon and Michael whirl around, and Jon feels a chill snake down his back. Despite the brief description, Jon recognizes the thing from the statement. The room’s tinted purple, light pouring from within the door which somehow opened on the door.

“Oh, good lord,” he bursts, scrambling away from it.

Michael’s eyes begin to glaze over, and Jon suddenly finds himself very, very afraid.

—

Daisy doesn’t think before yanking her knife from her pocket and slamming into Calvin with all her weight. Years at the gym must have done something, because he folds into the impact and she doesnt stop to pull her knife back out before bursting into a run. Suddenly, the walls feel a lot tighter as she pumps her arms. 

She takes the first exit she sees, not even pausing to take in her environment. Her breathing is ragged and she can hardly remember the last time she’d done anything like this and oh, god, she left her knife, and she knows she can’t take him, no matter how much muscle mass she has.

Car keys jingle when she trips, and she’s suddenly glad she keeps them carabinered to her jeans. Car- her car has a gun- she has to get to the parking lot. Her limbs are burning and her ankles are screaming with every impact, but by the time she reaches the parking lot, she ends up slamming herself into the car. She can hear footsteps behind her, they’re closing in-

She fumbles with the keys, barely managing to yank the car door open and grab her gun and a baseball bat before Calvin slams her body into the ground. She skids across the ground and the blacktop tears her knee open. 

“Damnit, you son of a bitch!” She shouts through clenched teeth, fingers fumbling on her gun.

He laughs. “My li’le Alice, all grown up and a college student! At Oxford, none’a’less! Y’know, you always thought you w’re better than the rest of us. Just a bunch of dumb, small-town hicks, ‘ight? No, not like our Alice.”

She clicks off her safety, index finger trembling over the trigger.

He spreads his arms. “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy. You’ve always been a nuisance to me, e’er since we w’re kids. You really thought you could make the werld a better place? You always sounded like the main character of a kid’s show because maybe, just maybe, if you had control over e’re’ting, you could fix aaaall the world's problems, when the truth is that youre no better than me.

She’s shaking so hard, she’ll probably miss. He’s quick-he’ll be able to grab her before she can pump him full of lead, plus, the police will be alerted by the sound.

“They call that hubris in yu’r fancy textbooks, right? Yu’ve just got to have control. You thought chu w’er helping people, but you were just destroyin’ their lives from the inside out. You’re lucky ye’only met Basira in year 13, am I right? She should’a gone running.”

“You leave her out of this, you bastard,” she growls, and at the same time leaps to her feet  swinging the baseball bat at his head. It cracks on impact and he grabs at her, nails catching on her skin and ripping. His small knife slides into her stomach, and her fist slams into his face before he can start to tear a gash. Her heart is pumping, blood thrumming to the beat of some silent song, and she finds something in her body sings when he lets out a muffled scream.

She shoves her knee into his crotch and smashes her fist into his stomach, and suddenly he’s on the ground and she’s on top of him, bashing his head until the blood is so thick she can’t tell what’s his and what’s hers.

She’s kneeling on top of him, face tilted up towards the stars; they're winking at her as if they are taunting her.

God, she’s bashed his head in. She’s covered in his warm, sticky blood.

But he’s moving, he’s breathing, so she has to- has to dispose of the body. Just like in those crime documentaries she likes so much. A-a-a-a junkyard, or something? Maybe- maybe she should call- should call-

No. She needs to get a hold of her own thoughts.

She googles scrapyard near me and grabs Calvin by the arms. It’s surprisingly like a deadlift, she can feel the same muscles tensing and straining as she shoves him into her trunk. His limbs fold and bend unnaturally, and she hears things pop and crack when she finally shoves the door down. Good. He deserves it, and then there’s less of a chance he’ll kill her when she gets out.

The blood… the blood…

Numbly, she gets a 4-litre water bottle from her car and empties it onto the blacktop. It drains right down to the sewer, but it probably left a lot of residue.

Well, the forecast calls for rain…

—

Michael’s eyes are glassy, like pearly porcelain in the light, reflecting dim, pastel rainbow swirls. Jon glances between him and the doorframe in the floor.

Michael turns his head to face Jon. “Are… Are you seeing this? Can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah, I-”

A low voice calls out in a monotone song, “Oh, Michael. I can assure you, I am very real.” Just its voice makes Jon’s head hurt. He staggers over to the nearest countertop, gripping onto it for dear life. He greatly regretted removing the bandages on his hand from when the worms crawled in, as it started pulsing and tingling with pain. The thing, despite having no pupils, looked Jon directly in his eyes and started giggling, and the static in Jon’s head erupts.

Then its gaze shifts to Michael. “Well, don’t you look like a fun little fella!”

Something dawns on his face. “You- you’re the one who took Ryan.”

“And a good memory, too? Mmmmmm… I suppose we’ll have to do something about that. But leaving that aside, you’re perfect!” Its hand strokes Michael’s cheeks, leaving a thin paper cut swelling red. There’s something… something off about it… if Jon squints, he sees their hands narrowed to a point where the skin should have rounded off. It didn’t have any fingernails.

Michael’s face is turning a pale green, but he hesitantly puts his hand in Devin’s. He turns his head towards Jon hesitantly. “I… where are we?”

Jon launches towards him. “Michael, we’re in mine and Gerry’s dorm. Let go, or it’s going to-”

“Too late,” Devin cheers, folding into the floor like quicksand.

Without thinking, Jon plummets in after them in a whirl of eyesore rainbows. His heart lurches and he reaches out blindly, searching for michael. All he can see is colours, a broken TV screen with plasma leaking at the edges. He opens his mouth to scream, and stars pour out, burning his throat and burning cigarette holes in his clothes. They splatter onto the floor, sputtering out Michael’s name.

What’s he standing on? He didn’t feel his feet hit the floor. Is there a floor? Doesn’t matter. He’s here for… here for… he’s here for someone, so he starts running. But he’s running through syrup and the colours don't move, the stars are sprouting from his scars, ripping the tissue that had only just begun healing. What was he healing from?

And then a staticy screeching shatters the walls in his head, and everything starts flickering.

Everything forgotten, Jon falls to the ground and curls into a ball, both hands buried in his hair and tugging. Get it out get it out get it o u t-

“ռօ! ֆȶօք ɨȶ! ʏօʊ ƈǟռ’ȶ ɖօ ȶɦǟȶ!

ʟ

               Ɛ

                             ȶ

              ʍ

                           Ɛ

               Օ

                           ʊ

                                         ȶ

!"

As the world around him flickers between a hotel room and the headache that it was before, and Jon sees the two figures ahead of them- one seems vaguely familiar, though he’s not sure why, but he feels a distinct urge to reach them, so he starts running.

He collides with the two figures- the purple one explodes into a puddle of goo, screaming statically all the way, and the blonde one tumbles to the ground with him. His fingers are bloated and distorted, and they sliced holes in Jon’s clothing when they tried to separate themselves.

The purple goo was grouping, carefully avoiding the blonde one. It grabs Jon at the ankles and he begins to sink into the hotel floor. The blonde one is curled into a ball and shook on the floor, and Jon tries to reach for him. He’s sunk up to his neck, and his arms are trapped now. The acidic substance pours into his ears, and all sound disappears. It burns, but Jon… Jon’s not sure if he minds? It’s nice and quiet. But then it reaches his eyes and begins to burn, sinking through his squeezed shut lids and tries to thrash free.

And when he’s sure he’s going to disappear forever, something grabs him by the hair, slicing through the skin as it pulls him up. The goo shrinks away from it and that awful shrieking has filled his ears and Jon wishes the goo was back in them, blocking it all out, and the next thing he knows, his eyes are forced open gently by something pointy.

The blonde man’s hair is longer, covering his face in tight, voluminous curls. Or was it always this length? His eyes are dancing with prisms’ colours, and they’re wide and curious. His face is shoved in… whatever his name is, unblinking. After a few seconds of staring, he tilts his head to the side. “What are you?”

He has enough wherewithal to spit back the question, “What are you?” He can’t remember his name. He doesn’t know how to answer. What is he? He should know this!

The thing frowns. Its mouth looks stretched, but Jon’s not sure where. “I… I’m not sure,” it says delicately. “Michael, I’m… I’m… Michael? Or is that you? Someone said… someone said Michael. It sounded like me? But I- I don’t sound like me.” It twirls a spiral of its hair around its fingers. “What do I sound like, Archivist?”

His mouth is dry. He places a hand on his chest, blinking. “Archivist? Is that.. is that me?”

Michael’s frown gets longer. He doesn't like it. “I… I think so… That’s how I picture you, at least.” It begins to flicker. “But… is that right? I don’t… are you too old to be an Archivist? Or too young? I don’t… I don’t know.” Its mad laugh is trilling, and it sounds familiar, but…

Archivist’s eyes fall on the scar on Michael’s cheek. Did it give that to itself? How else would it…

His eyes widen. “Michael, we need to get out of here,” he breaths. 

Michael tilts his head to the side. “Why?”

Archivist’s grasping for straws, anything he can remember. “I… someone named Gerry? And- and Georgie. We need to- Gerry and Georgie, can you- we- I-” he’s stuttering, spilling over his words and tugging on the back strands of his hair. Is this normal for him? Maybe he should be scratching his arms instead, scratching until they bleed. That sounds more right, but something in his head yells at him to stop, god, why are you doing that?

No, they’ll hurt. Thats why.

Should he be fidgeting at all?

Michael’s eyes widen at the words. “Gerry, we find… we find Gerry?” his eyes shift to the distance and fall on something solid. He grabs Archivist by the shoulder to pull him up, shocked when his fingers pierce through his skin. He tries grabbing harder, but Archivist just screams in agony and so he lets go.

They stumble through a yellow door, leaning on each other, careful to avoid anything sharp. They tumble into a familiar room, and a woman with black hair stares at them with her mouth wide open.

“What,” she says loudly, “the fuck. Jon, yeh broke Michael!”

“Jon?” Archivist points to himself. “Is that me, or him?”

And then it all hits him like a brick, and he collapses to the floor.

Chapter Text

“Oh, great, now Michael’s broken Jon,” the goth complains, and Michael slaps his hand to his mouth in horror. Something begins dripping, and he assumes it's blood. Funny, he didn’t know he had that! 

“Oh, don’t do that,” he complains. “Yeh look like ye’r dyin’.”

The woman smacks him. “Jon’s passed out, don’t insult him when he can’t hear it!”

“Well, don’t focus on smackin’ me when ye should be worried about him! Ye’r a bad girlfriend!”

She scowls and looks like she’ll smack him again, but instead reaches for Jon. On something like an instinct, Michael shoves her back and bears his teeth. From the look on both of their faces, it works.

Careful of his fingers- they’re quite sharp, and Michael’s quite pleased with them- he scoops Jon up. “It wasn’t me who wanted to be here, I… Archivist said Gerry was here? Which one of you is that?”

The one with several piercings raises his hand. Michael offers him Archivist… Jon… like a peace offering. You can always trust people with piercings, especially if they call themselves Gerry.

The woman looks like she’ll smack Michael, so he pulls Archivist back to himself and looks around. Archivist was fragile, he didn’t want to drop him! That rectangle with fabric on it looks squishy, so he places Archivist there.

“You call Archivist Jon? Is that what it was first, or second?” He likes the sound of his voice. It dances up and down without him even trying.

“I don’t know what that means and I don’t like it. Michael, what the hell happened?”

Michael tilts his head to the side, pleased with how his curls bounced and shifted. They never stopped spiralling, dripping all over. “Hm… there was a door,” he says, and then falls silent for a few seconds. “And then there was some goo.”

Gerry puts his face in his hands and makes noises that could be laughing or crying. What does that mean?

“Will Archivist be alright?” He tries to sound gentle, but the woman steps away from him. Georgie? She must be Georgie.

“Don’t call him that. His name’s Jon.”

He patiently waits for her to answer the question.

She just stares at him. “If he doesn’t wake up, I’ll strangle you with your own fucking hands.” She turns to Gerry. “Is it Michael? It doesn’t act like him.”

He sniffs delicately. “Is he Michael. And… I’m not sure… please don’t make me think about it.”

“The door monster has pronouns! How delightful,” Gerry quips.

Georgie stares at him. Michael thinks she’ll slap him again. 

“I’m making a cuppa,” she says instead.

“I’ll have sleepytime tea, please, no caffeine,” he recites. It feels familiar on his tongue, and he repeats it two times more and giggles.

Gerry starts clapping. “Yeh are Michael,” he cheers. Michael grins, revealing a wide row of triangle teeth. Gerry stops clapping. Michael stops smiling.

Jon doesn’t move from where he’s in a heap on the bed, and Georgie instructs them all to look away while she removes his binder. “Privacy,” she explains to Michael, who still does not understand. They’re just bodies, after all, but if Archivist doesn’t want to be known, he’ll look away. It’s typical, he supposes. For the Eye.

Hm. Not sure how he knows that. He’s never heard of the Eye before this moment. He giggles at the irony.

Gerry eyes him strangely. “I’m… goin’ out fer a smoke. Alright? Grand. See ya in a minute.”

And then he bolts out the door. 

Michael looks to Georgie curiously, who rolls her eyes. She grabs Michael by the arm. “You are going to our dorm. And you will stay there. You will not bother Jon or your boyfriend.”

“I have a dorm? And a boyfriend?” He says, delighted.

She yanks him into the hall. “Nope, don’t even think about it. You’re not even Micahel anymore.”

—

“I’m fine, Georgie, honestly I- I’m not sure what you were so worried about! I’m awake, aren’t I?”

“You got eaten by our friend, who also got eaten- and then you passed out for three days! You- you drive me nuts sometimes, Sims.”

“Yes, I know, thank you for that. It’s just a group project in the library.”

“You know what happened last time I let you go to a library by yourself?” 

He sighs, rubbing circles on his forehead. That won’t get rid of his headache, he knows. “What, Georgie, please enlighten me. Do you need to accompany me to the library for an English assignment?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’m thinking about it.” They stare at each other, and she rolls her eyes after a few seconds.

“What’s wrong with them, anyway! At least I finally have friends.”

She storms over to the other side of the dorm, yanking the boiling kettle off the stove with more anger than he’d think possible.

“What’s wrong with me talking to them, anyway? I mean, I haven’t had more than two friends since goddamn primary school, and now you decide you don’t like them?”

“They’re goddamn sexists, Jon, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed! The- the jokes about she-males or shit on art students for being predominantly female!”

Jon blinks. “Tim- Tim is currently in a gender studies class, I believe he made those comments not because women or trans women were the joke, but because it was a mockery of the views that oppose what he studies. Besides, it’s just- it’s just guy humour. He doesn’t actually practise what he says-

“They wouldn’t even like you if they didn't think you were just some cis guy,” she snaps. 

Jon curls into himself on instinct, reeling as if she had slapped him. “That’s not fair,” he throws at her, as if his words could hold the same weight.

“You’re right, it’s not goddamn fair! But you trust these assholes so much and apparently I’m the only one who's taken the time to think that hey, maybe you shouldn’t surround yourself with the same type of people likely to hate crime you?”

“Do you think it feels good for me to look at every friendship as if it's conditional? I like to have some amount of optimism.”

“Oh, well, good for fucking you, but now I have to look after you like I’m your goddamn mom. Jesus, it’s like you’ve got no social awareness.” She spins around to look at him, gesturing up and down. “I looked out for you for all of secondary school, but you’re a fucking adult now. You aren’t supposed to be my job!”

He tugs on the back of his hair self-consciously. “I-I-I didn’t ask for this.” he can feel his eyes burning. “I d-don’t want someone to look out for me! I’m a person, Georgie,” he starts to shout, “not just something to parent!”

Her hand tightens on the kettle handle, and the next thing he knows it’s shattered against the wall behind him, tea and porcelain spraying across the room. He jumps a second too late, his reaction time delayed. The words are caught in his throat, and she clenches her fists twice before jabbing her finger in his chest. “If I didn’t look out for you, then you’d never have made it through Secondary School, and you aren’t even fucking grateful. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as cis as possible to even notice how much energy it takes to keep you safe!”

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Georgie storms past him, and he stands there for another thirty seconds, his breathing rapidly getting shallower and more rapid. He can’t get any air into his lungs, they’re squeezing him shut, and the walls are pressing in. He hugs himself with his arms, dragging his nails up and down them until the itching is replaced with a burning sensation.

All his senses crowd him, squeezing him into a box and he can’t breathe, it’s like something cracked his ribs and they’re caved in. Oh, god, he’s got to get this binder off or he’ll die, but he can’t stop tearing at the skin on his arms without the itching growing unbearable. He drops to the floor, curled up to make the sheer overwhelming of his senses cease, but every noise just gets louder and louder until he’s sure his ears will pop. He rocks back and forth violently, wishing it was enough to regulate the screaming in his head.

And then the noise gets louder, and it sort of sounds like talking, but he’s not sure. Something moves him and he starts to thrash, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t handle that, the feel of skin on his makes his skin crawl like something was moving under it and he tries to scratch at it but something’s restraining his hands. There’s tight pressure all around him, and suddenly he’s aware that his feet aren’t on the ground anymore.

He thrashes even harder, and someone’s softly saying something in his ear, but it doesn’t sound like words and he doesn’t know what it is- what if he’s in danger? But the noise is soft and gentle, and he realises it's someone’s arms around his waist, keeping his arms tucked against his body, locked in place. His heart is racing and he wonders if it can beat hard enough to break his ribs open. He’s suffocating, buried alive under mountains of dirt. 

He manages to stop thrashing as he hears Gerry whisper, “Jest breathe, Jon- In fer one, two, three… out fer one, two, three… keep doing that. I’ve got ye, yer OK, just… just breathe.”

With each breath in, something keeps his ribs trapped and aching, and the panicky feeling begins to set back in he tries to thrash his arms free, only managing to slam his head into Gerry’s nose and get him to swear. His stomach sinks and he tries to open his mouth to apologise, to scream, to ask to be put down, but the words gargle and trap and all he manages to do is gasp as a single tear trails down his face. Gerry hushes him, hugging him tighter, and the pressure makes the itching lessen and he manages to take one full breath before he feels something in his chest strain and crack.

Gerry hears it and says, “Jesus, Jon, how long have ye been binding for? Fuck, OK, I’m… I’m going to set yer bed and I need ye to take off that binder fer me, OK? Nod once if that’s alright?”

He nods, careful not to bash his nose in again. When he’s back on his feet again, he curls into a ball and buries his hands in his hair, and Gerry drapes his weighted blanket around him.

“What ‘appened?” he asks gently.

Jon shakes his head, hiding his face under the blankets. The light burns, but he doesn’t know how to get Gerry to shut them off. He feels like a wet towel that had been hung out to dry for hours, every inch of his body exhausted. He doesn’t even have the energy to pull the blanket up above his head, so he just lays there, the only movement his fingers digging into his skin. They were raw and tired, his nails torn in a few places, but stopping takes more energy than letting it continue. 

Gerry grabs his wrists, pinning them down and staring directly at Jon’s face. He twists, trying to get free, but he won’t move. “I’m gon teh cut your nails off if yeh can’t stop.”

“Stop!” he mumbles, the sound scratching at his brain. “Stop, stop, stop.” The noise makes his throat feel strange, and he’d try to scratch at it if Gerry would let him go.

The goth does, and Jon curls in on himself and starts tearing at his throat. It itches so badly, it's buzzing and moving and he can’t stand it, the air won’t just hold still and stop hurting him.

And then Gerry grabs his hands again, fumbling with a nail clipper. Jon tries to yank away but Gerry just sits on him and cuts his nails so short that one of them begins to bleed. When Gerry sits on the bed next to Jon, he realises he can't scratch anymore so he settles for rocking back and forth, pulling at the hair on the back of his head.

“Can ye talk te me?”

Jon opens his mouth to answer, but even breathing through his mouth overloads his senses and he shakes his head instead. He could push himself, yeah, but just the idea of it makes him want to cry again.

“OK…” Gerry took a deep breath and began to fiddle with his lip rings. “How long ‘ave ye been wearing that binder? Can ye show me the number of hours with yer fingers?”

He shrugs, holding up ten, and shrugs again. Gerry makes a face, though Jon doesn’t know why, and asks very calmly, “can ye take et off fer me?”

The idea of his breasts showing, not being bound tightly to his chest and hidden from view, makes Jon’s stomach churn and he tugs on his hair more. 

“Jon, you ‘ave to take it off.”

He shakes his head violently.

“Jon, you’re goin’ to hurt yerself.”

“Please.” His voice is raspy and he cringes at the way it vibrates through him, wishing everything would be still.

Gerry stared at him adamantly, clenching his jaw. “Listen, you already wear that damn thing too much. This school does have medical aid for students, and while I hate those damn nurses so much, I will make you go see them tomorrow to check for fractured ribs. And if they tell you that you have to stop binding, then you’re going to have to listen to them. And I think taking it off now is better than being banned from using them.”

Jon stared straight ahead, deciding that if he didn’t reply, then Gerry couldn’t make him do anything. Gerry just stares at him, patiently waiting for a reply.

Jon begrudgingly gives him a look that says turn around. His face burns as he struggles to pull it off, and he can feel his ribs strain as he takes in a full breath and buries himself back into the blankets.

Gerry hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, dude.”

Jon twists so his face is buried in a pillow. He doesn’t want to be breathing, there’s so much open space and it’s killing him.

“Pressure helps autistic people, right?” He wraps his arms around Jon, practically pulling him onto his lap. Jon frowns for a moment, confused why Gerry would think he’s autistic, but he can’t open his mouth to clarify. The pressure does help, so he wraps his arms around Gerry like a koala and buries his face in his neck. His mind is blank, and all he can think about is how warm Gerry is, he’s like a living furnace. Georgie calmed him down from his meltdowns in high school, but she was always afraid of squeezing him too tightly. Gerry is practically crushing him, squeezing the overwhelmed feeling out of him. This is much nicer, he thinks, and a pang runs through his chest. The idea of seeing Georgie made his stomach twist, which is something Jon can faintly recognize as fear.

Hot tears prick at his eyes, smearing across Gerry’s neck, and Gerry squeezes him tighter. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong,” he whispers into Jon’s hair, and the tears just start coming harder. “Oh, man, just breathe, OK? It’s going to be OK, Jon, I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“No, ye’ve got nothin’ to be sorry fer, Jon, yer not a chore. I’m not goin’ anywhere, man, I’m here fer ya, alright?”

He nods miserably, whispering sorry once more for good measure, and buries his face back into Gerry’s neck and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s all too much, he can’t take it anymore, and all the emotions are storming around inside him and threatening to destroy him, his brain buzzing and screaming with unintelligible thoughts. 

He’s not sure how much time passes before the tears dry and his breathing slows, and Gerry lies him down and asks if he wants him to stay.

Jon’s not sure what he says, but he latches his arms around Gerry and starts to drift into slumber. He feels something soft with a touch of cold metal brush across his forehead, but all his energy is drained and he’s not even sure how to reply to the kiss, so he just buries his face in Gerry’s neck and falls asleep.

—

When Jon first drifts into consciousness, the first thing he’s aware of is a heavy pressure lying on his body, much heavier than his weighted blanket could be. He doesn’t feel panicked, though- he’s warm and cosy, even though his hair’s a knotted mess and he feels like someone bled all the energy out of his body. He feels no compulsion to open his eyes or move, content for the moment.

Then his alarm goes off, the sound an offence to his ears, and he flings his eyes open and slams his hand down on his clock.

Then he becomes aware of the long hair that tickles his face and neck and strains to see that Gerry’s lying atop him, snoring lightly. His piercings reflect the soft morning light that filters through the blinds, and Jon finds that his stomach is twisting, but not as uncomfortable as they do around Georgie- this fluttering is gentle and it makes him want to flap his hands and rock back and forth aggressively.

He can’t, though, since he’s trapped underneath Gerry, whose legs are tangled in the blanket to a point where Jon wonders how he was able to be so warm. After a moment, he manages to shove Gerry off him, rolling off the bed and nearly falling over as his vision swims. He grips the edge of the table for dear life, taking deep breaths. He picks up his phone absentmindedly, anxiety hitting him like a brick when he clicks on the notifications from Georgie.

Georgie

hey man im sorry bout last night i was kinda wasted ngl

but anyway

nikola got a job and were having a mini party to celebrate, wanna come?

Jon takes a shaky breath, glancing at Gerry, who was blinking groggily and staring at Jon with a sleepy smile. He doesn’t like the twisting in his stomach, and he reminds himself to relax his body. He rubs circles on his temples, downing a few ibuprofen with day-old tea.

Jon

Sure, that sounds fun.

Gerry rubs his eyes, blinking up at Jon. He’d dropped everything the other night, so his eyeliner is smudged and his hair is matted, though it can’t be worse than Jon’s. He stretches, his back cracking horrendously, and yawns. Jon finds himself staring at the silver piercings. They look sharp and cool, and he tears his gaze away and stares at his feet.

Gerry perches at the edge of the bed, staring quizzically at Jon. “Do ye ‘ave meltdowns a lot?” he asks bluntly, still staring intensely at Jon.

One of his hands inches up to tug at the hair at the base of his neck, more a habit than anything. “They’re- they’re not meltdowns.”

Gerry uses his teeth to push his lip ring around. “An autistic meltdown- ‘It ‘appens when someone becomes completely overwhelmed by their current situation and temporarily loses control of their behaviour. This loss of control can be expressed verbally (eg shouting, screaming, crying), physically (eg kicking, lashing out, biting) or in both ways.’ An autistic shutdown- ‘Durin’ shutdown, a person may either partially er completely withdraw from the world around them. They may net respond teh communication anymore, retreat to their room or lie down on the floor.’ Given meh sparse knowledge of autistic traits, that fell somewhere in between, though rather than lash out at everything else you turned all your destructive behaviour towards yourself- scratchin’, hair pullin’, hittin’ yourself- but yeh also didn’t say anything and yeh didn’t seem to process my words until I’d picked you up and restrained your arms. Although you caelmed down quicker, you receded into a shutdown and didn’t say anythin’ outside of echolalia, when yeh repeated my words back teh me.”

Jon feels his words receding in his throat, and he strained to say, “Yeah, but that's, like… that happens when people are overwhelmed. That’s not just for, erm, people with… well…”

Gerry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, bud, yer the most autistic person I’ve met.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he blurts defensively. “You’re not a psychologist, much less a neurologist, and you haven’t been through the proper training to identify neurodevelopmental disorders, especially not if you haven’t run any tests.”

Gerry buries his face in his hands and inhales sharply. “Alright, well, now that I’m awake, we’r jest gonna have a conversation about what ‘appened last night. Starting small.”

Jon pours himself a beer and starts a coffee for Gerry, knowing they both have very different methods for waking up.

“What triggered your meltdown- episode, panic attack, wha’ever ye wanna call it- last night?”

Jon runs through the memory in his head, making sure he had all the details correct. “Georgie was telling me not to trust my friends from English because they think I’m cis and insinuated that I had zero social awareness and started yelling about how she had to parent me because of that. I progressively raised my voice and she threw a teapot at the wall, and it was porcelain so it shattered.” He glances at the floor- the carpet is still damp and the shards are everywhere. There’s a circular dent in their wall now. “She left and I dropped to my feet and then you came in.”

Gerry puts his face back in his hands and sighs, and something tells Jon that that is not a good sign.

“Does she throw stuff a lot?”

Jon frowns. “She’s not abusive o-or anything. She was just drunk and made a mistake.”

“That’s not what I was asking about.”

Jon’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t like the way Gerry’s listening intently, as if he’s calculating everything he’ll say next. Like Jon’s fragile. It makes him feel a little disgusting, and he returns to staring at the ground.

“I don’t- It’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t said stupid things before. It’s her right to express her anger. That’s personal freedom of emotions- one should be able to express their emotions without fearing judgement or negative reaction.” He can hear the clock ticking in the background, so he closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing.

“Jon, throwing things isn’t a healthy expression of emotion.”

The back of his head starts to hurt. “But Georgie’s not like that,” he insists, pressing his hands to his temples and swaying back and forth on his feet. He’s still too sober for this. He’ll have to do some pre-drinking before going to Nikola’s…

Suddenly he remembers all his conversations with Gerry about pride and resisting cisgender society. He hums, twisting his hands together. “Do you… do you agree with her?”

Gerry raises his head from his hands. “What?”

“Um.” he rocks back and forth on his feet. “Nevermind.” He walks towards the door, tapping his hands on the side of his neck. He stops when he gets to the hall and realises that he left his lighter in his dorm. Gerry hasn’t left yet, so he heads to the roof door and stops a pair of janitors on his way out.

“Do either of you have a light?”

He can’t see their eyes from underneath their blue baseball caps. It casts a shadow along their identical, stoney faces. It’s unnerving, though he can’t quite place his finger on why.

“Ye’h.” one of them digs in their pockets, pulling out a gold zippo. It’s fancier than anything Jon had expected, but he doesn’t object. The other one adds, in a matching cockney accent, “Careful wit’at thing. Don’t ge’ it scratched er anythin’.”

He nods and continues to the roof door, fumbling for a cigarette. He walks right into Michael, who’s perched on the edge of the roof and staring at everyone walking along the campus roads down below. Jon offers him a cigarette, shrugging when he declines. The two of them watch the sun set across the tall, victorian-style buildings. The air is crisp and cool, and the orange tint of the trees is disappearing as leaves fall to the ground as the first hints of winter begin to show. When the burning dryness of Jon’s throat gets to be too much he switches to drinking out of his flask, the burning of the whiskey somehow more tolerable.

“Do you ever wonder,” Michael says delicately, “about what makes us people?”

Jon tips his head back and closes his eyes, waiting for the nausea and dizziness to go away. “Our biology. Our neurons and cells create a body, and other people build a character in their heads to justify our actions.”

Michael tilts his head to the side, blonde curls slinking off his shoulder. “Hm… I have the same DNA that Michael did. When the Distortion ate me, it triggered… recessive genes, I believe they’re called… and I turned into… this.” He admires his hands, the long, pointy fingers. If Jon squints, he can see stretch marks on each of the joints on his bones. “If our biology makes us us, then I am… functionally still Michael. Right?”

Jon nods slowly. “You act very differently from him, but… it feels like it’s coming from the same source. To me, you’re like… an adapted version? I don’t know.” He can feel the alcohol buzzing around in his head like static. He fumbles around with another cigarette, the lighter heavy in his hand. It might be actual gold. He wonders briefly how much it would be worth, but it feels like a thin thread attached to his hand yanks it back into his pocket, the lighter safely zipped away.

“Gerry doesn’t think I’m still me,” Michael says softly. “It’s like… like he thinks that I am something entirely new, entirely different. I don’t feel different. If there was a rope tying me to this world, then that rope was cut, but I was not that rope, so how can I be considered not the same? He says he loved Michael, and that's… still me. And I still feel… affection for him like Michael, the first Michael, did, and I… I don’t know where he sees a difference.” He sighs like a headache.

“Gerry is very proud.” Jon exhales a long puff of smoke. “I don’t think he’s very good at changing his worldview. It’s all monsters or people with no room in between.”

His phone buzzes, so they pause their conversation.

Tim

Hey man, where were you yesterday???

You’re the only person who knows anything about this stuff, and Sasha keeps badgering me about how I should ‘actually do the homework’ lmao

Jon

My girlfriend and I had a fight, so I didn’t feel like coming out.

Did I miss anything important?

Tim

Not much, except Ms. Montegue sent us an email about how the debates are taking place next week and we need to make sure to get our citations in by Friday. Should I handle that, or you?

Jon

I’ll do it tonight, thanks.

Tim

:)

Jon sighs, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Pro tip- don’t be an ethics major. Ms. Montegue is a sweet teacher, really, but it’s not worth the number of group projects we have to deal with.”

“Try attempting to pass art class when you can’t even pick up a paintbrush,” he laughs softly. “My poor teacher… she hasn’t even noticed the problem.”

Behind them, the door bursts open and a tall blonde man tumbles out and sprawls out on the floor. He scrambles to his feet as a second, also blonde person bursts through the door, shouting, “I’ll kill ya, you son of a bitch!”

Michael vanishes into a second door in the ground that disappears as soon as he does, and Jon gets off the ledge and attempts to remove himself from the situation.

He recognizes Daisy from his Ethics course- she’s missed class a lot lately and often falls asleep at her desk, jumping awake at any loud noises. Her blonde ponytail is full of tangles and her eyes are wide and bloodshot, and her hold on her gun is so shaky he finds himself afraid for his life. “Hold still, you fucker! You think it’s OK to just stalk me? I’ll-”

“We just share a few classes is all! God, why are you-”

“Shut up!” The gun drifts up toward his head. “Back away from the door.”

“Daisy, please-”

“I said back up.”

Mike raises his hands in the air, and Jon finds himself taking a few backs up in time with him. Mike walks until his back is pressed against the roof railing, breathing rapidly. Daisy’s trembling hands pull something until it clicks, and Jon’s hands fly reflexively to his ears. When he was eight years old his school went on a trip to the woods to learn something for science class, and they ran into a group of hunters just as they shot a deer. It fell and started bawling, so one man ran up, lined the gun up with its skull, and blasted its brains out. The teacher had said it was a mercy that it hadn’t been in pain much longer, but the noise had echoed in Jon’s own skull for days on end.

Mike’s eyes widen as the sky grows dark and he realises his fate and turns around, his gaze fixed on the horizon with some kind of resignation. He braces his hands on the railing, and before Jon can even shout out anything, Mike throws himself over the building and vanishes from sight.

Jon opens his mouth to scream, but the next thing he knows is that Daisy has run over to the railing, leaning over halfway. He grabs her and tries to tug her back, but she throws a punch at him aimlessly, connecting with his binder. All the air is knocked from his lungs and he collapses to the floor, vision swimming. Daisy runs to the door, pounding down the stairs and disappearing. Jon finds himself unable to catch his breath or ground his vision, which gets blurrier and blurrier every time he tries to take a full breath in.

He doesn’t know how long he lies on the floor like that, curled in on himself and gasping. By the time he gets over it, he figures it's too late to call 999 and he stumbles down back to his dorm. Gerry is off somewhere so he throws himself into his bed, closes his eyes and attempts to catch his breath. 

He wishes he could fall asleep and never wake up. Something in the back of his mind recognizes that as unhealthy, but he hardly has enough energy to drag himself up, much less deal with it.

—

The instant he opens the door to Nikola’s dorm, he’s greeted with an aggressive hug and kiss on the cheek. He can smell the alcohol reeking from her mouth, and any guilt he feels for arriving drunk vanishes. 

“Man, I haven’t seen you in ages!” She grins down at him and pats his head. “Jeez, you’ve gotten taller! Guess your growth plates haven’t closed off yet, huh?”

Jon shrinks away from the contact, throwing himself on her couch and grabbing an already-open bear from the countertop. “Nice to see you too, Nikola. Thank you for those antibiotics a few weeks ago, my friend appreciated it.” None of Gerry’s cuts had gotten infected, which was a small blessing. 

Suddenly remembering the type of people that ran rampant at Oxford- around three out of four vote Tory every year, and he was very grateful this was a small house party. He noted the several locks Nikola had drilled into her door, and while against school policy, he felt his anxiety lessen upon noticing. 

She grins at him, that unnerving symmetrical smile. “Jeez, how is your voice still dropping!”

“It finished changing last year, Nikola.”

She rolls her eyes, mimicking him in a high, nasally voice. He waits patiently for her to finish. “Aaaaaanyway, how’s school been? I’m sure you’re loving this place’s obsession with its history and roots as a university! We’ve spent so much time focused on ancient surgeons when we could be learning how to use actual medical supplies! But I’m taking an anatomy class with Dr. Lionel Elliott over the summer, so that should make up for it!”

“You always manage to turn a question about me into a statement about yourself,” he muses, taking a swig from the beer. It’s lukewarm and cheap, but he’s already drunk enough to not care. “Funny how some things never change.”

“Well, the question still stands!” She rolls her eyes, checking her smartphone. “Ooh, Georgie’ll be here in a minute!”

Jon’s stomach twists, and he takes a longer gulp, nearly choking on it. He sputters, gagging, and his vision goes light. He grips the edge of the couch, riding the wave of nausea out until each breath no longer burns. Deep breaths, deep breaths. He can do this. His phone buzzes in his pockets, and he groans to himself. People aren’t worth the hassle sometimes.

unknown number

hey im going to the cemetary to visit me pop for a bit

if im not back in an hour come and get me

[file.png]

oh yeah its gerry ummmmmmmm theres something else

right

theres a book on my desk, DONT touch it and DONT bother with a fire extinguisher

Jon

What the hell??? Gerry, what’s going on?

Before he can answer that, Nikola yanks his phone from his hands and throws it back at him like a football, grinning teasingly at him. “Nuh-huh. I haven’t seen you in forever! This is our time!” She jumps up to get the door, and Jon has enough time to punch out one more line.

Jon

This had better be a joke.

unknown number

whatever u do DONT call 999

Georgie ruffles Jon’s hair as she plops down on the couch next to him. Nikola sits crisscross on the floor, grinning from ear to ear. “I missed you guys! Senior year was so fun, I wish we could go back!”

Jon scowls. “Yeah, to when you thought it was funny to set off fireworks in the main hallway? I’m good, thanks.”

Nikola reaches out a leg to kick him in the shins. Georgie laughs, opening up her own beer. She lies down, her head on Jon’s lap, and moans something about staying up all night trying to memorise the names of several early mythological creatures and now she couldn’t sleep due to nightmares about the Minotaur. Jon tangles his fingers in her hair, his stomach twisting with guilt. Nikola snaps out her phone to take a photo of the two of them, threatening to upload it to Georgie’s Instagram, laughs at the look on Jon’s face, and then reaches over to a CD player to put in a mixtape.

As Bikini Kill rages over the speakers, Jon can almost relax into their familiar pattern- Nikola antagonises each of them, Georgie lightly bullies Jon, and Jon takes it all with a scowl that couldn’t be genuine even if he tried. He finds himself falling into that nostalgia, bringing up memories that even he’d forgotten- putting on a binder for the first time in the girl’s bathroom in Year 9, Nikola blaming Georgie for the graffiti in the classroom but they both ended up with detention, Jon doing all their history homework because he enjoyed it, the time they ditched school to hang out in a cemetery and get high and Nikola thought the circus was chasing her. And less fun times, even in retrospect- when Nikola got kicked out of their small, unofficial queer support club for calling everyone a bunch of conservative-liberal dickheads for calling Jon a ‘lesbian with extra steps’ and said the queer liberation movement had failed. When some kid they didn’t know too well, Oliver Banks, had tried to jump off the third-floor stairwell and they had to call the police. When they all nearly got arrested for trespassing on private property, Nikola punched a cop in the face(she was the only one who got charged with assault). As fond as they all remembered senior year, some things had undeniably sucked.

Jon doesn’t like remembering some of those things. He’d much rather stay in the moment, pushing himself through all the memories that make his stomach so sick that he has to hunch over and gag. 

His phone is buzzing so loudly on the couch that Nikola sends him a look. Jon gives her the same look back and pulls it out, growing even more anxious by the second.

unknown number

get ovr here

rigt now its important

[file.png]

[file.png]

[file.png]

*message has failed to deliver*

*message has failed to deliver*

*message has failed to deliver*

Jon’s heart races in his chest, and he jumps up from his place on the couch. “Shit,” he hisses, and Georgie shouts, “Hey, what’s going on?

He stumbles over his own feet rushing out the door, his vision swimming slightly, “Um, Gerry has some sort of problem and he needs someone to go get him.” Jon almost doubles over to clutch his churning stomach. Oh, shit, what if Gerry’s been arrested? Given… everything about the goth, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

He rushes to the parking lot outside the building, cursing his old car as it refuses to start. He opens the file Gerry sent him- it’s an address, one that he recognizes as a cemetery. He presses on the gas, his heart thumping loudly the whole way down the road. 

The gravel crunches under his tires as he rolls into the dead-silent cemetery. It’s isolated from the rest of the city, tucked around some side streets that appear to be dead ends. As Jon drives through, scanning for the poorly-dyed black hair he’d grown so accustomed to searching for in crowds, he notes the lack of gravestones. There’s one every ten to twenty feet, mostly mausoleums and large statues. One that catches his eye is a headstone of two enormous stone masks, one crying and frowning and the other grinning. He recognizes it as a theatre symbol, but there’s something odd about its too-human features that make him increase his speed slightly. 

He rolls down his window and shouts out for Gerry. A few feet ahead, something thumps and the ground shakes hard enough that Jon can feel it from inside his buggy. He parks, ripping his keys out harder than he should have and shoving them into his pockets. He sprints towards the mausoleum, hand hesitating a few inches from the twisted iron doors. They’re shut firmly, but the u-shaped lock was busted open at the seams and the noise is definitely coming from inside.

There’s the sound of something plastic cracking and a voice that’s very distinctly Gerry’s shout, “Hey, don’t touch my fucking cassette tapes, man!”

That’s enough for Jon to head inside, flicking on his torch. The first thing he sees is two people going at it, tearing each other apart. Gerry’s holding knives in both hands, slick with what would have been blood if it wasn’t quite so black, it more resembles oil. Upon further inspection, the second person looks… stretched out, as if each limb was made of pipes whose proportions were just a little too off.

It shoves Gerry down to the ground, turning to Jon’s light and opening what appears to be a mouth and shrieks, launching itself towards Jon in a whirl of unfathomable limbs. He can’t even think to dodge before he’s slammed into the ground, its limbs burning wherever it touches Jon. He screams, thrashing under its grip. Its face is kind of like Nikola’s, and he can’t stop staring at it-it’s human, like a combination of features from everyone he’s known, never quite forming its own unique face, each proportion stretched and off enough to set off an uncanny valley.

It screams in Jon’s face, and Jon experiences an agony that can only be described as his physical reality beginning to crumble and rebuild itself, like pressing a hot iron to his entire body. It’s like nothing he’s ever been through, but when his thrashing does nothing that’s when his fear begins to consume him. It’s like when Prentis held him against the stacks and he could feel the worms burying into his skin and he was helpless, unable to move, stuck.

Gerry stabs it again, and the thing rises back up to its full height, and now that Jon’s close he realises that its head scrapes against the ceiling. Jon curls into a ball on instinct, gagging. Acid reflux pools in his mouth, hot and sour, and he can hardly get a breath in. Someone touches his shoulder and he throws himself away from them, gasping for breath. His throat burns, the acid reflux leaving everything tasting like vomit.

“Who- who the hell are you,” he gasps out, clutching at his stomach. 

She gives him a disapproving look through her round glasses before offering him a hand to get up. “Sasha.”

“You’re- you’re Tim’s friend.” He’s never talked to her, but they’re always together in between classes or in the library. Her skirt is muddy and there’s a large scrape on her face like she’d been thrown to the ground. Her elbow is bleeding through the thin yellow fabric. She looks like an academic, someone who belongs at Oxford. He feels a little bad that he showed up in nothing more than a white t-shirt and khakis, and anxiously pulls at his collar to cover up his binder straps.

“Yeah. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I- Gerry texted me. What are you doing here?”

She grips the handle of Gerry’s tape recorder harder, which Jon only notices for the first time then. It’s running, and for some reason that makes him relax slightly more.

“That- that thing cornered me in the library, and tried to drag me down into some tunnels, I think- did you know Oxford has those? Anyway, Gerry was down in those tunnels and she- I mean, he started attacking the thing. And it was dragging me, talking in my voice, but it wasn’t- it wasn’t me, right? And now I… I’m waiting to see what happens.”

He stares at her in dismay. “Why won’t you leave?”

Sasha shrugs. “I mean, what if he needs help? I don’t know why the Oxford tunnels led to a cemetery, but it’s creepy, right? Besides, I… I need to see what happens next.”

They stare at each other for a moment before the walls shake and their attention is turned back to Gerry, who is being held by his neck against the wall. With his free hand, he points to a closed box where the coffin is held. The stone lid was pulled most of the way over it, and Gerry chokes out, “Open teh lid!”

Repulsed, Jon shouts, “Gerry, that’s a coffin!”

Sasha rolls her eyes and starts shoving at the stone lid. “It’s the entrance to the tunnels, genius.”

“Oh.” They shove the crypt open and Gerry kicks the creature off him and it tumbles down, a few seconds passing before it hits the ground. He rubs his throat, taking a few raspy breaths before grabbing a duffle bag and pulling out a blowtorch. He turns to the two of them, scans Jon and Sasha upside down.

“Yeh two go back te my dorm and lock yerself in there. Don’t come out until I- no, that won’t work. Hm.” he pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles something down, passing it to Sasha. “Don’t touch any of my feckin’ books, Jon. I mean it. And jest… don’t le’t anyone in. No matter who they sound like.”

He jumps into the crypt, shouting, “Come out, come out, wherever yeh are!” His footsteps fade away and then everything falls silent. The only sound is the whirring and scratching of the tape recorder.

He and Sasha look at each other. They really should go back to the dorms. 

But they’ve made their choice, and Jon flicks on his torch.

Maybe it’s the wrong choice.

But it’s too late to go back, and the pair slowly descend into the crypt.

Chapter Text

Annabelle taps her manicured nails against the table as the phone rings. She doesn’t care how busy college professors and part-time avatars are, they should be able to pick up her calls on time, dammit!

Riiiiiing…

Riiiiing…

Riiiiing…

“What is it now, Annabelle?” Jonah’s tired voice carries across the line.

“What, no ‘ello? No good mornin’?” She can see his irritated scowl through the line and smiles.

“Good morning, Annabelle. What do you want with me.”

She twists her face into a smile, staring at her bulletin board full of red string and photos. It’s looking a bit messier than she’d like, but she doesn’t plan to ask for Martin’s help until he’s been pushed over the ‘normal’ amount of Lonely. She won’t have the time or space to clean it up, unfortunately, for a bit longer. “I need you to deliver a Statement to our dear Archivist’s dorm.”

Jonah sighs heavily. “I sent him a whole stack of them, Annabelle, there’s no way he’s read all of them yet. And, believe it or not, I have a job. I’m not your errand boy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jonah, you are a part of this project with me, but I am the one who is good at plans. Remember when you tried to brin’ your ritual to light? Just trust me with this one.”

“At least the Eye has attempted a ritual. You-”

She keeps her smile on her face, twirling her finger around the cord. She likes the old landline, even though the sound quality is terrible- it always transfers over audio, even of things that should not be recorded. It’s rustic, too- it fits her whole traditional goth style. “Jonah, I pay the police thousands of dollars to keep out of my business, which covers your business as well. Don’t think for a moment that I couldn’t reign hell down on you if you refused to answer one of my requests.”

Static plays over the phone, and all she can hear is a heavy sigh. She takes it as submission to her power and continues on.

“I need one of Gertrude’s tapes. Case 9941509, Lucy Cooper. Committed to tape 4th of November, 1996. It should be labelled Changelin’-slash-Imposter somewhere in her desk- the librarian one. If you can get this for me, I’ll let you in on a bit more of my plans.” Not true, of course- she’ll give him a meaningless tidbit of information that he won’t be able to change, but the Eye will take all it can get.

Sure enough, Jonah remains silent on the line for a few solid seconds. “Fine,” he grits out. “How soon do you need it?”

“Oh, within a half hour.” She can see him seething on the other half of the line and adds, for good measure, “This is necessary, and I would not be able to do it without you. Well. I could do it if you lesson up on those so-called protective measures, but a partnership will have to do for now.”

Jonah slams his landline down on the receiver. Annabelle giggles. He’ll give her hell for that, certainly, but it was worth it. It will be worth it.

—

When Gerry sees the cassette on his desk upon entering their dorms, an injured Sasha and Jon trailing behind him, he slams his head into the wall and swears as loudly as he can manage. Jon jumps at the noise, ordering himself to calm down. He’s too shaky to deal with this, but trembling hands are better than rocking back and forth and crying.

Gerry pours himself a whiskey and hands another to Jon. “I suppose I have a lot to explain. After this, I have an old lady to yell at.”

There’s something funny about that statement, and Jon can’t bring himself to stop laughing. Neither of them stares at him, though Sasha sends him a worried glance. Gerry replaces the batteries on his tape recorder and clicks it on, sitting down on his desk while Jon and Sasha sit on his bed. 

“So,” Gerry starts, clicking record, “where te start… Jon. ‘Member Prentis?”

“How could I not?”

He grimaces, fiddling with his silver lip ring. “Right. So basically, she was… an Avatar of the Corruption. The Corruption is like… bugs. Rot. Disease. It’s a personification of the fear of all those things.”

Sasha raises her hand like she’s in a classroom, eyes narrowed behind circular lenses. “I’m already lost.”

Gerry pinches the bridge of his nose. “OK, why don’t we start with that thin’ in teh tunnels. It’s called teh Not!Them. Basically, it’s a monster that takes someone and replaces them. Teh new person looks different, sounds different, but everyone’s memories have changed and it's as if this new person has always existed. But dere’s always one person whose memories weren’t changed, and that person is usually killed or eaten by teh Not!Them.” He tosses the cassette labelled Changeling/Imposter up into the air and catches it. “It was an entity of the Stranger. It feeds on teh fear of… well, teh stranger, teh unknown, uncanny valley- stuff like that.”

Jon furrows his brow together. “I don’t understand.”

Gerry sighs. “Let’s- let’s just play the statement.”

He sweeps a pile of ash off his desk and into a trashcan and stops recording. He slips in the new cassette, rewinds it all the way, and clicks play.

An old, strong voice drones over the speaker. Each word is deliberate and clipped short as if she hardly has the patience to record the whole thing. “Case 9941509 – Lucy Cooper. Incident occurred in Draycott, Somerset, August 1994. Victim’s name given as Rose Cooper. Statement given 15th of September 1994. Committed to tape 4th of November 1996. Gertrude Robinson recording.

There is a stranger claiming to be my mother…”

When the statement is over, Sasha’s eyes widen. “That’s what that was?”

Jon curls into himself like he’s going to be sick. “Oh, my God.” He feels like someone lit his insides on fire and it hurts, but something about it makes his mind feel more alive than it’s ever been.

Gerry nods. “Anyway, like I said, the Not!Them is an extension of the Stranger. The Stranger is like… like a god. A god that is made’a fear, fear about te unknown, te stranger, te uncanny. Dere are about 14 thin’s like the Stranger, each one made of a different fear. They feed on puttin’ that fear into our world. They wouldn’t be able to live without it. They reach out and put that fear into our world through monsters, usually. Sometimes objects. And they claim people, too. People to do their biddin’.”

This is insane. Improbable, impossible. There should be no way science o-or physics allows something like this to exist.

But Jon’s run into plenty of these things. And it drags up memories that he’d rather leave untouched. “Are any of them… are any of them books?”

Gerry nods, twisting his face into a scowl. “Unfortunately, yeah, I was jest about teh get to those. Leitner’s books.”

“I-is that an extension of a specific fear?”

Gerry shakes his head. “Every monster, every fear, has a book. Like an anchor. They’re feckin’ evil. I hate t’ose goddamn things so much.”

“You said fourteen fears,” Sasha said carefully. “Is there a fear of- of being watched?”

Jon feels the back of his neck prickle, and he turns around, sure to see a camera or- or a person peeking through a hole in the wall. He knows there’s nothing there, but he still examines his wall for something anyway.

Gerry nods. “The Eye. That’s… that’s the one that I’m- closest to, I guess. That’s the fear of information, of not knowing enough or knowing too much, often a manifestation of addictions. Like… those Statements ye got in the mail. Those are all real, and they’re a manifestation of the Eye, and I have a feeling I couldn’t get rid of them even if I wanted to.”

Jon’s frozen, unable to do anything but stare unblinkingly at Gerry, trying to soak in all the information at once. It’s like trying to use a paper town to clean up a puddle on the road- there’s just no way he can sop it up all at once.

He continues, “And then there's the Spiral, which is insanity, delusion, not being able to trust yer own mind. That’s… that’s what Michael is. I explained the Corruption, and there's… the Web. The fear of manipulation, yer choices and actions not yer own.”

Jon’s heart skips a beat. “Is there- is there a book for that?”

“Plenty.”

He thinks he's going to be sick.

“And, erm… The Dark, which is pretty self-explanatory. The Lonely, fear of isolation… The Desolation is the fear of losing someone close to yeh, of fire. The Hunt, fear of being hunted, The Slaughter, which is mass murder and gore, the Buried, claustrophobia, the End, death, the Flesh, which is like the fear of human flesh or just meat in general- real gross one, by the way, nobody wants to run into a flesh monster on a day off. The Vast- heights, vertigo, large spaces, the comparison of how small we are next to the rest of the world. And that's… that’s all’a them.”

Sasha grabs one of Jon’s notebooks, despite his protests, opens to a blank page and starts scribbling things down. He peers over her shoulder- she’s listed all the Fears from memory and has already started proposing questions.

“Is there a difference between… the Dark and the Lonely, or the Web and the Eye? I mean, the Dark and the Lonely are both about being in a state where you can’t sense who's around you and it’s terrifying, plus the Web and the Eye likely both use knowledge to manipulate people or the world. Wouldn’t there be some overlap? Where’s the difference? If these are… are entities of fear, how come there’s only 14?”

Gerry hops off his desk, rummaging through a duffle bag. “Well, I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and ye can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but yeh group them into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red? Y’know? I don’t know, that’s just how it works.”

Sasha scribbles more things down in her notebook. “So… they aren’t necessarily true all the time?”

Gerry nods. “Like, maybe it’s just one big thin’ that feeds on fear, and that fear manifests itself in different ways? And like colours, some of these powers, they feed into or balance each other. Some really clash, and yeh just can’t put them together. I mean, ye could see them all as just one thin’, I guess, but it would be pretty much meanin’less, y’know, like… like tryin’ to describe a… shirt by talkin’ about the concept of colour.”

Jon snorts. “Like colours, but if colours hated me. Got it. Christ, I need a cigarette.”

Gerry wordlessly passes him one from out of his jacket pockets. He looked good, even with his eye makeup smudged and his fried hair a dishevelled mess. Jon quickly refocuses on Sasha’s notes, hoping the nicotine will help him regain his focus.

She points her pen at Gerry, who is pacing up and down the dorm. “So, what about the clowns? Those are the same- the same thing as the one from that statement, right?”

Gerry raises an eyebrow at her. “Yes. Why?”

“None of your business,” she snaps back, but she scribbles something down and turns so Jon can’t see what she’s writing. “OK, so… all these things, they’re… not gods, not tangible things… how does that work?”

He sighs, dangling an unlit cigarette from his lips while he struggles to get a window open. “I don’t have te goddamned time fer this,” he grumbles to himself, before turning patiently back to Sasha. “OK, so, they’re like if all human fear was collected to sustain somethin’, right? And they’re right outside of our universe, but because of laws of physics and biology and whatever, their presence doesn’t fit into ours. So they’re right next to our world, never fully entering it.”

“Do they… want to get into it?” Jon can almost imagine that something that lives off fear would only want to increase that, to do as many terrible things as possible. “I- I mean, it can’t be nice to live off of the terror that books and monsters can bring to them, right?”

Gerry snaps his fingers and points at Jon. “Yeh, that’s it. Each fear has a ritual, to try to… They… kind of ‘shift’ the world, just enough for the Power to come through. Merge with reality. Some say, or well, they guess, that it could bring other entities through with them. I mean, I doubt The Buried would be bringing through The Vast, but yeh know. They change the physical reality of this earth so they can live in it. At least, that’s the theory.”

"It’s never happened?” Sasha twists her mouth into a scowl.

“How is that a bad thing,” Jon questions and she shushes him.

“I mean, if they’ve been around forever…”

“Yeah, none’a’em’s ev’r managed it. But it’s always a possibility. Currently, the Stranger is at the height of it’s p’wer, an’ there are… some people worried about them attempting a ritual. Ms… I wouldn’t worry about it. ‘Ts not an issue yet. Of course, there’s a theory that no ritual has ever succeeded ‘cause the Web’s pulling all the strings.”

A chill runs down Jon’s spine. “I-Is that, I mean- is that true?”

Gerry shrugs, lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag, fiddling with his lighter. “Nobody really knoews an’thin’ for certain ab’et these t’ings. Every time ye make a rule, there’s somethin’ out dere t’at breaks it. Always one exception.”

Sasha keeps writing things down, flipping to a second page now. “You said… you said something about books? What were they called?”

“Leitners,” Jon supplies quietly. “L-E-I-T-N-E-R-S.” His stomach is churning and he grips the side of the table. He’s tired of being thrown around by things he doesn’t even understand, and it seems like this has been happening his whole life, which is a thought he doesn’t want to linger on too long. Spiders… the idea that they might be orchestrating everything, even the end of the world, is a bit too much for him.

Gerry pulls out his own notebook, one whose sides are bound in a lock. He hands it to Sasha, flipping to a specific page. “I’ve got a bit on Leitners I’ve run into on here.” It’s three pages long, stained in the corners with something dark and rusty that Jon prays isn’t blood. God, this whole thing is going to break his brain.

Sasha chews her bottom lip as she writes, and she brings her hand up to a small cut that’s been red for the last two minutes. How has she not flipped out yet? This is so much information all at once…

“Hang on, if these entities are all based on our, on our fear, the-the-then what, what about the, the rest-”

“No. There aren’t any god-like powers of hope, or love, or indigestion, or whatever. At least not that I’ve seen. Just fear. I don’t know why. It jest is.” Gerry shrugs. 

“Wait, you said Prentis was the Corruption and Michael’s the Spiral, and… I saw this guy, uh, jump off the roof? Not- not like that, it was- well, he was held at gunpoint, but- that’s beside the point, but he never reached the ground, he kind of… vanished.”

Gerry hums, grabbing his own journal back from Sasha, who protests about not being done taking notes. They’re both writing things down now, and Jon feels a little strange just sitting there. It takes them another few moments of almost silence before Gerry acknowledges what Jon said.

“Probably the Vast, or a really weird suicide. He was held at gunpoint, ye say?”

“Yeah, by Daisy. Uh, Alice Tonner?”

He starts swearing violently, the rate of his pacing increasing. He’s got a knife in his hands, Jon’s not sure when he picked that up, but he starts to rock back and forth in his seat. He’s too tense, but he doesn’t know how to relax, even in a familiar space, and just the thought of being unable to relax makes him feel tenser.

“Gerry?” Sasha paused her note-taking. “What… what’s your part in all this?”

Gerry waves the point away. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll just put it at… family business.”

He pulls on a leather jacket, this time one with the sleeves still intact, and slings a duffle bag over his shoulder. “Ye two should stay here, I don’t… I’ll explain more later. Jon, when was the last time yeh saw Daisy?”

“Gerry, she had a-a gun.”

“Yeh, I got one too? Had my licence since my 18th birthday.” He takes out said pistol, hefting it up for Jon to see. It’s small, hardly larger than his hand. “Glock 19 Gen 5, one of the best small guns for self defence. Not useless when it comes to killing monsters, either.”

“I- Daisy’s not a monster, I don’t- well, I don’t think- what are you planning to do with that?”

He shrugs. “Whatever keeps me safe, I suppose. Yeh said Mike jumped off a roof and then disappeared- he likely vanished into the Vast. And if Daisy’s trying to stop him from doing spooky stuff, maybe I should team up with her. Or kill her, if she seems crazy enough. I don’t know, I’ll find out what’s going on myself.”

“There’s no way that you won’t get caught. The- the police’s job is to stop things like this!”

“Ye’d be surprised what pigs are willing to ignore. In Ireland, we call 'em bacon.” He slips his pistol into the inside of his jacket and is out the door before Jon can say anything else. Sasha watches Jon carefully, still scribbling things down all the while.

“You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’ve been like that for two minutes or so, and I went through your stack of papers. Pretty interesting stories, a bit long on some of ‘em, but… if what Gerry said is true, they’re also true. The… he called them Statements? But there’s one person I’ve seen come up at least twice, and she’s… she goes to school here.”

“I, erm… I haven’t read all of them yet, to be honest, it’s quite exhausting-”

“Well, have you heard the name Jude Perry yet?”

“I…” he mentally flips through the two statements he’s read since what happened with Michael- one statement about a college student who kept buying strange books and an apartment fire. “Yeah. Why?”

“She knows a lot of random stuff about people. She’s always, like, selling blackmail. Also cocaine, but that’s beside the point.

“She sells cocaine?”

“Oh, besides the point. Anyway, if we need to try and find where Gerry is and what they’re doing, we should talk to someone who pays their college tuition by blackmailing students! They probably know everything.”

Jon thinks about his dwindling bank account that barely covers the cost of living. “With what money?”

“Don’t worry about it- familial inheritance is a wonderful thing.”

—

“Don’t put it in cold water, that’ll make the pain worse!”

“Well stop yelling,” Jon shoots back, “and maybe I won’t make stupid decisions!”

“Jesus Christ, was she made of wax or something?” Sasha’s still yelling, despite his many protests.

So despite her warnings, Jon dips his hand into the water fountain timidly, screaming at the impact. All his nerves light up with pain as if they were, well. As if they were dipped in boiling wax!

“I warned you!”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Is that blood-”

“I said shut up!” The stiff skin cracked and oozed red, smearing over his hand and the water fountain.

Someone who looked a bit older than them walked out of the bathroom and stared, his mouth falling open.“Is- is that- what happened?”

Jon uses his uninjured hand to wave the point away. “Just- just- I- I don’t have an excuse for this one, actually, just- just pretend you never saw this.”

“Do you need, like, bandages, or… or a nurse-”

“Uh… probably- I’ve- I’ve got it handled, don’t worry about it.”

Sasha ignores Jon, smiling sweetly. “Do you know which direction the school nurse is?”

“Ignore her. I’m fine.” Jon puts on a nice smile to rival hers, but he must just look scary, because the poor guy just points in a direction and walks away quickly. Sasha rolls her eyes, shuddering as she looks back at Jon’s hand, and grabs his good arm to drag him into the women’s bathrooms.

It’s his turn to roll his eyes as she grabs a bunch of toilet paper and begins gently wrapping it up. The littlest bit of pressure stings and he gasps, pulling his hand away quickly. Sasha turns on the water, testing it until it’s lukewarm, and forces his hand under it. He clenches his jaw, flapping his free hand as if that might mediate his inflamed nerves. Eventually, though, he gets used to the water and relaxes, and she releases his wrist.

“When you’re done whining about that, we’re wrapping it up in toilet paper until I can get you some proper ointment and bandages.”

He knows his protests will be useless, so he doesn’t even give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her words. 

By the time she decides his hand is clean enough, he insists, “We know- we know things about Mike now, we should go find him.”

“Jon, look at your hand for two seconds and tell me that you’re serious.”

“I- Well- you-” he sputters, then sighs. “You’re hurt too!”

“I’ll be fine, Jon, it’s just a scratch. She barely touched me.” Sasha’s burn is a mild pink, while Jon’s is an angry red and pale colour. “We can go find Mike later. You need to get some, like, aloe vera on there. Jesus Christ. Maybe some prescription medication? I don’t know, how do you treat second degree burns?”

“Antibiotic ointments, perhaps systemic antibiotics, and changing the bandages 1 or 2 times a day. It takes 1-3 weeks to heal for a second degree.” he pauses. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Look at it!”

Jon awkwardly insists they exit the women’s bathroom, getting some strange looks that he’s gotten used to over the last few years. Despite appearing as a cis man for most of his last year of secondary school, they insisted he used the women’s bathrooms for his own safety. He didn’t have the heart to tell them he felt even less safe around cis women, because he knew that’d break their view of the patriarchy so much that they’d get him suspended.

They bicker on their way back to the dorms over both the ointments and silly things, like whether or not you could trust Google News to give you the news straight. Jon is so engrossed in their conversations that he doesn’t notice where he’s walking, and he almost walks into a pale blonde boy who's checking every hallway turn paranoidly, as if someone’s stalking him.

Jon’s eyes widened. “You’re Mike Crew! I’m, uh, I’m Jon, from- from the roof? How did you survive the fall?” He can’t help it, the question tumbles out of him before he can drag it back.

Mike shrugs. “Fell into the never-ending chasm between the sky and the ground and stayed there for a bit.” He does a double take. “Who the hell are you?’

“Jon, like I said, I… I, I’m sorry, would you like to come inside for some tea? I have some questions for you.”

Mike takes a few steps back, narrowing his pale blue eyes. “I… I think I better go.”

Sasha puts her hand on his shoulder, giving him a look that he’s not sure how to interpret. “What he means is that we’ve noticed you’ve had some issues with one of our hallmates. We have some experience with these sorts of things and thought we could offer some help. I’m Sasha.”

“...Mike.”

“We share mathematics, right?” She smiles at him, and he relaxes a little bit. Jon will have to ask her how she’s so good with people later but now is not the time.

He follows them into their dorm cautiously, and Jon offers him a chair from his desk. His gaze flits around the room suspiciously, as if Daisy could jump out of any corner with a gun and kill him. Jesus, this was not how he thought his freshman year would go. 

“Cuppa,” Sasha asks calmly, somehow appearing as if there was nothing wrong with this situation. Mike nods and Jon shakes his head.

Mike stares at Jon. “Everything alright? You seem a bit… jumpy.”

“You’re the one being chased by a crazy lady with a gun.” Who may or may not want to kill Jon now, if she knew he was involved. From what he heard from Jude Perry, Daisy had murdered somebody that attacked her in the parking lot two weeks ago and had lost it since then. She even gave them the location of the body. Jon didn’t want to know how she knew that, but he was glad for the information anyway. He knows that he’ll crave that information no matter how it was attained. Maybe that’s unethical, but for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

Mike shrugs. “It’s fairly easy to avoid her, if I’m in a space where I can access the Vast. Which is, like… every space. So…”

“How did you, uh… how did the Vast claim you?”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “You mean, how did I claim the Vast?”

“You mean you chose this?” Sasha brings out her notebook, and Jon can’t help but roll his eyes.

He shrugs. “More or less.” And then he doesn’t elaborate.

Sasha and Jon exchange a look. From what it sounded like, Avatars were monsters. Monsters that Gerry hunted, too. Monsters that were worth hunting. He doesn’t seem like more than a college student of very few words, but Jude Perry appeared normal too, at first. She was like every other junior on cocaine- exhausted, irritating, and careless, but normal none-the-less. Jon would have to see if she appeared in any more statements- he was a bit confused on what she was and how she worked. How did she maintain her shape if she was melting wax? He supposes it was just how that worked, but the mechanics of it didn’t make sense, and it stresses him out.

Mike Crew starts bouncing his leg. “So, what do you want to know?

“How- why did you do this?” Sasha desperately clicks Gerry’s recorder on, picking up where they left off when they were discussing the fears. It’s so bizarre, how casually they accepted it, but Jon supposes that it makes sense, in its own strange way.

Mike laughs. “You want my statement?”

He’s not sure what’s so funny, but nods nonetheless. “Y-yeah, I suppose so.” 

For a few seconds, there’s only the sound of the kettle’s shrieking. Sasha pours a few cups, asking curiously, “There already was a statement about you that Jon showed me. There was a book, uh, Ex Altiora, I think it was.”

Mike sighs, swirling the sugar in his tea. “Last chance for regular-old tea time.”

“Where did you get that scar,” Jon breathes, and the world drops from underneath his feet.

It feels like someone suctioned all the air out of his lungs and closed them off. He tries to scream, but there’s nothing to scream with. The world is the shade of white that only occurs when he’s in so much pain his eyes blur and fade out. He’s not sure if he’s in pain, everything’s gone so numb.

And then he hears Sasha scream, so loud and high pitched that the numbness flares and the lack of air begins pressing down on his chest, the bones cracking and caving in until trying to scream just makes the pain cloud every thought in his head.

"It’s hard, isn’t it? Trying to ask prying questions at terminal velocity. The air… it doesn’t… leave your lungs like you expect it to. I mean, I know you’re still sat down, you know you’re still sat down. But whether your body knows it when I decide you hit the ground, that’s… that’s something I haven’t made my mind up about, yet.” Mike hums, and Jon tries to whirl around wildly to spot where he is. All it does is make more cracking and popping noises where his joints are, and he can’t seem to escape the endless void.

“A little bit of privacy. Is that really so much to ask? I suppose it is, isn’t it? From you and yours at least. But the Hunt? Who knew they were so invasive, right?” He chuckles to himself.

Faintly, he hears Sasha shout again, this time something unintelligible that he can’t make out but is definitely words.

“Oh, hush, you. Well, Jon, you wanted to know about why I’m like this? I was struck by lightning as a kid. And that’s rare, you know? And the pain is unimaginable. Nothing even close to what you’re dealing with right now. Have you ever been struck by lightning? No. No, of course not. Not unless that’s what happened to your hand, but I’m guessing that burn came from sticking it somewhere it wasn’t wanted. And you still didn’t learn.” Mike makes a tsk noise, and Jon can hear him sipping on his tea.

He manages to take a gasping breath in, but it sends a stabbing pain through his chest that makes him choke.

“Well, imagine a white-hot, stinging pain, your whole body becoming rigid, like for an eternal moment you’re frozen, you’re trapped in a statue of yourself with a thousand needles of agony just erupting through you from the inside out. I don’t know if it’s the most painful thing that can happen to the human body, but… beyond a certain point trying to quantify and measure pain, it becomes pointless. That point is being struck by lightning.”

Jon stops struggling, enraptured by the story. He hopes the tape is running so he can listen back on this later. He tries to run his mind over every word that Mike’s uttered so far, tracing them and memorising them to the best of his ability.

“The doctors told me there would be no long-term damage from my accident. They- they were wrong, of course… but the damage wasn’t something they could see, so how were they to know? I was terrified of it. I didn’t… I didn’t know what it was. What was calling me. But it fascinated me. By age ten I was reading everything I could on what had happened to me. Electricity, Lichtenberg’s experiments, meteorology. My parents thought it was simply my way of recovering, of processing my trauma, but there was something else there. I know that now.”

It happened in his childhood, too? Jon was 8, and Mike must have been around the same age. Was that common? For- for marked people to have their roots almost as early back as it could go? Or was he drawing an unnecessary connection?

“I think I was 12 when everything changed. I was curled under my bed to escape the pounding of the rain against my window, the roll of thunder that just rattled my skull, and I explored the scar. That night, those Lichtenberg figures never seemed to have an end. And then- then there was this thing. It caught me that night, it discovered me. In the dark it would stand beneath my bedroom window, the light flaring, flashing the awful brightness of sheet lightning across my room.”

Jon could hear water being poured into a cup, and Mike paused for a few seconds to stir his second tea. “I could never look directly at it. The bright, arcing glow of its insides almost blinded me when I tried. It was almost a man, but I could never be sure. Its strobing, flashing Lichtenberg organs changed and flickered too fast. It… never hurt me. Not once in all the years I was chased by its… malevolence. Of course, I know why that is now, but at the time it did nothing to dull my fear.”

“It found my house. That was the worst bit, looking back. I had to leave home and everything. But it was the books you wanted to know about, right? Of course, they never care about your personal trauma, just the things that they can file away into their boxes, their archives. Well… I think the first one was The Journal of a Plague Year. Around a year ago. Killed my parents, but I escaped. And more than that, my eyes were opened to the powers that might save me. Might protect me from a past that followed me so brightly I could barely see it. But I knew that Filth was not for me. Buzzing flies and rot disgusted me, but they never spoke to my soul. I threw the book into a sewer, and began my hunt.” He chuckles at that.

Filth… the Corruption… Jane Prentis’ lot. He would shudder, but then he remembers that he’s endlessly falling through the Vast and wishes he could be sitting down. It’s easier to remember what people are saying when he’s not in incredible pain. 

“Then… the Boneturner’s Tale. One of our hallmates, Jerard, I believe holds on to it right now. That wasn’t for me, either. There was a grey book that I couldn’t read, I think it was in Cyrillic. I couldn’t read it, of course, but… when it tried to read me back, I buried it on a lonely stretch of moorland. It was Ex Altiora you’d heard of, right? In the Heights. That’s the name of a musical, innit? Well, I found it in a bookshop near this college about two months ago, just at the beginning of the school year.”

Jon would grin if he was able to do so without pain or effort.

“The thing that chased me, you see, it was an arcing branch of the Twisting Deceit, taken shape to follow me. But the shape it had taken more rightly belonged to the sky. To those same vast unknowable heights that blessed book wanted to take me. Falling had always held a special place in my heart, that wonderful border between terror and delight. I loved roller coasters as a child, but it never was the same. And this book… this book gave me the same feeling, only… stronger. And… well, you read the statement. I leapt from the building, the Vast claimed and saved me, and now I’ve been adjusting to a new life. A skyscraper in Paris? That might have been Simon… old bastard keeps bothering me, wanting to be friends. I just want to be left alone. Well, left alone after I throw that bitch of a hunter into the Vast and never let her out.”

The wind dies down and a headache presses at the back of Jon’s head as everything fades back into view. He takes a gasping breath, a sharp pain spreading through his chest with every gasp. Sasha is holding the emergency fire extinguisher like she’s about to hit Mike with it, and relaxes when she sees Jon reach for the recorder. It’s still running, thank god.

“I-I- you-” Jon sputters, finally able to get his words out, but they all seem to tumble out at the same time. “Er, what-”

“Archivist. Take my mercy and let me leave. You have touched something few ever walk away from-”

There’s a knock at the door, and all three of them whip around towards it in shock.

“I thought you said this would be private,” Mike says, puzzled.

Sasha shrugs, setting the fire extinguisher down with a plunk, reaching for the door. “Can I help you- agh!”

Daisy shoves her to the ground without hesitating, gaze sweeping across the room with a cool precision. When her eyes settle on Mike, her taser crackles on and she shoves it in his chest until he crumples to the ground. “Nobody fucking move.”

Jon raises his arms in the air, but pain stabs through his chest and his vision swims, so he lowers them halfway. Sasha glances to the fire extinguisher, as if that would do her any good, and raises her own hands up.

“Er, Daisy-” Sasha starts.

“Shut up. This man’s not human, is ‘e?” She still threateningly holds the taser, but Jon doesn’t remove his gaze from her face. There’s something in her eyes, something that’s only noticeable when he looks away.

Jon shakes his head. “N-no, I don’t believe so. Not- not anymore.”

She nods her head slowly. “Right. What does it do?”

Sasha turns to Jon, who stutters out, “Er, he… It feels like, he makes you… Vertigo. Like you’re falling.”

“He’s killed people?”

“Er, y-y-yes. Yes, a few, I think.”

Daisy blinks. “Alright.” She starts kicking his head, stomping on it until Jon thinks he can see blood. Sasha gags and he thinks he’s going to pass out. “Doubt he’ll be able to do his- his fallin’ thing in a coma.” She holds the taser up with one hand and starts to grab Mike with another. “Get me a bag. Don’t even think about trying to leave. You’re going to help me get him to my car. And turn that damn thing off,” she hisses at the tape recorder.

Chapter Text

Daisy drove them somewhere for nearly half an hour. Over the radio, someone sings, don’t worry, be happy, and Jon contemplates smashing the volume button. With one warning look from Daisy, he decides not to.

“So, what made you decide to be a psychopathic murder,” Sasha asks cheerfully, as if she were asking Daisy what made her decide to be an English major. 

Despite their situation, Jon feels the need to clarify, “psychopathy is a serious cluster-B personality disorder of no empathy or no care for other human emotions, not an adjective for someone who does bad or morraly gray things.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and Daisy glances to her taser, effectively shutting Jon up. None of them say anything else until they reach a forest on the edge of the town and Jon feels his anxiety spike. Sasha glances around, her hand twitching as her eyes fall on Daisy’s taser. Jon subtly shakes his head. 

Daisy drives them another ten minutes deeper into the woods before parking. She pulls out a small gun from her glovebox and straps it to her belt. Sasha and Jon follow her out of the car, swaying from nausea. Jon feels like he’s been binding for over a day, although he knows it’s only been four hours. He struggles to get a full breath in, his vision still swimming after the ten second mark. He grabs onto Sasha for support, who gives him a puzzled look but helps him stay upright nonetheless.

“So… so what now? You kill us?” Snowflakes scatter across the desolate forrest floor, getting caught on Jon’s glasses and in Sasha’s frizzy hair. A chill spreads across all of them and Jon remembers why he hates winter. The blood on Mike’s head has already frozen, red crystals stuck in his pale hair.

Daisy pauses, glancing between Mike and Jon. “You think he’s going to save you?”

“What? What, no, I-”

The gun goes off with a BANG both Sasha jumps and Jon screams, his hands flying to his ears too late. Daisy doesn’t even flinch, and sends a bullet through his head once more. She uses her boot to lift up Mike’s bloody face, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. Oh, Jesus, he’s really dead now, and-

“Hand over the bag,” She orders Sasha. Jon didn’t notice that she grabbed one of his bags as they headed out, the one he carries around for the majority of the school day. He struggles to get his breathing under control, his knuckles pale as he grips Sasha.

Daisy rifles through his things, unimpressed. “One wallet, brown leather, no cash. One packet o’ cigarettes, Silk Cut. One lighter, gold, spiderweb design. Huh One pocket knife… blunt. Heh.” she smiles a little at that, opening another pocket. “And one tape record- you sneaky little freak! You want to record this? Alright.” She chuckles again, but this time it’s cold and terrifying. “I’d have to destroy it anyway.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “I-I didn’t- it was on the table, w-we didn’t-”

Daisy grabs Jon’s knife, thankfully ignoring the gun at her waist. “Oh, I know it wasn’t you, James, you obviously have no idea why you’re involved with this.” 

“Pl-please don’t shoot me,” Jon gasps out, a pathetic attempt in getting her to calm down.

She grabs Jon by the neck, and he feels his lungs being trapped like they were in the Vast and begins to panic.

“I- I- Why are you doing this? Tell me!” He can hear the tape recorder’s buzzing get louder, and the sound of static fills his ears.

Daisy’s hands tighten around his throat. “Stop… asking… questions! That’s how you want it? Fine. You brought a knife? So we go through the voicebox.”

Hot, prickling pain seeps through Jon’s neck as his own knife slides through it and he chokes, struggling to get a full breath in. He tries to kick at Daisy and she just gives him a glare like he’s the most pathetic thing she’s tried to kill. 

There’s the sound of another gun’s safety being pulled off, and a woman in a hijab pleads, “Daisy! Daisy, put ‘im down.”

Daisy’s eyes widen, and Jon finds himself even more afraid than he was before. He keeps struggling, but Daisy holds him up so his feet don’t touch the ground.

“You been following me, Basira?”

Basira scoffs. “No. You’ve been weird lately, and I got a text from someone- it doesn’t matter. Put him down, alright?”

“You don’t know what he is. Don't know what he’s affiliated with."

Jon’s vision starts to go dark, and he gasps out with his last breath, “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Shut up!”

“Daisy-”

“Not you, too! I don’t have anyone, Basira, and they’re all trying to kill me! Don’t you… Don’t you dare look at me like I’m crazy! It got you too.”

"What got me? This is- this is crazy, Daisy.”

Her grip loosens on Jon’s neck, and his feet hit the ground. She releases him, and he falls to the ground, grabbing at his neck. The wound stings as he presses his hand against it, the slippery blood stopping him from putting pressure on it. 

Sasha rushes over to him, the corner of her sleeve torn off. She presses it to his neck, whispering, “Why are you so fucking stupid?” 

He shrugs and holds out his hand to her. The burn’s scab has disappeared, and it’s no longer tender to the touch. It looks like an almost-healed burn rather than a fresh, bleeding one. “This happened after Mike’s statement, look.” He pokes it, and resists the urge to laugh.

“This is too far, Daisy. You know it is.” Basira looks calm, despite the circumstances. 

“Two people have died on campus, Basira. Maybe more. I’ve done one monster today, no reason not to do another. He’s- he’s got their possessions, too- that old librarian’s dead, and I found some of her tapes in his dorm. Is that not weird?”

“I- I didn’t kill anyone!” He cries, too terrified to clarify why it’s impossible for him to have killed anyone.

“For god’s sake, look at him!” Basira gestures to Jon, who’s still crumpled up on the ground and trying to stop his neck from bleeding. Sasha snorts, abruptly stopping when all three people glare at her.

“Well- then who else killed them? He- he was conspiring with Mike- augh, you don’t know who that is- just trust me, Basira!”

Basira laughs, a bit hysterically. “Daisy, you’ve killed two people, and you’re about to kill two more! Why would I trust you on this?! How do I know you haven’t killed those other guys?”

Daisy stays silent.

“Look, leave the dead guys to the police, OK? Jesus, this is insane… let’s- let's go back to my place, yeah? Get some sleep; you look like you haven’t had any forever.” She holds her hand out, the other one still gripping a gun just in case.

Daisy, despite being taller than everyone there, appears to be looking up at Basira. She sighs and takes her hand, mumbling “Fine, but I still think he’s not human.”

Jon glances at the body on the ground, his nausea resurfacing. It’s a miracle he hasn’t hurled yet. “What- what about Mike?”

Daisy glances back at him as though she forgot he was there. “Who?” Her gaze travels to the still-bleeding body. “Oh. Grab a spade.”

—

“This,” Jon says, “is absolutely fucking crazy. Where’s- where’s Gerry? He was supposed to handle Daisy.” The fact that he almost died today is still playing havoc around his mind, despite the fact that he’s drunk so much that he doesn’t trust himself to stand up.

Sasha takes a long swig from her own beer. “Don’t fucking know, don’t fucking care. I- I mean, we saw someone fucking die today.”

Jon opens another drink and closes his eyes. “Don’t- don’t remind me. I don’t want to think about it.”

She clinks her bottle against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

They both sit slouched on Jon’s bed as if it were a couch, the lights off and blinds shut as tight as they went. His head still pounds with the worst headache he’s ever had despite that, and the six Advil he’d downed still haven’t seemed to kick in. Maybe he’s dying of an overdose. He laughs at that, as if six little pills were enough to kill him. He still couldn’t breathe all the way without his chest erupting in pain. Maybe he’d fractured his ribs.

Somehow, the thought isn’t enough to spur him up to go to the hospital and check, and he just takes a longer drink. Beer tastes like piss, and he’s not sure why he’s having it at all.

Then he remembers that alcohol is his only way of coping with his problems and resumes drinking. His stomach is cramping already, but it’ll pass. He took some Advil, and that should kill the headache.

A few minutes later, Gerry bursts into the room. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.” He throws the blinds open, his brows furrowing together upon noticing Jon’s several wounds. “Well, that’s a story I've got to hear after this. So, good news or bad news first?”

“Uhh…” Jon looks to Sasha.

“Good news, obviously. We could use some right about now.”

Gerry blinks. “Well, the good news is that the bad news could be worse. Um… the bad news is that Gertrude Robbinson is dead-well, you could pretend that’s good news, I mean, some people certainly think it is.”

“Gertrude? The lady from that tape?”

Gerry sighs, snatching Jon’s beer and taking a long swig from it. “Yeah, she was more than just the lady from the tape. Unfortunately, that sidetracked me from finding Daisy and Mike, but I’m sure I can fix that before it’s too late.”

Sasha bursts into laughter for a good thirty seconds, and when she finally stops she waves him on. “Continue, continue.”

“Oh. Well, it looks like someone shot Gertrude to death. I showed up and cleared out her private things before the police could come poking around. They probably wouldn’t bother to read her files, but still, one can never be too careful. And then I ran into Jonah and- right, you don’t know him, um, he’s the main Eye guy- basically he threatened me a lot and tried to get me to sign into his job. I’m not that stupid, of course- doesn’t matter, though.”

Jon closes his eyes and rubs his aching head. “I need a job,” he mutters.

Gerry points a finger at him. “Not that job.”

“Alright, alright.” 

“Well. That’s my news. What happened to you guys?”

Jon and Sasha exchange a glance and both burst out laughing, though Jon’s laughter turns into a cough that takes a few moments to stop. “It’s… you might want to grab a drink.”

Gerry’s already gotten a vodka out of his fridge and has started drinking directly from the bottle. “Already on it.” He flops down on Jon’s bed, the three of them hardly fitting on the surface at this point, and lies his head down on Jon’s lap. Jon’s heart rate spikes, and he’s very glad that Gerry seems preoccupied with Sasha’s retelling of this afternoon’s events.

When Sasha’s done, Gerry goes very quiet. His hand is tangled with Jon’s and he won’t let go, so Jon just decides to pretend it’s not happening. He’s very nervous and can’t focus on anything, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Well,” Gerry says quietly, “I guess the Mike issue has been taken care of. Gertrude would have been happy to hear of that.” He sighs and takes another drink from the bottle, squeezing Jon’s hand once. Jon’s not sure what any of this means, but he thinks of Georgie and wishes that he was more drunk, drunk enough that he wouldn’t have to deal with his feelings.

“She would have liked you guys,” Gerry says at last. He closes his eyes and screws the lid closed, but Jon takes it from him and opens it back up.

Sasha looks like she wants to warn him about the dangers of binge drinking or some bullshit like that, but keeps her mouth shut. Instead, she has Jon pass the vodka to her and takes the equivalent of a shot before passing it back. They spend the next few minutes in silence.

Gerry opens his eyes, frowning at Jon. He stares at him for a good fifteen seconds before asking, “Do you think you should go to the hospital?”

He blinks a few times. “Why would you say that?” Sasha giggles, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Because,” she yawned, “you nearly got your throat slit. And then your whole hand got burnt off. And you got chucked into the Vast. And you’ve decided to treat those injuries with beer and vodka.”

“That’s out of order,” he points out, but she bops him on the nose and he is effectively silenced.

Gerry rolls over so that he’s facing Jon, still lying halfway on his lap. “I mean, I feel like we should get you antibiotics. Or something. Right?” 

Sasha shrugs. “Probably.”

Jon looks away from Gerry, who he’s starting to realise looks very cute when he’s tired and not wearing any makeup. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss him. He doesn’t want to think about that. “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he insists, untangling his hand from Gerry’s and 

“Why are you always so adamant about refusing medical care,” he snaps, and Jon recoils.

“Because I don’t need help.”

“Sasha already listed all your injuries, I doubt you need me to repeat them.”

Jon sighs. “No…” his vision is starting to blur, and he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the exhaustion. “I’ll schedule a checkup tomorrow, alright? It should only be like two weeks.”

“Why don’t ye just go te urgent care?”

“I don’t want to waste the NHS’s time.”

“YOU DON’T WANT TEH WASTE THE TIME OF OUR FREE HEALTHCARE PROGRAM! Jesus, teh British aer ridiculous!”

Jon uncomfortably shifts, wishing Gerry would get off his lap. He doesn’t want to examine how he feels about this, so he takes another drink and his vision promptly blurs. He leans over, grabbing his stomach. He just has to wait for this to finish, for the nausea to leave. This happens often enough, but it feels worse than usual. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had a chance to eat all day.

Gerry sits up and grabs Jon by the shoulder. “Hey, hey… what's wrong? Jon?”

“He looks like he’s gonna throw up,” Sasha says, jumping as far away from him as possible. 

Gerry’s saying something, but he can’t hear it, and his vision starts to go dark. The last thing he remembers is Gerry shaking him by the shoulders, but he doesn’t have enough energy to open his mouth to tell him to stop. Then everything goes blank.

—

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

For a minute, all he can hear is a machine making a rhythmic beeping sound. It grates on his ears and he reaches out to shut it off, imagining it to be his alarm clock. Instead, it feels like someone ripped out the tendons from his wrist.

His eyes open and once he processes the stark whites of the room and the sterile smell of iodine and other cleaning chemicals, he realises that he’s in a hospital and that what he just did was tear an IV out of his wrist. Oops.

That sets off another alarm, a red light flashing above the call nurse button, and panicking, he tries to shut it off by clicking the button repeatedly before realising that’s probably a stupid idea.

Instead of a nurse bursting in, Sasha, Gerry, and Georgie(in that respective order) burst into his room. “What the hell could have gone wrong now,” Georgie practically shouts at him, and Gerry puts his face in his hands. 

“How did you tear out the IV already? How long have you even been awake?”

Jon shrugs, and pain bursts through his chest. “A-ah- a few minutes, I think?” He tries to take a few deep breaths and his chest seizes up, pain shooting through his chest. “What the hell happened to me?”

Georgie looks like she’s going to hit him. “Fucking alcohol poisoning, you bastard! We thought you were dead!”

“I had to call 999, and ACAB and all that because those assholes didn’t do jack shite to get you help,” Gerry iterjects.

Jon blinks. He- he didn’t have that much. If anything, it should have been everything else that sent him to the hospital! Do they think that he has a problem? That’s ridiculous- he’s sure they’re looking at him weird and wishes they would all stop. He feels disgusted with himself for putting them in a position to see himself like this- he hasn’t been to the hospital in two years, and that was when they had to pump his stomach in Year 12, and that was different! He didn’t know what he was doing, and he does now; why are they looking at him like he’s a child?

He shifts uncomfortably in the hospital bed, his ribs aching in response. He manages to sit upright, opening his mouth to snap something out, but before he manages to do so a nurse finds her way in with a cart full of IV needles.

“Good to see you’re awake, innit?” She smiles at his friends, who shift awkwardly. Sasha gives Jon a threatening look that makes him very afraid. “Well, if you could leave for a minute so I could make sure Ms. Sims is alright, that’d be wonderful.”

“Why can’t we talk to him? I’ve been in that waiting room for two days to see my boyfriend, and I am not going to go back in there to wait.” 

Jon holds back his smile. “It’ll be alright, Georgie. I- I’ll see you in a minute.” He ignores the dread curling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to be alone in this room, he hasn’t forgotten that he hasn’t changed his legal sex marker yet. There was a reason he said he didn’t want to go to the hospital, why didn’t they listen to him? He would have- he would have been fine.

Georgie sends the nurse one last dirty look before leaving, Sasha following behind her and muttering under her breath. Gerry stands in the corner with his arms crossed, planting a wide stance and staring the nurse dead in the eyes. 

Jon shakes his head. “It’s fine, Gerry.”

“But-”

“Leave it.”

When the nurse isn’t looking, Gerry gives her the finger and then leaves, muttering under his breath. When he opens the door, Jon hears Sasha ask quietly, “why do the nurses keep calling him Ms. Sims?”

“None of your fucking business, that’s why,” Georgie yells back before sinking into the chairs in the waiting room. Sasha opens her mouth to say something, but the door is shut and the conversation fades out and all he can hear is the beeping of the machines.

The nurse attempts at a friendly smile. “Your friends certainly are a lively group of girls, aren’t they?”

It takes all his effort to force a non-awkward smile. “Yeah, they, er, sure are.”

She frowns. “Why does your voice sound so low? Do you have a cold? We don’t want to give you any antibiotics that might make your cold worse.”

He clenches a fist in his sheets, willing himself to be patient. “I’m on hormone replacement therapy. It should… it should say so in my medical files?”

She frowns, checking her clipboard. “Do you have PCOS or androgen insensitivity syndrome? Are you a hermaphrodite- er, intersexed?”

“No, I’m taking… I’m taking testosterone.”

“Why?”

“I’m a transexual.” Maybe she’ll understand the more medical terms.

She blinks. “I don’t know what that has to do with taking hormones. You’re a female, you should be content to just dress a little differently.”

Suddenly, the air is ripped from his lungs. “There’s a difference between transexuality and transvesticism.”

She scribbles something down on her clipboard and the dread in Jon’s stomach grows. “Well, let's agree to disagree. Do you remember how much you had to drink on Friday night?” 

He shakes his head. “No, it’s all kind of blurry.”

“Well, your friend with the piercings called you an ambulance when you passed out, she said it was around 9:30 at night, and you’d been drinking for an hour and started vomiting before passing out. Do you remember any of that?” She’s watching him while she fills out what looks like a form.

“Um… sort of?”

“We found you with fractured ribs, a burn on your hand, a cut on your neck, and alcohol poisoning. We understand where the alcohol came from, but can you explain the first two? Your friend said that they were from ‘bad run-ins with your classmates’. Who did this to you?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to see if he can figure out what she’s writing down. She moves the clipboard so it’s out of his sight.

“Do I- do I have to say?”

She looks him in the eyes, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do- stare back or look away. “Your college takes violence very seriously,” she starts, “and while we can’t force you to go to the police, we can strongly advise it. Especially if you’re a- a transexual, you said? You’re more vulnerable to violence, and you showed up drunk and injured. It looks very bad, and people here are worried about you.”

He blinks. He didn’t expect her to know the statistics, but it doesn’t exactly make him relax.

She writes a few things down and changes the subject. “Well, can you tell me how old that burn is?”

“Uh…” Jon shifts his hand so he can see it. It looks like it’s almost healed, maybe two or three weeks old, and he doesn’t suppose she’ll believe him if he says it’d only be three days old by now. “Maybe two weeks?”

“And your neck?”

On instinct, he reaches up to rub the medical tape around his neck. It’s sore now, and bruises litter his entire neck and he winces at the touch. “Um… the same day they brought me to the hospital.”

“And when did you first notice pain in your ribs? Cracked ribs often aren’t noticed right away, sometimes the pain is excused or ignored.”

“Uh…” Right when Mike threw him in the Vast and ever since. “The same day as… as the other thing.”

She nods. “Well, that’s about all the information I need. I do need you to fill out a sort of symptoms checklist for me to give the doctor, it’s just a general screening for mental and physical health things so that we can flag any issues you might not be aware of.”

He accepts the clipboard from her, fully preparing to lie on the mental health section. When he first went into the gender clinics, they wanted to screen him rigorously for autism to make sure he was capable of consenting. The first thing he learned was that if he wanted to be given bodily autonomy, he was only allowed to be troubled when it would work to his advantage.

When he reaches the physical health section, it’s disconcerting of how many symptoms he checks off. Dizzy whenever he stands up, vision swims whenever he moves from lying down to standing up, struggling to gain or maintain body weight, constantly exhausted, out of control heartbeat, constant headaches… it’ll likely amount to nothing, he’s sure, but he contemplates erasing a few boxes to get out of this earlier.

He hands her back the clipboard and makes a face that’s halfway between a smile and a grimace. Maybe this will be over soon.

—

“Ye can’t spend all day on PubMed, Jon, get up and do somethin’ with me! I’m getting a new tattoo tonight! We can go to, like, a bookstore or something. Yeh like bookstores, right? I’ll even buy you a new book.”

Jon opens a new tab about the effect of exercise on POTS. “I think I’d rather understand my new diagnosis, thanks. We can do something tomorrow.”

“That’s what yeh said yesterday.”

He skims the article for conflicts of interest first, googling the reliability of them. Gerry could wait a few more seconds for a reply…

“Jon!” Gerry throws a crumpled up paper at his head, and Jon twists around from his desk. Gerry’s hanging upside down off his bed and sticking out his tongue. “Seriously, yeh haven’t left this room in two days. This can’t be healthy.”

“Hm.” What if he gets hurt? What if his heart gives out or his blood pressure drops too low while he’s going down the stairs? What if he passes out and hits his head? There’s so much that could go wrong now. “Pass me a Statement? And the, erm, tape recorder. Those… those seem to make things better.” Guilt pools in the bottom of his stomagh. He uses other peoples incidents with- with fear, with horror, and he likes it. What kind of a person does that make him?

Gerry sighs. “We can break into Annabelle’s dorm while she’s gone, even. Literally anything to get yeh out’a this room.”

He pauses his reading and frowns. He does want to know why Annabelle paid for his early release from the hospital. Not only is it a little strange, but there was no follow-up on who did that to him like the nurse said there’d be. Not even a phone call from the NHS about the receipt. 

“Mm…” He hums, turning around to watch his friend. “Why do you want to go?”

“Uh, I’ve been waiting over a year to prove that Annabelle’s bonkers. Plus… I texted Daisy and we both agree that she’s up to somethin’, and she’s out fer the day, and I’m bored and need to get you away from the desk.”

Jon’s hands itch for a drink or a cigarette or anything to fiddle with.

"Or,” Gerry continued, “Y’know. We can go get some books and coffee. Daisy can plan her crazy meurder plots by herself. And we can jest have a normal day away from your desk.”

Jon blinks. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

Gerry sighs, grabbing his illegal lock-picking kit. “C’mon, let’s go.”

—

“Do you have to carry those tapes everywhere you go,” Daisy hisses at Jon, anxiously tapping her foot while Gerry picks at Annabelle’s door.

“I’m just holding onto it, it’s Gerry’s tape,” he whispers back. 

“Den’t blame me,” Gerry protests without taking his eyes off the lock. His nimble fingers manipulate two metal poles, and the soft clicking sounds seem much louder. After a few minutes the click is louder and the door swings open. He bows and they trail inside.

For a college dorm, Jon didn’t expect so many cobwebs. He couldn’t see them at first, until he tried to lean on the wall for support and felt something brush against his arm. In the corner there was a dusty web around a foot tall and he jumps, shuddering.

“What the hell,” Gerry whispers and Daisy shoots them both a dirty look. He flips the lightswitch up and down a few times, but to no avail.

The rest of the room is a draped in shadows, every corner practically a void. Gerry’s eyes dart around and his brown furrows. “Why is it compleatly empty in here?”

The instant he points it out, Jon noticed that all the sheets have been stripped from the bed and the counter is thick with dust. They’ve all left footprints in from the room and suddenly their silence feels very heavy in this new context.

Jon’s eyes zero in on the loose papers scattered across the singlar table. It’s the only thing in the room that’s not covered in dust, and the papers feel brittle at the touch, just like the other Statements that were mailed to him. He hears the heavy click of the tape recorder in the backround, but he’s a thousand miles away.

“Free will is a funny old thing, isn’t it, Jon? Can I call you Jon? I’m going to call you Jon.” Daisy grips her tazer and Gerry puts his own hand on his gun in return. Faintly, Jon remembers that he hates being around those weapons, but neither move to stop him as he reads.

“You’re a philosipher, I’m sure you’re aware of the concept of libertarianism, determinalism, all of that. I’m sure you’ve studdied it to a great extent, sure you’ve given yoursef an anurysm over trying to figure out the one answer that is always true. Do you believe in free will, Jon?

Free of what? It’s a rediculous concept. We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us, and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove that we can – is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead? We don’t really make all of our own decisions- most of one’s life is simply spent looking back and convincing yourself that you chose deliberately to act like you did.

Hm. Have you ever read War and Peace, Jon? I know, I know; I had to read an extract for a literature class once, ended up reading the whole thing.

It’s not actually as boring as people say, and its central thesis is that the tiniest, most insignificant factors can control the destiny of the world.

In its post-script, Tolstoy muses on the concept of free will, on whether or not he really believes in it. He ultimately decides that if all the millions upon millions of factors that weigh upon our choices were fully and completely known, then all could be foreseen and predetermined.

But, he argues, it is quite impossible for the human mind to comprehend even a fraction of these. And in that vast, dark space of ignorance lies: free will.

Isn’t that marvelous, Jon? Free will is simply ignorance. It’s just the name we give to the fact that no one can ever really see everything that controls them.

Of course, that’s not the real crux of the free will question that’s bothering you at the moment, is it? I think that one probably comes down to whether or not you’re choosing to continue reading this statement out loud. Well, that along with all of life’s mundane sort of questions- did you chose whether to hate having sex with your girlfriend, did you chose to be socailly awkward and irritate everyone you come into contact with, did you chose to always make the decision that lands you in the most pain. But those questions are irrelivent to the point im trying go make.

Think about it, Jon; when’s the last time you were able to read a statement quietly to yourself without instinctively hitting record and speaking it aloud? Is it just instinct, habit? Or is it a compulsion, a string pulled by the Ceaseless Watcher or the Mother of Puppets? Or both?

And I know they’re listening to you read this in horror, so try your best not to hide your shame and guilt.

So I thought perhaps I should leave a little something to reassure you that, yes, your actions and choices have all been your own.

Have they been controlled? No more than gravity controls you when you walk, or hunger controls you when you choose your meal. There are certainly new forces, new instincts and desires, that shape your actions; perhaps you’re unprepared for them.

But if you choose to believe in a free will, then yes: All you have done has been of your own free will. They have all been your choices.

Now, I believe the tradition is to tell you the story of my life, the sinister path that led me to the sorry state in which I now find myself.

But I don’t care for stories like that, Archivist. But let it be known- don’t try to investigate my workings again.”

Gerry stares at him, opening his arms for a hug. Internally, Jon’s not sure what he should do. He doesn’t feel like the person that Gerry’s looking at. He doesn’t feel like a person at all. He feels like he just took a shit tone of weed and was compleatly disasociated from his own mind. Almost numb, he looks Gerry in his eyes and wonders what he sees in them. What is it about Gerry that makes him Gerry? His cells, his neurons, his DNA? All of it combined to make a person, a person that Jon. Can’t. Recognize.

Terrified, Gerry reaches out for his hand. “Jon,” he says softly. “Jon?”

Is that his name? Fascinating.

In that moment, Gerry reaches his other hand up to cup Jon’s face, terrified. “Jon, what’s going on? Wake up!”

Why did he do that? What’s going on inside those thoughts of his? He needs to know, but when he reaches out for that information he’s hit with what feels like a flood of information, so many words and such little time to decipher them. He tries to take it all in but it hurts, and suddenly there’s a loud noise that shifts his attention elsewhere.

Gerry yells something at him, something in Gaelic that he takes to mean stupid goddamn Eye! Stop taking things from me! He kicks the door in, the wood breaking easily under his platforms. Jon Knows that someone… someone unidentifiable unscrewed the knobs on the door and sawed halfway through some of the blinds earlier that day.He frowns. He should be able to identify them. Why can’t he identify them?

—

Martin is pacing across the creaking floorbords of Hilltop Road’s second floor bedroom. Annabelle tracks his movements lazily, tapping her nails on her laptop.

“Are you uncomfortable wit’ this?” She asks slowly, the corners of her purple lips curling into a smile.

“Yes!” He exclaims, gesturing wildly with his hands. “This- this is insane. Y-you asked me to move out of my dorm, and sure, the offer for free board is- is nice and all, but then you tell me to put a dust gun or- or something on everything! And that- that table was so weird and mesmerizing and it was scarry, and then you said not to look at it too long, a-a-and now we’re spying on our neighbors from a-a spooky house in the middle of nowhere! This- I mean, you’re nice and all, Anabelle, but I’m starting to think you’re psychotic!”

She makes a tsk noise, rolling her eyes and adjusting her web-patern fishnet shirt. “Martin, this can’t be that bad. I mean, you’ve always been good at watchin’ people, learnin’ everythin’ about them without ever interactin’. Sometimes, they don’t even know who you are! And that is very useful."

He sputters, the rate of his pacing increasing. Annabelle doesn’t let her smile waver. She’s very proud of her ability to sit so perfectly still in her seat that it triggers other’s uncanny valley, but right now it’s probobly unhelpful. She tracks Jon’s statement-reading on the screen, turning up the volume. She’s lucky the black paint on the windows dried quickly enough, leaving her camera compleatly concealed in the dark.

She watches Jon finish his statement. Martin on the verge of yelling at her or having a compleat breakdown when she motions him to sit down next to her. 

On the screen, she watches Gerry try to wake on back up, to bring back the human in him. The pain in his eyes almost makes her pity him. His little crush is so pathetic that even Annabelle feels bad for taking away all that make Jonathan Sims Jonathan Sims. Almost. Jon may be bisexual, but he’s hardly even human anymore.

When Jon still hasn’t come back to himself, Gerry yells and kicks down her closet door despite the lock. She smiles faintly- all going according to plan. He’s so predictable, honestly. He likes to think he’s fighting the system, fighting any and all stereotypes and ideals, but he follows his own behavioral pattern without even thinking about betraying it. He’s created his own highiarchy and ideals and doesn’t consider those immoral or wrong. Interesting how many anarchist think like him, it truly is.

In a world with the Web, anarchy is virtually impossible. There will always be someone pulling the strings, trying to make the world just a little bit worse for everybody else for their own advantage. It’s… it’s human nature.

“Th-this is rediculous!” Martin tells her. “M-manipulative and- and weird, and-”

“Are you not manipulative by nature?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“That stutter of yours. Is it not to get me to pity you, to overlook you, to leave you isolated and alone? That’s a manipulation, Martin. And it’s not wrong or mean to say so, simply a fact.” she hums softly. “Or maybe I’m sayin’ this to provoke a specific reaction from you. Maybe I’ve planned for this! You won’t ever know, really.”

She knows that bothers people. It’s why she struggled so hard to maintain friendships. They were too worried about what she was thinking or plotting that they were obsessed with figuring out what she was doing to them. But now that she’s decided to lean into that, she’s discovered how useful it really can be. Some things about her might be considered… distasteful, sure, but they have their uses.

Martin sputters excuses at her and she tunes him out, focusing back on the camera. Daisy’s yelling at Jon, the microphone screeching. He sighs, folding her statement into his bag and clicking off the recorder. As they exit, Gerry says something offhand about how he hated the feeling of being watched as Jon read that, and Annabelle smiles to herself.

She turns back to Martin. “You said you’re uncomfortable with this?”

“I- psh- well, that’s one word for it.”

She looks him dead in the eyes. “Well, lets think of it one way- this man is in a situation very vulnerable to ending the world. And I… I have the ability to pull some strings. And I think you might be a very valuable asset to me. What do you have to say?”

Chapter Text

Jon lies his head in Georgie’s lap as she skims through a historic horror stories magazine. Absentmindedly, she tangles her hand in his hair and Jon feels something in his chest go all warm and fuzzy. He closes his eyes, wishing he could get a drink.

He’s been so tired lately, like a heavy weight on his shoulders, but he hasn’t been sleeping well. He keeps- he keeps seeing people, going through all the things he’s read in his statement. He wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes only minutes after he’s drifted off. Every single day, he wishes he could get a drink or a smoke, just a little bit, just enough to calm his nerves. But the nurse said that physical trauma and heavy drinking and smoking were what caused his POTS and that his condition would worsen if he continued.

Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. It sure was a mouthful, and it had such an impact- his blood didn’t stay where it was supposed to, causing severe light-headedness. He now has to wear compression socks whenever he goes anywhere to deal with this. They had to check his hormone levels for excess norepinephrine, and he was relieved when they said it couldn’t be an issue with his hormones. But now he has a chronic, incurable disorder that he’s stuck with for the rest of his life- a new issue he’ll have to put up with.

“Excited for Christmas? My gran’s looking forward to seeing you again. Called you a fine young man.” Both Jon and Georgie snort at that, but Jon frowns.

“When did we say we were going to your grans’?”

Georgie furrows her brow. “Last week? Like, two days after you got out of the hospital? She called while you and I were getting lunch, remember?”

He closes his eyes again, sighing through the exhaustion. His memory’s been so foggy recently and it’s been so hard to keep up with everyone and everything. Finals had destroyed him- he’s lucky he now qualifies for extra time on tests and quizzes.

“I- well, I’m excited now,” he tries for a lighthearted tone, but Georgie’s smile is pinched.

“Oh,” she says, “would you join me on an episode of What The Ghost? in its original recording studio? I still think it’s better than recording in my dorm closet, to be honest.”

“Yeah!” He tries to sound enthusiastic, but he simply doesn’t have the energy. He’ll try, though. For Georgie, he’ll try.

Jesus, he’ll have to go out shopping. He’d use Amazon for their quick delivery, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t. A part of him wishes he was religious so he’d have someone to ask for strength from.

The words from Annabelle’s statement echo around in his mind, bouncing against the walls of his skull. He has it all up there, word for word- he can remember that, of course, but nothing important.

—

Jon watches patiently as a needle filled slowly with clear fluid, tilting the bottle from side to side to try and get every last drop of testosterone out. He checks for any air bubbles, anxiety filling his stomach at the idea that Gerry could have to go to the hospital if he missed anything.

Without even bothering to be careful, Gerry jabs the needle into his thigh in an act that could be considered almost violent. He injects every last drop, extracts it and cheers. His dirty black hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, a few strands hanging loose. Jon’s hand itches to tuck it behind his ear and out of his face. He frowns, unsure where that urge was coming from and does his best to stifle it.

Gerry turns to the running tape and shouts at it, “Four seconds on T, motherfecker! Fuck you, Mary, and fuck you, NHS! Fuck yer goddamn wait lists, fuck yer goddamn doctors, fuck the whole thing!”

Jon resists the urge to lecture him on how the NHS is a pretty good healthcare system compared to places like America and smiles faintly at him. “How did you get your mother to pay for this again?”

“...I told her I was going to try taking testosterone to see how it reacted to making me more resistant to Lietners...”

He has to laugh at that, his grin now a little more genuine. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

Gerry snorts. “Don’t have to tell me twice. If I had to listen to you speak with your voice knowing we’re both female and I still don’t have a deep voice one more time, I was going to hit you.” He pauses before adding, “that’s a joke. I don’t actually want to hit you.”

“Oh.”

They still haven’t talked about the time Jon had his meltdown and Gerry thought he was autistic. He still feels offended, though he’s not quite sure why. But the more he thinks about it, the more he’s afraid that he’s right. There’s always been something wrong about him, like he’d been broken just a little too much.

Being not just transgender but transexual, he always knew he was born wrong. The idea that trans people were born in the wrong body was usually just a phrase that helped cis people understand things. He didn’t necessarily feel wrong, per say, he just felt very distinctly like he should have been born male. That didn’t make being female wrong, it just made it very uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure where the distinction lied, but there certainly was one.

But he always felt that... that distance from himself and other people. Like he’d always been trapped in his own head, too intense about normal things and too normal about things that were supposed to be taken intensely.

But to admit that he feels and understands that distance... it scares him.

Christ, he needs a cigarette.

Gerry flops onto his bed, grinning from ear to ear. “Y’know, I think I’m doing this ‘cause I’m terrified of dying and being recognised as a dead woman, but holy fuck does it feel increedable to not have to werry about this anymore.”

Jon nods. He knows the feeling- the bullying didn’t stop once he started to pass, but he stopped caring when people misgendered him all the time. It made him feel more... more at home in his own body, even before the T had even taken effect.

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself not to get lost in the spiral of his thoughts, and moves from his chair to the bed beside Gerry. Gerry wraps his arms around Jon and the two collapse onto the bed. Jon forgets how warm-blooded Gerry is- he’s so pale and dresses in such cool tones that Jon always assumes that he’d be frigid to the touch. Jon stiffens at first, the physical contact making his insides squirm. After a few moments, he relaxes and wraps his own arms back around Gerry. It’s warm, and there’s a kind of comfort there that isn’t with Georgie. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

They stay like that for a few moments before a sharp ringing interrupts the silence. Jon shifts away, suddenly cold.

Gerry takes a deep breath before answering the call. “Ye’h?” Jon hears a harsh voice over the call.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry ‘boot that.” He stands up, shoulders slumped as he paces back and forth. Jon watches him carefully, straining to hear what’s on the other end.
He can only catch a few words- “failure of a daughter” and “liar” are a few. Gerry takes it all patiently, his eyes closed and breathing shallowly.

“Well,” Mary demands, “what do you have to say?”

He recognizes her voice- Gerry left a few tapes out once and Jon had a listen through them. She was... allies, perhaps the word was, with Gertrude Robbinson. Hadn’t she died? They hadn’t stated how... he’ll have to do some research into it later. There’s- there’s got to be information online.

“Listen, listen, Ma- I’ll be home for break, ye’h? One whole week, you and me. I’ve been chasing information on a new book, alright? Jest- just give me a week and I’ll have the location.”

“You’re just saying that to get away from me-” Gerry inhales sharply, and Jon sees his hand twitch as if he’s physically fighting the urge to interrupt- “and I will not stand for it. You want to be my son? Then put the effort into being a halfway-decent one.”

With that, the line beeps and Gerry struggles to take in a full breath. Jon’s reflex is to reach out for him, to wrap him in his own hug that Jon finds so comforting. All he does is stay frozen.

Gerry lights a joint and starts pulling his boot on. He can’t get the zipper up all the way, it’s caught onto his socks, and he yells out of frustration and slams his fist into the wall. The wall shudders and cracks in a jagged circle around his hand and he swears, shaking it off and storming out the door.

“I’m going Leitner hunting,” he calls through the doorway. He knows better than to offer to take Jon with him.
He watches the door for a few seconds, listening for footsteps. He leaps to his feet, the whole world swimming, but he doesn’t stop before he’s collapsed into his desk chair and pulled up Safari. His whole body pulses and the world still spins, but it rights itself within the second.

There’s a sick kind of guilt in his stomach as he types in Mary Keay Murder into the search bar. His finger hesitates over the enter button, thinking back to Annabelle’s statement. Was he really choosing this? What did she really want? Was- was this what she wanted him to do? Or had she been planning on his doubt? Is it better not to know? No- no, that goes against anything he believes. Any- any action he performs or any belief he holds without proof, evidence, any kind of justification... then how does he know he’s doing the right thing? No, he has to know.

It’s a matter of following the rules. Kantian philosophy explicitly states that all moral rules must be followed no matter the circumstances, no matter the context or possible problems. Information must be around to make informed decisions, so Jon clicks enter.
The first few things that pop up are news articles, all of which he opens. One seems to be a police report... oh, god. Jon’s stomach is churning as he’s reading the article, and he wonders if he’s going to throw up.

When he sees Gerry’s mugshot, however, he feels his vision start to swim until he’s hunched over his desk, gripping the edge of it and taking in ragged breaths, choking. All he can see is Gerry’s flat-faced glare at the camera, his black lips and eyeshadows stark against the trademark goth white face paint. His head’s tilted up, as if to exaggerate his jawline and intimidate whoever was taking the photo. The flash glints on his silver lip and nose piercings, his hair still bright red but strained at the tips, as if he’d dyed his hair over several times to hide the dark dye from his mother. It dates just back to a month before school started, before Jon had met him.

Jesus Christ, he can practically smell the rotting flesh. He can picture it, in his minds eye- lied out on a laundry rack, still smeared with crusted red, scrawled on with a pen while a woman bled out on the counter-

Wait. How come Jon heard her hollering at Gerry on the first day in the dorms? Gerry had- Gerry had jokingly muttered you bald bitch... but the photo of Mary on the website, scowling at the camera as she scrawled in a journal, has a full head of hair.

He swallows the bile that had gathered in his throat, the sour taste leaving a burning sensation every time he takes a breath in. His hands shake as he reaches for the stack of Statements that he’s started to lock in his drawer. The papers feel heavier in their hands as he skims through them, careful to look out for any keywords. When he finishes, he closes his eyes to sigh. With every inhale, his ribs swell and he has to stop himself from lurching over. He feels like he’s dying, his entire body slowly collapsing in on himself until it’s no longer functional. He’s not going to be able to live like this, and he knows it, but what other choice does he have?

“Yoohoo, Archivist!”

Popping up from the floor, Michael waves his bloated hands at Jon. His curly hair has gotten less and less in control, and it now cascades down his shoulders and floats slightly as he walks across the room. The air is filled with static electricity that makes Jon sigh and click the recorder on. This shouldn’t take too long.

Michael frowns at the recorder. Jon gives him one warning stare. “What is it, Michael?”

“What, can’t I just drop by to say hello, get a drink?” He struggles with the fridge door, slicing the cuffs of his shirt on accident. They’re tinted red in some spots, probably from earlier mistakes as well.

“There’s no beer, Michael, we got rid of all of them last week.” Jon flexes his shoulder, still feeling the wound from when he was inside the Distortion’s halls. Thinking of Michael like that, as a thing rather than a person, feels a bit strange. Is Michael really any better than Jude or Daisy, just because he’s nice to Jon? Or is this some kind of favouritism? There’s got to be some kind of concrete differences that Jon can pin down- Daisy is driven by her personal paranoia and rage, Jude seems to be driven by... drugs and sadism. Michael seems like he was placed into this role totally by accident and not even he’s really sure what he’s supposed to be doing.
Michael sits on Jon’s desk and sifts through some of the papers, making a face. “So, what are we investigating today? Bloodthirsty monsters or poor victims?”

Jon thinks back to Gerry’s mugshot. “I, uh... I’m not sure.” He hesitates. “When- when you were Michael Shelly, do you remember Gerry ever being, ah, arrested? Or- or anything with his mom?”

“Hm...” Michael twists a lock of hair around his finger. “Was it Michael Shelly that kept Gerry company in Secondary School? It certainly wasn’t me, but... but I am Michael Shelly still in the same way you are still Jonathan Sims... Gerry seems to think I’m an entirely new being and because of that he can’t be in the same room as me, but I’m not-”

“Michael, focus.”

“Right, right.” He giggles. “Well, Gerry was always weird about me going over to his house. There was a giant iron fence and it was always locked and bolted. I never even saw it open. He sometimes spent the night at my house after I found him sleeping at a bus stop. Never said why, tho. And...” He trails off mid-sentence, coming to a complete halt

“And?” He’s hardly able to keep his attention with these conversations. He hates how Michael will drop something incredibly interesting and then just stop as if it doesn’t require further elaboration.

“Well, two years ago after graduation, he disappeared for about three months. No note, no text, just... nothing. And then he showed up dressed in- in normal people clothes and asked for a place to stay. Refused to tell me what was going on. And then... poof.” Michael mimics an explosion with his hands, the neon lights in his eyes glittering. “Can I have some mac n cheese?”

Jon sighs and gets up to slide a box into the microwave. “Thank you, Michael.”

“Oh, you’re not happy that you know this one, Archivist. No need to thank me.”

“Oh... oh, eat your mac n cheese in silence.”

—

It’s been a while since Jon and Georgie sat in a car together and found themselves with nothing to talk about. He partially blames it on Melanie, who was invited along... for podcast purposes. Apparently.

Outside the window, hills that were covered in grey snow rolled by and blended together. It was like someone copied and pasted the same landmarks over and over again, sometimes trading fluffy cows with old horses or even a few lambs. If Jon hadn’t driven this road before, he would have thought they were going in circles.

“So,” Georgie starts awkwardly, “how did finals go for you, Melanie?”

“Oh, they were hell. I mean, I thought being a film major would be easy, right, it’s just movies, but suddenly there’s history you have to learn about and all this equipment you’ve got to buy just to study! They- they wanted us to analyse musicals, so I had to buy and read all of Les Mis- like, I just want to host a little talk show about spooky stuff! There’s not that much work that goes into that, right?”

“Oh, Les Mis!” Georgie swerves to avoid hitting a squirrel and shouts “MOTHERFUCKER” out the car window before continuing, “I think I read that last year, did you like it?”

Jon, who isn’t much of a fan of old fiction novels and has no trivia for this specific topic, checks his phone to see if Gerry’s said anything back yet.

Jon

Hey, is everything going OK with your mom?

Jon

I’m heading out for a week with Georgie, I’ll see you when I get back probably?

Jon

Can you call me when I get off the road?

He hasn’t even marked them as read yet. Jon saw him leave with his phone, and it’s been over two days. I mean, sure, he’s disappeared before, but this feels different. After Not!Them had been contained, Gerry had kept his random trips to a minimum- always calling if he was gone for more than a day. Jon had always paced around and tried to squash his anxiety. He now realises that a few overnight trips were not that bad.

Jon

You’re probably very busy if you’ve been gone for this long, but can you at least let me know you’ve been seeing these?

He shuts off his phone and re-enters reality with Georgie and Melanie discussing some podcast called Welcome to Nightvale. Georgie tried to make Jon listen to it before, but he never could get into it.

He took some photos of statements onto his phone, since he didn’t feel safe bringing them on this trip. Unfortunately, the photo is so blurry he can’t make out a single word. He sighs. It’s similar to the first few days he went without smoking- shaky and unstable and restless. Shit, he should have checked the photos before he left.

By the time their little road trip is over, Jon’s finished his book and Melanie and Georgie realised they shared almost every fandom. After two hours of their chatter, he’s relieved to see the brick townhouses for maybe the first time in his life. They loom over the winding streets, the windows dark and shadows long. Jon can remember with perfect clarity what it feels like to trip and hit his head on the sharp stairs, to be shoved face-first into that beautiful stone road. He’s still got a scar on his kneecap from when he and Georgie’s race got a little too competitive and he broke his knee. This place was hard and sharp, nothing like he wanted to picture his childhood.
Jon hobbles up the stairs, careful to avoid the loose brick that he has mapped into his mind, and knocks gently while Melanie and Georgie work on loading up the bags.

A short woman with a grey buzz cut answers, her face lighting up when she lies eyes on him. Before he can say anything, she’s wrapped him into a hug and started spitting questions at him rapid-fire- how’s school? and was the drive OK? and you still like ham, right?

When she finally releases him she pinches his cheek and coos, “Oh, you’ve gotten so tall!”

Jon doesn’t add that he’s barely 5’3 and gives his own polite smile back. “The drive was alright, Ms. Barker. Thank you so much for having me.”

Down by the car, Georgie hollers, “Afternoon, Gran!”

“Thanks for hosting me for the holiday, Ms. Barker,” Melanie adds.

Ms. Barker smiles down at Georgie blindly, whispering almost conspiratorially to Jon, “Who’s that?”

Jon, glad someone else is less than happy about Melanie's attendance, whispers back, “Melanie King. I think she’s moved in with Georgie as roommates since... um, since both of their roommates dropped out. Georgie invited her last minute.”

Ms. Barker makes a face and Jon stifles a laugh, following her inside and leaving his girlfriend to haul the luggage. He joins her in the kitchen, instinctively reaching for whatever’s currently left out on the platter. This week it's a platter of shortbread cookies and he notices a pot of homemade jam resting in a pot on the stove.

“Need a hand?”

Ms. Barker waves him aside. “This is for Christmas Eve, Sims, not to snack on when you think I’m not looking.”

He grins at her, and she shoots him off into the hall, and for a moment he feels that sort of contentedness that one might call a feeling of home. Strange, to be feeling that just a few blocks down from the house he was raised. He wonders if he should feel guilt or shame. He doesn’t.

When he was younger, he used to wonder if his emotions were broken. If there was some... some fundamental part of them that just didn’t work the way they were supposed to. Curiosity where there should be fear, resentment where there should be love... blindness where there should be common sense. He used to think it was his grandmother. Spending so much time with someone who never taught him how to think or feel had to have some effect. But even all the ridicule and bullying in the world couldn’t teach him how to do that, so it had to be him. And watching a functional family like Georgie’s... why didn’t he have that? What was so fundamental about him that he couldn’t?

He sits down on the guest bed and puts his head in his hands, forcing himself to take a deep breath. It’s Christmas. For Georgie’s sake, he can’t do this. Not now.

He sighs, pulling out his phone. Gerry still hasn’t replied yet. Goddamnit.

—

...And this is What The Ghost, coming to you from the original recording studio, along with special guests Jonathan Sims and Melanie King! Bet you’ve all been pretty tired of my college dorm setting, so today we’re covering-

Melanie pauses the recording. “Sounds all good?”

Georgie gives her the thumbs up, smiling ear to ear. “God, I missed this recording equipment.” She flips some switches on the soundboard back and forth before turning it off, the red lights fading off. “So the episode’s ready to go up?”

Melanie nods. “Happy fucking Christmas, lets talk about a gruesome topic, right? Thematically appropriate.”

Georgie clinks her beer with Melanie’s. “Happy fucking Christmas, indeed. You ready to go to bed?”

The blue of Melanie’s hair seems like it’s glowing in the dim lighting of the recording room. Georgie wonders what it would feel like to take a strand and tuck it behind her ear. Was that appropriate? She never knew how she was supposed to feel around girls, where the boundaries between friendship and romanticism lay. It was all so much easier with Jon. Jon, who she was in love with. Melanie, who she was not. She needed to keep that in mind. Georgie takes another drink.

“Nah, I’m not tired yet. Plus, it’s break. We can sleep in, right?”

Georgie snorts. “Gran’ll be on my ass if I sleep in. You probably can, though.”

Melanie takes a drink from her own can. She’s sitting on her chair backwards, manspreading, and watching Georgie carefully. She cocks her head to the side and Georgie finds herself a bit uncomfortable where she sits. “You’re bi, right?”

“Um... yeah, why?”

“What was it like? I mean, growing up over here. I mean, I was a lesbian in urban London, and it was shit. The rural stuff... it’s got to be different.” Is this what flirting with women is like? No, she shouldn’t be thinking like this. It’s... it’s a friendly conversation.

She takes a deep breath, thinking back over her Secondary School years. “I- I mean, I always had Jon, so- so we were pretty straight passing. I mean, once he...”

Right. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Nobody knows that he’s bi, nobody knows that he’s trans. She’s got to be the only one that’s weird.

“I mean. He took some shit, not just me. I... I still think he’s autistic, but I don’t know how to breach the conversation. He just... hates himself so much. I just... it was hard to be out and proud when even he was full of so much self-loathing. And I always- I always had to be the one to tell him who was and wasn’t his friend or who to avoid or basic things like hey, let's avoid the hospital this week and actually drink some water. I- I mean, you’ve seen all the new injuries he’s gotten this year- I only know where half of them are from. He won’t talk to me, and I don’t know if it’s a conscious choice or if he genuinely forgets that other people aren’t clued into his internal experience.”

“Wait, Jon’s not, like, diagnosed or anything?”

Georgie shakes her head, grimacing. She feels so weird talking about this with someone who isn’t Nikola. Nikola didn’t take anything seriously, but now... she had to watch what she said. This was Jon’s privacy, but... she was entitled to discuss these kinds of things with her friends, right?

“Huh,” Melanie said, “I always thought it was sorta obvious. I’m sorry you have to put up with that.”

“There’s nothing to put up with,” she frowns, swirling her beer around. “Every person has their own challenges, and these are Jon’s. He’s- you can’t treat him like he’s a chore.”

“But you do that, don’t you?”

She stiffens. “You- you don’t get to look at our relationship and reduce it to just me being charitable.”

“That’s not what I was- look, I’m sorry. I just meant... I’m sorry you found it hard to love yourself. You... you deserve better.” Melanie grimaces, tapping her hands on her thigh anxiously. “That’s all I meant. You... you deserve someone who makes you love yourself and is actually transparent with their love for you. And I’m sorry you don’t have that.”

Georgie’s words are stuck in her throat. Despite her complaining, despite her issues, she can’t help that Jon’s just not like that. He doesn’t just say sweet nothings or know when she needs comfort or help or even just company, he’s just not wired that way, and she loves that part of him as much as she resents it. It’s so complex and she doesn’t know how to get all that emotion out in a way that Melanie could make sense of it. She loves Jon, it’s not something that can be reduced into just a good or a bad binary.

“I... I think I’m going to go to bed.” She contemplates smashing her bottle against the wall, yelling to get Melanie to see her point. “See you tomorrow?”

Melanie nods, and the two awkwardly exit the townhouse basement. Neither of them talks as they walk up to the second floor, the floorboards creaking under their careful steps. Georgie is careful to avoid the loudest ones that she’s mapped into her mind after years in this place. Melanie takes the guest bedroom and Jon and Georgie share her childhood room.

The thin curtains let in just enough light from a streetlamp that Georgie is able to stumble into bed without tripping.
Hesitantly, she wraps her arms around Jon. He turns over to face her, eyes wide.

“You’re awake,” she whispers. “Jon it’s, like, 3 am.”

He shifts closer to her, curled up in a ball. Instinctively, she wraps her body around his. He’s cold at the touch and she presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

God, she misses holding him like this. When he’s tired, he doesn’t seem to get so scared of being close to her. He feels so small, so fragile like this. She wants to hold him and never let go, to never leave this warm space that only feels safe when it’s just them. She wishes the rest of the world would vanish. They could be fine if it was no one but them. They could be safe like this.

“Is everything OK?”

He pressed his face into the crook between her neck and shoulder, sighing and nuzzling closer. “I miss you,” he whispers. She remembers what he said about graphic nightmares of... of eyes and... and... she can’t recall.

“I miss you too,” she whispers back. For the first time in weeks, she feels like the two of them are on the same page.

—

The next morning, Jon carefully detaches himself from Georgie. His body is sticky from the heat that Ms. Barker always keeps so high. At least it’s a good reminder for him to drink some water.

He pulls on his binder before going downstairs, checking in the mirror to make sure it's hidden under his white shirt. He grimaces in the mirror- his hand is a sunken brown, the white slit around his throat pink with irritation. The worm holes on his face have faded enough to pass as large acne scars. He trimmed the faint facial hair that’s started growing in along his jaw the other day, but he nicked his cheek and it’s crusted over red now. His clothes are baggy, as any men’s clothes that do fit him pinch awkwardly around his hips. His eyes are sunken from lack of sleep and he looks... well, he looks like shit.

He douses his face in water before heading downstairs and runs a comb through his hair. Ms. Barker may have known him since he was a child, but he still doesn’t want her to think he’s just some college dropout-looking boy dating her granddaughter.

He smells the boiling grease before he’s all the way down the hall and into the kitchen and it brings a faint smile to his face. He remembers countless sleepovers in the living room where he woke up to this smell.

Ms Baker greets him with a smile and hands him a spatula and a bowl of pancake batter. “My Georgie still asleep?”

“Hm?” He pours a bit into the pan and it starts bubbling almost immediately. “Yeah, she and Melanie were up late in the, uh, sound room.”

Ms Baker scoffs and Jon suppresses his own smile at that. She hands him some blueberries for the pancakes before adding, “Oh, and happy Christmas Eve. It’s nice to have you back.”

Something warm blooms in his chest. “It’s nice to be back, ma’am.”

“Psh, we’re past ma’ams, Jon!” She nudges him with her shoulder. “You’re dating my granddaughter! I was one of your only three friends in Secondary School!”

“I had more than three friends in Secondary School,” he says indignantly, but he doesn’t really mean it.

“Melanie doesn’t look like any of the friends y’all had in Secondary School,” she snorts, flipping the bacon over and opening a cabinet. She pulls out the nice china, the one with yellow flowers around the rim, and starts stacking little bowls of syrup and fruit on each plate.

“She’s a, um, film major. They actually watch a lot of the same shows. Talked about them for hours on the way up. She’s some rich kid from London, apparently.”

Ms. Barker scoffs. “My Georgie has an... interesting taste in friends.”

“Are you talking about Nikola?”

“...Maybe,” Ms. Barker admits. “Remember when she blew up something in my basement? Said it was for chemistry class?” She chuckles. “You kids kept some bad company those years. Can’t say I can complain, though- she beat up enough kids for messing with you to earn her place.”

Jon ducks his head to avoid her gaze, flipping over the pancakes and sighs. Nikola was complicated- she was unhinged and didn’t give a shit about anything if some authority said it was important. She also got them into a lot of trouble for whatever she thought was important- smoking weed in the bathrooms or trying to systematically break every rule. But she also used all her crazy, unhinged behaviour to keep Georgie and Jon from being entirely isolated from everyone else. That has to count for something.

Ms. Barker sets the table, groaning as she sits down and mumbles, “Damn knees.”

“Cuppa,” Jon asks as he starts a pot of his own. 

“Oh, I’ve had mine already, thanks for asking.”

Jon has flashes of his gran and Ms. Barker on the weekends, the kettle boiling and the two of them exchanging hushed complaints as he and Georgie busied themselves in their bedrooms or out at the park- the solidarity between the two women had deteriorated as Georgie and Jon got older. There was no need to work together to get school supplies or trade off who was cooking dinner or compare notes on what worked to keep the two out of trouble. They even stopped meeting up every Wednesday for what they called ‘support’ but Jon and Georgie called it ‘complaining club’. He wonders if they’d gotten back in contact once they’d both been left in an empty house.

As if summoned by the words empty house, the Admiral starts meowing obnoxiously from the living room. Ms. Barker rolls her eyes and something inside Jon’s heart breaks at the noise. He grabs a can of food off the counter and makes his way into the living room, the carpet crunching under his feet.

The Persian watches Jon with unamused eyes, meowing once more as if demanding food. Jon peels open the can and the Admiral jumps up on him, scratching at his pants. He swears on his life he can see the cat glaring.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.” He dumps the smelly fish into a bowl with the Admiral’s name etched into it. It’s fancier than the cat deserves, sure, but it does make him look a lot more distinguished than he actually is.

He checks his phone for any messages or missed calls. There’s a voicemail from an unknown number, but it’s hardly more than one second and is only a gust of air. Maybe someone breathing? If it is, then it’s shallow and laboured and sounds quite painful. It was probably an accidental voicemail.

He’s given up on sending Gerry even more messages, given that it’s been more than five days since he was gone. Still no reply.

The worry has turned numb, a presence he’s gotten so used to that it doesn't affect him anymore. Does that make him a bad person? He should probably feel worse.

A groupchat called “Supernatural Trauma” gets a new message, and he rolls his eyes at the ridiculous title and opens it.

Basira

When everyone’s back from break, we should all meet up for a mini Christmas party! Drinks on me.

—

“Nie, mama, przepraszam, nie chciałem tego- widzimy się w przyszłym tygodniu, dobrze?”

Annabelle listens as Martin’s already-low self confidence crumbles the instant he hears his mother’s voice, patiently unpacking decorations onto the table. She’s gotten quite good at pretending to be busy while people are on the phone. Her mother, at least, never noticed when she was eavesdropping.

Martin sighs, cringing at his own voice as he hesitantly says, “Wesołych Świąt.” His mother hangs up without even replying

“Your mother is... a lot.”

Martin huffs. “She- she’s awful around holidays. No better than my babcia, my grandma. When I was younger- heh- we got so much fish that it started to rot, but she- well, she grew up in rural Poland, near the Warmia-Mazury Voivodeship, which is one of the poorest parts. So she insisted we keep every bit of fish until it was gone, and, erm- suffice to say, it rotted for weeks before we threw it out. Everything in that fridge, even the cakes, smelled like rotten ryba wigilijnga for weeks.”

“That... is a lot of Polish words that I definitely do not know. Please tell me we’re not goin’ to have that fish for Christmas this year?”

“Oh, God no. There’s an inherent trauma around having a Slavic family,” he jokes, and she laughs quietly.

“My family was... definitely very different from that.” Technically true- her family was the farthest thing from Polish out there. Emotionally, however... “Everyone was distant. Not really in a cold, intentional way, but we were just strangers that happened to be livin’ under the same roof. Nobody wanted anythin to do with anybody.”

Martin grimaces. “Yeah, I- I get what that can be like.”

She puts her hand on his, smiling. “Well, we can make our own family. One that’s maybe... not so fucked up.”

A part of her doesn’t like this. He’s supposed to be someone who can help her collect information, someone to turn to the Web while she’s bored with Jon. He has a role to play in all this, separate from her. But the other part of her misses having people in her house. It’s a strange feeling, a confliction she hasn’t felt in so long. She doesn’t consider herself lonely, but...

He nudges her shoulder with his. “Dork.”

She scoffs. “I’m not the one who reads poetry. For fun.” “Hey! It’s- it’s a healthy coping mechanism!”

“I’m sure it is.” He grins at her, and she passes him a box of Christmas ornaments. The glass birds had always been her favourite- they were so beautiful, how they sparkled in the light, but they shattered so easily. When she was eight, she accidentally knocked one off the tree and stepped into the shattered mess. There are still pale scars littered across the bottom of her feet, a reminder of how the most beautiful things are never to be messed with.

Now, all they represent is a Christmas shared with Martin. It’s funny, how the most dramatic metaphors crumble the instant you’re with someone else.
—
Christmas day passes in a blur. Some of Georgie’s relatives come over and some of Ms. Barker’s friends come as well, and they crowd the house until there’s hardly any space to move without brushing against someone.

Overwhelmed, Jon pushed his way into Georgie’s recording studio, which is a fancy way to say a section of the basement with makeshift walls made of duvet covers.

Jon presses his palms to his ears, successfully drowning out the sound of the heating system. He has earplugs in his room, but getting there involves walking through a crowd of people. He hates that there's always something else, no matter what kind of sensory hell he escapes. He hates that he’s always going to have to live like this. It makes him feel... wrong. Broken.

His hands itch for a drink. He knows Georgie emptied them out of every room except the fridge, but he checks the cooler in her basement and instead cracks open a soda. It doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should.

He feels shakier than he normally does, like his bones are rattling with anxiety. Withdrawal is the word that Gerry warned him with. It’s barely been two weeks and he felt like his body was executing some malicious plan to kill him slowly.

Goddamnit, why can’t he just stop feeling like this? He knows it’ll get better eventually, the light at the end of the fucking tunnel and all that, but it’s the waiting for things to get better that’s going to be the death of him. Maybe none of this is worth it. Maybe-
He snaps out of his self-deprecating thought pattern at the sound of footsteps creaking down the stairs. He recognizes the walking pattern as Georgie’s and relaxes visibly. Subconsciously, he scratches at the worm scars on his face as if they might rub off like makeup

“Hey, Jony. What’s going on?”

He tries to smile at her. “The party was... kind of overwhelming,” he admits grudgingly. She looks tense, and he worries that whatever he’s doing isn’t good enough for her. “Remember when we used to hide down here when Ms. Barker had... book club, was it?”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Remember that one time we exploded Pepsi all over the place and the floor was sticky for weeks?”

He laughs softly. She smiles at him, cocking her head to the side. “God, I can hardly believe we were 16 when we did that. Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”

Not really. He feels like he’s always been like this like he’s been in a perpetual state of being that never evolves or changes. That Jonathan Sims might as well have been another person.

“It really does,” he tells her.

She cups his face in her hands, her thumb dragging across his cheek. She’s warm and makes him relax ever so slightly. Even when he has to tailor what he says or how he acts, he never feels more seen than he does around Georgie.

He leans in to kiss her, and he can taste the booze on her lips and breath right away. It makes him dizzy and hungry all at once, and he grips the counter for support as his vision swims. Georgie hooks her fingers into his belt loops, and he feels his stomach begin to squirm. All the warmth and comfort feels like it’s been drained out of him, and he wishes once more for a very strong drink.

Gently, she pushes him up against the table and deepens their kiss, her tongue flicking inside his mouth. He steels himself, gripping the counter harder and willing himself not to pull away. He’s supposed to enjoy this, so why the fuck is he acting so anxious? Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had anything to drink yet. Why hasn’t he had anything to drink?

Georgie runs her hands over his chest and he can’t help but visibly wince, caving in his shoulders a little more than usual. It’s not until her hands start tugging at his jeans that he loses all the self-regulation he put so much effort into maintaining and shoves her backwards, his vision blanking for a second. His legs give out and he barely manages to keep from falling to the ground by gripping the counter for dear life, gasping.

“What the hell, Jon?” Her sharp, shouted words leave him reeling. He may be small and scrawny, but apparently, when panicked he can shove hard enough to knock Georgie to the ground.“Are you ok? What’s wrong?” When he can’t find it in him to reply, she yells, “Jesus fucking Christ, dude!”

He pulls himself up to his feet, unable to look at her. His insides are burning up with shame and regret, but there’s nothing he can do to reverse what he’s said. God, he can’t even bring himself to look at her.

“Bloody hell, Jon, you could at least dignify that with- with an explanation, or something!” She grips her beer bottle and, the image of the teapot hurling through his mind, Jon shrinks into himself and gasps out an unintelligible apology.

Instead of throwing it at him, she slams it on a countertop and it cracks, the glass sound piercing his ears. He cringes, raising his hands to protect his ears from the noise instinctively. Keeping his ears covered, he shoves his way past her and bolts up the stairs to the side door.

The cool air hits him like a canon, his indoor shoes immediately soaking through with London’s trademark brown slush. The snow whirls around like a perfect snow globe in the air, but the instant it hits the ground it’s soaked through with soot and grime. The good things never last before souring, he thinks to himself.

Internally, he’s still reeling. He can feel Georgie’s hands on him, feel the tightness of the space and the screaming adrenaline that’s still coursing through his veins. His feet are glued to the floor as his hyperventilating begins to slow, but the tightness in his chest resumes when he hears Georgie storming up the stairs and shoving the door open.

He backs himself up against the neighbouring wall, heart racing. Georgie glares at him. “You- you don’t just get to run off without talking about this! You-”

She huffs out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been weird for the last month. What’s going on? Spit it out.”

He shakes his head, his hands anxiously tugging at his hair. He needs something to fiddle with, and the pent-up emotion is so overwhelming that he considers hitting himself on the head until it stops. He would if that didn’t mean he’d have to stop pulling at his hair. A headache is already beginning to pulse in the back of his head.

“Do you... do you think you might be asexual?”

“No,” is his knee-jerk reaction, horrified that Georgie might think that of him. He’s not! He’s just- he’s just dysphoric, that’s it, that’s why- that’s why he’s so overwhelmed. He just needs some space and an oversized hoodie and he’ll be fine.

“I- I mean, you’ve never had sex with me unless you’re drunk and you’ve always been, like- like awkward, and I didn’t want to assume, but- like- Jon, there’s nothing wrong with-” she’s calmed down from her fit of temper, but Jon sure as hell hasn’t.

“Yes, there is! And n- no, I- I- Just go back to your fucking dinner party,” he shouts, and she shouts back, “Fine, I will, you arsehole! All I wanted was to fucking talk!”

She storms away and his hands flex, flapping up and down a few times as tears form in the corners of his eyes.

Lord, why is he like this? Why- why does he feel like his happiness and normalcy are required rather than natural? Why couldn’t he just have been born literally. Anyone. Else? God, he hates being like this. Not your average discomfort or dislike, but he feels that in his bones he would do anything to just stop being himself. There is nothing about this body, this brain, this life that he can do anything other and detest, because why shouldn’t he? He’s an asshole boyfriend and he’s not even good at the boy part.

He paces out from in between the two townhouses and down the street, the tears drying up the instant he’s stepped off Ms. Barker’s property. He fishes around for his pockets as he forces himself inside their local drugstore. The bell hurts his ears and he shudders, already chilled from the cold.

“I’ll have a pack of the, erm, Marlboro Red. Yeah, that one. Thanks, mate,” he attempts in a normal voice. He just ends up sounding like every kid who ever bullied him as a child and hates himself for it.

He adds a small bottle of vodka and almost a lighter to his charge, but then he remembers the gold, spiderweb one he keeps in his pockets at all times. He feels anxious without it, like he’s missing a limb. It’s just become a part of his routine now- he’s surprised he hasn’t been more sceptical of it, given that he’s almost certain the former school janitors that gave it to him were Breken and Hope.

“Enjoy your fags, man,” the man behind the counter says, and Jon doesn’t notice how malicious it sounds until he notices the weird meat oozing through a drain on the floor.

Quickly, he paces out of the drugstore and looks behind him to see that the man stays behind his counter, talking to the odd meat that upon closer inspection is tucked everywhere- behind the chips and in the freezers and under bottles of wine and cushioning lottery cards.

The man’s talking to the meat, oddly enough, but he doesn’t appear to be watching Jon, so he relaxes and slips a cigarette into his mouth and lights it. The flame gets a little too close to his face and there is no way to describe the burning that ripples across his nerves.

He waits for his cig to light before putting it away, taking a deep drag. He bursts into a coughing fit almost immediately, the smoke caught in his lungs and trapping them shut. He barely wheezes in one more breath just to lose it to another cough, but there’s no mistaking the nicotine that’s rushing through his veins. This exact box was manufactured in China, the little voice in his mind whispers, and was shipped to the US over the course of several weeks. The tar in cigarettes is what’ll give you lung cancer, not the tobacco.

He takes a long swig of vodka, the drink burning in his throat and churning his stomach.

He shudders before taking another drag, and before he knows it the embers burn the tips of his lips and he drops it in shock. Damn, he’d been completely zoned out.

As he goes to grab another one, his eyes catch on a thin, dark figure across the street. The first thing he notices is that it’s Gerry, looking malnourished and like a drug addict, drowning in an oversized Rancid t-shirt and sagging black jeans. His cheeks are gaunt and his eyes are red, his hand shakes as he holds it out in front of him.

The second thing he notices is Gerry’s shaking hands with Nikola, whose blank smile looks even more... stretched-than usual. The third thing he notices is Tim, shouting something about what he was promised. His hands grip a gun, shaking slightly with determination. Gerry just gives him a passive glare before casually clicking a detonator, and-

Glass shatters from behind him and pierces into his back, and Jon makes a strangled shout as his body slams into the ground. His whole body is on fire to the point where he’s not sure what each injury originates from.

The only thing he can hear above the roaring of the bomb is Gerry, panicked, screaming his name and oh, shit, I didn’t notice, feckin’ feck, Tim call 999!
Then a second wave of the bomb goes off, and somehow even more glass shatters and the wooden structure of the building splinters and collapses, and something must hit him on the head because Jon can’t see-

Chapter Text

“I borrowed your roommate's tape recorder, I hope you don’t mind. I assume you’ll want all of this recorded anyway.” Oliver shifts uncomfortably in the hospital chair. “Is it alright if I call you Jon? Technically, you have no idea who I am. Well, you did read my  Statement. Heh. Anyway. Jon.”

He skims around the hospital room- someone left a closed bottle that reeks of alcohol on the nightstand and a cold cup of tea sits next to it. The clock ticks in the background, reminding him, of course, of death and mortality and the little time they all have left. He scowls at the clock.

“Well. I suppose you do know me, in the way you know everybody. Through their Statements. Antonio Blake.” He laughs at the name. “I was so afraid of the old lady coming after me, but I felt like I had to warn her, y’know? As if that would do anything. Then I ended up being taught by her murderer... well. That’s beside the point. The point is that “Archivist” is too stuffy, and it’s not even your real job! You’re just the Ceaseless Watcher’s funky little man. No, I’m here to... to offer you a choice.”

He glances at the clock once more. He’s got 27 minutes until visiting hours start.

“Well, I don’t really have the time to explain. But... I gave the old woman a Statement, so perhaps I owe you one as well. Besides, our spider friends... would not like it if I left this unfinished. I won’t give your fancy opener, however, though I suppose you can go back and edit it in. Anyhow, enough beating around the bush.”

He clears his throat, leaning in to whisper at the tape recorder, “I’m an Avatar of the End. Surprise!” He can’t help but giggle. “Anyway. People are more of a hassle than they’re worse. In the end, I chose to steer that ship to my own End. Dramatic, isn’t it? And to think I was just an accountant before.”

He pauses. “Have you heard of Point Nemo, Jon? It’s a small patch of sea, the furthest point from any land mass. But something even less talked about is that due to the currents, not a single thing lives down there. It’s completely. Deserted.

“See, at the time, my... my dreams had been getting worse. I hadn’t been able to maintain a single relationship since I started seeing them. I suppose you know what that’s like, but... the dreams had been getting worse, too. Well, perhaps you understand that, too.

“Anyhow, I got the best sleep of my life on that boat. Peaceful, as if I was... well, it was the sleep of the dead! But, see, I knew it was temporary. Life goes on and nothing stays the same. Memento Mori, I suppose. This too shall pass. 

And then... one dream. It hit me like a brick. I saw me, sailing the ship. I saw that hellish satellite, crashing down on the boat and breaking it in two. And I saw the impact killing us all. There. That was it. That was our fate; where we would always be. Because I was going to take us there

“See, I knew it was inevitable. Whether or not it was me steering that ship, I would die where no living thing had ever stayed. The farthest point from all civilization, wrapped in my roots.

“And, well, I chose to help it along. And that choice... well. You can embrace this, Jon, or you can run from it. But either way, it was your choices that led you here.”

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Right. That’s, uh, it, I suppose. Maybe you heard me. Maybe you’ll dream. Then again, maybe I just wasted my breath– but I don’t think so.”

He reaches for the whiskey that someone left in his room. “Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks.”

Excited for the script he’s practised, he monologues, “The thing is, Jon, right now you have a choice. You’ve put it off a long time, but it’s trapping you here. You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive. You’re balanced on an edge where the End can’t touch you, but you can’t escape him.I made a choice. We all made choices. Now you have to-”

He whirls around as the door opens. A short Black woman glares at him through her afro. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m, um.” He chokes on the whiskey he was drinking. “Sorry, one moment,” he gags out, coughing once before clearing his throat. “I’m, erm, a friend of Jon from class.”

A goth who just entered the room laughs. “Please, Jon doesn’t have any friends.”

“Outside of us,” the girl clarifies. “Oliver, what the hell are you doing here? The nurse said the room should be empty. Besides, um. Jon. Of course.”

The room falls silent, and Oliver tries awkwardly, “Can I... have another minute with him?” Gerry laughs and Georgie snaps, “Absolutely fucking not. Get out.”

“Ok, I’ll, erm, leave then?” He leaves the tape recorder on the table, shuffling out the door and takes a long swig from the alcohol he found in the hospital room.

“Yeah, you’d better fucking leave,” Georgie threatens, and he knows she’s dead serious.

He chuckles at his own pun, brushing some stray grey hairs out of his eyes and heading for the escalator. The roots retract from Jon’s room and follow him, and this time he doesn’t stop from running a hand affectionately over it. Behind him, he hears a weak, raspy cough that doesn’t belong to either people who had just threatened him, and he grins.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end as he feels the eyes open behind him, and his grin spreads across his face.

Good. He must have gotten through to Jon, then. Maybe they’ll be able to share nightmares now.

—

For a moment, Jon is relieved to get the relentless squirming bath of worms off his skin. He almost sobs with relief, until the feeling of ice spreads to his bones. A root slithers over his mouth, and the rough texture feels a bit like rotting flesh.
He gags, vomit rising through his mouth but he can’t expel it, so he ends up choking and swallowing it, knowing screaming will just make it worse.

Antonio’s- Oliver's words slither through his mind like a melody, like a child who gets their hands on a violin for the first time.

The roots tighten around him until his ribs and head crack under the pressure, and the ocean that’s contained inside his head leaks out and begins to flood the bed he’s strapped down into. He screams, screams for a nurse, but the roots quickly cover his mouth once more and he’s rendered helpless as Jonathan Sims begins to drown and all that is left is

The Archivist, In His Full Glory, raises from the Mother Of Puppets and the Crawling Rot and the Twisting Deceit and I Do Not Know You and the Blackened Earth and the Falling Titan and Blood and the Endless Violence the Coming End That Waits and Viscera and Choke and the Forever Blind and the Forsaken and he then Rises, Fully Formed and Omnipotent. He’s-

He’s choking and coughing, each breath a sputtering gasp. His head pulses so hard that his vision goes white, but he can feel someone’s hands grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to lie still.

“Jesus fecking Christ, Georgie, call de goddamn nurse!” Gerry shouts, the beeping of a monitor growing more and more rapid.

God, he feels like someone plucked out his eyes. “Gerry,” he gasps out, “Gerry, I can’t see-”

“Shit, shit- There were stitches in yer eyes fer a bit, Jon, it’s- it’s from the glass, but they healed and there’s a bandage over dem now- don’t try teh open them!”

Slowly, with Gerry coaching him through every breath, Jon manages to calm down. Georgie drags a nurse into the room, and he feels her pacing about anxiously.

“Bloody hell, Jon, how long have you been awake?”

He can’t answer her question, however, because he feels like there’s glass dissecting his brain apart. Images and information flood his head, drowning him and sending spikes of pain through his entire body. He stifles a noise, struggling to breathe in and out. The breathing tube down his throat aches, and he vaguely hears a voice telling him to hold still.
The thing is removed from his throat and he’s finally able to take a gasp on his own, a startling breath that feels like itching a cut.

“OK, Jon, can you hear me now? Jon?”

He wheezes out a yes, barely able to get a handle of his mind. Melanie- oh, god Melanie- and Tim! Nikola? It was all coming at him too fast to process, the information soaking through his mind like a few paper towels trying to mop up a lake. God, what had happened while he was gone?

It seemed like the Ceaseless Watcher was intent on catching him up, however, because it was a good while before he was able to take a deep breath and respond coherently to his nurse's questions.

Apparently, he had just woken up from a coma.

They did some basic tests on how much he could feel- everything felt fine, just a bit numb from the newly-released paracetamol- and he was able to bend his legs a little bit. They readjusted his IV bags and then they began to unwrap his eyes.

Apparently, he’d gotten a ridiculous amount of glass in them in an ‘accidental’ explosion. His eyes were still closed, and he’s fighting against his every instinct to tear them open.

“Your eyes are currently stitched shut,” the nurse says calmly, “because when you were in your coma, you kept trying to open them when they hadn’t yet healed. Remember, your blood wasn’t flowing, so they couldn’t heal. Now that- now that you’re somehow awake, which, you know, God bless that, it’ll take two to three weeks to heal.”

His heart thunders in his chest. “Will- c-c-can I, I-I mean- am I blind?”

“No, you should regain your full vision. But for now, you can’t open your eyes. Again, hence the stitches. It’s called a-”

The information flies to his head just in time. “Acute hyphema, right? Damage to the cornea, usually slight.”

“Yes, well, you had glass embedded in your eyes. So this is a fairly manageable hyphema, it seems like your eyes rolled up to defend the iris. We removed all the glass, but your eyes have yet to clot due to the coma. We’ve been tending to them, but the bleeding was bad. I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up about the vision, it may be impaired. It’s important you know this.” He assumes that she’s looking at him with apprehension.

“Y-yeah,” he grits out. “Of course.” His stomach churns, and he’s not sure if it’s from the paracetamol or the general coma.

Without warning, he dry-heaves over the side of the bed. His body’s trying to expel something from his empty stomach, and he’s left gagging and regurgitating up acidic reflux that tastes like bile in his mouth.

When he’s done, he asks into the dark room, “Gerry? Wha-what happened while I was... I-I was gone?”

“Your friends left while I removed your breathing tube,” she says gently. “Now that you’re awake, we should take off the gauze and flush your eyes. We’ve been doing that every few days since you got here, but again, we don’t know how much damage the blood has caused. It should begin to clot, and that may require surgery.”

The idea of going under anaesthesia, leaving his asleep and unfeeling body up to the hands of doctors, makes Jon want to rip his hair out. He doesn’t have the energy to move his arms, however, so he settles for trying to vomit once more.

When he’s done gagging, he whispers so as not to agitate his throat, “I... I don’t need help. No- no nurses.”

Maybe she nods, maybe she’s waiting to see if he’s still going to vomit. “Are you sure?”

Something in her words makes his mind tug towards hers. A Statement. His mouth goes dry at the idea, the same restlessness coursing through his veins that does when the nicotine rush turns into a crash.

“What happened on the twenty-fifth of December,” he asks her, desperate for her answer, her words, her story, her information-

“I- I- It was not my fault, I was just trying to get home early, and some- well, it was busy, as it always was around the holidays- something about Christmas makes people really want to get drunk and crash their car, and so I had to put in some overtime. And- and the cops sent over this one victim, and god the burns were so bad. It- it smelled kind of like burning tar, yet it was a distinctly meaty burn, and-”

She gags, emptying her own stomach into the trash bin, still trying to talk even with the chunks and orange puke hurling out of her mouth.

Jon’s own mouth goes rancid as he rushes “No, s-stop- God-” he gags, and he almost wishes he had anything to vomit, to expel this awful feeling from his stomach.

When she recovers, shaken and terrified, she whispers, “Do you want me to get your friends?”

Perhaps it's the argument with Georgie that’s been echoing in his mind, perhaps it’s that more than one person in a room simply overwhelms him too easily, perhaps it's the horror almost dragging a Statement out of her, but he asks, “Just- just Gerry, the, erm. The goth one? Emo one?” He’s still not sure what Gerry is.

The door closes behind the nurse, and he’s left in complete darkness. The droning of his monitor almost drowns out the drowning in his mind. He keeps thinking once he opens his eyes the darkness will go away, but he tries once and he feels the stitches tugging at his inner eyelids. His whole face is still numb, but it scares him into sitting still.

After what could have been five minutes or five hours, the door creaks open and heavy platforms stomp in.

Jon hears Gerry collapse into a guest chair and exhale heavily, his leg bouncing anxiously.

“So,” Gerry says, his voice horace from screaming or crying, “how was the coma?” It comes off as a joke, but not a very good one.

Somehow, the only thing Jon can find himself snapping is, “are you high right now?” He lets out a broken laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

The hospital room falls silent, and Jon contemplates putting his hand through whatever monitor is beeping so incessantly.

Jon runs over all the information that the Eye saw fit to flood him with when he first woke up. All he asks is, “What- what happened?”

“Fecking Jonah Magnus happened. Remember... remember Gertrude Robbinson?”

“Barely.”

“Yeah, well. I said she got shot? Well, Mr. Bitchtard needed someone to fill her role, and that of her assistants. So naturally he forges your signature, blackmails Basira into joining and by extension Daisy. And Sasha, being a fucking idiot, sees your signature and signs up as well. And I’m just lucky I threatened to poke out his eyes with my fingers if he tried to recruit me, and Georgie just straight up refused. She’s got some sense on her, if barely.”

“I’m sorry, J-Jonah Magnus? Like, from the Statements?”

Jon can visualise Gerry rolling his eyes. “No, like from the video game. Yes, that Jonah Magnus! He- well, Elias? The economics professor?”

“Yeah. He- well, a part of taking the class means taking a summer job at his Institute. Everyone gets a position like Library or Artefact Storage or Research, but our lucky asses got Archival Staff. And... well, you’re the Archivist. Like, officially, not just... not just the Disortion’s weird nickname for you.”

Jon sighs, awkwardly bending at the elbows to rub his own forehead. Every joint creaks and groans at the movement. “You can just call him Michael, you know.”

“Well, that thing’s not Michael, so that’s not what I’m going to call him,” Gerry snaps, bolting up out of his chair to pace around the small tiled room.

Gerry pauses for a moment. “Did you know there’s a tape running? It’s- it’s mine.”

Jon sighs once more, though this time with something more like relief. “That... that must have been Oliver. I- it doesn’t matter. Let it run.” He pauses. “What- what happened to Daisy? A-and Melanie and Tim... I- I can’t See...”

Gerry doesn’t answer this. The hospital is almost silent except for the medical equipment, the loud fucking medical equipment, and Jon’s going to scream if he doesn’t get an answer. He’s ripped out his IV before and, damnit, he’ll do it again if he has to.

“Daisy...” Jon hears the scrape of lighter flint, on and off and on and off. “Daisy was trying to bail me out of jail after all this. She... hm. She got into a fight with some fake-cop bastards, ‘Breaken and Hope’.” The name is obviously uttered in quotes. “Killed one of them and shoved it in the Coffin. Remember our hallmate, Joshua Gillespie?”

“The one who never knew what was going on and was only passing his classes because he thought they were paying him to be there?”

“Yeah, that guy. Well, he was the only one to get the coffin delivered to him and survive it, so Breaken an’ Hope have been carrying it around for nearly six months now. Anyway, Daisy’s now in the coffin, which we don’t know the location of, and she’s dead! Yaaaay!” Gerry pauses. “Oh, you can’t see. Well, I’m doing jazz hands.”

He thinks he’s going to vomit again, but he has to get the question out. “And... and Melanie? What- what-”

“Bullet stuck in her leg for months on end, gone on a murderous-slash-suicidal rampage, has tried to kill Jonah several times. I- I can’t stop her, really, but, I mean, I think spending so much time with Georgie is good for her- it’s-” he laughs. “It’s not really helping, per say, but I-I think it’s better for her to have someone rather than no one, y’know?”

Jon still doesn’t like Melanie too much, but he thinks he understands. “The- the explosion?”

“Tim,” Gerry continues, his throat closing up as he speaks, “shot and killed Nikola before putting a bullet in his own head. The cops thought it was a drug deal and the explosion was just an irrelevant accident. I got held for drug possession, but I told them that Tim had held me at gunpoint because he needed a bodyguard since Nikola was dangerous. It was not my drugs, I was clean at the time, and they had no grounds on which to hold me.”

If Jon could, his eyes would widen.

“What were you on? L-like, um, what did you have on you?”

The silence grows long and still, and Gerry clears his throat uncomfortably. “Um. There was some weed and, uh, some needles. Not- not the T ones.”

The room falls silent once more.

“I, um.” His throat is dry and raspy, and he wishes he could stop himself from talking. “Do you have a Statement on you?”

—

*Audio transcript of a voice call between the Archivist and Georgie Barker*
*12:03 PM to 12:07 PM*

Jon? Can you hear me?

Y-yeah, I think it’s working. Goddamn hospital wifi...

[The Archivist sighs] It’s good to hear your voice

Yeah…

Listen, Jon-

[Georgie also sighs, obviously upset]

[There’s a long pause]

How are you doing?

Uh, pretty- pretty good. They’ve- they’ve got me on some heavy pain meds? Th-the doctors, um, they say I should be out in a few days.

They also said the brain damage was minimal and should fix itself. No surgery required on the eyes, either, so that’s- that’s good... How are you?

Um, I’m holding up, I guess.

Gran let me keep the Admiral in my dorm. I think Melanie likes him.

The Archivist scoffs affectionately]

The Admiral doesn’t like anybody.

Well, apparently he likes Melanie.
[15 seconds of just static]

[Georgie’s voice is strained and rushed]

Jon, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore, I-

[Georgie huffs]

This is just too much.

[The Archivist is confused]

What do you mean?

I- Jon- Look, I- I love you, but this- this obviously isn’t working.

Georgie-

No, listen- you mean so much to me, Jon. 

[The Archivist just sounds tired]

Apparently not enough.

That’s not fair.

Jon-

This is just too hard.

*The Archivist hangs up at 12:07*

—

They make him stay in the ICU for a whole week before they remove the stitches across his eyes. They aren’t sure he’ll even be able to see, even though the eyeball is intact. He refuses any pain medications or even anti-anxiety medications, relying purely on his self-control to not rip his eyes open as the doctor’s scalpel carefully detached every string that was holding his eyelids closed.”

Gerry squeezes his hand as the doctor says, “try not to open your eyes until you wash them out. The stitches should finish dissolving in a day or two. Do you need help with washing them?”

God, there’s nothing he wants to do less than wash out his own eyes with soap water. He imagines it’ll burn.

“Um, I’ll- I’ll help ‘im with it. We’re roommates, so...” “Well, that’s very kind of you.”

Jon practically sags with relief and Gerry squeezes his hand, his leg bouncing relentlessly once more.

Jon sleeps all the time now. He’s never felt more fatigued, even on half an hour of sleep and a heavy dose of alcohol. He can hardly keep his eyes open. He spends all his time in the Archives, trying to find all the information on Breaken and Hope that he can. Basira, who's sitting in the waiting room to drive them since Gerry’s high out of his mind, has insisted they spend all their time working on saving Daisy.

He can’t object, really. She may be a bastard, but she’s everything to Basira. And Basira is the only level-headed one, and he can’t afford to lose her alliance.

Jesus, everything really had gone to hell.

He and Gerry still hadn’t talked about whatever had happened between him and Nikola. Why the weird Meat shop had been blown up by Gerry, why Tim had a gun, why they were meeting there in the first place. They also hadn’t talked about Gerry’s drug problem or how he was dealing with all their suddenly dead friends. It was too much to take in, especially since the instant Jon entered his dorm, Melanie had charged him with a knife.

When the doctor leaves the room, Jon hears Gerry flip the water on as Jon fights back the urge to fling his eyes open. Gerry sets something heavy on the exam table, water sloshing around inside it.

“I’m assuming you still want help washing your eyes?”

Jon forces down his nausea and nods. “Mh.”

The damp, warm cloth makes his eyes burn for a bit, and Gerry winces. “I’m sorry, dude.” He wipes gently at the stickiness crusted in the corners. “If it helps, I think the Ceaseless Watcher wouldn’t take away your abili’y to see. That seems kind of, like, counterintuitive or something.”

“Hm.” Jon tries to keep engaged with the conversation, he really does, but as Gerry anxiously babbles on about random facts about the physical manifestation of Entities in Avatars or some shit, he really can’t bring himself to listen. It’s like every single word is a personal attack against him, driving into his skull and taking away his patience.

He curves his shoulders in to hide the small bulges on his chest. They haven’t been letting him wear a binder, of course, and he wants to tear his own skin off. He wants to watch himself bleed, raw and aching, as he tears off everything that always made him feel so alienated from himself. It’s an overpowering feeling, but Gerry’s hands roughly grab his when Jon starts to scratch violently at his arms.

“Hey, hey, Jon-”

“Don’t touch me-”

“Is something going on in here?” A nurse seems to have walked into the small room, his voice friendly yet taught.

Jon shakes his head. “No, I- I overreacted, just- are- are my eyes supposed to hurt so much?”

“It is fairly standard, yes. Do you have a headache?”

“No,” he lies. “I- I’m sure it's fine.”

The nurse leaves, and Gerry sighs. “Look, dude, I think I cleared away most of the gunk from your eyes. You- you should be able to open your eyes now, I guess.”

The world seems to spin. It’s strange, really, how one doesn’t have to see anything visually to watch the world tilt back and forth and Jon steadies himself on the counter, pressure forming behind his eyes and his breathing going ragged as he struggles to stay conscious.

A somewhat comforting tendril of information wraps around his mind, hugging him like a spiky blanket. It’s comforting and painful all at once- If you can’t see, it whispered to him, then it would have shown up in your scans.

Carefully, Jon cracks his eyes open the tiniest bit. Light floods his vision and he squints on instinct, his eyes burning at their first contact with air in months. His headache pulses and he squeezes them shut on instinct.

“Jesus,” he complains, opting to just open them quickly and get it over with.

It burns and stings so badly and everything is bright white, and Jon would panic if it weren’t for the free information supplied in his head- most people who go blind later in life describe the colour as a dark absence of everything, an absence of light.

After adjusting, the first thing he notices is the faded purple and yellow bruises littering Gerry’s face. The image hits him like a slap to the face and it must have shown on his face because Gerry awkwardly resumes pacing around the room.

“So, vision all back? You really are the Ceaseless Watcher’s special li’le guy,” he jokes, wringing out his hands. “Anything else we need to do here?”

Jon gets his blood checked and a pair of sunglasses to wear over his normal ones. Apparently, his eyes will be more sensitive for the next few days, and not wearing sunglasses risks further damage to his vision. He also had to update his regular prescription.

He never thought about it before, really, but he’s lucky to have the NHS’s services, even with the wait lists. If he were in America, this would cost more than he had in his bank account.

Basira and Daisy help him walk to the car. He has to lean heavily on Gerry for support as his vision blurs. This is almost as embarrassing as using those silly for-arm crutches. Almost.

Once he’s in the car, Gerry hops into the front seat next to Basira and shoves one of his many cassettes into the player excitedly. He lights a cigarette right away, and Jon takes a moment to admire the sight of him- nimble fingers with a new set of eye tattoos on the knuckles, the ginger roots of his shitty dyed hair, the way his piercings glint in the setting light. Even with sunglasses on, Jon feels sort of mesmerised, like he can’t tear his eyes away.

Maybe he didn’t appreciate it before he almost lost his vision, but Gerry is very nice to look at. He’d be sad if he never got to watch him smoke another cigarette or laugh his own jokes ever again.

Gerry catches him staring and grins, flicking ash at Jon, who scowls in response and pulls out his phone to check the time. He shuts the screen reader off, content now to just read the numbers.

“You too,” Basira says with a completely blank face, “are children.” Gerry flicks some ash at her as well.

Her phone starts to ring and she has Gerry put it on speaker, her voice hardening as she recognizes the number.

“Yes?”

“Jon should be able to attend my economics class tomorrow, since he’s got his vision back. Correct?”

“But shouldn’t we be working in the Archives?” She keeps her hand loose on the steering wheel, but Jon notes how she jams the stick into the next gear almost violently.

“Well, I can’t keep marking you as absent. You’re required to pass this, you know.” Jon, despite never meeting this man face to face, can see his smug smirk in his voice.

Basira and Jon sigh in unison and Gerry giggles at them.

“If I fail your class, will you fire us?” A hint of impatience has crept into her voice. “Oh, you know I can’t do that. You know, Gerry, we have an opening for-”

“Fer fecks sake, Jonah, jest let me be a spooky fucker without signing me soul away! Yer twink ass better stop calling this number, too,” and with that he snaps Basira’s flip-phone shut.

Jon tenses up, expecting Basira to launch into an angry tirade of accusations.

Instead, she blinks a few times before bursting into laughter, tears building up in the corners of her eyes. “You did not just call Jonah a twink! He totally is, but why’d you have to say it like that?”

“Um, because I hate gay people, duh.”

Jon lets out a sharp laugh at that one. “Please, we’ve shared a dorm all year.”

He laughs once more at the idea of Gerry, the gayest guy he knew, possibly being homophobic. It was simply incompatible, like- like if Georgie hated trans people or something.

“Yeah, but you’re not gay, so obviously you’re the only person at this disgusting, woke college that I can be around.” He takes a long, unsteady drag from his joint. His hands shake as he rests them on the dashboard. He rubs awkwardly at his new tattoos, the crusty scabs around them from the needle’s mistakes.

Guilt curls in his stomach as he realises that aside from his transexuality, he never came out as bi.

“Oh, I’m, um. I’m bi, actually?” It sounds more like a question than an answer. Gerry just stares at him before clapping lightly. Basira laughs at him.

“No offence, Jon, but you’re one of the straightest people I know. Didn't you and Georgie get together in, like, year 10?”

“11,” he huffs. “But seriously.”

The car sits in absolute silence, and Jon shifts with discomfort. They’re- he knows they’re not homophobic, he’s safe here, but- but it’s- he- he can’t put his finger on what’s going on in both of their heads right now. Mind reading, it’s not as clear as he imagined it’d be. It’s a lot louder, more like images and colours and emotions that are screaming incoherently from a distance. He has no idea what any of it means, but he feels uncomfortable.

After about five minutes of driving in silence, Gerry slaps his hands on the dashboard. “I’m going out for a drink, Hussain, let me out here.”

Basira rolls her eyes at him, as she always does, and pulls over. “And never come back,” she shouts after him, returning the middle finger he sends her.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she murmurs as she speeds off, “I love the guy, but he’s been real obnoxious lately.”

It’s the drugs, Jon almost replies.

Basira lets out a long sigh, slumping in her seat. “I suppose we need to talk about Melanie at some point.”

He bits back another sarcastic mark, going instead with, “she threw a chair at me yesterday.”

“Did she,” Basira replies nonchalantly, fiddling with one of her rings. “Well, we all know it’s because of that bullet in her leg.”

Jon twists his mouth into a disdainful face, closing his eyes to help with the nausea. “I...”

Jesus. This... this isn’t something he wants to discuss. Just thinking about it makes him want to curl into a ball and never leave, never talk to anyone again. He settles for anxiously tugging at his hair. It’s gotten much longer since the coma, and he doesn’t have the energy to cut it. It tickles the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, but it’s enough to braid now. He should start doing that.

Melanie. Right.

“I have some general anaesthetic. And. Um. Surgical tools.”

Basira raises her eyebrows. “Well,” she says, “shit.”

Well, shit is right. There’s no way this can be good, but maybe in the long run... maybe they don’t really have much of a choice.

—

In the background, a tape recorder clicks on and begins to whirl.

A knock at the door startles Jon out of his nightmare and he bolts up, almost passing out as he trips over himself to answer the door. As he works on the several locks, he opens one of the salt packets he keeps in his pockets at all times and pours it into his mouth.

“Can I help you-” he stops in his tracks as he looks a Russian delivery man up and down. “Basira,” he calls cautiously behind him, careful not to wake Gerry, “you might want to come over here.”

She adjusts her hijab as she exits the bathroom, sighing, “Jon, if you’re being dramatic again, I swear- oh.” She glances over Breeken- or Hope, whichever it was- and then moves to position her body in front of Gerry’s half of the room. She crosses her muscular arms over one another, remaining both calm and threatening. “What do you want?”

Jon sends her a dry glance as the Eye sees fit to remind him of what happened after the explosion, when Daisy tried to get Gerry out of jail. It also reminded him how none of them wanted to break it to Basira that her crush and best friend had gone so brutally. Basira... god, Basira just assumed she had died in the explosion. The explosion that Jon had survived.

“Well, I imagine he’s here to deliver something. You’ve read the same Statements I have.”

The lone delivery man stands in silence, his eyes staying fixed cooly on Basira. His eyes seem more- more empty, somehow. Jon isn’t one to take a heavy notice of people’s eyes, much less even look at them, but there’s something about him, like something scooped a part out of him.

“That’s right,” He mutters in a strangely perfect Cockney accent. “Just... just dropping off a package.”

Basira starts to shake her head. “Did you bring him here?”

Jon scoffs. “No.”

“Is- is he here for revenge?”

The thing just watches them argue, and Jon shrugs. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Basira scoffs. “You’re the one with the Eye superpowers. You ask him.”

“Fine,” Jon snaps. The thing just keeps watching them, completely blank. Jon takes a deep breath, unable to ignore how his skin crawls as he calls on the Eye. “Are you here for revenge?”

The... delivery man gives a small chuckle. “Yeah. Just like when we... just like when I fed your copper to the pit.”

Basira visibly tenses next to him, her hands shifting to her inside pockets where Jon knows she keeps her gun. Daisy’s gun.

“Easy, Basira,” he murmurs, and she smacks him on the arm. In the background, the whirring tape grows louder. “What pit?”

The extension of the stranger smirks at him as he knocks on something wooden, just out of sight beyond the doorway. “This pit.” He eyes Jon and Basira, and neither of them stop him as he drags a giant coffin into their dorm and shuts the door behind him. “I realised I’m not,” he starts slowly, “tied to it anymore. Not... not on my own. Thought that you might want it. Pay your respects like-”
no

Basira’s eyes widen. “Daisy’s in there,” she breathes, and Breeken-slash-Hope shrugs.

“That’s its name? Then sure, ‘t’s in there, whatever’s left. Find out if you like. I don’t really care.” When Jon searches his face, he knows it to be true.

Somehow, it’s his voice that grates on Jon’s nerves, a combination of the static and the knowledge of Gerry, sleeping off his heroin haze in the background, is completely vulnerable to anything. You could shove his entire body underwater and he wouldn’t react. God, Jon won’t be able to live with himself if he leaves him unprotected, but he doesn’t know what he can do in that eventuality.

“Would you please drop that ridiculous voice,” he snaps in his best stuffy academic accent.

Breeken-slash-Hope smirks, putting on a cartoonishly thick Russian accent. “Apologies. Is preferred like szo?”

Jon rubs his forehead between two fingers. “Oh, Christ, that’s worse,” he mutters, and Breeken-slash-Hope manages to laugh at him in a Russian accent. “What is your original voice?”

He continues laughing, even harder at this question. “Nikola said you were funny,” he huffs, back to the Cockney accent. “Didn’t believe it.”

Basira slams her fist onto the table. “What the hell do you want with us?”

When the delivery man doesn’t answer, Jon repeats(and edits) Basira’s question; “Why are you here?”

The thing pauses. “Dunno.” His gaze sweeps cooly around the room, his gaze lingering on Gerry, still asleep. Basira makes no effort to hide her reach for her weapons. “‘S not right,” he says slowly, “on my own.” He shakes his head. “ Not right. No point in doing it on my own. Don’t know what happens now, not without... not without... well.”

He takes a deep breath, and Jon Knows that he has no lungs to do it with. What’s the point? Dramatic affect? Really? Maybe the Stranger is really just a big theatre kid trying to play the villain.

“Thought I might kill you. Missed my chance.” Basira and Jon exchange a glance, but both of them are too invested in his words to do anything about it. “Thought I might just deliver something. So here’s a coffin.” He pushes the coffin towards them. “In case you want to join your friend.”

“Basira,” Jon warns, but she’s not even seeing him.

“Get out,” She says quietly but not weakly.

“Basira,” Jon repeats, but all she does is shake her gun at him.

“Get. Out.” Basira clicks her safety off her gun.

“Make me,” Breeken-slash-Hope snarls at her, the voice somehow laced with... calliope music. Huh.

The hairs on the back of Jon’s neck sticks up as he becomes painfully aware of the Ceaseless Watchers insistent presence. It washes over him, tendrils snaking across the room as it drinks in the full situation. Jon takes a deep breath as he feels its power take ahold of him, closing his eyes to reset.

When he opens them again, everything is twisted in a green, kaleidoscope view.

“Stop,” he demands, and both Basira and Breeken-slash-Hope freeze.

He thrashes around, like fighting invisible rope. “What’re you doing?”

The Archivist’s not sure, but he also knows he won’t be able to stop.
Basira’s tone changes from pissed to a mix of concerned and upset. “Jon, what’s going on?”

His breathing goes heavier with the absolute crushing weight of the power, every muscle in his body straining. He can See out of his mind's eye Gerry groggily sitting up and rubbing at his red eyes, blinking at whatever’s going on.
Breeken-slash-Hope manages to gasp out, “What are you- stop it!”

The Archivist feels something proud and almost cat-like inside his mind take pleasure, watching this thing suffer. Daisy may have been a murderous bastard, but she- she was one of the good guys, Gerry said, and this asshole shoved her in that fucking coffin. He deserves every bit of suffering that the Archivist can inflict on him.

“Stop it!” He thrashes against the invisible restraints, gasping as if running low on air.

The Archivist smiles as he says in a low voice, “No.” Even Basira, with her thirst for revenge, is beginning to look uncomfortable, but he can’t- he can’t stop.

Breeken- he’s Breeken, the Eye confirms, just as much as Hope was Hope- begins to choke, whatever mechanism he uses to talk that isn’t lungs dying. “Stop- stop looking at me- GAH!” He begins to make gurgling noises, his throat being crushed by invisible fingers.

With the last of his strength, the Archivist uses the Eye’s gaze to force him into the hallway, Breeken’s body slamming against the wall. It cracks and he crumples to the ground. He’s screaming, but it’s not normal screaming. It’s like if someone screamed and the volume was just... turned down.
The Archivist isn’t sure what to make of it, so he slams the door shut and begins to unlock the door.

Gerry, who finally dragged himself out of bed, blinks twice and yawns. “What,” he grumbles, “the fuck was that? Can’t a guy just sleep in?”

Basira blinks, breathing heavily as she slaps the Archivist across the face. Jon clutches his stinging face and shouts, “What the hell, Basira!”

She just gives him a disapproving look before grabbing her suitcase from underneath Gerry’s chronically unused desk. She starts shoving her clothes into it and deflates the air mattress she set up in their room once she realised her roommate was an Avatar of the Desolation who likes to light people on fire for fun.

“I,” she declares, “am going on a trip.”

“Great timing,” Gerry cuts in, “but can you explain what this coffin is doing in here?”

Basira passive aggressively slams her suitcase shut, jumping on top of it to get it to close and zip up. “Jon can explain that, since he loves monologues and infodumps so fucking much.”

“Great.” He turns to Jon, rubbing his eyes. “You up to go to Turfs Tavern?” He giggles. “I think it’s ironic, the two of us going there. Two mutilated, self-hating tomboys manipulated by the media-”

“You two,” Basira says sternly, ignoring Gerry’s self-deprecation, “are grounded. You are not leaving this dorm until I get back, not for any reason. Unless, of course, Jon’s fucking stab wound gets infected and you need to leave. Like, medical reasons. Or if Jared Hopworth comes back.”

Gerry raises his hand like they’re in primary school until Basira waves her hand with permission to speak. “Can we use the bathrooms?”

“Yes, you can obviously use the bathrooms,” she snaps, shoving more things into a suitcase. “What is it, Jon?”

“What if Melanie comes back?”

“I don’t know, play dead?” Her eyes glint, and Jon thinks that’s a joke. She must have caught him eyeing the coffin, because she adds, “Don’t open that thing. I mean it, Jon. I’ll be back in a few days, just- just wait until then.”

“It is addressed to me, Basira.” He tries to go for sass but it just comes off concerning. He sighs. “Fine, fine.”

And with that she’s gone, the door slammed from the outside. Gerry hopes up from where he was perched, shovelling his messy hair into a ponytail.

“Well, fuck that shit,” he says, shakily lighting a joint. “I’m going out tonight.”

Jon stares at the blood still crusted in his fingers from prying Melanie’s leg open, his shoulder aching from when she grabbed the scalpel, embedding and twisting it in his shoulder blade. A singular Statement was enough to close the hole and mend the tendons back together, but it remained sore.

“Basira just said we can’t leave,” he reminds him, just in case he forgot. Or maybe he was selectively ignoring her?

Gerry laughs, and Jon wonders when he first started sounding so out of touch with reality. He didn’t notice it until recently, when Jon first asked about the jagged scars that the tattoos couldn’t hide and Gerry had looked him dead in the eyes and told Jon that he didn’t remember which were self-inflicted and which one was the result of his mother. And then he laughed, as if it was funny, and just started smoking again.

If he had to draw the line, Gerry was only like this after he woke up from his coma. But he missed months when he was in that coma. Was it after he went on vacation with his undead mother?

God, he’s so worried about Gerry. The kind of worry where every time Gerry crosses his mind, anxiety fills up his stomach until he wants to curl up and cry and hit himself and scream until the feeling is entirely drained from his body.

An autistic meltdown. He researched it, and he didn’t like what he found.

Apparently, panic attacks aren’t usually caused by overwhelming situations where people are too loud or they get too close to him, they’re not caused by the feeling that you will never understand another person no matter how you try. Panic attacks don’t make you want to hit yourself or pull your skin off, they don’t make you unable to speak to others.
He doesn’t want to do any further research, for once.

God, he doesn’t know how to process his feelings. The Statement of Lorell St. John, the woman who didn’t believe in other people, plays around in his head constantly now. He thinks he understands, somehow, what she was going through- not in a terrifying, Stranger way, but...

He’s trying so hard to focus, to stay the same Jon that he was before, but... how can he know when he really made that change? The first time he read a Statement? When his grandmother bought him the cursed A Guest For Mr. Spider? How can he really know that he was the same person that went to sleep the night before?

Gerry doesn’t wait for Jon to put up a further argument, and he’s so zoned out he doesn’t even notice until the door clicks shut.

Jon flops backwards on his bed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He hasn’t been able to bind in weeks, not even wear a sports bra. He also hasn’t left the room for anything other than his doctors appointments, and he barely makes it to those.

This... this is too much. He thought the testosterone would make him feel safe, feel at home in his body. But it’s just temporary, just superficial, just temporary. Nothing he does will make him ever like most boys. At the end of the day, he’s going to be fighting his body until it kills him.

A door creaks back open and Jon breathes a sigh of relief. He’s always less worried about Gerry when they’re near, when-

Archivist,” a voice trills, “did I ever introduce you to my cousin? The Distortion ate her!”

Jon puts his face in his hands, groaning. “Michael, did we ever talk about knocking? Or sending me a text? Any warning, really.”

“The Distortion doesn’t have wifi,” he informs him before stepping into the room.

“Hellooooo,” a distinct, feminine voice floats throughout the room, and Jon can swear he hears it bouncing off the walls.

Opening himself up another raw salt packet to help regulate his irregular blood, he grumbles, “Can I not have one day in peace? Just one day, Michael, I’d kill for just one day.”

Helen doesn’t look anything like Michael’s cousin- then again, maybe it’s Spiral logic. Her eyeliner is a sharp twist that extends off her face, her eyes twinkling like cheep, half-broken carnival lights. She wears a sharp, well-fit, geometric suit jacket that hugs her curves and suit pants that are cuffed over a pair of cowboy boots. She looks like an eccentric art student in the same way Michael might, only... brighter? He doesn’t know what to make of either of them, really.

He frowns. “Weren’t you in Georgie’s book club?”

Helen shrugs. “Time, and actions, are all just social constructions.”

“I really don’t think you know what a social construct is.” Jon’s read books on this, actually, and he opens his mouth to tell them the main talking points of hours worth of lectures and textbooks, but Michael cuts him off.

“As fun as it would be to watch you two debate these things...” he sighs, static filling his voice, “I have some information for you.”

And, as infuriating as Michael typically is, he falls silent.

“Yes...” Jon prompts, bringing him back to the concept at hand.

Michael gestures with his hands as he speaks. “Oh, you have to do your... introduction.” His smile is pointy and too long for his face. “Your tape’s already rolling.”

Jon sighs. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He clears his throat. “Um, Statement of Michael and... Helen Distortion, regarding...”

“A flesh monster your irritating friends left in my hallways.”

“Yes, yes. Statement taken direct from subject, thirty-first of May, 2015. Statement, um. Statement begins.”

The room is silent before Jon sighs, “Michael, that means it’s your turn to talk.”

“Oh, Helen’s the one doing this one.” He pats her on the head, her curls bouncing.

“Oh, Christ,” he murmurs, rubbing his forehead in his hands. “Helen, then?”

“Yes?”

“You give your Statement now.”

“Oh.” She clears her throat, and Jon prepares himself to- well, it’s sort of like eating a meal, isn’t it?”

“So, when you were in that coma- congrats on that, by the way- your friends were really going through the shit.” She laughs, and it’s not quite like  Michael’s- it’s strange and static filled, sure, but there’s something about it in it’s texture and it’s depth that reminds him of the cartoonish villains of TV shows that weren’t bad, but certainly  compelling and manipulative.

“I mean, Melanie got shot by that Indian ghost, you all just lost your friends- what were their names?”

“Tim,” Jon says softly, “and Daisy.”

“Right, the bastard wannabe-cop- when I say ACAB, I do include anyone who just has bastard energy- and the alcoholic who was good at cards.”

Jon’s too weary to defend his- well, they were his friends, weren’t they? He and Tim shared some classes, and Daisy... Daisy was Gerry’s friend, so she must have been his by extension, right?

“Anyway, they were all really really bad at getting the Archives in order, and unfortunately, they really were trying their hardest. Gertrude could have appreciated their efforts, really. It’s a shame. Anyway, Basira was reading Statements, Sasha was the only one doing any effective-yet-not-legal-investigations, and Melanie was tearing them to shreds and Jonah couldn’t really keep them all under control, and then Daisy went to pick Gerry up from jail, and...”

She uses her bloated fingers to gesture to the coffin. Jon doesn’t feel he needs to be reminded.

“Well, it wasn’t surprising that their really shit investigations resulted in an attack by the Flesh on the Institute. Jared Hopworth. Do you ever think about how most Avatars, at least the English ones, all either live in our hallway or work as professors? Hm.

“Anyway, he gave a very boring monologue about the Flesh, referencing some boring sacrifice lady for some boring ritual. It was awful, really. I had popcorn and everything, I thought it would at least be entertaining, but then they shoved him in my corridors-”

“Our corridors-”

Somehow, Jon doesn’t have the patience to let her finish her complaining and Michael’s nitpicking. “Hold up. Can I have the- the tape of this? I’m sure someone turned one on.” It’s what he would do by now.

She thinks long and hard before answering, “No, I think he smashed the cassette.”

“Do you remember the- the sacrifice he referenced? And the, erm, ritual?”
Michael, useful for once, pipes up, “her name was Lucia Wright; Gertrude took her statement.”

Helen swats him, her sharp fingers cutting holes in Michael’s jumper. “It’s so much funnier when he goes into these things unprepared,” she whines, and Michael sticks his tongue out at her. Maybe they really are related.

And then he fully processes what Michael said and his eyes go wide. “L-Lucia Wright? I- I listened to that tape a-a-a few days ago, goddamn, i-it- Meat? T-the Last Feast, Gertrude, that’s what she called it.”

He’d found it on the corner of his desk, almost completely buried in cobwebs. This, he now knows, is what the Web looks like when it’s lost all subtlety. He wonders, briefly, which one of them it is. The only Web Avatar ever referenced in statements is Annabelle Cain and Raymond Feildings, who- well, he was associated with Hilltop Road, which... god, there’s something about that place that feels like every time he figures out why it fits in certain places, a new puzzle piece is introduced.

“Well,” Helen says impatiently, “if you did listen to the Statement, then you’d know about anchors.”

He can remember every word of every Statement now. “Yes, yes, the, ah, ‘siren call of the flesh’. I-is that a clue?”

Helen just shrugs, her impossible curls bouncing and eye glinting. “You’re the academic, not me.”

He frowns at her. “Helen, you were going to school to become a doctor.”

“I got bored.”

Abandoning their bickering, he returns to thoughts of the anchor. What’s one more scar, really? He just... he just has to trust that the Web has his best interests at heart, and that... well. Maybe the Web wants him to suspect it and do nothing. Maybe Daisy staying in there is what it really wants, but maybe it wants him to go in and die. But why?

The scariest thought of all is that maybe the Web just does this because it’s... fun. Because it can, because it’s interesting to watch each scenario play out. In the end, all there is is what Jon choses to do.

And all he knows is that he can’t leave Daisy in there.

He takes one of Gerry’s curved knives out of his drawer and Helen watches with great interest as he puts the blade to the tip of his finger, his heart thumping with anticipation. It feels like all his senses sharpen as the Eye opens lazily, watching with a half-hearted interest.

Without waiting for the count of three, Jon tries to shove his finger onto the blade all in one go. It doesn’t go easy, his skin bending into it before it breaks and then the blood begins to pool all over his hand and he loses his grip on the knife. It clatters to the ground and Jon ignores the tears swelling in his ears as he shouts, “GODDAMNIT!”

He resists the urge to run to the bathroom and abandon the knife, but his shaking and uninjured hand picks it back up. Now that his skin broke, he places the knife back into the cut and winces as he puts the slightest bit more pressure on it.

He whimpers, his hands shaking so bad that a thousand more cuts are slit with the one knife.

As it reaches his bone, his hands can no longer even hold the thing, much less make use of it. Once more, the knife clatters to the ground and he’s left swearing. He tries to ignore the tears streaming down his face as he wipes the excess blood off onto his poor white shirt. It’ll never wash out.

“Oh, come on... Everyone else can carve up the Archivist, but when he actually needs it...” Numbly, he wonders if he should go out to get more shirts.

“What,” Melanie snaps, “the hell are you doing?” She examines him up and down, her gaze lingering on his mutilated thumb that- that seems to be healing himself back up.

He bolts upright, awkwardly hunching his chest in and folding his arms over it, somehow trying to be careful with his thumb. “Oh! Uh... Melanie!” He can feel the meat on his thumb slowly mending itself back together, so he tells himself to ignore it.

“Melanie, I-I’m... s-sorry, I didn’t, er... I didn’t know you were there.” Helen and Michael must have heard her approaching, because they abandoned him.

“You’re very loud. Also, Sims, I saw the delivery guy. Basira sure looked pissed.” She frowns at his thumb and repeats, “What are you doing?”

He’s... not really sure what the correct answer to that is. Trying to remove one of his fingers? That seems quite evident.
“I’m... would you believe I’m trying to save Daisy?” he cringes at his own words, avoiding her steady gaze.

She inhales sharply. “With more bullshit surgery?”

He crumbles under her, completely falling apart as the Eye sees fit to show him Melanie’s furious and betrayed face when she woke up. “Oh I... Melanie, I-I-I’m so sorry, I-”

With more weariness than Jon thought she was capable of, Melanie sighs, “Oh, fuck off.”

Very quietly, so as not to startle her, he says, “I- I was trying to save your life.”

She walks over to his desk, frowning at the tape recorder. He looks like she’s contemplating smashing it but thinks the better of it. “I mean... you probably did. Basira... Basira thought it was the Slaughter, didn’t she? But now, I see your stupid face whenever I wake up screaming.”

“I-I-I wanted to ask you.”

“Hm. If you had asked, we wouldn’t be talking right now. I’d have said no, and then I would have thrown another chair at you. Basira... Basira was right. The only thing to be done was to destroy any semblance of safety and completely betray my trust.”

He cringes at her words. “I- I’m surprised you can stand to see either of us.”
She slams her fist down onto the table in frustration. “Well, who else is there? Basira... Basira was the only one for a long time, and yes I maybe, sort of, hate her now, but- I mean, I can’t look at her without my leg hurting. But what else am I going to do? I don’t want to be on my own, and I’m stuck here. So...”
Jon carefully positions himself near the door. “B-Basira said you were doing better...”

“Would you just stop?” She talks with her hands, the gesture getting more and more aggressive. “This- this isn’t better- sure, I’m not dying, and I don’t want to kill you anymore. It’s- it’s different! Yes, objectively better, but- but I- I can’t-”

Desperate for her not to throw something at him again, he tries, “No- Right- Melanie, I- you’re right- Melanie...”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, don’t you dare-” she forces herself to take a deep breath. Absent-mindedly, she moves to brush hair out of her face before remembering that she chopped it all off. “Basira doesn’t deal with feelings. She deals with data. With information. I guess that’s the Eye’s whole shtick, isn’t it?”

“A- at least it’s out?” He’s trying, but he feels like every word he says is just messing up. “Like, you can start healing now, and-”

“No, you’re not listening! I wanted it there. It made me angry, and god, that anger felt so good. I- it was all that I had, and it let me get things done, but then I started to hurt people. And that hurt was good, and now I don’t know who I am without it.”

The room goes silent, and Jon doesn’t want to risk saying anything that might upset her again. 

So, why are you trying to cut your thumb off?”

“Oh, er, it’s- well, I think I need an anchor, some kind of connection to bring me back out. I figured... Well, a part of my body ought to work, right? And Daisy- I mean, she’s worth a thumb or something, right?”

She gives him a blank stare that says ‘what’s all the fuss about, then?’ “OK, so just... cut it off.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m doing my best.”

Her mouth twists into a rancid grin. “Can’t go through with it?”

“I’m trying my best, but- well, it keeps healing up.” He wipes away the blood to show his perfectly intact thumb. “See?”

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No- no. I- no, I don’t think that would be a good idea right now.”

She laughs, but she’s not laughing at him. It’s a nice change, really. “What you need is the Boneturner. He’s in those goddamn corridors, you know. Helen’s been real helpful of late.”

“Oh, god,” he groans, “it’s such a menace. I prefer Michael.”

Helen choses this moment to open a door from the ceiling, falling onto the ground.

“If I am an it, Archivist,” she giggles, “then what are you?”

“Hi, Helen,” Melanie waves cheerfully. “Our dear friend-” Jon doesn’t like the way she says that- “needs to see the Boneturner.”

Helen sighs dramatically. “I tried to get him to go there, hinted at it so heavily, and then he got distracted by Gertrude’s tape. Honestly, it was right there!”

“Well, I’m not very good at people’s social cues,” he snapped, annoyed. He doesn’t have the patience for her, he’d much rather try and cleave his thumb off.

“But we’re not people, Archivist. I am at least as much ‘Helen Richardson’ as you are the ‘Jonathan Sims’ that first step foot on this university. Things change. It happens. Names. Categories. It’s all so important to you, isn’t it? You do know none of it’s actually real. It’s all just meaningless boxes.”

She messes with the things on his desk, knocking over pens and shuffling papers with no real direction. She pockets one of his fidget toys when she thinks he’s not looking.

Melanie taps him on the shoulder, and Jon’s suddenly reminded how short he is. “Do you have a plan,” she asks, “or is this an act-first-think-later type situation?”

“I have a plan,” he snaps. “I’m offering his freedom for his... help. A- a rib, or something? Whatever he wants. I... I don’t think the Eye will let me die.”

Melanie shrugs. “Well, I’ll either see you later or I won’t.”

“Pass the recorder?”

“Seriously?” She grumbles, handing it to him. “Hey, do you know how these things run without batteries?”

Jon shrugs as he steps inside the hallways.

He feels like he just got a lobotomy at first. The static fills his lungs and his body and his vision feels slightly bloated, like everything is slightly curved. Georgie was a fan of fish-eye drawings, and the Distortion’s halls sort of reminded him of that.

He finds Jared with very little trouble, sitting in the halls and playing with what looks like a kidney, throwing it around like it’s a baseball. Jon pushes down his nausea.

“A-are you Jared Hopworth?”

The thing looks up at him with several eyes poking out of its muscled body.

“That’s what it says on me licence.” It sounds sort of like a joke. “Mind you, the pictures a bit out of date.” He laughs, a distorted and wet laugh. Jon decides he doesn’t like Jared’s jokes. He stops playing with the kidney, pushing it back into a random arm.

“What do you want,” it says, eyes narrowing.

“A... a favour.”

“You’ll let me out?”

“Yes.” God, he doesn’t like the idea of letting Jared out in the wild, but sacrifices had to be made, right? There were no good answers in situations like these. “I- I need you to remove one of my ribs.”

Jerad does something that seems adjacent to a shrug. “Done. C’mere.”

Jon pauses, taking a moment to reflect on his reckless actions. “How... how do I know you won’t just reach in and kill me?”

“Guarantees? None. But I want to leave more than I want to kill you. Not like it was my idea in the first place.”
Jon takes a deep breath. “Why did you and the others attack us?”

The Boneturner just smiles. “Someone asked me to. You want my Statement, that’ll be another rib.”

“Y-yes, alright, Statement first.” He does his intro, and then he suffers through nearly ten minutes of Jared’s fleshy voice monologues about his childhood and the Flesh monsters that Melanie had Slaughtered during the attack. It’s satisfying, even though Jon’s full. It’s... it’s like a desert.

“That’s it, then. Do you want to do this, or what? Don’t be a sissy.”

Jon would be offended, except for ‘sissy’ was such an old slur, it was almost like calling him a fairy. It just felt silly.

Jon raises his eyebrows. “That’s it? That’s hardly worth two of my ribs.”

Jared starts lumbering towards him and Jon panics, scrambling backwards. “Alright! Alright.” He takes a deep breath and calms himself as Jerad reaches into his body and pulls.

The pain is unimaginable.

He always hates that phrase. There’s always got to be some words, some way of forcing experiences into language.
There are no words for this.

He blacks out several times, barely able to sit upright. Jared just hands him one of the ribs. It’s not dry, really, but there’s no blood visible. It takes all of his physical strength not to vomit.

An idea comes to mind, and he wishes he’d thought of it before removing two of his ribs.

“Jared,” he wheezes out, his throat raw from screaming, “Would you remove... fat tissue? No cost, but if I- if I just wanted it gone? I- double mastectomies are really hard to obtain through the NHS and I have no money to go private...”

He shrugs. “There’s no cost?”

“Yeah.”

“Wot’s a... double mastectomy?”

“Um...” there’s no way of explaining this one, really. “Do you know what gynecomastia is? No? It’s, well, it’s when men grow breast tissue from... a number of causes, really. A double mastectomy is just removing breasts from a person to form a masculine shape.”

“Is that wot you have?”

He bites back a laugh. “I... I have a hormone imbalance.”

Jared shrugs again. “Sounds fair to me. I... I can go after that?”

Jon nods. “There- there should be a door somewhere down there. Helen- Helen said you can leave.”

—

*Tape titled For Gerry, Basira, and Melanie, 000-025*

Hello, um... This is Jon, obviously. In- in case I, well...

[The Archivist clears his throat]

Melanie, I- I know I’ve apologised, but- well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever make up for it. It’s- hm. Well, if it helps, this might just get you back Daisy. I know- I know she meant more to you than I ever can, so...

[He sighs, weary]

I truly am sorry.

And Basira... I- I know you don’t want to do it this way, but- I don’t- well, is there another option? I- I have an anchor, I have- I have her voice, on... on that tape... well. I- I did make a plan, I did- I did think this through. If this goes wrong, then all you really lose is- well. I can’t risk anyone else, anyone but me. Just- well- I’m sorry if I can’t get her back for you.

If I do... tell Georgie I’m sorry? For putting her through this? I- I know I’m a lot, it was never fair to her- well, I just- I-I should have been better, she- she deserves better.

[The Archivist clears his throat]

And Gerry... I...

[The Archivist exhales heavily]

I don’t know what’s going on with you, a-and I want to wait for you to get back, but- well, I guess it’s pointless to dwell on this. Just- can you-

Nevermind. Basira, I need you to force him to get help. Rehab, or- or something, I don’t-

[He sighs, frustrated]

I’m sorry.

[Something creeks open, and static begins to rise from the coffin. A low humming emits from it, and it gets heavier the longer it drones on]

*Tape clicks off*

—

They push, push all their weight against the mud above them. Is it pushing, when every breath makes your rib cage brush against the cavern and it gets slowly tighter? Every movement is a push, really.

Daisy is screaming, tears streaming down her dirtied face. This might be what finally kills them, if this place was capable of killing. His bones are going to break, snap against the pressure, compound him down into a cube of broken Flesh.

They push and push and push, and Jon can feel his anchor tugging at him, and he wills with all his might for just a little bit more strength.

And then the sky above him collapses- no, opens.

It groans open, the hinges screeching with protest. Jon can Hear it just as he can See it.

This is not supposed to happen. This breaks every rule, everything that is supposed to happen, this cannot be-

When Jon and Daisy tumble out of the coffin, tracking dirt into the wood, the first thing he sees is Gerry.

He’s sitting in a bra and a pair of sweatpants on Jon’s bed, smoking and painting his nails. The curtains are closed and Against Me!’s Two Coffins is blaring ironically in the background. Jon almost cries with relief to see him alive and intact.

He doesn’t notice them, Daisy arm draped around Jon’s shoulder as they hold each other up. Jon trips over piles of cassette tapes that were littered across the floor, gasping in the fresh air.

Daisy’s weak laugh is almost deranged, and in that moment she seems so small and fragile in Jon’s arms. He can’t imagine that he was ever afraid of her. “Wh-we’re out! We’re really out! I can’t believe-”

Gerry’s head jerks up at this, eyes wide. “Jon? What the fuck!”

He opens his mouth to apologise, but his throat is so dry- god, how long had he been in there?

Gerry laughs hysterically, rushing over to crush them in a hug. “You stupid, stupid id’ot!”

Basira choses that moment to enter from the hall, muttering, “shut up, Gerry, it’s four in the goddamn-” she freezes. “Daisy.”

Daisy attempts for a small smile, the shadows only exaggerating the gauntness of her face. “Hi?”

Chapter Text

Annabelle has spent enough of her life in hospitals.

When she was a child, she hated doctor’s appointments. She always fussed- never crying, but all the thrashing, screaming, and protesting that her little heart could manage. She once screamed at all the nurses until her voice went out. Since she’d moved out, she’d never been back.

Except, of course, until Jon went to the hospital.

She knew it would happen, logically. She also knew, logically, that she would need to get some form of notes on it. Observations, reactions, doctors’ notes and bloodwork. She was lucky for all the MRI scans that happened before and after his coma, and it took long enough to get her hands on those.

That was all fine. She was in control then.

As she sits in the waiting room as Martin visits his dead mum, she’s not sure what to do with herself. She doesn’t sit strangely, fidget, or pinch her brows, but every muscle in her body is pulled taught.

Martin exits from the room, red eyes puffy. “They’re going to cremate her,” he says softly. “Maybe- maybe you and I can take her out on a boat? Like, on the ocean?”

She forces her voice into a soothing tone. “That’d be nice.” The idea of going back by the sea makes her feel physically ill.

“When do you want to do it?”

“Well, she- she liked the warm weather, I- I suppose in the summer? Also, it gets really cold on the coast, and it’d just be straight-up unpleasant to go now...” he rubs his tired eyes, and Annabelle takes this as her cue to wrap her arms around him in a tight hug. He basically melts into her, his eyes blurring with tears.

This is what friendship is, she tells herself. Sacrificing your personal wants for someone else's needs. It reminds her of why she opted out of friendships as a child, but she firmly reminds herself that she needs Martin. And maybe she even cares a little.

Not enough to distract her. Never enough. She’ll have to stay up once she goes to bed, synthesising data and trying to get Jude Perry in for an interview. She’s been going through Statements, getting ahold of the victims of anyone who attacked Jon. She needs to get more than just one data point about the pain, the experience. She needs to be thorough, damnit, for this study to mean anything.

She’s not sure how to set it aside for Martin’s sake. She wants to, she really does, but nothing matters without her study.

A healthy medium, a balance between her work and her life. She’d always struggled with that. Black and white thinking was how psychology would describe it in the DSM. She didn’t care. It made her good at what she did. She just hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of keeping Martin on her side.

—

“...Statement ends.” Jon sighs heavily into Gerry’s tape recorder, which has slowly become his over the course of this year. “There are... no follow up notes, no investigations. Sasha is working on catching up with the Statement giver, but no guarantees.”

From across their office, Sasha silently shoots him finger guns.

“Over the last two weeks,” he continues in his low, Archivist voice, “the Archives have gotten slowly more organised. Jonah, who I assume is listening to this with those many Eyes of his, has hindered our progress by forcing us to maintain a C average minimum in his economics class.”

“Bastard,” Sasha mutters as she types away aggressively at her computer. Jon gives her a half-smile.

“Let’s see,” he taps his fingers on the desk absent-mindedly. “Basira has been leaving a lot less since Daisy was back. And Daisy...” he thinks of all the vomiting he’s heard when he’s down in the Archives, how her joints pop at every movement, her skeletal hunch and blank eyes. “Well, she’s improving. I... I don’t think the Hunt has her like they did before. And, erm. No changes with Gerry, really.”

“I got a fountain pen,” Sasha adds excitedly. “The highlight of my week, really.”

This week, Sasha had found several incriminating pieces of evidence on Jonah and was keeping them under lock and key in case they suddenly needed to get him arrested.

“I’m sure it was,” he mutters. He doesn’t bring up Melanie, just in case she listens to these. He doubts it, but she really doesn’t need another reason to hate him. “Um, recording ends.”

He waits a few seconds to make sure it doesn’t click back on before turning to Sasha. “Alright. This week, we’re going to go through all the boxes we can get our hands on. I need- Gertrude’s got tapes, somewhere, there have to be more. And she- she knew more about this than I do, and-”

Sasha points to the corner of stacked, overflowing boxes. “There should be some in the box in the corner.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I- I listened to them the other day. There’s really not much on them- Gerry!”

The goth smiles in his direction, hopping up on an empty desk and lighting a cigarette with Jon’s spider lighter. The smoke lingers at the top of the ceiling, pooling out of his mouth.

“No sources of ignition in the Archives,” he warns, flipping through the photos of the files he found. Something with the Dark... he’s not quite sure what it all means. Sasha will surely piece together whatever he finds.

Gerry smiles as he flicks ash onto the wooden floors. “Ye love me too much teh care.”

He sighs. “Please, Gerry? We can go outside if you need something from me.”

He just shrugs. “Sure. Wanna go fer drinks? I still think it’d be funny teh go teh Turf Tavern.”

Sasha slings her arms around Jon’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze. He tenses up on instinct, forcing himself to adjust to the feeling of her body pressing into him. “I’m driving, or you’d both die.”

“I have my licence, Sasha, legally I can-”

“Yeah, but, consider this: no.” It becomes apparent she didn’t intend on letting either of them leave by themself, Jon grudgingly hands her the keys from off the desk and she cheers.

“I’ll pay, given that you two seem so adamant about holding your pity party by yourself.”

“It’s no’ a pity party,” Gerry protests, and she gives him a look, a combination of raised eyebrows and an unimpressed look.

“You’re going to some place called the Turf Tavern. Because you think it’s ironic. I’ve done research into the... terminology? And I know enough to tell you that that is depressing.” She leads the way out of the dorms and into the university parking lot.

Jon’s heart flips uneasily in his chest- goddamnit, his various medical problems and hospital visits must have outed him. She hadn’t said anything about it, of course, but she made occasional comments like that. A part of it was comforting- he didn’t have to worry about telling her, about being hatecrimed, and she took the initiative to do research on both history and terminology. But then again, it meant she would never see him the same as any other man.

Gerry doesn’t seem to care, but he doesn’t seem to care about much nowadays.

He’s been meaning to bring it up in conversation- Jon’s sure he’s listened to the tape he left. Gerry knows he’s worried, and knows Jon doesn’t like what he’s doing. They both just seem to be ignoring it, pretending that none of it is real.

If Jon’s learned anything from this year, you can ignore any problem if you try hard enough, but it always comes back to bite you.

God, he misses Georgie.

He snaps out of his self-pity as the world around him goes black and his limbs collapse underneath him. Gerry grabs him by the arm, yanking him upright before his body can hit the floor. He leans heavily against the wall for support, breathing heavily. His ribs are less sore after his DIY top surgery, but he didn’t realise how much the binders restricted his breathing until he had to live without them.

When he forces himself to stand up, wobbling at the knees, he waves off any support either of them offer him. “I... I probably just didn’t get enough salt today. Or the compression socks aren’t tight enough, I- I’ll order some when we get back.”

Gerry matches his pace, on edge in case he falls again. “Yer not drinkin’ tonieght.”

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but then he remembers his hospital-mandated sobriety and settles for focusing on not blacking out.

He refuses to let either of them help him into the car, his entire body aching in protest when he tries to bend his knees. What he needs is to ingest more sodium- his body is apparently low on blood, one of the many factors contributing to POTS.

Unfortunately, it’s not a super effective treatment, but it does make things more tolerable. He’ll... he’ll order something later.

Gerry stares at him until the car starts moving, sliding his cassette into the radio player. Over their time as roommates, Jon has grown accustomed to all his favourite albums and can recognize them the instant they come on.

The familiar rapid drums of Transgender Dysphoria Blues vibrate through the car as high as the volume can go. Sasha nods her head to the beat and Gerry stares out of the window, anxiously tapping his fingers on the dashboard to the beat.

Not only has Jon memorised this album, he’s also memorised the reactions Gerry has to it. His face kind of empties, or... drained, more like. He always looks lost in his head, but if he tries to relax his hands they end up twitching. He grows more and more tense as the song plays on, he has to brace himself every time the lines you want them to notice/the ragged ends of your summer dress/you want them to see you/like they see every other girl/they just see a faggot/they hold their breath not to catch the sick he cringes, as if the lyrics strike such a deep chord in him that he can’t hold still.

Jon won’t admit it, but he’s cried along to that song a few times since first listening to it. The whole album, really. It makes him feel so raw and seen, stripped bare in a terrifying and exposing way. He’d much rather hide from the rest of the world.

Maybe he’s just a product of cisnormative society, as Gerry would say. He’s spent so much time carefully crafting his gender and his presentation into something that won’t make him an other that he’s not even sure what it feels like to just be seen. It feels painful and it makes his chest ache with the need to cry. He doesn’t like being seen like that.

Gerry seems to revel in that kind of discomfort, putting himself in situations where he’s uncomfortable every day with intent. Jon’s not sure if it’s to combat the Eye or just pure masochism.

Masochism, the Eye informs him with a hint of pride.

He helps Jon out of the car, despite his protests, and wraps his arm around his waist. It’s for support, sure, but Jon doesn’t like how his face grows hot. He also doesn’t like the amused look Sasha sends them as she snaps a photo.
Gerry scowls and shoots Sasha the finger, and thankfully he looks just as uncomfortable as Jon feels.

“So,” Sasha starts, “this is when we plan to take out Jonah-slash-Elias. Which one should I even be calling him? I mean, it’s Elias in class but technically he’s Jonah, right?”

Gerry snorts. “I say we burn all o’ his statements. That’d hurt, rieght?”

Jon flinches at that one, resisting the urge to apologise to the waiter attempting to get their order. “Just- just crisps, please. With extra salt?”

Gerry applauds his restraint from ordering alcohol and then proceeds to order more than Jon thinks the human body can take, Sasha giggling the whole time. Jon rolls his eyes, holding back his affection.

“I’m Ay-rish, leave me alone,” he complains, bumping his shoulder into Jon’s.

“No,” he shoves Gerry, flicking water from his glass onto his face. Gerry blinks, grinning back at him. For a moment, they can forget about the hell they’d been through, and it’s nice just to be in the moment.

And then Jon remembers that he planned on discussing rehab as a possibility with Gerry, and his stomach starts to churn. He curls in on himself, leaning over the table rather than facing his friends. He stares at his folded hands, running over the speech he’s planned out in his head, scanning it for any possible flaws, anything that can go wrong.

Vaguely, he recognizes Sasha snapping her fingers in his face. He makes some noise of acknowledgement, not really processing what she says and nods his head anyway.

That’s how he finds himself watching his drunken friends stumble down the streets, getting lost at every turn, in an attempt to find a bowling alley.

“Why don’t we, oh, use a map? Or your phone?”

They both boo him, and Gerry walks into a lamppost seemingly on purpose, because he bursts into laughter immediately afterwards and Sasha starts clapping. This must be the epitome of humour to them. It’s amusing at best.

Gerry slings his arm around Sasha’s shoulders, the two of them howling camp songs at one another- they were both Girl Scouts as children- and Jon shakes his head at both of them, only vaguely jealous of how close the two of them are. He does decline when Gerry tries to grab him by the waist, laughing along with them finally.

They don’t find a bowling alley, but like a dog seeing a squirrel, Gerry sees a 7/11 and bolts towards it, their original goal forgotten.

Jon, whose hand got tangled with Gerry’s at some point, gets physically dragged along, almost getting pulled directly into a glass door. Gerry laughs at him, as if he wasn’t the reason that he hit the door into first place. Jon pushes him into the door, scowling affectionately.

Gerry dramatically collapsed to the sidewalk, sobbing at the top of his lungs.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’re perfectly fine.”

Gerry sobs harder. “I-I I’m being abused-” he dramatically twitches, his arm hanging limply by the elbow. “You b-b–b-b-b-roke my arm! Sasha, look what he did teh meeee!”
Sasha pulls out her phone to start recording. “Abuse is OK if you’re Irish.”

Gerry stops sobbing, shooting Sasha the finger and shouting, “Typical Bri’ish fascist talking point. Yer ancestors would be proud of ye.”

Sasha huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking out her chin. “The Irish,” she starts boldly, “are a bunch of alcoholic, rage-driven Protestants.”

“Don’t stereotype me,” Gerry shoots back, still collapsed on the floor, “because only two of dhose are right.”

Jon frowns. “Roman Catholic?” He guesses, and Gerry shoots him finger guns.

Rolling her eyes, as she is prone to do, Sasha pulls him up off the floor and offers to pay for their snacks. None of them protest. Ignoring the fact that five seconds ago they were abusing one another, Gerry wraps his arms around the two of them and drags them inside, heading straight for the caffeinated drinks.

Sasha breaks away to head for the candy aisle, Gerry keeps his arm wrapped around Jon’s waist. Afraid he might pass out if he breaks away, Jon hesitates before resting his head on Gerry’s shoulder.

He hasn’t been this close to someone since he and Georgie had been together, he realises with a hollow pain shooting through his chest. He’s not the biggest fan of physical contact with people he’s not close to, he will admit, but... it’s nice. He doesn’t realise that he missed it.

Gerry takes his time picking out a drink, but they do have to head to the counter eventually, and the silence grows awkward after a few seconds. Neither of them make any move to pull apart.

“Did you know,” Jon says, just to break the silence, “that Freud’s theory of gender identity is still considered true today? Between three to six years old is when the identity solidifies.”

Gerry lets out a surprised laugh. It’s warm and makes something inside Jon feel safe and comforted, like Gerry had put him under a weighted blanket.

“He was still Freud about it, though,” Jon continues. “He thought that if you were closer to your mother then you were more feminine and vice versa, which is absolutely not true. It was also a part of his weird psychosexual development theory.”

“I’ll be honest,” Gerry says, “I don’t know anythin’ about Freud, but consid’ring everythin’ I’ve heard so far, I’m afraid to ask.”

And then his arm loosens it’s hold on Jon’s waist and he shouts to the other side of the store, “Sasha, do ye have weird opini’ns on Mtn. Dew like you do Sprite?”

“I think that it’s all fucking vomit burp-flavored and I’ll never drink any type of pop,” she calls back casually, and Gerry grabs an extra Mountain Dew; whether it’s for him or just to bother Sasha, Jon’s not sure.

He blinks away some kind of haze that settled over him, suddenly cold without Gerry close to him.

It’s strange, how much physical contact feels so overwhelming and sharp and yet with some people, he craves it so much he can hardly breathe. It had only been Georgie who he’d been comfortable with like that. Maybe it’s her absence that’s making him want some kind of physical comfort, he rationalises.

He’s always been good at sorting the world into little categories, like his own little filing boxes. People had their own box, and then inside of that box were who they were and how they fit into one big box, which was Jon’s whole life. Everything made sense when the files stayed in the boxes they were supposed to and the boxes fit together like Tetris.
And then Georgie broke up with him, and it knocked around all the boxes and the files were loose everywhere. He has to put them back together, to restructure how he thinks of the world. Because how he thought of Georgie was wrong, and how he thought of Georgie affected how he saw himself and therefore the rest of the world, now he has to figure out what everything really is. He needs to fit the rest of the world back into those boxes, but first he has to figure out what the world even means to him.

Everything is defined through subjectivity. He knows this, he can conceptualise it, but he can’t really understand it. He doesn’t take it into consideration- his opinions and his world views are objective, goddamnit, and he’s very stubborn about admitting that he’s not the only person whose right.

He’s not quite sure where Gerry fits into all of this.

He’s not sure what Gerry’s intentions are with all of this. His love language seemed to be physical touch and while he does understand boundaries to some extent, Jon’s never met someone who made as much casual contact that he does. The lingering looks, the soft laughs, even falling asleep in each other’s arms once- he’s not sure if that’s just how Gerry is or if it’s something more. He doesn’t even know if he it to be something more.

Instead of dealing with that terrifying thought, he beats them to the car and makes it into the driver’s seat before Sasha can. She sticks her tongue out at him and he reminds her of the laws on driving while intoxicated. No amount of comas or brain injuries will override the fact that he is perfectly sober.

When they arrive back at the dorms, Sasha hugs them both and stumbles off into her dorm. Since Tim killed her roommate, Nikola, she’s been living by herself. Jon thought it’d be terrifying to be there by herself, but Sasha said it makes her feel safe. The quiet gives her time to reflect, to think. It lets her see something dangerous as something as simple as her home.

Gerry, thankfully, throws away the remainder of his drink before they enter their dorm. Jon is both relieved and disappointed- he doesn’t want to deal with his emotional state right now, and the urge for a drink feels like an itch he can never satisfy.

Jon finds himself staring at Gerry- the way his black hair pools around his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw, the tattoos that creep up around his shirt, the shine of his piercings in the dark.

Something in his chest aches when he thinks about how Gerry’s going to get high on heroin in his bed and pass out for the next twelve hours, detached from the real world and just out of reach. Without thinking, he pulls Gerry into a long and tight hug, perhaps the first time he’s been the one to initiate any physical contact since he exited the coffin.

Gerry freezes, his entire body tensing and locking up. After a moment he wraps his arms around Jon, and despite being much taller, melts into the hug. Jon’s never been the one holding someone before, but in the moment Gerry feels quite small.

“I, um.” Jon clears his throat. “Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight? I... I’ve been having nightmares recently.”

It’s a lie. He’s been having nightmares ever since that damn coma and no amount of sleeping medication gets rid of them.

“I don’t want to bother yeh. I know you don’t like physical touch,” Gerry says reluctantly, pulling out of his arms.

“It’s no bother,” Jon says firmly. “I just- I don’t want to be alone.”

He hopes his lie is good enough- Gerry won’t accept anything he sees as help, but he’s more than willing to do the same thing if it’s for Jon’s sake. And, truth be told, he doesn’t mind the idea of being close to someone.

Gerry goes into the bathroom to get changed and Jon offers to put his hair in a braid. Gerry hardly has the energy to brush his hair nowadays, and every morning it wakes up tangled and knotted. Jon sits on the edge of his bed and Gerry on the floor, gently teasing apart the knots in his hair.

“Your roots really have grown out,” Jon comments. “That’s got to be a few inches, right?”

“My hair,” Gerry says indignantly, “is naturally black. Redheads are an abnormality that don’t deserve to exist. I’m transginger and I’ll ask you to respect that.”

Jon makes a small noise of acknowledgement, brushing out the part down the centre of his head. Gerry’s eyes close and he relaxes, his back slumping and tension seeping off his face. Jon wonders how tired he must be if just sitting down seems to take ten years off his life.

His fingers finish the braid, and Jon gently pats his shoulder. “This way it won’t be tangled in the morning.”

Gerry nods numbly, crawling into Jon’s bed and taking the wall side. He spends a solid five minutes getting comfortable, messing with Jon’s pillows and flipping the blanket over several times.

Awkwardly, Jon peels the blanket back to join him after shutting off the lights.

Gerry rolls his eyes. “This was your idea,” he reminds him. “Stop being so frigid.”

“I’m not frigid,” he scoffs, forcing himself to relax.

“Sure.” Sleepily, he mumbles, “Make sure not to sleep with your binder on.”

“Oh. I. Um. Remember Jared Hopworth? He... basically gave me free top surgery.”

Gerry closes his eyes. “That... is a ridiculous concept that I don’t even want te think abou’t it.” He rolls over, pressing his back against Jon and pulling his arm around him. It’s warm and comforting and terrifying as well. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, Gerry,” Jon says softly.
Within fifteen minutes, Gerry’s snoring softly and has stolen all of the blankets. He seems completely at peace when he’s asleep. His face looks so different when it’s relaxed.

Despite how easily Gerry fell asleep, Jon can’t get his eyes to close for the rest of the night.

—

Annabelle and Martin have grown very comfortable in Hilltop Road since moving in. The place had been drab before- the room that Agnes had grown up in was full of melted wax and burn spots, a few windows shattered. There was one step to the basement that Annabelle had grown accustomed to skipping since it once collapsed under her weight. Leaky faucets and uninsulated walls galore.
Annabelle had been so focused on getting her psychology degree and not failing her classes that she’d never gotten around to fixing anything up beyond the living room.

Martin had dragged her to the hardware store several times that week, ignoring the looks they got every time. That week, she learned how to insulate walls, replace windows, replace pipes, and hammer in new steps. Maybe this was his coping mechanism. She hoped it would be over soon.

This week, he bought several canisters of pale lavender paint and put tape up around the ceiling and floor. The entire house stunk and nowhere was safe. And so she complained to Martin, who’s latest assault was on her living room as she was working on her paper.

“If you’re going to insist on doing this,” she grumbles from where she’s sprawled out on the couch, “I’m going to force you to listen to Freud’s weirdest psychosexual development theories.”

“I’ll flick paint on you,” he threatens.

“What I find to be the weirdest of Freud’s theories, tossing aside the Oedipus complex, is womb envy. The theory that because men cannot create life, they-”

He makes good on his threat, flicking a glop of purple paint towards her. She shrieks and it hits the couch with a wet thwack.

“They turn to economics and business instead! That’s what I was going to say!”

He still makes a face at her.

She sighs heavily, settling back onto the couch and glaring at her paper. “Gertrude Robbinson,” she sighs, “for all her badassery, is really fuckin’ borin’ to read about.”

Martin hums an acknowledgement. “You know, I don’t understand why you went into psych. I feel like you’d be better off in academics.”

“I have explained the Web to you, right?”

“Well, yeah, but you know...” He sighs. “You feel like the type of person whose, like, really pretentious about, like, history or something.”

She rolls her eyes. “At this point, it’d be better than readin’ this case study. ‘Gertrude claimed that the reason she was so motivated to stop Rituals is that The Desolation killed her cat. This may or may not be a joke.’ Really, Jonah? How is this relevant?”

Martin chuckles. “He sounds like the type of person to have just pages of audio transcripts in the study.”

“Worse. You have to go through individual cassette tapes if you want to know what went on in her personal life, and there’s not even that many of those.”

“I’m starting to be grateful I have no idea how to read a case study,” he chuckles. Annabelle finds the corners of her mouth quirking into a smile that isn’t a cognitive choice. She’s content to be here, painting their house and reading papers together.

Maybe a life like this isn’t something to look down on, she ponders. To grow old with the one you love, to enjoy domestic things like which type of tea goes best with this weather or bickering over paint colours or staying up late, binge watching a trash reality show. Maybe she should want a life like this. It certainly sounds cosy enough.

But oh... she owes the Web so much. It’s a part of her, not something that can be abandoned for the platonic love of your life.

Rather than trying to figure out where Martin fits into her grand scheme of things, she reads him the most important parts of the study of Gertrude Robbinson, from the rituals to her isolation complex, and Martin cracks jokes that make her laugh.

For now, she doesn’t have to think about what to do with him once this is all over. Who knows if any of them will survive, anyway?

—

Just as he thinks he’s drifting off to sleep, Jon hears the door creek open and his entire body tenses. At some point, Gerry rolled over onto half of Jon’s torso, rendering him unable to move without waking him.

“Jon, get up!” Daisy’s voice sounds harsh, even when she whispers.

He exhales with relief, carefully detaching himself from Gerry, who shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake up.

Daisy haunts his doorway like a skeleton, her narrow eyes darting around the room, hunched over. She looks so different than she did before, like someone sucked all her confidence and strength out of her, leaving her hollow as a shell. The Hunt’s parasite is more visible now that she’s been fighting it.

“What’s going on,” he groans, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

She gives him a flat, unamused stare. “You have a job, you know. In the Archives? Hurry up and get your ass down there. We have work to do.” Translation: it’s so empty down there and I don’t want to be alone.

Grudgingly, Jon follows her into the hallway, careful to shut the door quietly so as to not disturb Gerry. The university is quiet at night, aside from a few dorms full of people whose chatter can be heard through the walls. By the time they make it over to the basement where the Archives are, Jon’s light-headed enough to pass out.

Daisy sits down on the stiff cot in the corner of the office. She’s been living in the Archives since she’s legally recognized as dead. She watches him start two pots of coffee, the silent static of the basement almost overpowering.

“So,” Jon starts, “did you have trouble sleeping?”

“I do most nights,” she says gruffly. “I also found a box of Gertrude’s tapes. Figured you’d want to see them.”

He nods, all the casualness of their interactions draining from his mind. “Did you, er, have you listened to them yet?”

She shakes her head. “I don't...” she starts hesitantly, “I don’t like being down here. The Statements make it worse.”

Jon prefers reading them when he’s alone. There’s something so shameful about the habit like there never was with the drinking or the smoking, it’s not something he wants to share. Other people always felt like an intrusion on his life, anyway.

Daisy faces the wall when she sleeps, the Eye informs him, so she can pretend you never entered her life and she was anywhere but here.

They both sip their too-hot coffees as they sort through the bin of tapes.

Gertrude’s labelling system was such a mess Jon can’t tell blank tapes from full ones, so he clicks each and every one into the tape recorder just in case.

The first one he gets is completely empty, and he moves to take it out.

Daisy is quicker than he is, however, and she clicks the forward button twenty seconds ahead before pressing play.

Static.

She moves it another twenty seconds.

Static.

 “Just take it out,” Jon says, irritated, but she hushes him and skips another twenty seconds ahead.

Static. Another forty, this time.

“-even hard for her, was it? Handing me over? No sign of regret.” A tired male voice Jon had never heard before plays out over the shoddy speaker.

Gertrude’s voice is shakeir than it’s been on any of the other tapes. “No.”

Daisy messes with the starting and stopping time a bit before the tape plays from its very beginning.

Jon’s not really listening to the Statement. He’s so tired, and even as Eric’s words are feeding him with a strange type of energy, each word blurs together. It’s like if hearing could go crosseyed.

Then he hears Eric say “Gertrude, I left the Archives months before she killed me” and suddenly he’s very present in the world.

His vision swims so violently it all goes back and his body crumples to the floor before he manages to get ahold of the countertop. Daisy helps him to his feet when he regains consciousness a few seconds later, nursing the bruise that’s surely going to form on the back of his head.

“So,” Gertrude says, her words clipped and curious, “what do they not want me to know?”

“I quit.”

“You- Sorry, you quit?”

Both Daisy and Jon seem to be holding their breath as the tape plays on.

Both Daisy and Jon seem to be holding their breath as the tape plays on.

“Yeah. I figured out how.”

“I- I just assumed- How?”

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? I suppose that’s why she gave me to you. One final screw you to the Eye.”

Jon glances to Daisy. “Who are they talking about, did- did you hear-” He tries to ask the Eye for information, to pull the single strand of knowledge from the sea of it, but everything seems to be resisting him right now.

“Eric. How did you quit?” There’s only complete silence.

“Eric...”

Eric huffs out a laugh. “Sorry. I just-” he laughs. “I don’t mean to be a dick, but- well, it’s been a long time since I’ve had any sort of... leverage, I guess? Just a little bit of power. It’s kind of nice.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Think harder,” Gertrude snaps. She’s a very serious woman, but at the moment, both Jon and Daisy lose it.

“You know, you were never actually all that nice to me when I worked for you, Gertrude. Not like Emma.”

“Eric...”

The... ghost? Dead man? Book? laughs.

“What, you gonna threaten me? Look at me. Best I can currently hope for is to be burnt to ash.” He inhales sharply and sighs. “I’m going to tell you, just– maybe there’s a price?

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know- I haven’t had a chance to think.”

“Eric.”

“Fine!” He pauses, considering his options. “I want two things.”

Impatiently, Gertrude taps something on her desk- her nails, maybe, or a pen.

“I want you to find my daughter. If Mary is – if she’s gone, or worse, I want you to make sure she’s alright.”

Gertrude doesn’t laugh, but the amusement is clear in her voice. “Hm. I’m not exactly a mother figure.”

“You could hardly do worse than her,” Eric scoffs.

“Hm,” Gertrude says. “Well, how old should she be around now?”

“What... what year is it, again?”

“Twenty-fourteen.”

Jon can hear the smile in Eric’s voice as he says, “She should be seventeen or eighteen.”

There's a pause and some footsteps before they can hear one of them, presumably Gertrude, typing away at her computer. “Name?”

“Morana Delano- well, I suppose it would be Keay now.” Jon’s heart stops in his chest. “D’dya know we originally hyphenated our names, but then it later proved too confusing? We went with Delano because it sounded better-”

Daisy frowns. “Tha’s Gerry’s last name.”

Jon closes his eyes to stop the room from swimming. “Indeed it is.”

“Huh.” Gertrude sounds more amused than anything. “Looks like she goes to school where I teach. Enrolled under the name Gerard, though. Hm. Art major.” Before Eric can get a word in, she says, “I think he is a good guess.” She sighs. “I’ll try to reach out to him, but I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s... gone rotten, I can’t promise anything.”

Eric clears his throat. “I understand.”

Gertrude clicks her tongue. “I suppose he might be useful...”

“Sentimental as always,” his voice is as dry as the Sahara.

And then Eric Delano gives his statement, and Jon is glad to let it take up all his consciousness. He- he knew Mary was bad, but good lord, this was more than he had been prepared for. He knows every human being is capable of cruelty, that it’s a spectrum we’re all on. And at some point, that lack of empathy and capacity for cruelty crosses a line and it becomes a cluster B disorder. But a disorder is a distinctly human thing. This... he’s not even sure where this falls.

“So. How did you do it? How did you quit the Archives?”

Both Daisy and Jon tense up. Her nails are digging into her hands and they tremble, though her face is hard as stone.

“It was actually really simple. Not easy, but simple.” He chuckles. “You’ll kick yourself when I tell you.”

Gertrude sighs in a get on with it fashion, “O...k?”

“Y ou were almost there, you know, with your theory that James could watch us from any eye, even an illustration. What did you do? How did you sever that link?”

Both Jon and Daisy’s eyes go wide. “I’m going to be sick,” she murmurs, clutching her stomach.

“My God!” Gertrude sounds sickly fascinated.

“I left to avoid dragging my family, my daughter- son might be the better word- into this life, to try to look after them. But Mary decided that a newly blinded husband was simply too much of a burden.”

Gertrude simply doesn’t give a shit about the Delano-Keay family conflicts. Impatiently, she interrogates, “Did you need to do anything special? Any... ritual, or...?”

“Just as long as they’re useless. I went the extra mile, destroyed them completely, but – I’m sure you’ll find something-“ he inhales sharply- “neater. A strong acid, precisely applied? That sounds more your style, if you decide to do it, that is.”

Jon has to clutch the edge of the table to keep from vomiting. His dizziness has faded after Eric’s statement, though, and it makes him feel disgusting.

Gertrude makes a conflicted noise. “Well, I don’t know.”

“No. It’s not an easy sacrifice to make, is it?”

—

Jon fiddles with the cassette tape in his hands while Gerry paces the room. Eric Delano’s words play through his mind, again and again. Sometimes his memory really can be a curse.

“If Basira doesn’t get back soon-” he doesn’t finish his threat, instead just sighs.

After he fell down a flight of stairs and twisted his ankle, Gerry had been banned from doing any work with them. Basira was currently doing an interview for the police, as she figured the training would help them. She’s been gone for hours.

This would be a perfect opportunity for the two of them to talk, really. Jon’s scripted out this conversation in his head several times. Well, he has a vague idea of what he has to say. An outline, if you will.

But he’s not there to give Gerry a lecture or an oral essay on drug abuse and dead dads. He’s Gerry’s friend, who is supposed to be there to help him with his problems.

To fill the silence, Gerry says, “Did you know that Emma Goldman, 1869-1940, was one of the earliest examples of an intersectional feminist? She’s also one of the most well-known anarchists of all time. She had a distinct dislike of the American suffragettes for only fighting for white, upper-class women and abandoning social equality, but she liked the British suffragettes because they rioted and burned down the buildings of politicians who disagreed with them.”

“She sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, she was really far ahead of her time.” Gerry continues pacing around the room. “I’ve been reading some o’ her papers lately. It’s wild how many progressives had one foot dipped in eugenics. That’s a funny saying, innit? One foot dipped in. What does it even mean?”

His voice sounds eerily similar to Eric’s since the testosterone has been taking effect. Does he know that? He’s not even sure when Eric died. Did Gerry ever know him?

“When I was taking philosophy, she was mentioned for her, uh... religious views?”

“She described herself as an atheist Jew,” he starts enthusiastically, the happiest Jon had seen him in months. “Essentially, she was culturally orthodox but she didn’t believe in the hierarchy of synagogues or churches in general. She was the most outspoken atheist at the time, actually.”

Jon taps his fingers on the cassette in his hands. He and Gerry are just sitting in their dorm, waiting for Basira... he can’t tell if Gerry’s sober, but he’s at least lucid, which counts for something.

“Did you ever know your dad?” He’s too afraid to bring Mary into this. He has no idea how to approach it- Mary should be dead, but he’s heard her voice and Gerry’s been in contact with her all year. He spent winter break at her place, too. Eric seems like a safer topic.

Gerry shrugs, picking at his nail polish. “Mary hates ‘im, so he was prob’bly chill, but I ne’er knew ‘im. Not much else to it, why?”

Jon’s heart leaps to his throat. “Well, I- I was in the Archives and I found this tape- well, Daisy found a bunch of them, and this one stood out to me, I- I guess?”

Over the last few months, it’s been very hard to keep Gerry engaged in conversation. He’d always pace around, forget what he was saying mid sentence, sometimes even missing entire chunks of conversation. But now he’s staring at Jon with intensity, and Jon starts to squirm.

“I- I just-” he sighs. “I know how to quit this place.”

Chapter Text

Jon, Daisy, Basira, Melanie, and Gerry have crowded themself into the back of Turf’s Tavern. They barely fit around the table, and none of them makes any eye contact. Quietly, Daisy orders them all drinks. He’s pretty sure Melanie’s already drunk. Surprisingly, Gerry has managed to stay sober.

“So,” Basira starts, “has everyone here listened to the tape?”

“We all know how the fucking process works,” Melanie snaps back, “why should we need to listen to some guy detail how he did it?”

“I don’t even have the tape on me,” Jon cuts in, just to stop the argument from forming. Melanie just shifts her glare from Basira to him. “Anyway, that’s not the point of this. The point is... are we doing it?”

Daisy clenches her jaw. Jon looks at her, and he Knows what she’s thinking- If I quit, there’s nothing keeping me from the Hunt. Her chilling eyes meet his, and he nods. That’s... that’s fair enough. I mean, he doesn’t even know if he’s doing it, it’s not fair of him to drag her along.

Melanie knocks back her drink. Gerry’s staring at his like it’ll make him sick. Basira is silently judging all of them, and Jon wishes he could be anywhere else.

“I- if I may add-”

“Yeah, no,” Basira cuts him off. “This is bullshit. We have one tape that tells us that going blind will free us from this place, and we’re just going to- what, go along with that? Lose our sight forever? And if it doesn’t work, what then, Jon? Please, enlighten me.”

Silence.

“Have you even thought ahead to how you’ll do it? Hole puncher, a knife?”

“Acid,” Jon says quietly, but he won’t admit that he doesn’t know what kind he’ll use.

“And what will happen when you go to the A&E? What’re you going to tell them? They’ll hold you for self-injury in a psych ward for God knows how long. And then what happens when you get out? Will your grandmother take care of you? How will you explain this to her? If you avoid her, do you even have a job? School gets out in three weeks, do you have a place to live? How will you stay in your classes?”

Basira slams her fist on the table. Jon’s never seen her this worked up. “Like I said. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I can figure it out as I go.” Jon shoots back, but he has no argument prepared. He starts to tug at the hair on his neck. He hasn’t had the chance to cut it all year, and it’s now long enough to put in a small ponytail.

“Well,” Melanie says, “we all know I’m doing it.”

Daisy opens her mouth, but Basira cuts her off. “Absolutely not.”

“I was going to say I won’t,” she says softly, “but Melanie’s going to need a hand.”

Jon’s heart leaps in his chest. “I- I think I’m doing it, but I- I don’t have anywhere to go. I can’t- well- I can’t stay here. I just- I need somewhere to go, a-and probably someone to go with-”

Daisy nods. “I have an RV from back... before. It’s got canned food, a bed... cans of gas so that you won’t have to stop driving. I assume it’s Gerry you want to go with?”

Gerry snaps out of whatever trance he was in. “Sure. But I don’t- I’m not as close to the Eye as you people.”

Basira nods approvingly, and he starts tapping his fingers anxiously against the table. He’s hunched in on himself, exhausted, not used to functioning without the drugs. It takes all of Jon’s effort to keep from prying into his mind, to See what he’s thinking about. That’s probably the biggest sign that he should quit.

“I’d need a few days,” Gerry says. “I just need to make things right with my mom.”

Daisy, the only other one there who listened to the tape in full, exchanges a glance with Jon. He told her how he found out that Gerry had almost been charged with Mary’s murder almost three years ago, but he was still afraid of talking about it. It hadn’t seemed like too much of an issue.

“Last time you saw her, you disappeared for a week and then blew up a building.” Jon, unfortunately, has a habit of speaking without thinking.

“Yeah, well, that won’t happen this time,” he snaps.

“This is bullshit!” Basira repeats. “Daisy is doing fine, there’s no reason for you to do this!”

Daisy snickers and Basira ignores her.

“You guys are being ridiculous,” Melanie murmurs. “You’re advocating to stay a part of this? I thought you wanted to leave!”

Sasha, who has been silent this entire time, finally interjects. “Well, you can’t control these things from outside the system. We have more knowledge, and therefore more control, from inside this place. Besides, I want to finish my college degree.”

Gerry stares at her with a blank expression. “Ye dumb fuck, that is literally what the Eye is all about! That is the Eye talkin’! Screw them and screw you.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Oh, and this is when you call me a fascist and a sellout.”

“Tha’ is a fascist talkin’ point, actually-”

“Will you both shut up!” Melanie yells, and they all fall silent. “I’m doing it, and I don’t care who’s coming with me, because I’m going to move out with my fucking girlfriend and leave you all behind. Fuck you,” she says to Basira, then she turns to Daisy, “fuck you,” then to Sasha, “fuck you,” and then to Jon, “and especially fuck you, you bastard.” Then she calmly stands up, pushes her chair under the table, and walks out.

“Well, she worked on her anger issues, at least,” Daisy snarks. Gerry chokes down a laugh, and even Jon can appreciate the joke, even if it doesn’t break the tension.

“So.” Sasha takes a deep breath, collecting herself. “Are we waiting until school’s over? We have finals next week. I think the best course of action should be to finish the school year like normal and prepare everything meanwhile. I’ll cause some problems for Jonah, keep him distracted.”

Jon shakes his head. “He’s probably listening right now. It’s best to leave right away.”

Sasha clenches her jaw. She’s a logic-based person, like him, she won’t pretend he’s not right. “Fine. Will you leave tonight?”

Gerry nods. “That- that would probably be safest. We can drive by my mom’s.”

Sasha scribbles something down on a piece of paper. “I own a small plot of land in Ireland- family land, you know? You can stay back there, it’s just a farm we haven’t visited in years anyway. Gerry, does your mum live in London?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, she lives in Morden.”

Daisy points a finger at Gerry. “Don’t you even think about smoking in my RV.”

He raises his hands in the air. “I am completely sober right now.”

Daisy glares at him and passes her keys to Jon.

Basira sighs, taking a drink from her soda. “What I would give to drink alcohol  just to make you people more tolerable.”

“Oh, you love us,” Daisy says offhandedly, and even Jon notices how Basira visibly stiffens. Gerry clears his throat. “Are we leaving tonight?”

“I still think this is ridiculous,” Basira mutters, “for the record.”

“I think it’d be safest to leave now.”
Sasha deflates at Daisy’s words. “...yeah, you’re right.”

Daisy, Jon, and Gerry leave, Sasha orders more drinks and Basira puts her head down on the table. Jon’s heart skips a beat as he realises they’re really doing this, they’re really leaving- he has Daisy’s RV keys in his pocket and Gerry’s dialling his mum from the backseat. He’s going to melt his eyes out and separate from the Eye completely. He was going to be a college dropout- oh, god- maybe he should have thought this through beforehand.

As they drive into the night, Jon wonders what the fuck has become of his life.

—

Jon drums his fingers on the RV dashboard as he waits a block away from Pinhole Books for Gerry to return. He’s been parked here for an hour now- he’s almost tempted to go in there to see what’s going on, but Gerry had been so pale as he left. Whatever’s happening, it’s none of his business.

The Searching for a Former Clarity CD switches tracks, and the gravely yelling of Pretty Girls starts blaring through the speakers. The song just appears to be about having a crush on someone you know you’d never be able to be around, and it’s not really Jon’s type of music, but there’s one line that always feels like a punch to the gut.

You can pray all night and day

You’ll always wake the same person

In the same place

Jon understands that. Especially now, he imagines what college might have been like if his roommate hadn’t dragged him into a world of monsters and Fears

Gerry interrupts his brooding by slamming his body into the door before throwing it open. He doesn’t even bother buckling his seatbelt, and he aggressively clicks off the music. “Time to go,” he says, and Jon notices how horace his voice is.

He starts the engine up, keeping careful notes of how Gerry’s hands shake, even after he’s shoved them in his pockets. He’s even paler, and his eyes dart around the street as they drive south. His whole body is tense and he bounces his leg at unimaginable speed. As they pass a car that’s blaring music, his hands fly up to cover his ears and he rolls up into a ball.

Jon’s not sure what to do. Something’s obviously wrong, but he can’t fix it.

“Did something happen at Mary’s,” he asks quietly as they merge onto the motorway. The static silence feels painful.

“Shut up,” Gerry snaps, and they drive for the next half hour in complete silence.

Gerry’s still looking out the window as he says, “She was dealing wit’ a Lightner. There were, um. Several monsters in there. Vampires. One of ‘em got me.”

Jon resists the urge to vocally react and so he just nods, hoping Gerry will elaborate. He does not.

“Are you injured?”

Gerry groans. “Mildly. It’s only me arm, and I bandaged it up.” There’s a small bruise forming on his cheek, and it doesn’t look like it was from any kind of vampire Jon’s read about. “I’ll be fine.”

Jon frowns, moving lanes so they can get off. He’ll park in the gas station. He’s got a feeling Gerry’s downplaying whatever’s going on, and that’s not a conversation he wants to have while driving. Gerry grimaces, but he doesn’t complain.

“How deep is your cut?”

Gerry rolls up his sleeves to reveal a chunk of his bicep almost completely missing. It looks like it was torn off, the blood crusted around the edges. He winces as it’s exposed to the air, and Jon curses.

“I’ll be fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Daisy has a first aid kit on the shelf above the bed in the back,” Jon says as he heads back there.

The RV is very compact and small- only about 15 feet long, the entire bedroom is just a bed fit into the end with a wall and door cutting it off from the rest of it. There’s a small stove and counter crammed against the wall, shelves positioned directly above it. There’s a table next to a small window with two seats that remind Jon of a restaurant. The walls are the same bare, boring beige as the rest of the furniture.

He grabs the iodine and bandages, his stomach churning as he thinks about the idea of touching Gerry’s wounds.

Luckily, he grabs the first aid kit from Jon and works on it himself, spilling nothing and almost hastily wrapping his shoulder up. He still avoids Jon’s gaze.

“That doesn’t look like it’s from a vampire,” he points out the bruise still darkening on Gerry’s cheek.

“I fell and hit my head on the floor. We can go now, I’m fine.”

Jon knows Gerry won’t tell him what’s going on if he really doesn’t want to, so he starts the engine and merges back onto the motorway. Gerry has his jaw clenched and it looks like he’s not going to say another word for the rest of the night.

After about an hour of silence, he finally speaks up. “My ma still wants me to do some work fer ‘er. Nahthin’ that’ll, like, get in the way of living up in Ireland, but... y’know, she’s getting... old, she needs a ‘and from time to time ‘round de shop.”

Jon pauses. “I... I’m not sure how good of an idea that is.”

Gerry goes stiff, bracing himself against the door. “And why’s that?”

“I just...” Jon considers his next words very carefully. Gerry’s on full defence, his mom likely beat him earlier and that’s where the bruise on his face is from, and everyone’s emotions are high. “If we’re really gonna- I mean- Gerry, I’m going to be completely blind. Y- I’m not going to be able to look after myself in an RV in the middle of nowhere, Ireland-” he sighs. “This is probably a bad time.”

He grimaces. “Yeah, no shit.”

The guilt starts pooling in Jon’s stomach and he grips the steering wheel, forcing himself to focus on the road. This is fine. They can discuss this later.

—

The nine hour drive is worth it, Jon thinks, staring out the window. Gerry’s driving now and he’s supposed to be getting sleep, but every time he drifts off he sees a thousand eyes that strip him to his core and he wakes up sweating. He’s settled for watching the green hills roll by, and he wonders why the rest of the world isn’t like this.

Cows are roaming pretty free-range, a few houses littered every once in a while, and the sky is dark enough that he can see the stars. The countryside is beautiful in a completely different way than England is. Even when they enter Londonderry, there’s a complete difference in the way things are structured.

There’s so much more life around the houses and shops- the brick roads wind around in circles and it seems as if part of the town was just built around a lake. Jon has to adjust to the chattering sound of people.

Gerry pulls into a gas station, stretching. “I’ll run inside and get some snacks. Cahffee?”

“Tea will be fine, thanks,” Jon says, yawning. “And, um. I did some research into the... eye thing. I think hydrochloric acid, given its strength, will be best in this situation.”

“I don’t think we’d be able to buy that at a gas station,” Gerry smirks, and Jon forces a laugh. 

“Walmart, then?” he exhales, soothing his nerves. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour? I can do the groceries and stuff.”
He rubs his red eyes. “I’ll see if I can catch any sleep.”

Jon nods awkwardly, not sure how to end the conversation, so he balls his hands into fists and fidgets with them as he walks away to try and stuff down the worms in his stomach. He’s only walking for about fifteen minutes before he finds a Walmart.

It’s fairly empty for a Sunday, and the isles are surprisingly quiet. Jon can hear the fluorescent lights and he forces himself to take a steadying breath.

In a section in the back, he finds a small bottle the size of his hand labelled hydrochloric acid for 24 pounds. It’s wedged in between saline solution and iodine.

Just in case, he grabs a bunch more gauze and some whiskey. He guesses that anaesthetic is illegal to sell over-the-counter in Ireland. It would be just his luck, right?

Lost in thought, he walks almost directly into a woman carrying a bag full of kids' toys. He stops to apologise to her and help pick up all that he dropped before he notices.

He opens his mouth, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even thinks about them. “What happened in the summer of 2002?”

Eyes wide, the woman stops picking up her items and answers him like they were already in the middle of a conversation. “My mum and I went on a camping trip. We hadn’t been seeing each other often, and we thought this might be fun, just to spend some time together. I never would have guessed it went the way it did. We ended up-

The pit of Jon’s stomach drops. “No, I- I didn’t- stop talking-“

Tears well in her eyes as she drops to a halt and scrambles to pick her things up, and Jon rushes over to the checkout.

His palms sweat as the cashier looks over his items, and he throws a candy bar on the register and meets her eyes for a smile. He forces his hands to lie still at his side and calmly collects the bag. He saw an outdoor market just down the way, he can get some canned food or something down there.

He’s never actually had to feed himself before like this. He just went to the cafeteria all year, he’s not sure how this is supposed to work or what he actually needs. He just starts throwing things in a bag- apples, canned beans, a bag of bread, tea, crisps, a brick of cheese, and some crackers. Daisy had some canned peaches inside the RV, and Gerry said he was getting junk food.

He procrastinates as much as he can before heading back inside the RV. It’s only been half an hour.

Gerry’s curled up in the passenger seat, snoring away. His hair is ratty, tied up in a loose ponytail, his ripped black jeans are dirty and he’s drowning in an oversized band tee. There’s a still-warm blunt hidden in the car door. The bags under his eyes are almost as dark as the bruise on his face and in the moment, he looks quite small and fragile. Jon smiles and tries to get the groceries in the car as quietly as possible.

The instant the engine is turned on, Gerry startles, bolting upright and whacking his head on the ceiling. He looks frantic until he lays his eyes on Jon, and then he relaxes back into his seat, checking his seatbelt.

“So,” Gerry clears his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans repetitively, “to Sasha’s rich-person estate?”

“She said it was a farm,” Jon corrects,

“And that her family hadn’t used it in years.”

“Yeah, rich people stuff.”

Jon rolls his eyes, using Gerry’s phone to open up Google Maps, as his phone doesn’t have the data. “So Sasha said we were out in... Gortacurrig- don’t laugh at me-”

“I’m sorrey,” Gerry giggles, “The Einglish aer jest so funny. Your wee accents just crack me up.”

“I feel marginalised,” Jon says bitterly, biting back a smile and trying to focus on the road.

Gerry snorts. “Good! Dis is reparations.”

Jon shakes his head. “I’m Black, this is hardly reparations.”

He barks out a laugh and flips through his cassette deck, settling on Transgender Dysphoria Blues.”

“Is that, like, the only band you listen to?” Jon gestures to the stacks of cassettes in the glove box, all marked Against Me! on the side.

They’ve got fantastically bright covers- Reinventing Axl Rose in its anarchist style red, white, and black, Crime as told by Against Me! and Searching for a Former Clarity in the muted greys that stand out somehow, White Crosses’s burning naked lady cover is in the same shades as the first album, and then the pound of flesh on the blueish-white cover of Transgender Dysphoria Blues. He’s recorded every interview, every live show that he could find on Youtube on a spare cassette and a singular CD.

“I listen to some ot’er stuff...” Gerry trails off. “The Clash, the Dead Kennedys, Metallica, the Sex Pistols, Crass, My Chemical Romance, Tom Petty, the Misfits...”

“Yeah, but you don’t, like, carry those cassettes around with you religiously. I’m just curious, I suppose.”

He blows stray hair off his face. Jon forces himself to stop staring. “I mean... I was into deir stuff when dey first started putting it out. I found da 2001 EP on CD in a random record shop when I was 14, shortly before White Crosses was released, and then I immediately went to find the rest of their stuff online. I loved... I loved Searching for a Former Clarity and The Ocean, her two transgender songs, and I didn’t know why. There were a couple nights... well, ‘er music basically got me through Secondary School.

Dat’s when Transgender Dysphoria Blues was released- I’d already seen the Rolling Stones article where she came out, and it was the same year I did, which was a funny coincidence. ’er music... I don’t know. It made me feel connected to the rest o‘ the world in a way that was hard to do when your entire life has been centred around hunting and studying monster books since you were a kid.”

Jon has to admit he doesn’t know what that’s like. Georgie was the only thing that helped him feel human, and now... he couldn’t relate to anyone, not even her. But she made him feel valued and loved. She made him feel real. And now he has nothing like that. He can understand how music was safer than real people.

Gerry fidgets with his piercings. “Plus, like, deir shit’s really good. It’s full of anarchist politics but it’s, like, also critical o’ de punk scene at the same time. I’ll play you I Was A Teenage Anarchist some time, because dat really sums up stuff.”

Jon nods. Before he can launch into a rant about the philosophy of Mikhail Bakunin, the founding father of anarchism, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He fumbles for it and doesn’t even check before picking up.

“Hey.” Sasha’s voice is echo-y and hollow, and the static is thick. “How’s the drive going?”

“Uh, we just left Londonderry.”

“Oh, fer Christ’s sake, Jon, it’s jest Derry,” he interjects, and Jon hushes him.

“Good, good.” Sasha sounds distracted.

“Hey, so, Jon... did you ever find anything under the Archives that definitely aren’t the Archives?”

Jon furrows his brow. “Um, no. I-is something happening?” “No, no! No reason.”

“...It sounds like there’s a reason, Sasha.”

“Yeah, well.” She pauses. “I’m lost under the Archives. I found some tunnels. And... I don’t know. There’s signal down here, but Daisy never checks her phone and Basira’s taking her finals right now.”

“U-under the Archives? Gerry, did you know about this?”

He blinks. “Um. About what?”

“Tunnels, tunnels under the Archives.”

“Oh. Um. Dey weren’t really... relevant?” He cringes. “The old woman- Gertrude- wanted dem to be a secret, and I’m in da habit o’ following her rules. Still.”

“OK, Jon, if Gerry knows about this, pass the phone to him.”

“No, no, I- I can See something, probably-” As he tries, a headache hits him like a brick. All he gets is the vague imprint of a map that fades almost as soon as it comes. With a grumbling sigh, he passes the phone to Gerry.

“OK,” Gerry starts, “describe your location, or... summat?” He rubs his eyes and yawns.

“Are you high right now?” Sasha doesn’t even wait for an answer. “They’re tunnels, Gerry. They all look the same.”

“OK...” He rests his head against the dashboard and sets the phone on the armrest, putting it on speaker. “Do you remember ‘ow many turns ye took? Like... when yeh entered?”

“Um... I headed north of the Institute, took a few rights before realising I was probably going in a circle and then took a right... I found some stairs, but I ignored those-”

“And please tell me why you can’t jest retrace yer steps?”

“Oh, gee, I never thought of that.”

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles. “Jest...” he rubs his eyes again, and they aren’t getting any less red. “Jest pick a direction that feels right and go dat way. Go right, go left. Mark each turn you take wit’... chalk, er sommat.”

“Do you think I just carry chalk with me everywhere?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan, and Jon can’t tell if he’s joking.

Sasha sighs, obviously exasperated, and he can hear her stomping footsteps echo through the tunnels. He has the strong urge to turn this van around and speed down the motorway. Not to get Sasha, but to explore and learn everything about this strange place he can’t see. He tries to focus on the rolling hills and the sun in the distance, keeping his senses rooted right where he is.

It doesn’t stop the Eye from feeding him strings and strings of Wikipedia-like paragraphs on the architecture of Robert Smirke, a professor at Oxford who teaches the same structures that can manipulate the Entities. It also tells him there’s still several slots open for the class.

His vision starts to swim so he hurries to pull over on the side of the road, almost crashing down the slope.

“Can you drive,” He asks tightly, gripping the steering wheel with all his might.

Gerry shakes his head. “I’m too high.”

“Jesus,” Sasha says, exasperated.

Jon sighs. “We... we can stop for the night. We’ve been driving for nearly ten hours, anyway.”

“Ten hours? No, you guys literally just left and then I found the tunnels. It’s been an hour at most.”

Gerry cringes. “Yeah, time is weird down dhere. Yeh... ye might want to get out quickly.”

Sasha curses him out and Jon clunks his head against the dashboard. This week literally could not get shittier(just in case that jinxed it, he knocks against the wooden shift).

Gerry offers to stay on the phone with Sasha until she finds her way out of the tunnels so Jon can catch some sleep. A part of him wants to insist on staying, keeping him company, but he can hardly muster the energy to stand.

The bed in the very back of the trailer is soft and his joints ache as he sinks into it. It’s impossible to find a position that doesn’t make his spine ache, and whenever he relaxes, a headache begins to pulse against his head. He can hear Gerry talking softly to Sasha for god knows how long in the background, and the sound only provides some comfort.

As he’s listening to Gerry laugh softly at one of Sasha’s dry jokes, it just then hits him that he and Gerry are going to be living together for the foreseeable future. In an RV. In Middle-of-Nowhere, Ireland. Where Jon will be blinding himself and live entirely dependent on Gerry to look after him.

He curls into a ball, clutching his stomach as his vision swims from the heat.

Maybe this was stupid. It was probably stupid. It was definitely stupid. He- he was supposed to help Gerry with his addiction- Jesus, how is a junkie supposed to look after him?

After tossing and turning with anxiety for likely an hour, Jon feels around in the dark for the shelf where he stored the first aid supplies. His fist closes around a bottle of whiskey and he doesn’t even think before gulping down some.

As a familiar blanket of fuzzy thinking begins to settle over him, Jon positions himself on his side and closes his eyes.

Hopefully this will starve off the nightmares and he’ll be able to stop overthinking.

But as he drifts off, the first thing he sees is Melanie, who is dreaming of stabbing herself in the eyes. And he watches as it doesn’t work, again and again and again.

—

When Jon wakes up, the RV is moving and there’s sunlight seeping through the curtains that cut the bed off from the rest of the RV, making it a makeshift bedroom. Terrified of being slammed into the wall or hitting his head, Jon scrambles out of bed and holds on to the counters for dear life as he makes his way to the passenger seat.

“There is no way this is legal,” Jon says, rolling down the window to get the smoke out. It smells like nicotine and tar, thank god, and not anything else.

Gerry shrugs. “No cops live ‘round dis place, and dey don’t really care anyway, de bastards.”

Jon buckles his seatbelt and turns the AC up to the max. “We need to install a full cooling system in here.”

He shrugs. “It was fine.”

Jon Knows that he sleeps by doing as much drugs as his body can take, so he ignores Gerry’s opinion.

“So,” Gerry exhales, “Daisy found the trapdoor open and found Sasha by around three AM. She wasn’t too far from the exit. According to Sasha, the tunnels changed towards the beginning, but she was kinda delirious by then.”

Jon glanced at the clock. “Did you sleep at all?”

He sat in the driver's seat smoking until the sun came up, the Eye informs him. Jon sighs.

Gerry glanced at him. “Don’t look in my head,” he snaps, and Jon shrinks into himself.

“I can’t help it,” he says, sounding pathetic even to himself.

“Well, then deal with it.” His hands are tense on the steering wheel.

They drive the next half hour in silence.
Eventually, there’s a split in the gravel road with a sign with the address that Sasha gave Jon and Gerry turns in with a grim smile. Every turn of the wheel reminds Jon that he’s a few seconds closer to blinding himself and he contemplates stopping the car to get out and vomit on the side of the road.
Sasha was making an understatement when she said it was a small farmhouse.

Attached to a wooden structure that looks like a shed, Jon assumes it’s the farm, is a two-story cottage-style home with the structures of an untended garden in the front, under fifty yards behind it the border of a forest.

“Holy fecking shit,” Gerry murmurs. “Small farmhouse, my arse. We took Daisy’s RV for nothin’!”

“I’m calling Sasha, she probably got the wrong address,” Jon murmurs. “This is ridiculous.”

She picks up almost right away. “Jon! Great to hear from you. I had a question about one Statement you never followed up on-”

“Sasha, it’s finals week, don’t-” he sighs. “Irrelevant. Are you sure you gave me the right address?”

She repeats it back to him and he checks the napkin in his pocket, and damn, there it is. He shakes his head. “Sasha, there is no way in hell-”

“Well, it’s a little small, but you don’t have to sound like that-”

“Sasha, this is an entire house! Not- not- God, do you own this?”

“It’s a summer home,” she says guiltily.

“I’m about to start playin’ oppression Olympics,” Gerry mutters, shutting off the engine aggressively. “No way in hell you’re gonna act like this is a normal thing for a 19-year-old to own. I bet it comes from votin’ Tory.”

“I do not vote Tory, Gerry. My family may be wealthy, but I have morals.”

“No such t’ing,” Gerry fires back.

“If you two could stop it with the class war for one second, I’d like to know where the keys are.”

“Mailbox.”

Gerry shakes his head. “De audacity to keep de keys to your house-”

Jon has to shush him before his headache becomes unbearable, and the two make their way up to the house's entrance. The walls are a pale and popcorned plaster, the door made of a dark wood that creaks when Gerry opens it.

Jon can see the dust shifting through the air as they enter. It’s stale and dim, the lightbulbs dangling bare from the ceiling and the countertops empty. It looks nothing like somewhere Sasha would live.

“Everything alright, you made it inside OK?”

“Uh, yeah- yeah. It’s all good. I’ll call you later.” He hangs up before she and Gerry can start going at it again, exhaling heavily. He doesn’t have the strength to get the bags, but it’s worth collapsing if he can escape this awkward silence for a few minutes.

He finds a bedroom on the first floor and realises that’s lucky- when he’s blind, stairs would be a struggle, especially right away.

Stomach churning, he sits down on the bare mattress and slumps against the wall. Upstairs, Gerry’s unpacking into his own bedroom and his cassette player is already blasting Maimi, the gruesome lyrics loud enough that Jon can decipher them.

And it's rotting your teeth right out of your head

Sight and hearing quickly faded

Your gut's expanding, your hairline's receding

The sores are opening and the cancer's spreading

And the antibiotics aren't working

All the drugs just strangely sobering

And the skeletons in your closet

Have opened the door and they started talking

Jon feels like his body is trying to kill him often. When he’s not dizzy and nearly passing out, his joints ache and his scars burn and when he closes his eyes, he can still feel the worms crawling inside his skin, ripping through tissue and burrowing deep.

And now he has to mutilate his eyeballs beyond the point of recovery, voluntarily.

Now that he's sitting here, a stolen quiet moment for the first time forever, the weight of it is more than pressing. He feels so detached from everything. Whatever he is, it isn’t human, he knows that. And he knows that he has no future like this.

If a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? If Jon is detached from the rest of the world, does he count as a part of it?

—

“You can stop laughing,” Jon says indignantly, “it’s not that bad.”

“Then you explain to me ‘ow to make dinner wit’ cans a’ beans, cheese, and bread!”

“Have the Irish not heard of beans and toast?”

Gerry tips his head back as he laughs, discarding the plastic bag of food on the counter. The dim sunlight hits his piercings through the windows and Jon feels his stomach squirm strangely. “We’re ordering a pizza.”

He rolls his eyes. There’s no kitchen table, so they dragged a coffee table in front of the couch and plugged in an old TV that Gerry found in a closet. There’s only a few channels that play with clarity, but it does take DVDs. Gerry stacked a bunch that he burned himself off Youtube(all interviews with Laura Jane Grace, Against Me! live shows, and a copy of Paris is Burning) and Jon supposes that’s going to be his only source of entertainment for the next... forever, really.

“Are there even any pizza places within, like, the nearest ten miles?” Gerry shrugs, searching on his phone.

When the pizza gets here, they watch the news and Gerry stretches out on the couch, yawning. They’re both exhausted, the light is dim, and the conversation is casual and Gerry manages to avoid politics and Jon thinks he could get used to this.

And then Gerry grimaces. “So. Ye got the acid?”

“Erm, yeah. Thirty pounds for the eight ounces. It’s one of the most damaging and destructive ones out there. On the bottle it says keep away from eyes...”

Gerry waves his point away. “Yeah, yeah, but, like... how are we doing it? What’s the plan?”

Jon curls into a ball in the corner of the couch. “I guess...” he hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. “We should- we should wait a bit. Make, um... make connections in the town, and... stuff. I mean, I’m not too familiar with the Irish healthcare system, I assume it’s like the NHS-”

“I was in dhere enough as a kid, I know enough. They’ll cover everything “essential”. The healthcare, or whatever, isn’t the issue. But what’s de plan?”

“Can you really plan for these things? I mean, we can plot out every little detail all we want but there will always be something we missed. We aren’t gods, you know. You of all people understand that all the knowledge in the world doesn’t mean things can’t go wrong.”

Gerry grumbles under his breath and Jon can’t do anything to stop his pounding heart. He doesn’t want to talk or think about this, he just wants to do it and get it over with.

“I, um.” He swallows, but his mouth is dry. “I’m going to be pretty incapacitated after this.” Gerry nods, tapping his fingers restlessly against the chair’s arm.

“I... I’m going to need a lot of help. Getting around and being driven to places and like. Just in general.”

“Duh.”

“I... don’t think you can do that if you’re not, um. Sober.”

Gerry tenses on the couch. “I told ye dat I’m fine.”

“Listen, man, I- I’m not trying to attack you but my life is quite literally in your hands. I don’t- I don’t want you to be doing heroin while I’m melting my eyes out, you know?” He wrings his hands out in his lap, cracking his knuckles repeatedly. It does nothing to soothe his nerves.

Gerry bristles, running a hand through his hair. “So I ‘ave to come to terms with my fecking child abuse and drug problem, but ye don’t have to handle the fact that ye’re autistic?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Ye want so badly to be one of the normal ones ye have no clue how many fucking accommodations ye’re gonna need. Do ye know what it’s like to be autistic in a hospital? Yeh avoid that place like de plague, and ye’re goin’ to be spending at least a week in dat fecking place, being monitored by nurses all the damn time.”

“Gerry, I’m going to be fine,” he says firmly.

“Bullshit,” Gerry snaps, and he storms up the stairs and leaves Jon to sit in the living room, a sinking feeling in his chest. Maybe this was a bad idea.

—

That night, Jon can’t sleep; he left the whiskey locked in the RV and Gerry has the keys. He lies on his back for an hour, staring at the ceiling. Annoyingly, Up the Cuts plays through his head, which makes him think about Gerry.

Jon knows he doesn’t tend to deal with his emotions. But when he has nothing else to put his mind to, he can’t help but drift there.

He likes him. He knows this. It makes sense- he feels like he did around Georgie, but obviously, it's... different. He can’t put his finger on what it is. Perhaps it’s that he depends on Gerry for his life constantly. That must be it.

He doesn’t know how this is supposed to go. Georgie initiated everything- she asked him out, she kissed him, she told him that he was her boyfriend and she was her girlfriend and they were in love. She initiated every thought that Jon was too afraid to announce, and she looked after him.

Maybe he’s been trying to do the same for Gerry, but he’s just really bad at taking care of people. He is trying, but Gerry seems adamant about fighting any type of recovery. Which Jon certainly understands.

Gerry thinks he’s autistic, and he may very well be right. But if he has a disorder of social deficit, then there’s no way Gerry feels anything other than obligation for him. The last thing he wants to be is a burden.

So after hours of lying in bed, tortured by his own thoughts, Jon finally rises unsteadily and makes his way into the kitchen. His bare feet are cold against the kitchen floor, which he’s grateful for.
He pushes through the unsteadiness and takes Gerry’s pack of cigarettes out of the empty silverware drawer.

There’s a swinging bench on the back porch that sways lightly in the wind. Irelend’s almost as muggy out as London, although there’s less of a chill to the fog. It rolls over the pine tree forest like a blanket, the stars so much brighter than they are in the city. For some reason, a line from Jan Kilbride’s statement plays through his head. Like an ant shaking its fist at a god.

It was daft, really. He’d never been much of an existentialist, but...

It was hard to comprehend. As he lights a cigarette he wonders, what were the odds that all this happened exactly as it did? It had to be an incredible chance of... luck? No. This wasn’t luck. Mal-luck, perhaps.

But even though this strange hell, it will end someday. He and everyone who lived through this would be buried 6 feet deep and it would be as if this never happened.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, smoking and contemplating the works of Jean Paule-Satre, but at some point, the sun begins to rise over the smoky horizon. He doesn’t hear the door creaking open behind him and it’s not until Gerry sits down quietly on the bench that Jon startles.

Gerry’s nimble fingers swipe the last cigarette from the pack. He fidgets with it in his mouth before finally lighting it. He looks like hell, more than usual- he looks unslept and his hair is ratty, not in a goth fashion but as if he went to sleep with it wet. He looks malnourished, drowning in a black Adidas hoodie and a pair of gym shorts.

He smokes the whole thing before emptying the ash out onto the concrete floor. Jon glances at him before looking away, afraid of being the one to break the silence.

“Dhere’s a therapy practice about t’irty minutes from ‘ere,” he says finally. “I’ll... I’ll go. But you ‘ave to go, too.”

Jon sighs, relieved. This is progress. He doesn’t like the sound of therapy, but if it’ll get Gerry help...

“Sure. Beans and toast for breakfast?”

Gerry makes a face, and Jon knows things are back to normal.

Chapter Text

That morning on her way down to the Archives, Sasha bumps into Melanie. She puts on a friendly smile and holds out one of the teas in her hand. Melanie declines, running a hand through her blue hair.

Sasha clears her throat, avoiding Melanie's gaze. "Today's the day?"

She nods, jaw clenched. "I'm going to the bathroom. I need you to call me an ambulance if you don't see me within the next ten minutes."

Heart pounding, Sasha grunts her acknowledgement and Melanie walks past her and into the storage closet that she's claimed as her "office". In the room where they all do their work, Daisy is reading one of Basira's books in the corner, one hand on the landline that's pre-dialled 999.

Basira herself is nowhere to be found, probably out somewhere following up a statement or hunting down avatars.

Daisy avoids her gaze, so Sasha sits down at her desk and loads up her computer. There are no new emails in her inbox besides one from "Elias Bouchard".

She glances at the clock. 30 seconds have passed since she's talked to Melanie. She might as well pass the time rather than sit and be anxious.

Subject: Work Efficiency

Proff. Elias Bouchard <[email protected]>

6:37 AM (43 minutes ago)

to Sasha James, Alice Tonner, Ghost King > :P, Basira Hussain

Good afternoon, Sasha, Daisy, Melanie and Basira. I feel I should inform you: in light of Jon's absence, you are expected to keep working at the same pace as if he were here. As I plan on moving to a new location off campus, we'll need to transfer the Archives over and continue to organise them as we do so, as well as follow up on statements. Sasha shall take over as Head Archivistsince she has the most experience. We're considering adding a library as well- Basira, I you know a lot about shelving systems, correct? When you get back from your trip, I'd like for you to get on that immediately. Daisy, keep doing what you're doing. Melanie, please stop getting in everyone's way and work on organising Gertrude's mess of a library.

All the best,

Jonah

Sasha purses her lips, trying not to laugh at the last line. It's most certainly not funny.

She checks the clock. Barely a minute has passed.

"Hey, Daisy," she calls, "whatcha ya reading?"

"Jack Halberstam on Female Masculinity." She doesn't even look up from her book.

Trying to get a conversation going, Sasha tries, "So what's it about?"

"’Xactly what it says on the tin."

She taps her fingers on Jon's- her- desk impatiently. Lovely. She'll just have to wait, then. Follow up on some Statements? For some reason, that idea just makes her even more anxious.

She checks her phone for any messages from Jon or Gerry. She sighs with relief to see she has one message to reply to, from the other night.

Gerry

jon is making me go to fucking therapy. save me.

Sasha

This is probably good for you, actually.

He responds almost instantly.

Gerry

not you too

i actually just left my first appointment

it was

fine.

Sasha

Fine?

Gerry

you cant force me to elaborate sasha

Sasha

I'll tell Jonah where you are

Gerry

the bitch probably already knows

i have patient confidentiality or whatever the fuck that means

why don't you go harass jon about HIS therapy appointment

Sasha

Jon's in therapy?

Gerry

i would only go on the condition that he went too

ididnt think he'd agree to it tbh

Sasha

harassing him about it now

"Daisy, did you know both Jon and Gerry have finally gotten therapy?"

Daisy snorts. "No fucking way."

"They both roped each other into it by accident."

"I don't believe you," she says, putting down her book to pick up her phone. 'I'm harassing them about it right now."

From somewhere down the hall, there's a strangled yell as something metal crashes to the floor.

Sasha reaches for her phone, prepared to dial 999.

"That's only one eye, probably,” Daisy says, her shoulders tense. "We have to wait for her to do the other."

Sasha closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe. "I hate this."

"I know," Daisy says softly. "Do you want me to tell you about my book? As a distraction?"

She shakes her head, forcing her jaw to unclench. "It'll only be a minute. We- we can just wait."

"God fucking damnit,” Melanie roars from down the wall, and something shatters, presumably a mirror that she punched.

Daisy immediately picks up the phone pre dialled 999. Her voice doesn't even shake. "Hello? We have an emergency at Oxford University.'

—

Jon waits in the therapist's waiting room through Gerry's whole appointment. It's absolutely nerve-wracking- all he can hear is the white noise machine, and he Knows they're talking about important things in there, and it's taking all his physical strength not to Look inside.

The time feels like it should be passing painstakingly slowly, but he basically blinks and Gerry's walking out the door, hands shoved in pockets and eyes red with exhaustion. He looks like he hasn't slept or eaten in days, and Jon's heart pains to see him like this.

He rises out of his seat, awkwardly fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Gerry's therapist- their therapist, he supposes- looks nothing like he expected her to. She's a young white woman maybe in her 30s with a friendly face and a pair of square glasses. She's taller than he is, as everyone is, and she smiles at him.

"I'm, uh, Gerry's roommate." He supposes the term is still technically correct, even if they don't live in a dorm together anymore. "And his ride, given I have the keys, which is why I'm here.' He forces himself not to cringe at his words.

Dr. Laverne shakes his hand. "Jon Sims, yeah? I have an appointment with you Wednesday?" He nods curtly, fixing his posture and tries to make it appear as if he didn't just flee his home country and book this appointment in the rush of the moment.

She smiles. "Well, looks like I'll be seeing you then. Gerry, same time next week?"

Gerry doesn't meet her eyes. "Yeah, dis is covered by teh HSE, right?"

"Completely covered."

He exhales. "Great. Yeah. Perfect."

Neither of them speaks as they start up the RV, Gerry getting in the driver's seat. Normally, Jon would protest, but he said he'd be working on getting sober. It just takes a bit of faith, which could get them into a car crash. Jon closes his eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. He needs to eat something salty. It can wait until they get back to Sasha's house.

Gerry glances at him. "Dere's a Burger King round 'ere. Deir stuff's high in sodium, right?" Something in his chest aches.

"I'm thinking about going vegetarian, actually. For my health." He already feels like he's dying, no need to make it worse.

"Dey 'ave a mushroom-burger thing. No clue if it's good, but 'ey, food is food, right?"

“Meat is Meat," Jon quotes dryly, and Gerry chuckles. The RV falls silent once again.

Gerry pulls into the Burger King parking lot and parks, checking his pockets for his wallet. Jon still has his forehead pressed against the dashboard, and Gerry lightly touches his shoulder. "I'm goin' teh go get ye a veggie burger so ye don't pass out. When was teh last time ye ate?"

Jon rubs his forehead. "This morning?"

Gerry gives him A Look and he knows they're going to talk about this later.

“I forgot, today was kind of busy." He also hasn't read a Statement in a while, but if Gerry's quitting drugs then he can quit the Eye.

He shuts the car door gently and Jon's left with his own thoughts. He sinks back into the car chair, burying his face in his hands.

He can recognize what this is. The comfort with physical contact, every comment or question making him freeze, butterflies in his stomach every time Gerry touches him, the strong desire to look out for him. He feels the same way he did when he was 14 years old and Georgie asked him if he liked gins at all.

He's so absolutely fucked.

—

In his dream, and he knows it's a dream because it's filled with more horrors than Jon thinks physically possible, he's watching everyone at the Institute. It's an institute now, he knows, because Jonah's bought an actual location and marked it as an actual business open for profit.

Sasha's body is gutted out on the floor, rendered completely unrecognisable. Her face has been mauled, her hair is drowned in blood and gore, her bones crushed and visible on the floor. The only thing that marks her as Sasha is her bright yellow sweater that's stained with a pool of red.

Jon recognizes the mauled and bloodied fur that's splattered against the wall as Daisy. She looks like someone beat her to death with a spiky hammer. The head, which is still intact as if someone intends to mount it on the wall, is a larger-than-life wolf with pale blue eyes.

Basira was sitting at her desk when whatever-it-was got to her, her head severed from her body and fallen on the floor. Her hijab is still secured on her head. Whatever this monster is, apparently it's not islamophobic. It looks like a claw dug its way into her stomach and spilled her guts across the desk, smearing it across files and rendering them unreadable.

He can't see Melanie anywhere.

The first thought in his mind is maybe she perpetuated this. She'd already been partial to the Slaughter, maybe this... maybe this is her doing?

He wanders down the halls, slightly frantically as he sees drops of blood leading into the bathroom. He wonders whose body he'll find.

He doesn't expect it to be Melanie. She's slumped against the sink, leaning against the mirror.

Besides the drops of blood splattered at her feet, she looks completely intact.

Jon wanders up to her, cautiously touching her shoulder. He was surprised enough to learn he could move, and finds himself even more surprised when his hand lands on her solid shoulder.

" Melanie?"

He peers to look at her face, which is mostly shadowed by her blue hair, and he jolts as he realises her eyeballs have been plucked out and are hanging by bloody tendons from her eyes.

—

Jon doesn't bolt upwards or wake up shaking and in a cold sweat. His eyes just open and he becomes aware of how dry his throat is and how weak his limbs feel.

He stumbles out of bed and over to grab his glasses and his phone, blinking rapidly as the blue light illuminates the dark room. He doesn't like how alone he feels. He's used to sharing a room with Gerry, who sometimes crawled into his bed when he had nightmares. Being practically alone in this house is a strange sensation.

The clock reads 3:14 AM. He sighs and dials up Sasha as he makes his way into the kitchen, sitting himself down at the table.

"Welcome home, cheater," she greets him.

"What?"

"You haven't seen that meme? Nevermind. What's up?" Her voice crackles over his phone to the point where he can hardly make out what she's saying. Jesus, the reception is terrible here.

"Sasha, it's three in the morning."

"You called me!"

He sighs. "Fair point."

"So."

"I don't know," He snaps, suddenly lightheaded. Everything hurts. "I just want company."

He can see her raising her eyebrows in his head. "Sure. Well, lucky for you, I just finished up a statement and I think I'm about to head home for the night."

"Workaholic."

“Hypocrite.”

He clicks his tongue, feeling a little more relaxed just having heard her voice. "Read anything interesting?"

"Just the usual... some old guy thought he was going insane because every night something invisible would try to break into his room. Probably the Spiral."

"Definitely the Spiral. Uh, Paul Mackenzie, right? His son has a statement somewhere, I think his name is Marcus?"

"Yeah, that's the one I'm following up on. Figured I'd look over his father's file. Jesus, their family's a mess, isn't it?"

Jon snorts. As if he's one to judge.

They sit in the call in silence for a moment, and then Sasha sighs. He can almost picture her-slumped at the desk, hair ruffled and glasses crooked as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

“I need to go to bed so that Daisy can shut off these lights. She's waiting for me to be done in another room. Goodnight, Jon.”

"Goodnight, Sasha," he says softly, and slumps onto the table as she hangs up.

Realistically, he could wake Gerry for company. He probably wouldn't mind. In fact, he's probably awake anyway!

He stays rooted at the table, sighing at himself. He feels shaky, like he was running purely on caffeine and insomnia, but in such a way that he could hardly stand without feeling as if the world was about to fall beneath him.

He sits there at that table, forcing his breathing to go steady. He stays there like that until about six in the morning, when the sun starts to rise over the hills and stream in through the kitchen windows. Gerry's likely still asleep, but he turns the stove on and searches their barren fridge anyway.

Is grilled cheese a breakfast food? It's all he knows how to make out of this. They should go into town today, stock up on some things.

There feels like there should be so much more to do to prepare for the blinding. His list currently involves groceries, gas, and perhaps a functioning house phone that doesn't require data to make calls.

This all feels so mundane. He's stranded in the middle of nowhere, Ireland, cooking grilled cheese for his crush, who is asleep in the upstairs bedroom. He shakes his head in disbelief.

—

Gerry's practically bouncing with excitement when Jon finally sighs and agrees to get in the car with him. Gerry's been shaky all morning, his eyes unfocused and he had a bit of a fever when he woke up, but it's faded by now. He looks like absolute hell- pink cheeks, red eyes, a hungry look on his face. He stood like a tree in a storm, wobbly and as if he would fall over at any second. Jon was worried about him, but he managed to keep a cheerful face. Or maybe he was just excited to go into town.

Jon elects to be the one to drive, forcing a complaining Gerry into the driver's seat. The drive in is pleasant enough- neither one of them snaps at the other and they even exchange pleasant conversation. Gerry plays Crime as Forgiven by Against Me!, but decides that it spoils the lovely afternoon(which is a decision Jon has to laugh at, it's one of their tamer albums) and shuts it off.

The small town doesn't have a tourist centre, Jon's not even sure it's on any maps, so he and Gerry wander the streets, looking for things to do. They pass a Piggly Wiggly and Jon insists that they should spend their energy somewhere else first, just so that he doesn't have to carry bags around all day.

At some point, Gerry points out a peeling wooden sign and bolts towards it, his only words being, "this place looks so fucking cool, lets go."

Jon sighs and tucks away a private smile, walking at a normal pace. As he gets closer, he sees that the sign reads The Toadstool. Gerry's grinning like a maniac as he heads towards the vinyl and CD section, his hands fluttering as he ghosts over each one. "Jon," he calls over, "They have Radiohead and the Clash!"

"I have no idea who that is, but they sound cool." Jon is a big Radiohead fan, but he'd rather die than admit that to Gerry.

He walks over to a small shelf full of books tucked away in the corner of the thrift shop, eyes catching on a few titles he finds intriguing. He's always enjoyed going to thrift stores, looking through their inventories, his fingers skimming over the glassware and over the textured fabrics of the furniture. It passed the time.

This one has some nice china, a few plates with prints of 1920's England landscapes, tea cups with gold handels, cast iron kettles that Jon would have gotten if Sasha's didn't already have some at the house. He carries around some sectioned plates, the kind made for kids, so that his food doesn't have to touch.

He finds his way over to Gerry, whose clutching an acoustic guitar with light in his eyes. “Dude, look at this.”

Jon's only a little flustered- Gerry's very cute when he's excited, he's beginning to realise. His eyes dart across the room, never resting in one place, his hair is frizzy and unbrushed, his black chipped nail polish matching the colour of the guitar. "Neat," is all he can think of to say.

"Yeah, and it's only 20 pounds. What'd you get?"

Jon shows him the separated plates. "Did you find any records?"

Gerry talks so fast he can hardly keep up. 'I left my collection at my mom's house, but they had a bunch of things I didn't- Radiohead's Hail to the Theif, Crass's Penis Envy, the Sex Pistol's Nevermind the Bollocks, but they're fucking sellouts so I'm not gonna get that, the Misfits' Legacy of Brutality, Rancid's And Out Come The Wolves, Siouxise and the Banchees's Love in a Void... lots of good shit. But Sasha doesn't have a record player and there's no point in spending hundreds of pounds on a collection ye don't play."

Jon nods, as if he understands a word he's saying. "You should definitely get the guitar, then."

"Oh, I plan on it." Gerry strums a few chords before carrying it by its neck over to the checkout.

The old woman looks him up and down, and Jon feels himself squaring his shoulders and trying to make himself look tall. Next to Gerry, it's a futile effort. He prepares himself for questions, for odd comments and sneers

Instead, she says in a thick Irish accent, "Aer ye new in town?"

Jon nods, and Gerry shakes his head. "I grew up a few towns over," he says, "but Jon's English." The old woman clicks her tongue.

"Trust me, we hate 'im for it," Gerry laughs. Jon scowles at him, but it's affectionate, because he knows enough about historical Irish/English relations not to protest.

Jon pays for their things and Gerry's bouncing off the walls with joy as he throws the guitar strap over his shoulder. "I just realised," he starts, and Jon has to mutter, "Oh, dear.”

"I can follow you along while playing. I'm going to be so obnoxious about this."

Jon sighs, shaking his head, but he's at a point where he can't hold back his smile. "I'm going to take a wild guess, and that's that you know every Against Me! song? Which album will you harass me with first?"

Gerry starts strumming some soft chords, grinning at Jon, and he starts to sing in a melodic voice he didn't know he was capable of, "All is quiet, except for this song... so maybe while I'm not together I can feel like I'm not alone. Cause somewhere off in the distance, rapidly advancing is an onslaught of sorts... Young sirens wail in a skewed sense of glory and the lions in their cages roar at the memory of fight... and there's a joy... a joy in all I can see, a joy... in every possibility…”

Jon's laughing, it's kind of cringey, but there's a wave of affection sweeping through him and he can't stop smiling. He's smiling so hard it hurts. Gerry's making exaggerated facial expressions of shock at every new line.

When he stops strumming, ending the song with a chuckle, the lady behind the counter says they make a cute couple. Gerry laughs at her, but Jon flushes and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"We're not together, Gerry says, which only makes Jon feel even more awkward.

The lady raises her eyebrows at them. "Nay on’ ‘ould be mad if ye were."

Gerry shakes his head, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. Jon can't think of anything to say.

"Hm... well, whose dat song by?"

Gerry lights up at the chance to talk about his favourite band, previous awkwardness forgotten.

"Against Me, fronted by the awesome punk-rocker Laura Jane Grace. That's.. Admittedly not a very punk song, but the rest of the album, 2005's Searching for a Former Clarity, definitely is."

"Laura Jane Grace, ye say?" When he nods, she grabs her cane and hobbles over to the shelved books section, skimming through a few similarly coloured spines before she grabs a white book with black text and a stippled portrait of a familiar face on the cover. "She wrote a book, di'n't she? I tink dis is et."

Gerry's hands start flapping around like they did when he was looking at records. "I heard about dis, I thought it didn't come out til March!"

She shakes her head. "Nay, we got this copy dis month. I've flipped through it, it's quite int'resting."

He stills his hands by shoving them in his pocket and settles for swaying back and forth. "I'm sure it is. How much is it? Jon, can we get it?"

"Would I really deprive you of your one earthly joy," he teases, pulling a few pounds out from his pocket.

On the car ride back, Jon drives and Gerry reads him quotes from the book, which is titled TRANNY: Confessions of Punk Rock's Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout.

“‘The church paid for me to see a psychiatrist and told me not to come back until I'd received help. When a church turns you away, it feels as though God Himself is rejecting you, saying you are damaged beyond His help.’ Goddamn." Gerry puts the book down for a moment. "Were you raised Catholic?"

Jon shrugs. "My grandma used to take me to church, but I would always wander off and try to break into storage closets and go into the crypt... it was more trouble than it was worth, so she stopped taking me when I was about six. Not enough church to make me religious, but enough church to give me some good old Catholic guilt."

"Did you go to enough church to develop an anxiety disorder, or are you normal," he jokes, earning a puffy laugh from Jon, and goes back to reading his book.

Jon suppresses a smile, focusing on driving down the road.

By the end of the night, Jon's almost too shaky to stand. Everything he eats feels like worms in his mouth and he ends up skipping dinner. He and Gerry settle onto the couch, Gerry going through the few DVDs that Sasha's family owns.

Jon tips his head back on the couch, closing his eyes. The world feels like it's spinning all around him. He wonders if he might throw up.

Gerry doesn't seem to be doing too much better, to be honest. His hands are shaking all the time and Jon heard him vomiting in the bathroom the other morning. He's doing a better job of hiding it than Jon, who tripped and fell down the front porch stairs this morning and is now suffering in a long-sleeve sweater. That doesn't hide the bruise on the side of his head, though.

He's lucky they're both too wrapped up in their own heads to bother talking about it.

They start watching some kind of animated movie about raccoons, but neither are really engaged with it. At some point, Gerry dozes off, curled up on the couch so Jon still has room to sit.

Jon steadies himself on the arm of the couch, rising up so Gerry can stretch out comfortably. He drapes one of the blankets over him, taking a few moments to watch. He looks so peaceful when he's asleep, his jaw unclenched and hair messy.

Jesus, he's fallen so hard.

—

Sasha's not sure what she's supposed to be doing as the Archivist. Jon only ever read Statements and caused problems.

Daisy raises her eyebrows when Sasha slams her computer shut and gets up to start pacing once again. "Being frustrated won't get Melanie out of the hospital any sooner."

She buries her face in her hands. "I know, I know! I can't do anything but wait and all that bullshit! Fuck!" She kicks a filing cabinet.

"If you try to phone Jon again, I'm calling you a therapist."

"Maybe you and Basira should see a couples therapist."

Daisy doesn't respond, just gives an amused chuckle and goes back to reading her book. Sasha thinks she'll start burning down the Archives.

When she doesn't stop pacing, Daisy sighs and puts down her book. "Do you want to go explore the tunnels, or something? Would that take your mind off this so you can stop being so insufferable?"

"I'm not insufferable," she snaps. "But yes. Yes I do.”

Daisy laughs at her, and she can't help but crack a small smile.

—

Martin peers over Annabelle's shoulder at the camera she managed to set up at the safehouse right before Jon and Gerry had arrived. It's not positioned too well, she'd have to admit, but sometimes the tape recorders just aren't enough.

"What are they doing there?"

She smiles. "I don't really know. They just decided to leave one day, I think Jon's goin' to blind himself."

"What? Why!" Poor guy, he looks so scared for Jon. They don't really know each other, but Annabelle supposes that's just how he is. He'd be great for the Web, really, but he's got too much of a heart for this.

"He thinks that since that'll free him from the Eye, it'll fix all his problems. He's not really thinkin', if I'm bein' fully honest."

"And you- you're just going to let him do that?"

She sighs. "The experiment is tracking his reaction to all these scenarios. To stop him from doin' somethin' would ruin the point of this study.”

"You'd really choose science over his- he could die, Anabelle!"

"You don't need to make that sound like a bad thin"," she jokes, but it doesn't land.

Shit. She probably shouldn't have said anything.

She takes a careful breath in, contemplating each word carefully. "Martin, t'is is a good thin. I mean, the Eye is eatin' him alive. He's not even human anymore."

"Well, neither are you, and you're not stabbing out your bloody eyes!"

He's using acid, but Annabelle knows saying that won't help her case.

"Well, what would you do? How would you convince him this is bad?" She pauses, waiting for that to sink in. "You can't, Martin. Let's use the bodily autonomy model, alright? The idea that, to whatever extent, no power should come in and determine what you do with your own body, because that is an act of authoritarianism."

He nods. 

"Some anarchists," she continues, "applied this theory to psychology. You can suggest what someone does, you can give them information, but you morally should not make a choice for someone. If that includes allowin' a suicidal person to die on their own terms, yes, if that allows someone to continue to self harm or have a substance abuse disorder, then you should allow them to make that informed choice. Forcibly institutionalisin' someone, or takin' control of their body without their consent, is wrong to all extents."

"That's- I mean, that's bullshit!" Martin laughs.

She shrugs. "They have a point. It forces someone to take full responsibility from their actions, hopefully motivatin' them to fix thin's because they want to, not because they're forced to. Then we, as psychologists, could focus on the root cause of these issues. There's also a discussion to be had about the roots suicide prevention has in colonialism, the first suicide prevention method bein' used to force the enslaved to stay alive and in slavery, but that's not too relevant to our conversation right now."

She turns around in her chair- Jon's just sitting in the kitchen and zoning out and Gerry fell asleep on the couch. "Martin," she says softly, "why are you really upset?"

He looks confused, so she tries nudging him a little harder.

"Is this about your encounter with the Lonely last week?"

He breaks eye contact with her, looking confused. She can see the wheels turning in his head, connecting the dots that she wants him to.

After a minute of semi-comfortable silence, he says, "What if I did something reckless like that? Would you- oh, I don't know. Would you intervene?"

She laughs, short and breathy. "Martin, I'm not an anarchist. I think I would make a very shoddy anarchist, being a Web avatar. I'm just... giving you another perspective."

He sighs. "I don't like it."

"I know. Do you want to go do something else?" She doesn't, but she'd rather not have Martin running and reporting her. She needs him on her side right now.

He sighs. "There's- there's a coffee shop in town, I think the ethic's professer's husband works there? We could have caffeine for dinner again.”

She hopes the 'ethics professor' comment isn't a jab at her, so she brushes it off and stands up, smoothing her purple skirt. "We can go get some new curtains. Ours are a bit too bright."

He scoffs, claiming, "I picked out great curtains, thank you very much."

"No, no you did not," she laughs, taking his hand in hers.

He's not going to like where this experiment is going, and she knows that she won't change this study. It means too much to her and the stakes are too high. She can only hope he can forgive her.

—

Gerry's still asleep on the couch when Jon wakes up, startled. He'd fallen asleep with his head on the kitchen table, book still open in front of him. Maybe philosophy really is boring, like Georgie had joked, if he was able to fall asleep while reading it.

He was so tired he doesn't even remember his dream, which served as a relief. All he knows is his shoulders are tense and there's a headache pulsing through the back of his head. He feels, to put things shortly, like shit.

There's a chasm inside him, something gaping and hollow that's eating him from the inside out.

He's hungry, he itches for some need to be filled- nicotine, a Statement, a drink. It's always the same, and he feels pathetic for it.

He wanders into the bathroom, splashing water on his face. He catches a glimpse in the mirror, cringing just looking at himself.

Jon grips the edge of the sink, staring at himself, scrutinising every inch of his body.

He feels disgusting. The scars on his face and hands make him feel pathetic and small, his hair grown out and ragged, his eyes wide and crazed. An anxious, autistic tranny willing to mutilate his body in order to feel free from... what? A monstrous being that wants him to eat people's trauma from time to time?

He needs something to distract himself. He tries to pace around the first floor, but it creaks under his feet and he's scared of waking Gerry. His hands tremble, either from exhaustion, withdrawal, or anxiety.

He needs to find something to do, anything to distract him.

The words on the page blur together, his mind racing too quickly to focus on anything.

Eventually he goes and locks himself into the bedroom, sinking into the bed and wishing he could fall asleep.

At some point sunlight starts trickling in through the windows and Jon hears footsteps. The back door opens and closes and the house is silent once more.

Jon closes his eyes. Gerry's playing guitar on the back porch, and he can hear the chords played softly, as if he's trying to make as little noise as possible.

It occurs to Jon that Gerry thinks he's asleep and is trying not to wake him, and he feels something warm in his chest, a feeling he doesn't want to linger on too long.

He closes his eyes, listening to the scales for a moment before hauling himself to his feet. He holds one hand against the wall, just in case he falls, and walks quietly out onto the back porch.

He's sitting on the swinging bench, nimble fingers picking at a scale. Jon sits down next to him quietly, staring out over the hills in their backyard. It's soft, quiet, domestic. He wants to lean on Gerry, he wants someone to hold him.

Instead he listens to him play the guitar, closing his eyes and pretending they're here on vacation, just the two of them.

"Do you play any instruments?"

Gerry breaks the spell by talking, but Jon can't say that he's upset.

He shakes his head. "No, I was never very musical."

"D'you want me to show you?"

Jon nods, holding his breath as Gerry shifts closer to him. He holds the guitar on his lap, and Gerry wraps his arms around him so he can show Jon where to put his hands. Jon can feel his breath on the back of his neck and he tries his best not to think about it.

"So, put your finger's here," Gerry places Jon's fingers on the fret, "So this is a C chord. The power cord of all rock songs. You could get by just fine if you just know this one." Jon experimentally strums at the strings, smiling when it makes a sound. Gerry doesn't move, he keeps his arms wrapped around Jon as he practices strumming the chords. It's chilly out, but Gerry's body is warm around him. He closes his eyes and wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

Chapter Text

When Jon wakes up in the hospital, his first instinct is to open his eyes, to try to gauge his surroundings. His heart beats faster than he thinks it ever has, maybe it has a chance of giving out. Maybe he would like it if he died in this hospital. It seems peaceful enough.

He tries to calm his beating hard by inhaling. It feels like he swallowed glass.

"Gerry," he calls, his words scratchy in his throat. "Gerry?" All he gets is the sound of a white noise machine.

Then the tide of exhaustion sweeps back over him and he loses consciousness once more.

He calls for Gerry again when he wakes up. This time, he hears a woman's voice telling him it's OK, he's in a hospital, Gerard's not here but he'll be here soon. She jabs a needle in him and he falls back asleep.

This time, he doesn't call for Gerry when he wakes up. His fists clench in the blanket and he pulls it up over his chest, but then he remembers he's had DIY top surgery and has nothing to hide.

"Jon?"

Whatever tenseness he still holds in his body is released when he hears Gerry groggily say his name.

"Jesus, you're awake."

There's a knot in his throat, and he thinks he'll cry if he tries to talk. Can you cry, with your eyes sewed shut?

They sit in silence for a while, and Jon realises that Gerry's been sitting on the edge of his bed. He sighs, sinking into the hospital bed. It's much more comfortable than the one at Sasha's place.

"Gerry?"

"Yeah?"

"I haven't been dreaming."

Jon can hear him breathing, and he can't tell if he sounds tense or not.

“That's... that's good, right?"

"I think so. I don't... I can't see anything."

"Well, that's to be expected after blinding oneself,” Gerry jokes, and Jon manages a chuckle. Hesitantly, Gerry puts his hand in Jon's and squeezes. Jon wishes he could cry.

His head hurts, a low pressure in his skull that's irritating enough that everything feels foggy. "They.." he swallows. "They give me meds to make me sleep. Could you... have the nurse get me more of them? Everything hurts."

Gerry kisses his forehead, and Jon startles. He wishes he could see the look on Gerry's face.

"I'll call the nurse."

He has to argue with his doctor to be allowed out of the hospital. They think he's suicidal. They can tell he's lying when he says he's fine, they say, because of the way he behaves. He fidgets too much and tugs on his hair a lot.

"I'm autistic," he finally tells them, frustrated, "I can't help it!"

They let him go after that.

He can't find anything in the house. Gerry asks him if it'd be better in the RV. He shakes his head, resigned to sitting on the couch and only getting up to find his way to the bathroom.

His head hurts. It's throbbing right behind where his eyes should be and he doesn't want to take any pain medication. Gerry's voice sounds frustrated, but he doesn't argue with him. Instead, he sits at the bottom of the couch Jon's been lying on for three days, aimlessly chattering about whatever comes to mind. He wishes he could take comfort in Gerry's words.

When he hears Gerry start snoring in the living room chair, Jon stumbles into the bathroom, holding the walls the whole time. When his shaking hands find the toilet, he lifts the lid and vomits as hard as he can. It makes his head throb.

He manages to find his way back to the couch, but the house now feels like a hostile stranger. When he lowers himself onto the couch, he's afraid he'll fall and be lost.

Everything's black, and he feels like he can't breathe until he's lying down and takes a heavy sigh.

The next day, he finds his way to the kitchen table, feeling around and finding a chair.

He's exhausted, but he's proud of himself.

Presumably, Gerry sits down across from him. He can hear the chair scraping and Gerry's heavy breathing. "So. Breakfast?"

Jon shakes his head. He's still nauseous, but the headache seems to have gone away.

"Water?" He hears Gerry get up without waiting to hear an answer and hears the sink rushing.

"Sure.”

It soothes his throat, but when he's downed the glass it still feels sore and rough, like he swallowed sandpaper.

"'Are you feeling any better?"

Jon can feel Gerry tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. He wonders what he looks like- is he tired? Are his eyes red still? Is his black hair pulled back in a ponytail or is the ratty mess hanging loose over his shoulders? Is he watching Jon with fondness, or is he already sick of having to look after him?

"A bit," he admits. "My head hurts less."

"That's probably the pain meds. Mentally?"

"Fine," he clips.

Luckily, Gerry doesn't push it. Neither of them eat breakfast, and Gerry keeps yawning.

Jon wonders if he woke him up and starts to feel bad. He keeps his apology inside, but that leaves him with nothing else to say.

“Do you want to keep learning guitar?" Gerry asks him after hour four of just sitting on the couch and waiting for the time to pass.

Jon shakes his head. He can't tell if Gerry's disappointed or not, but he resumes his own playing.

Gerry holds his hand as they try to walk around the house. Jon fumbles on the stairs, but he manages to make it off the front porch and into the car. Gerry's hands were trembling and warm. Jon wonders how bad the withdrawal is, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't think Gerry will answer him, anyway. He's good at pretending he hasn't heard anything.

He buckles his seatbelt without any help, which he attributes to muscle memory. He can feel the car start when Gerry twists the key and Jon shoves his trembling hands into his pockets.

What if they're going to crash and he can't see it happen until it's too late? What if he misses something important? Jesus, he's never going to be able to drive again. He's going to entirely rely on others to get places. Is he going to be able to be independent every again?

He tries to focus on the music. Gerry's done him the courtesy of playing something other than Against Me!, instead an album called Only God Can Judge Me by AJJ.

I'd like to take advantage of a flock of wild birds

To make my escape from this planet

From this planet!

He can hear the surprise in his therapist's voice when she sees the bandages on his head and exclaims, "Oh!"

He ducks his head out of habit, even if there's no gaze to avoid.

Gerry helps him walk into her office and sit down on the couch. His heart is pounding and he can only breathe in when he's sat, relieved that he didn't trip or stumble.

"T'll just, uh, leave," Gerry says awkwardly, patting Jon on the shoulder. Part of him wishes Gerry would stay, sit and hold his hand so he doesn't feel like he's trapped in a dark room all by himself. Instead, he settles for smoothing his palms on his jeans repetitively and trying to stop himself from internally reeling.

"So,” Laverne starts once the door clicks shut, "what happened to your eyes?"

Jon has no idea how much she knows, what Gerry said. He doesn't want to be hospitalized, either, especially not at a psych physicality. He's spent his whole life avoiding them.

"I had an accident with some acid- I was doing a chemistry experiment and... tripped while holding a beaker."

He prays to any God out there that she won't scrutinize that statement. He can't see the look on her face, but he can imagine that she's narrowed her eyes.

"So how are you dealing with that," she asks, and he's not sure how to respond. He just sits there, fidgeting with his hands.

"Um. I'm not sure? I haven't been able to... get up and do very much, obviously. Or call anyone. I'm still struggling to, um, figure out my phone and stuff. I can't navigate that very well, and walking around the house is a chore." When she doesn't say anything, he keeps rambling. "I mean, I've mapped out the route from the couch to the bathroom, and I was able to get in the car today, but Gerry has to hold my hand the whole time and talk me through where I'm going."

He hears some kind of clattering from her direction. Maybe she's knocked something over, maybe she's wearing clunky bracelets that make noise when she gestures with her hands.

"Well, that's what you're doing, but how does it make you feel?"

He shrugs. He's not sure what he's supposed to say to that, not sure what she wants to hear. "It's weird, not being able to see. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person in the room."

"Does it make you feel lonely, then? Isolated?"

"I guess."

The room falls silent. Maybe she's not sure what to do with him. He's not sure what to do with himself, sometimes, so he doesn't blame her.

"It's, um. It's nice that Gerry's here. I don't think I could have... I mean, I woke up alone in the hospital. It was, uh, a lot."

"Can you elaborate on that?"

He thinks back to how it felt, waking up and not knowing where he was, no idea where any of the noises were coming from, if he was alone or if he was being watched by someone. He had no idea where Gerry was, and he was cut off from the flow of information that had made him feel so safe, so knowledgeable, before.

"It was... it was like someone had stolen all my senses and dropped me in an isolation tank for a week, and then everything went back to normal, except... I still can't see. I still feel... cut off from things." Things being the Eye, but he doesn't want to even try and explain that.

"I'm not good at change," he explained. "I mean, when Georgie and I broke up I felt like I had to completely reorganize how I thought of the world. Now the world actually has changed, or- or my perception of the world has changed- and I have to change to adapt to it. And I don't like it.”

He hears the pen moving, and he wishes he could read what she's saying.

"What's your usual reaction to change? Is it more mentally stressful, or does it affect your functioning?"

He hesitates, doing the movement of cracking his knuckles without cracking them. “Sit in bed all day, or on the couch, and wait until the change feels normal again. Don't really do anything else."

"Is that what you're doing now?"

"Basically? I... I physically can't leave the house. I'd either trip and hit my head or get lost. Until I either get very, very used to my surroundings or Gerry gets over his withdrawal, it looks like neither of us can really go anywhere."

He can imagine her furrowing her brows as she says, "Withdraw? Could you... elaborate on that?"

Jon's sigh is frustrated. "That- that was the whole point of him going here-" he starts cracking his knuckles again. "He does- did a lot of drugs. Like, anything he could get his hands on. I- I was the same, with alcohol, but I got over it once I got a POTS diagnosis. Mostly. But I didn't... I mean, I'm entirely depending on him right now, and I can't do it if he's embodying that one Lou Reed song."

It's most frustrating how much of Gerry's jargon has slipped into his own usage- he knows nothing about Lou Reed, except for Gerry plays their banana album enough times that he knows the story behind it. But it's also kind of endearing.

"They did heroin?"

"Um, for a bit. I think. He didn't... he wasn't very open about it. But when we got here, he threw it all out in the trash and it's been... rough. I mean, he's good at not sharing, I guess we're both like that, but I don't think I could get him to talk about it even if I asked. And he- I heard him throwing up last night and he isn't really sleeping, because he insists on staying in the chair because I'm on the couch, and. I don't know. He's not eating either, and I can feel him shaking whenever he helps me walk somewhere.'

"That sounds difficult. Why haven't you tried talking to him about it?"

Jon hates this, having to put complex emotions into words other people will understand. He wishes they could just read his mind, sometimes, so he could convey these things easily.

"I- well- he just- he always finds a way to flip the conversation back on me or avoid the question or sometimes just leave. I- I'm entirely depending on him right now, I can't just-" he cuts himself off, unsure how to finish his sentence.

"How do you know he's going to react this way if you haven't talked to him?"

He doesn't have an answer for her. He doesn't like confrontation with anyone, either Gerry or his therapist.

On the ride back to the house, the RV smells like marijuana.

Jon lies down in his bed, which he managed to find his way to without any help. The stairs were more difficult than anything else, he was afraid he'd miscount on his way up and trip.

He makes fists in his sheets, willing himself to feel grounded. He feels like if he lets go, he'll drift away into some alternate universe, no longer a part of the material world.

Gerry's still high when Jon leaves the bedroom. He makes it to the couch and sits, taking a deep breath. He feels dizzy, and he supposes that's from not eating. He fiddles with his hands, taking as many deep breaths as he can.

He has no idea how he's supposed to start this conversation, so they just sit in silence.

After a bit, the chair creeks as Gerry stands up. His footsteps fade off and the backyard screen door slams shut with the wind. Jon tilts his head back and rests it against the couch cushion. If he could see, his gaze would be tilted towards the ceiling. No matter how many deep breaths he takes, it feels like the world is spiraling out from underneath him.

Jon can smell the marijuana drifting in from the back porch. He can't bring himself to get up. He's afraid if he leaves the couch, he'll be forced to enter a reality he doesn't want to accept.

Gerry makes grilled cheese for dinner. Jon's too afraid to touch the stove and that's the only thing Gerry's confident he won't butcher. They eat in silence. Jon can imagine how Gerry looks, sunk into himself with his hair covering his face. He wishes he could reach out and touch him, craving the tiniest bit of comfort.

Halfway through the meal, Jon hears the tiny shk of a lighter.

"Don't do that," he snaps, the first words he thinks he's said all day.

"It's fine, Jon." Gerry doesn't sound defensive, just tired.

"It's not fine, I can barely walk from the couch to the bedroom and you're out here getting high off your ass!"

The silence is almost stunned. Jon wishes he could Know what Gerry's feeling. It would make this so much easier.

"I'm sorry." His voice is still that damn tired tone, like he can't even bring himself to feel anything other than weary.

He doesn't put out the joint, and Jon rubs the side of his head to stop the headache.

"Why do you even feel the need to do that?"

Gerry's laugh is breathless and a bit harsh. "Honestly, Jon." He can feel Gerry shifting next to him. Jon hates that they're sitting next to each other. It's much more painful like this, to be so close but to feel like Gerry's hiding behind a wall that he can't break down.

Jon keeps pushing, desperate for any kind of reaction. "We literally dropped out of college, we're living in a house we don't have to pay rent for, you left your mom and the Fears behind, I mean, we literally left the country! What could you possibly have to be so upset about that you need to escape through drug abuse-"

He doesn't get to finish his vent, because Gerry's grabbed him by the face and kissed him.

He's so stunned, he has no idea how to react. He just freezes, reeling.

Before he has the chance to say anything, Gerry storms out of the house. This time, he knows the door wasn't slammed shut by the wind. He hears the engine rev, and suddenly the property is empty.

Gerry comes back late at night. Jon has no idea what time it is, but he can hear the cicadas outside roaring like a steady tide. He stays still, hoping Gerry thinks he's asleep.

He hears him settle into the armchair, grumbling to himself. He smells like cigarettes, a smell that makes Jon feel weak at the knees. His fists are clenched in the blankets and he holds his breath, terrified of... what, confrontation? It's the middle of the night.

After God-knows how long, Gerry's breathing slows and he makes small noises that resemble snoring, and Jon can relax.

He drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the night, waking up and falling asleep more times than he can count.

In the morning, he fumbles around for a glass in the cupboards. When he finally gets his hands around a mug, he tries to set it on the counter. He miscalculates and it drops onto the ground and shatters. He jumps as the shards hit his foot, swearing.

He picks up the big ones and puts his hand on the counter before setting them down.

He doesn't bother sweeping up the pieces, he's too afraid of cutting himself on them.

"Jon? You alright?"

He rests his shaking hands against the counter, terrified of passing out. 'I- yeah, I- I broke a glass."

He hears Gerry walking over towards him, dragging the smell of tar and nicotine in with him.

"I got it. Do you know if Sasha has a dustpan?"

Jon shrugs, his heart pounding. "I guess it's time to explore the basement?"

Gerry (presumably) nods and Jon hears him pace away.

He grips the walls as he slowly sinks to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. His heart is pounding so hard he wonders if it'll punch through his ribcage. The entire world feels like it's spinning around him and he struggles to get a full breath in. He feels like he'll die here, pass out and never wake up.

The next week, Gerry drives to therapy on his own. Jon doesn't voice how he's afraid of being left home alone.

When he comes back, at least, he's not high.

He's sober when he's driving Jon up to therapy again. His hands. tremble on the wheel and the car conks out several times before they get out of the driveway. They don't talk, and Jon can't help himself from cringing whenever they have to touch. He knows Gerry can feel it and the guilt in his stomach is so strong he wants to double over and vomit.

Once they're in the waiting room, Jon sits in the waiting chair and clutches his cane awkwardly. It's... helpful, but he still needs Gerry to get around and up stairs. He hates how dependent he is. He wonders if he'll ever be able to be self-sufficient like this.

He hears Gerry collapse in the chair next to him and the music through his headphones is muffled just enough that Jon can't hear it with total clarity, but the sound of Scream It Until You're Coughing Up Blood is distinct.

The door swings open and Dr. Laverne says goodbye to her patient and greets Jon and Gerry warmly. Jon wonders if Gerry can hear anything through his headphones.

The couch is more uncomfortable this week. He taps his fingers against his cane, not sure how to start this conversation.

"Good morning- well, it's the afternoon by now, I suppose," he stumbles over his own words.

“It's nice to see you." He almost laughs, but holds it in. "Have you been healing well?"

"Yeah, I- well, it hurts a lot less now, I suppose. And I can walk around the house. I broke a glass the other day trying to get water, but I did manage to get the cup out of the cupboard."

"Are you going to physical therapy?"

He shakes his head. "I'm managing just fine. I mean, it's just my eyes, right?"

He realizes she's probably referencing the scars all over his body, but he doesn't want to tell her that he doesn't want help. He has a feeling she wouldn't like that very much.

"Last week you mentioned being worried about not being able to fare on your own, worried about Gerard? How've you been dealing with that?"

The sense of dread in his stomach only grows.

"It's. Um." He has no idea how to fit the wide range of intense emotions he's gone through in the last week into one coherent sentence. "We... we got into an argument. He, er, he's been smoking. And been kinda unresponsive to... everything, really." He laughs, but he just sounds tired and pathetic. "I, um. I think I asked him what the hell he had to be so upset about, anyway, and he.”

He hates how silent she is. He wishes she would tell him he's a terrible person, that he's to helping and just making Gerry worse and he should learn how to shut the fuck up and be normal. Anything to confirm the voices in his head.

She doesn't. "And.." she prompts him, waiting for him to finish the story.

"He didn't... he didn't answer. He, um. He kissed me.”

He hopes the silence isn't stunned silence.

He hears her shift in her chair. He has no idea what else to say.

"He... he ran out of the house. Took the car. He was gone all day. I don't.." he trails off, unsure where he was going with that sentence.

"Have you talked to him about it?"

He shakes his head. "We've barely talked, really. He cooks dinner and I eat whenever he's done. He sleeps in the living room if I'm sleeping on the couch. I don't leave the house so I don't need his help getting down the stairs. We might live together, but we're quite good at avoiding each other,” he chuckles.

It's not as funny to her.

"Well.. how do you feel about it?"

"I don't... I don't know. Not really."

That's a lie, and it feels vile on his tongue.

It feels like a trick, that's what it feels like.

Something done in the heat of the moment, something Gerry would only do when stoned out of his mind. It feels like Gerry left because he regretted it and now they both have to pretend it didn't happen, and he feels like he's lost his only friend.

It takes his therapist nearly a half hour to pry these thoughts out of him, and he thinks he hates her for it.

"I hate to be crass,” she says slowly, "but I think you could solve this by just... talking to him.”

He shakes his head, laughing. "That's the last thing I want to do. I just want things to go back to normal."

His therapist's voice is remarkably soft. "Jon, life doesn't work that way. Things happen and they change, and you just have to change with them, or you'll be stuck longing for things that simply aren't possible anymore."

The RV smells like old, stale smoke. Gerry blasts the AC, but it doesn't help, all it does is waste gas.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, shuts it. He doesn't know what he would say if he could muster up the courage to say it.

"How was therapy," he asks after a while, just to break the silence.

Jon can hear the tires and feel their rotations. He hopes the RV doesn't break down. It's a shitty mode of transportation.

"Not too bad," he says, trying to sound casual. "She had, erm. She had some valuable insights."

Thank God, Gerry doesn't press him.

When they get back, Jon fidgets with his battery-powered radio. Maybe he'll have to take Daisy's advice and finally get into podcasts. At least they don't require images.

Eventually, he settles to listening to two middle-aged men discuss local farming tools and their recent increased prices. It's not interesting, not at all, but he's yet to figure out how to operate his phone and doesn't want to ask Gerry for help.

...Maybe his therapist was right about the avoidance problem.

Still. Thirty minutes dedicated to different alternative brands of tractors isn't the worst possible thing to happen to him.

They eat dinner in silence. Jon wants to say something, open his mouth and start a conversation about anything, but the words feel stuck in his throat. When Gerry goes out to the back porch and Jon goes back to the couch, he feels painfully lonely.

He opens his phone, running his thumb over the keys. He's glad he kept that old flip phone. Slowly, he dials Sasha's number for memory, praying he didn't miss a count.

The phone rings and he prays a stranger doesn't pick up.

It barely rings twice before the phone picks up and an eager female voice says, "Jon?"

He could cry. "Sasha."

"Jesus," she yelps, "we all assumed you'd died!"

"Gerry didn't call?"

He hears some swishing sounds, maybe she's shaking her head. "He doesn't have our numbers, I don't think. Or something. I don't know, we didn't hear shit."

His heart breaks at the sound of her voice. "Lord, I'm sorry-"

She cuts him off, a refusal to accept his apology. "So you're blind now? It worked?"

"Alkaline is one hell of a chemical," He huffs, and she laughs.

"Melanie broke a hole puncher."

Jon cringes, sucking in air through his teeth.

"Yeah, she did it in the school bathrooms. We had to call the ambulance. She's fine, but, you know. Staying with.. Well, she's not talking to us." She pauses, before adding, "With good reason. Duh."

"How's, ah, how's Daisy?"

"Eh, she's coping. She's been going to the gym a lot, but she passed out the other day when I asked her to help me carry some boxes. I don't know what's up with her."

It's being away from the Hunt, Jon knows. He wishes he could figure out how to sever her ties, but her connection with the Buried will just have to do. She's strong-willed and a better person than Jon ever was, she'll be fine. She'll be fine.

"Basira," he asks, even though she was only ever distant and cold to him. Anything to keep hearing Sasha's voice.

"Oh, she's out doing her own thing, investigating and getting into bar fights and applying to be a police officer. They keep bringing up something called Section 31, which seems like bullshit, but she'll get around it eventually."

"Bar fights?" Jon asks, incredulous. He can hardly imagine Basira doing something so reckless.

"Well, I haven't heard anything about bar fights, but I imagine that's what she's doing, I don't know, wild-west style.”

Jon huffs out a laugh.

"So," Sasha asks, "anything new over there, besides the loss of vision?" She lowers her voice. "Are you and Gerry together yet?"

"Sasha!" he yells, and hushes himself. "Why would you say that?"

"I'm not on speaker, am I?"

"No, but-" he cuts himself off, frustrated. He gets up from the couch and makes his way carefully to his bedroom, locking the door and checking the window. It's shut. "I don't like Gerry," he insists.

"I feel like we've had this exact conversation before.”

"Well, I'm not having it again," he insists, yanking at the back of his hair anxiously. It's knotted and messy and he needs to get it braided or shaved or something. He doubts Gerry knows how to do that, or if there's any places in town that he can go to.

"Jon."

"Sasha," he says in the same exasperated tone.

"Fine. What else have you been up to?"

He pauses. "Well." Talking about this feels like admitting defeat. "Gerry kissed me the other day and I froze and now we're not talking and I think he was just messing with me."

"JON!" She yells so loud he has to pull the phone away from his ear. "So you like him?"

He can't really argue with her. "Maybe."

"Jon!”

"I'm stupid, OK, I know this! I just... I don't want anything to change."

"Please tell me you talked to your therapist about this."

"She said change is necessary and all of that," he scowls. Logically, she's right. Emotionally, he hates her.

Before Sasha gets a wedge to lecture him, he cuts back in, "Listen. It's not like he actually likes me. We all know I'm a rude and emotionally cut off person, every person who has stuck by me has only ever done it out of necessity or a lack of other friends and has left me the instant they're exposed to someone better. I- I'm autistic," he admits out loud for maybe the second time, “I'm asexual, and I've only ever caused problems for people."

Preparing for her to yell, he pulls the phone away from his ear so he doesn't go deaf as well as blind.

She says his name so softly he can hardly hear it, and he cautiously brings the phone back to his ear.

"Jon," she says again, slowly. "This man upheaved his entire life in the span of a night, got an RV off our friend, drove ten hours, helped you blind yourself and sat in the hospital every day, is trying to fight addiction for you, and... you think he's doing it just because?"

He has no honest clue what to say to that.

"Yes?"

That was the wrong answer.

"JON!"

"You really have to stop yelling," he tells her. "You're going to damage my ears.

"You have got to be one of the most obtuse, emotionally blind people I know."

"I still don't see why he would like me at all," Jon says, the honesty taking all his effort.

He doesn't like speaking freely like this, he's not used to speaking freely like this, but Sasha is the only person he has right now whom talking to doesn't feel like tearing his heart out and stomping on it.

"Have you talked to Michael?"

Puzzled, he states it as a question. "No?"

"He said he can't find you. He's been hanging out around the Archives with us. He's kinda jealous of what you have with Gerry. I mean, he's almost completely lost his humanity at this point, but, you know. I guess he... they were together at some point, I think. When they were both in secondary school. And he misses the companionship that you two have.”

Jon's stunned into silence.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"God, Jon, why is it this hard to convince you that someone might actually care about you?"

Maybe it was his childhood that made him like this. Only ever having one friend, his girlfriend and an insane maybe not even human girl who intruded into their friendship from day 1 wasn't the healthiest kind of environment to grow up in. Maybe it was his cold and distant grandmother. Maybe it was the bully he never really liked dying because he got too close. Maybe, and this one was the most terrifying of all, maybe it was in his genetics. Maybe he was determined to be a wreck on a biological level and it's just who he is.

He doesn't voice any of this to Sasha. He waits for her to move on, to say something else, but they just sit in uncomfortable silence until he finds the courage to ask, "what should I do?"

"Kiss him, you dense motherfucker!"

"Yelling, Sasha, yelling!"

"Sorry, sorry," she whispers, and he can see her in his mind rolling her eyes.

He rotates his conversation with Sasha around in his mind for the next week. Jon stops smelling drugs, but that might mean Gerry's doing them outside or just becoming very careful. He seems jittery, Jon wakes to the sound of vomiting several times every night.

At some point, he gets up. Careful not to trip over his own blanket, he uses his new cane to make his way over to the bathroom.

Gerry's retching and it smells rancid in there. Breathing through his mouth, Jon knocks on the banister.

"Do you need anything?"

Jon can picture him, hunched over the toilet with sweaty strands of black hair dangling in front of his face. He can hear his haggard breathing and his heart aches.

"Um." He coughs. "I- Do you have a hair tie?"

Jon removes his from his wrist and crouches down on the floor so he can blindly offer it to Gerry. It takes all his effort not to jump when he feels Gerry's hands brush his to take it.

He sits on the cold bathroom floor like that, swallowing the sounds of his own nausea.

He knows the sounds and the feelings when there's nothing left in his belly, and he hears Gerry whisper fuck before flushing down the toilet.

Jon stands, unsure of what to do now. "Do you need water?"

Gerry laughs, but it's not mean. "I'll get it. I don't want to pick up a broken glass."

"Fair enough."

At this point, he has the route to the kitchen memorized. He hears Gerry flick on the light and they both sit down at the table. His heart is pounding in his chest, this is the longest conversation they'd had since that last afternoon.

"Do you want one?"

"Can you, um." Jon coughs. "Can you put on a pot of tea?"

He doesn't mention that he hasn't had a cuppa since going blind, because he's been too afraid to turn on the stove and too anxious to ask Gerry to make him one. Gerry seems to get it, though, saying "shit, I didn't realize ye couldn't- fuck, man, I'm sorry, I- I'll get one, do- um, fuck. What kind do yeh want?"

"Just a cuppa."

"Sugar?"

He can hear the clattering of the kettle and cups, and he wonders how much of it is the shaking of Gerry's hands. God, he wants to take those hands and hold them between his own, sooth the trembling and make them sit still. He knows Gerry's hands are cold, he wonders if his are warm by comparison.

"No, just milk."

"We dunnae have milk."

"Oh. That's alright. I'll just have it plain."

They sit in silence. Gerry drinks several cups of cold water and Jon can hear his fingers tapping against the wooden table.

The kettle screams when it's ready, and Gerry pours two cups. The sound reminds Jon of uni. He supposes that wasn't too long ago, which is odd to think about.

His hands ache when he picks up the cup to take a sip, and it burns his tongue. It takes all his effort to swallow the scalding liquid rather than spitting it out.

"You can laugh," Jon says hoarsely, "I probably look ridiculous."

"Yeah, ye do," Gerry says with humor in his voice. It still feels tense, but at least they're talking. That's something. Small steps, right?

A part of him likes not being able to see. It saves him from a lot of self consciousness.

He's able to make himself say, "Was that, erm. Withdrawal?" He regrets it immediately, as Gerry's voice goes stiff.

“I'm handling it, Jon."

"I-I know. I'm just-" he sighs. "I'm just worried."

Jon wonders if the tensing in Gerry's voice is tears. He would have no way to tell if it was, and for some reason, he decides the logical conclusion is to reach out, clasp Gerry's face, and run his thumb along his cheeks. Just like he was, Gerry is frozen.

His thumb smears a warm, wet tear across his face. He can feel his own heart thumping, or maybe it's Gerry's.

He still hasn't moved. He hasn't actively leaned into Jon's touch, but he hasn't leaned away.

Maybe Sasha was right. Maybe it wasn't just a drugged-up incident.

Hesitantly, he leans forward. He's holding Gerry's face in his hand, but he misses a bit when he moves in to kiss him.

This time, neither of them freeze up. Gerry grabs Jon's wrist and kisses him back, and their noses bump together and their teeth clash a bit and it's messy but God, he's waited so long to do this.

It's not a mistake. Gerry actually likes him.

He goes to bed with a smile on his face, curled up on the couch while Gerry snores in the armchair a few feet away.

The next morning, Jon lies in bed all day.

He hasn't been able to sleep without vivid nightmares in what feels like years, and he's enjoying simply lounging on the couch, warm under the covers and only half awake.

Eventually, Gerry taps him on the shoulder and Jon sits up, gets handed a tea, and is told, "We need to talk.”

He freezes and his heart stutters. He wonders if he'll throw up.

"It's, nothin’- nothin' bad, but I figured if I didnae say anythin', you wouldn't either."

"Oh."

He's right, likely. Jon has to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

He positions himself in the direction of where he thinks Gerry's sitting. He's glad he doesn't have to lay eyes on him, because he thinks if he did he wouldn't be able to stay sitting here.

"What, um." He can hear the anxiety in Gerry's voice. "What happened last night?"

"I kissed you?"

It sounds more like a question than an answer.

"Well, yeah, I kind of got that, but " He sighs, and there's a tapping sound. It's probably his typical fidget, where he taps the tips of his fingers against any available surface.

"Does it mean anything?"

Jon has to laugh, but it comes out more as an anxious chuckle. Everything he does always carries such great weight and meaning that it makes him sick with terror.

He can't say that, though. It sounds desperate and pathetic and does more than just scare him.

It's Gerry's turn to laugh. He just sounds scared when he does so. Jon wants to hug him, and whether it's to soothe Gerry's nerves or his, he's not sure. He stays still, trying to breathe. He hates communication.

"Jon, I- God, fucking hell. Ye're denser than I thought ye were." He seems to be talking for the purpose of filling the silence. "Can ye not avoid the question? Does it mean anything? Cus, um. It means a lot teh me.”

"Oh." Jon's heart cracks in his chest under the weight of all of these emotions. "It um.

Yeah, it means a lot to me too."

"OK."

"OK," he repeats.

They sit in awkward silence and then Jon's phone starts ringing, startling both of them.

"It's Sasha," Gerry informs him.

Jon blinks rapidly, trying to process all the information. "Sasha.

“You can answer her if you want, I mean, I can just go outside, I need to practice the guitar anyway, but it's fine if you don't want to pick up either."

Affection bubbles in his chest as he picks up the phone. "Um. Hi. Good afternoon."

"Hey, Jon." She pauses. "Are you alright? You sound strange."

Jon listens to Gerry taking his guitar out back, running through the same AJJ song for the hundredth time this week. He remembers Gerry telling him that they're songwriting geniuses, their lyrics are incredibly simplistic but the chord progressions are a work of intellectualism. He seemed so excited to talk about it, his fidgeting with his hands and his brown eyes lighting up with joy. Jon can picture it perfectly in his mind.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I'm OK.”

That night, Gerry makes them spaghetti and they have to settle for butter. They didn't think to buy any cheese from the store.

It's still tense and awkward. Jon's not sure if there's something he's supposed to say or do. He asks Gerry about the song he's learning and Jon hears a lecture about chord progressions in punk songs vs goth songs vs folk songs, something he doesn't care about but engages with anyway. He feels guilty after he gets stomach butterflies at Gerry's voice and falls quieter.

Does he have anything to be guilty of? He thinks they're together now. He's not quite sure. Their conversation was illuminating but still left him feeling in the dark.

"If we can get a base and I can teach you at least a few chords, maybe we can jam."

"Music is your thing."

"Eh, we can share," Gerry laughs. "It'd be fun, at least."

Jon thinks about how the one time he tried Gerry's guitar, he wrapped his arms around him to show him what to do and it felt like being held.

"Tomorrow, maybe, we should go into town? We need to pick up our T perscriptions and I need to get some sause for this plain fucking pasta."

Jon laughs. "Yeah, that sounds good. G'night?"

"Goodnight."

Jon wakes up early, thinking to himself that he'll make breakfast. He then remembers that the idea of turning on the stove terrifies him now that he can no longer see, so he just sits at the table and waits.

Gerry's the type of person to sleep in all day if there's nothing to wake him up. When Jon can feel the heat of the sun streaming through the window and onto his skin, Gerry's still snoring upstairs. Jon rests his head in his hands, relaxed. It's a nice kind of domestic bliss, something he'd never believed possible before.

He's almost asleep when he feels something warm brush against the back of his neck and jumps.

He can hear Gerry laugh. “Mornin'."

He relaxes again, turning around so he's facing him. "Hi. You slept in."

Gerry yawns and he can hear him stretch, grumbling. “It's only 10AM!”

Jon laughs, feeling butterflies in his stomach. It feels surreal. He feels like he's going to wake up, alone and with a sinking feeling, and it'll all be over.

But the kettle shrieks and the stove struggles to start and Gerry gives up, making them buttered toast instead. Jon picks at his food before throwing the rest away. He feels anxious and for once, full of energy that he doesn't know how to direct.

"What time do you want to head out?"

"Uh.." He shrugs. "It's not like we have any other plans."

"Alright, so... pharmacy, groceries, a better radio.. what else is there?"

He shrugs again. "We could go back to that little store? Get a record player?"

He can hear the giddiness in Gerry's voice as he says, "Yeah! Then I can play along to the songs."

"Oh, what's that one song? Uh... They Laugh At Danger?"

"We Laugh At Danger(And Break All The Rules)," he corrects, and starts singing. "It was a birthday gift of a mexican telecaster, from this day on, I will play along to all my Young Pioneers records! And there will be poetry spoken silently between me and the stereo-o-0..

"Great song," Jon says, smiling. Gerry's played it on guitar before on the back porch as a warm-up, slower and gentler than the version on the punk album. Jon likes Gerry's version better.

"Everything they've done is great," Gerry laughs, and Jon makes a face.

"Sure."

"OK, then what do ye like better?"

“I... I like Radiohead?"

Gerry howls with laughter and Jon protests, "they've got some really good stuff," but he joins in.

Gerry gently shoves his shoulder, says "sure, they are," and the grin on Jon's face refuses to disappear.

Gerry plays a record while he cooks, some melodic band that talks about murder and stalking and gore, real goth stuff, and Jon curls up on the couch with a mug of tea. He's not hungry, hasn't been all day, but the anxiety in his stomach feels less like a tidal wave and more like a gentle pond. He's comfortable in a pair of sweatpants and a white shirt, but he wonders for a bit if he looks any good in them. He doesn't know how he looks without his glasses anymore. He wore them for a bit, for normalcy, but there was no point.

When the record stops playing, Gerry doesn't flip it over to the B-side. He sits down on the couch beside Jon and fiddles with the TV.

"So," he starts, "I got an audiobook. On CD. This damn old television should play it fer us."

"I hope you picked something interesting," he grumbles, his shaking hands setting the empty mug down on a bedside table.

"Um... how do ye feel about history?"

"I like that," he admits. "What kind of history?"

"… Music history."

"Gerry!" He yells, laughing. "I should have guessed."

"You really should have," he says in a mock serious tone, knocking his body into  Jon's like a playful shove, except he doesn't move. He stays like that, and tentatively Jon reaches down towards his hand. His heart spikes as Gerry takes it, their fingers laced together. Gerry wraps his arm around Jon and buries his face in his shoulder.

He's really frail, Jon realizes. Jon knows his joints are sharp and he's all skin and bone, but when Gerry presses against him, he feels... lightweight. Cold.

The CD starts playing, and he tries to relax in Gerry's arms.

"PLEASE KILL ME, by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain: the UNCENSORED ORAL HISTORY of PUNK ROCK."

Jon laughs. "You have a really strange taste in novels."

Gerry squeezes his hand. "Just wait until it gets started.

LOU REED:

All by myself. No one to talk to. Come over here so I can talk to you . . .

We were playing together a long time ago, in a thirty-dollar-a-month apartment and we really didn't have any money, and we used to eat oatmeal all day and all night and give blood, among other things, or pose for these nickel or fifteen-cent tabloids they had every week. And when I posed for them, my picture came out and it says I was a sex maniac killer that had killed fourteen children and tape recorded it and played it in a barn in Kansas all night. And when John Cales' picture came out in the paper, it said he killed his lover because he was going to marry his sister, and he didn't want his sister to mary a fag.

"What the hell is this?"

"This," Gerry proclaims, "is the story of the Velvet Underground."

"They're insane," he sputters.

"It gets worse."

STERLING MORRISON:

Lou Reed's parents hated the fact that Lou was making music and hanging around with undesirables. I was always afraid of Lou's parents- the only dealings I'd had with them was that there was this constant threat of them seizing Lou and having him thrown in the nuthouse. That was always over our heads. Every time Lou got hepatitis his parents were waiting to seize him and lock him up.

JOHN CALE:

That's where all Lou's best work came from. His mother was some sort of ex-beauty queen and I think his father was a wealthy accountant. Anyway, they put him in a hospital where he received shock treatment as a kid. Apparently he was at Syracuse University and was given this compulsory choice to either do gym or the Reserve Officers Training Corps. He claimed he couldn't do gym because he'd break his neck and when he did ROTC he threatened to kill the instructor. Then he put his fist through a window or something, and so he was put in a mental hospital. I don't know the full story. Every time Lou told me about it he'd change it slightly.

LOU REED:

They put the thing down your throat so you don't swallow your tongue, and they put electrodes on your head. That's what was recommended by Rockland County then to discourage homosexual feelings. The effect is that you lose your memory and become a vegetable. You can't read a book because you get to page seventeen and have to go right back to page one.

Jon's stomach churns. "That's disgusting."

"Hm,” Gerry hums. "Do you have homosexual feelings," he teases.

They're so close Jon can hear his heart beating. His own leaps in his chest as he leans down to peck Gerry on the lips. He can feel him smile.

The story goes on to talk about insane drug abuses, Andy Warhol's factory, nightclubs, BDSM, sexual stage performances, and references to hippies vs rock stars. It's crazy, but entertaining in its own way. At some point during the first chapter, Jon gets tired and lies down. His head in Gerry's lap, Gerry's nimble fingers sorting through the knots and tangles. They both shift so they're lying down, fitting together neatly.

"After this chapter," Gerry yawns, "let's go to bed."

LOU REED:

The people just have to die for the music. People are dying for everything else, so why not the music? Die for it. Isn't it pretty? Wouldn't you want to die for something pretty?

Perhaps I should die. After all, all the great blues singers did die. But life is getting better now.

I don't want to die. Do I?

He can feel Gerry stiffen. He gets up to shut it off after the audiobook continues "Part One: I Wanna Be Your Dog 1967-1971"

"Is it, um. Is it alright if I sleep here tonight?"

Jon smiles awkwardly at him. "Yeah."

When Gerry crawls onto the couch, Jon wraps his arm around his torso and holds him close. He thinks about the scars littered on his shoulder, neat and thin and somehow paler than Gerry already was. He thinks about the track marks littering his arms, and wonders if he didn't do it to cope, but maybe to die.

He holds Gerry closer to him and tries his best to fall asleep.

Jon never could have imagined this. That's all he can think about now. Every time he wakes up with Gerry, every time he's kissed goodnight, every time they cuddle and listen to the radio, it's all he can think about. With Georgie it was normal, expected. He can hardly remember a time when she wasn't a part of his life, and then she was gone. With this... he isn't sure how to describe it.

Even now, as they sit on the couch, lazily kissing each other, it still feels exciting and new. Now his headaches are completely gone and Gerry doesn't wake up in the middle of the night to vomit anymore. They're pressed close up against each other, Jon on Gerry's lap. There aren't any words in the English dialect to describe how content he feels.

Gerry pulls away for only a second before pressing a gentle kiss by Jon's jaw. Jon tangles his fingers in his long hair, inhaling sharply. Gerry laughs, and his breath tickles.

They sit like that for a while, holding each other close.

"Tea?" Gerry asks eventually. Jon nods, hoping the flush on his face isn't painfully evident.

"So," Dr. Laverne says, "how've things been going?"

Jon can't keep the smile off his face when he says "I think Gerry and I are dating."

He can hear her frown. "You think?"

He rings out his hands. "I guess? We haven't really sat down to discuss it, but- I mean-we've kissed? A lot?" He sighs. "We just haven't really talked about it."

"Did he... I don't know, did he say anything that might indicate he does feel a certain way about you?"

"I- he said it meant a lot to him. And since then we've- well- we've basically acted like a couple."

"What does that look like for you?"

Jon chews on the inside of his cheek. Discussing any of this fills him with shame in a way he doesn't know how to process.  There's nothing wrong with it, he knows that logically, but every time he tries to vocalize it he has some kind of internal shame reaction.

'I mean, we sleep together. I- I mean, share a bed. The one on the first floor. I don't sleep on the couch anymore, because we once fell asleep like that and it was really uncomfortable." He laughs. "And, um. We kiss sometimes. And he finds a lot of excuses to touch me, mess with my hair, hold my hand, whatever. He plays guitar and the things he's been playing has gotten... happier. Sort of. In the way that his weird folk punk stuff can be happy. It's... really nice."

Saying that out loud makes him feel ill, but a part of him likes it. That he gets to say something like that out loud.

"Have you two slept together?"

That same shame sweeps back through him and feels like getting hit with a brick.

"You don't have to share," Laverne adds.

Jon rubs the back of his neck. He wants to get back to the habit where he pulled at his hair and picked at his skin. He settles for cracking his knuckles repeatedly.

“Um. No. And... I don't think I want to at all."

"Oh?"

"I.." he starts scratching at the back of his hand anxiously. 'I had a girlfriend before this. Her- her name was Georgie." Something in his heart hurts. "We grew up together, we both lived with our grandmas, we got drunk together..." a part of him wishes he could be compelled. He doesn't like talking about it. "One time we got stoned in my grandma's attic when we were teenagers. I didn't really want to, but we'd been dating for a few months, so... we had sex. And it was nice. And I never told her when I didn't want to do stuff, because I was her boyfriend. It was what I was supposed to do.”

His throat constricts, and he's glad they haven't put in the glass eyes yet.

"Why did you feel like you had to?"

He's not used to having a space to talk about it. He was always scared someone would read his journal, so he never wrote in it. He obviously couldn't share it with Georgie. When he started using the tapes, he worried Elias was listening to them(he was right).

He didn't even trust himself to think about it, not even after they broke up.

"I.." He's not sure. 'I mean- I've never been attracted to anyone. Physically. And... I don't know. I always felt like there was a role I was supposed to fill, to be, you know... a man. If I wanted to be a boy, I had to do everything a boy did. I had to have sex with my girlfriend, I had to drink, I had to get into a good college, and... I don't know. I really did love her. Isn't that what you do? With someone you love?"

He hears her take a heavy breath in and prepares for a lecture or yelling or something.

"Did she ever force you to do anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, I suppose I just never said no."

"So it was a problem with enforcing boundaries?"

He shrugs, knowing she's right.

"Has any of this been a problem with Gerry?"

Jon shakes his head, biting his lip. He can't stop a wave of affection from bubbling up in his stomach. "No, he- he's been good. At knowing when to stop and... all that.

"Well, that's good. Have you told him about your feelings on this?"

"No." Communicating really isn't Jon's specialty. Plus, it seems like Gerry already knows! Why would he say it out loud?

"Think about it."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't like thinking.

"Have there been any other problems you want to talk about?"

Jon worries his lip between his teeth. He hates sitting here in this room, it always makes him so anxious. To know he's being seen, physically and emotionally, and he can't look back.

"I... I'm worried about him. I- I don't know if he's taking advantage of the therapy, or if he's just doing it because he has to. And he hasn't... he hasn't been good at opening up about stuff. And... I'm scared that if things start to get bad again, there's nothing I'll be able to do."

Jon laughs, bumping Gerry with his shoulder. "Do you know any happy songs?"

Gerry bumps him back. "I know some happy songs!"

They're sitting on the back porch on the swinging bench. Jon can hear the trees blowing in the background. Gerry told him it's the two weeks of Autumn where the leaves turn, the weather is crisp, and everything's cozy. They’ve been living together for months now and Jon still hasn’t gotten over the thrill of domestic bliss.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Uh..." he strums a few chords. "There's the one song called We're All Gonna Die?"

"Case in point."

"I'm serious! It's an... eh, what's the word... optimistic nihilism.

Jon shakes his head fondly and Gerry starts playing the intro.

We're all gonna die

This is true

It's true for me, and it's true for you

But we could live a little longer if we put our minds to it

The Light Rail runs from five to 11

Ill have your daughter home by 7

If I play my cards right

We'll get real high and ride the lightning

Gerry pauses. "That's a Metalica reference."

Jon laughs, leaning on his shoulder.

But we can't ride all night

The city needs the money from the DUIs And the cameras they put on the freeway

To catch us speeding

Gerry hums the chorus and Jon closes his eyes. A few weeks ago they put the glass eyeballs in and he's still getting used to the sensation.

Who knows where we go

When we die?

Who cares? I'm just glad to be alive

Who knows where we go

When we die?

Who cares? I'm just glad to be alive!

Who cares? I'm just glad to be alive....