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Jon was Nikola’s favorite doll.
Though he hated that he’d started to think that way, there was no other way to put it. Nikola took a special joy in his…preparations…and though she could not actually change her expression without the use of makeup, her smile seemed to grow wider when she saw him. Long before her plastic and brightly colored body twirled into the room, he could hear her laughter and singing echoing down the long and dark halls.
Currently, she was whistling a strange tune. At first, Jon thought he’d heard it somewhere before, maybe on the radio or while out shopping, but when he thought he’d finally remembered the name it just wasn’t right. The sound grew closer, accented by the light clicking of footsteps he’d come to associate with Nikola’s pointe shoes.
Jon had no sense of time, but each instance he was pulled from his half-asleep daze by singing or hands on him, he considered it a ‘new day.’ The day before, Nikola sang Peggy Gordon until it was stuck in Jon’s head for hours. The ‘day’ before that, it was some pop song Jon had never heard and wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t write herself.
Jon, somehow, could never bring himself to look away as she approached. He wanted to, his body leaned away from that dreadful music and his breathing picked up speed, but something darkly curious kept his eyes locked on that horrific face he could almost recognize. Jon instinctively tugged at his bindings, slick skin sliding uselessly against the tight silk keeping him in the chair. Always, he saw her eyes first. Two soulless beads of green and white plastic that stared at him from the darkness, glinting in the stark spotlights and holding no spark of life. Her smile would come next, rows of sharply carved teeth in her wide and gaping mouth. The face stapled onto her plastic skull was seldom the same but always bloody and tearing at the edges, painted with bright red clown makeup that might actually be blood.
“Hellooo, my little Archivist!” she crooned from the shadows. Her mouth didn’t move when she spoke. Jon’s stomach churned as he watched her borrowed voicebox contract and stretch, the fleshy chords hanging limply from the open cavity in her neck.
Jon let out a shuddering breath, teeth biting into the gag in his mouth. Always, she called him ‘her Archivist.’ Never by his name, never simply by the title, but always claiming him as hers. Fear, cold and oily and painfully familiar, swelled to the forefront of his mind as Nikola stepped into the light.
Instinctually, he tried to curl around himself to shield his naked body. The restraints held firm and he could do nothing more than squirm; he was on full display for her like a moth pinned to a corkboard, like a doll in a glass case. Jon had never been forcibly stripped before the Circus took him. The memory—the hands, the tugging, his voice completely ignored—flashed through his mind and reignited the smoldering panic in his chest. Helplessness choked him as Nikola danced closer, her long ringmaster coat made from faces fluttering on the chilly warehouse air.
A muffled sound escaped his throat, something both desperate and angry. Nikola’s movements were jerky, her limbs bending at angles and in places that the human body never could, giving the faintest impression of old video game graphics. The shadow fell over him and Jon wanted to appear defiant but as Nikola leaned down, leaned over his exposed and shaking body, he knew he just looked terrified. “Oh, my Archivist, look at you!” she sang, her plastic fingers curling around his jaw. She tilted his head from side to side, completely ignoring his muffled noise of protest. “Your skin will be ready to wear in no time at all!”
Jon wanted to go home.
Nikola bended further at the waist, impossibly so, and untied the binding around his wrists and ankles. The voicebox threatened to tumble out of her throat and onto Jon’s lap. He forced his eyes shut.
Jon’s heart raced as Nikola tugged him to his feet with a stern reminder to not try to run. He had tried, in those first few days, but his feet were too slick and his muscles too stiff to get very far. Each time Nikola or Breekon and Hope would drag him right back, laughing all the while, as though he was nothing more than an amusing plaything. Jon didn’t try to run after that. The rebellious part of his brain hated him for it but fear locked his legs dutifully in place.
His arms, now free, automatically crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched. Days of this weren’t enough to break that instinct. Jon was pretty sure Nikola took a particular delight in watching him try and fail to defy her. The warehouse air was chilly and damp, coaxing a fine shiver from him and coating his skin in goosebumps, though he knew the shaking was mostly from terror. Nikola laughed softly and pried his arms away from his chest. “Come now, my little Archivist, none of that,” she hummed and Jon was unable to stop from flinching at her hands. Clenching his eyes tighter, Jon wished he was anywhere but there, that he was home in bed, that the hands gripping his forearms were gone. “You know better!”
Jon tried to breathe, tried to stay still, as those plastic hands slowly began to work slimy lotion into his shoulders. They trailed all over his body. The air didn't fill his lungs all the way, the gag was too tight and Nikola’s hands were steadily moving lower. Over his biceps, his chest, his ribs and stomach. The acrid scent of artificial lavender burned his nose and churned his stomach, thick and pungent in the air. Just underneath it was the stench of dried blood and cold wax. He’d throw up, he thought, if it wasn’t for the gag in his mouth.
The backs of his eyelids burned and Jon jerked away from Nikola when her hands pressed into the soft flesh of his upper thighs—the same way he had for the past sixteen times Nikola had done it—with a strangled sound of panic. One of her cold and impossibly strong hands grabbed him by the hip, hard enough to bruise, and held him still. Jon wanted to block it all out, just turn off his brain completely and ignore it, but those hands pressed harder into his skin and kept him viscerally in the present.
Air whistled painfully thin through his lungs, each breath too short and fast. Surely, he thought, surely Gerry was looking for him. When he didn’t come home that night, he would’ve been worried. Gerry would’ve realized something was wrong. Nikola’s hands pressed into his skin, the plastic of her fingers cold but the touch burning and so, so, disgusting, and Jon felt a bit of his hope wither away. Not that he didn’t think Gerry wasn’t looking for him—no, he wasn’t that insecure about their relationship—but the hope that he'd still be alive when Gerry found him was dwindling.
God, he just hoped there would be nothing to find. He didn’t want Gerry to see his mangled corpse.
Nikola continued her work, humming to herself happily as she dragged her hands all over him and laughing when he flinched particularly hard.
When Nikola finished slathering the thick lotion across every inch of his body, Jon felt disgusting. Violated. Though he refused to let them fall, his eyes burned with tears. His throat was painfully tight and lungs ached for air that just wouldn’t come. His skin crawled.
Nikola hummed in appreciation, circling him like he was a particularly captivating art display. Jon just wanted to disappear.
Nikola took his face in her hands and ran her sharp fingers through his hair. It was a cruel, sickening mockery of the gentle way Gerry often combed his fingers through his curls; his blunt nails lightly scratching and his touch full of affection. Jon tried to lean away, heart as frantic as delicate hummingbird wings, but she simply followed his movement. Part of him thought she knew exactly what she was doing. Her hand trailed down his face to the gag.
“Remember, none of those prying questions! I’d hate to have to damage you after all this hard work!” she warned. Nikola pulled the gag out of his mouth and he gasped down a gulp of air. Tongue heavy and dry as sandpaper, he wasn’t entirely sure that he could’ve spoken even if he wanted to. Jon didn’t try, though, because after the first few attempts to Compel her Nikola had threatened to sew his mouth shut. That had quieted him down real quick.
Nikola’s favorite part was tracing the line of his jaw, the hook of his nose, and his cheeks as she spread oils and lotion across his face. Always, she dragged her thumbs over his eyelids with just enough pressure to make his heart stutter in his chest. It made it even worse, knowing how deeply she enjoyed it. It wasn’t just enjoyable because of his fear feeding her patron, no. Jon was her personal project, her doll, another statue in her collection. She liked to watch him squirm, watch him flinch and try to push her away. Jon’s skin didn’t even feel like his anymore. It was branded by that unwanted touch, taken from him already.
Nikola’s hands finally retracted with a satisfied hum and Jon was so relieved that she was finally done for the day that he obediently opened his mouth for her to shove the gag back in. When he was tied back down, she left him with a promise. “I’ll be back soon. It’s almost time for the cutting to begin!” Then she danced out of the room, whistling that familiarly unfamiliar tune. Jon forced himself to open his eyes, watching her disappear down the dark corridor.
Jon waited until he couldn’t hear her footsteps, then slumped forward with a weak noise. He was still shaking—he didn't think he had ever stopped—and all around him the waxworks stared. Eyes closing once more, grim despair pooled in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to go home, the thought repeating in his mind like he was a child. He couldn’t stop shaking and his body felt strange and his shoulders ached and he wanted to go home.
Many times, he tried to See where he was or how to escape but each attempt to reach the Eye sent a shooting pain through his skull and all the waxworks in the room would crane their necks to stare at him. There was no way he’d be able to escape on his own. Someone, most likely Gerry, would have to find him.
Jon tried to hold onto hope.
Another day passed. Nikola returned and her hands pressed into his skin like hungry worms as she sang a Russian lullaby.
He’d never been an optimist.
On what Jon thought might be day eighteen, though in truth he’d lost track, he’s awoken by footsteps.
At first, he didn’t even bother to raise his head from his chest. But as the steps grew closer, he realized they couldn’t belong to Nikola. Her steps were light and bouncy, while these were heavy and fast. It couldn’t have been Breekon and Hope either because there was one one set of steps. Someone new was coming. Maybe another member of the Circus? Maybe…
Hope threatened to bloom, delicate as a dandelion, in his chest. The fight surged back into him and he yanked fruitlessly at his restraints.
The newcomer finally emerged from the shadows of the doorway, the light catching on dark brown human eyes, and Jon could have crumbled in relief. Gerry crept out, his eyes alight and worried, with a fire axe tightly held in his hand. A backpack was slung over his shoulders and his long hair was hastily pulled back out of his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, if the eye bags were anything to go off of, and his face was a mask of cold rage. Jon nearly sobbed from just the sight of him.
The more logical part of Jon’s brain whispered that it might be the Circus using his visage as a cruel trick or, even worse, they’d actually stolen his face but he couldn’t help the desperate noise that left his throat. Gerry’s head snapped in his direction, their eyes meeting from across the room.
Gerry immediately ran across the room and dropped down before Jon, cursing like a sailor under his breath. Gerry’s analytical gaze roved over Jon, his lips pressed together in a tense frown, and his eyes were two deep pools of worry. Hands, tattooed and adorned with silver rings, fluttered nervously, hovering but not touching and Jon knew just from that it was really him. “Jon, fuck, Jon,” he whispered breathlessly like a prayer, almost to himself, and he reached into the depths of his coat and pulled out a small knife.
Gerry started cutting through the bindings around his wrists. “Christ, Jon,” he quietly said, barely concealed anger in his voice. “I should’ve been here sooner.”
Jon shook his head. Not your fault.
The silk fluttered away harmlessly and Jon could move his limbs again. Jon pulled the gag out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground, quickly gulping down air and curling around himself. Jon stared wide-eyed at Gerry; he wanted to thank him, to say anything, but his voice felt trapped in his throat. He just gave him a grateful look. Gerry seemed to understand.
Gerry shrugged off his backpack and removed his long leather trench coat. “Here,” he whispered softly, “take this.” Jon eagerly pulled it on, crossing the front over his chest tightly and hugging himself, desperate for the coverage. The leather was warmed from Gerry’s body, soft from age, and smelled strongly of cigarettes and lighter fluid and incense. Nothing like lavender.
“I started a fire in one of the store rooms, but it won’t distract them for long,” Gerry explained, pulling his bag back onto his shoulders. “Can you walk?”
Jon responded by pushing himself to his feet and though he was a bit wobbly, he could hold his own weight. Adrenaline was likely a large factor in that, his veins alight with urgency. Gerry nodded and picked up his axe; the blade looked to be streaked with wax. “Stay close to me.”
Jon held onto Gerry’s backpack as he quickly, but cautiously, guided him through the large waxwork warehouse. The concrete floor was freezing beneath his bare feet. Smoke began filling the air, burning his already raw throat, and he heard members of the Circus yelling. Gerry periodically glanced over his shoulder, knuckles white around the axe handle. As Gerry pushed open an emergency exit, Nikola began to scream from somewhere behind them and cool night air washed over Jon.
They emerged in a dirty back alleyway and the door slammed closed behind them. The sky was dark, lightly moonlit, and the asphalt rasped against the bare soles of his feet. All at once a tingly static sensation washed over Jon as the Beholding took him into its gaze once again—it was comforting, in its own weird way. Gerry guided him to the main street and towards a small black car.
Gerry opened the passenger door for him and Jon, blindly trusting him with all that he had, slid in. The interior was gray and smelled faintly of cigarettes and minty air freshener, the fabric seats coarse against Jon’s thighs. The texture of it after nothing but polished wood and slimy plastic was almost overwhelming. Gerry climbed into the driver’s seat, tossing his weapon and bag carelessly into the backseat. Jon was wondering where Gerry even got a car from, but when Gerry reached for the ignition his question was answered. A pocket knife was jammed into the ignition and the Eye was content to inform him that the car actually belonged to one Paul Kelson. Despite the theft, Jon was glad Gerry had the foresight that Jon would be in no shape for public transport.
Metal crunched as Gerry turned the makeshift key but the engine dutifully rumbled to life. Jon numbly pulled his seatbelt over his chest just in time for Gerry to floor it, speeding away from the warehouse.
Jon held Gerry’s coat tighter around his shoulders, pulling his feet up onto the seat and tucking his knees against his chest. Violent tremors racked through his body—the body that was still virtually naked and slick with lotion. He caught Gerry’s eyes nervously glancing at him. “Thank you,” he finally managed to rasp, voice cracking and wobbly. He could barely get his jaw to work.
Tattooed knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. Another glance. “Jon, don’t thank me for that. I should’ve got there sooner. Fuck, I’m—are you hurt?” Gerry was barely looking at the road.
Jon shook his head, fingers gripping the coat. No, he wasn’t hurt. There wasn’t a single scratch on him, save for the stray hand-shaped bruise from when he fought back too much. There weren’t even rope burns, just the lingering feeling of unwanted hands. The air caught in his throat as his mind started to drift back to Nikola and his fingers dug into his arms. Adrenaline was fading fast, reality was settling back in.
“Jon,” Gerry called and the cadence implied it wasn’t the first time he’d said it. His voice pulled from his spiraling thoughts. Warmth hit Jon’s face and he heard the click of the air vents being pushed in his direction. “Deep breath.”
Jon forced himself to take a deep, controlled, breath. The air was warm and smelled like an old car, not wax and lavender lotion.
Gerry took one hand off the steering wheel, reaching, and Jon couldn’t help but flinch, his shoulder hitting the car door. He didn’t touch him though—because of course he didn’t, because Gerry knew him better than that—and a flash of surprise and protectiveness crossed Gerry’s face.
Gerry reached into the backseat, bending his arm awkwardly, and pawed around for his bag. Shame instantly flooded through Jon, face flushing. The apology he was about to offer was shut down with a pointed look. Gerry produced a water bottle from the backseat, already open and sipped from, and offered it to Jon. With shaky hands, Jon took it and in seconds he drained the entire thing. The Circus fed him rarely, just enough to keep him alive. Not to mention his abysmally dry mouth.
After a brief moment of deliberation, he dropped the empty bottle into the footwell.
Gerry kept looking at him, jaw clenching and unclenching as if every attempt to speak was violently stopped before the words could leave his lips. Jon stared back, an anxious and small part of him recalling how he’d started to think he’d never see him again. That he’d die still tied to that damn chair. “Watch the road, you’ll kill us both,” Jon eventually said quietly. The speedometer hadn’t dipped below 70 miles per hour and he’d run multiple stop signs. They’d left the town behind and the country road was empty, rolling dark fields to either side of them.
The corner of Gerry’s mouth twitched in faint amusement. “The road’s boring,” he replied.
Maybe it was the dark cover of night or the fact Gerry cannot reasonably look at him for very long before he has to look at the road, maybe it was the quiet hum of the engine and the assured privacy of such a small space, but the car became a kind of confessional booth. Words that Jon would never say in the stark judgement of daylight, that’d have to be pulled out of him like teeth, tumbled from his tongue. Even then, they were guarded, vague, and Jon clutched his borrowed coat tighter like a shield. “She kept touching me,” he quietly admitted. “Just…just everywhere like I was—she wanted to skin me. She wanted my skin. So she had to make it perfect. Everywhere.”
Gerry exhaled sharply and Jon could feel the weight of every glance; he’d caught the implication. Jon didn’t need to look over to see the depths of the anger, of the anguish and guilt on Gerry’s face so he did not. There was a lapse of silence as Gerry carefully chose his words.
Neither of them were very great at communicating their feelings or comforting, given their less than affectionate childhoods and general personalities, but they tried. They tried, despite, and had found their own little ways. Slowly, as one might approach a wild animal—Jon balked at the comparison, though he reasoned it was a fair one—Gerry took one hand off the steering wheel. Palm up, rings glinting in the passing glow of the street lamps, it came to rest on the seat divider. A silent offer, an invitation without pressure.
Jon’s eyes began to burn. How badly he wanted to take the hand, to feel the touch of another living person, of his partner, but the thought of contact sent a wave of revulsion through his stomach. Trepidation flooded him, froze him, as he stared holes into Gerry’s scarred palm. A thousand times, he had felt the touch of that hand. He should be able to take it, he thought. He knew exactly how it would feel to lace their fingers together, but his skin was slimy and disgusting and crawling and he just couldn’t stomach another touch.
“You don’t have to take it, Jon,” Gerry reassured before Jon could say anything. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her, that I took so damn long to find you, but I got you now. Just…whatever you need, I’m here. I’ll be caught dead before she ever touches you again, got that? It’s over.”
Jon sobbed, just once, unable to stop himself. The tears that he’d stubbornly refused to let fall around Nikola finally escaped, hot and angry, and he viciously scrubbed them away.
Jon didn’t take Gerry’s hand but it remained there in the space between them, fingers loosely curled around the gearshift. A reassurance, an invitation, a choice.
Jon didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knew Gerry was saying his name and the little digital clock on the dash read 3:49 AM. Jon lifted his head from the car door, a monstrous crick in his neck, and blinked owlishly at Gerry. Exhaustion, doubled by the adrenaline crash, must have overpowered the lingering panic and knocked him out. Plus, Gerry was safe. That feeling of security was engraved in his bones. At the end of the world, in death, he’d feel safe with Gerry Keay at his side.
The car was no longer moving and was parked near an alleyway. It was an empty street, the lampposts bathing everything in a syrupy orange haze, and after a second he realized with a jolt it was their street. They were a ways down from their building and a sleepy calmness blanketed the road despite the general din of London in the distance. Jon blinked the sleepy haze out of his eyes. Dread crawled up his sternum, its barbs ripping up his insides.
“We need to ditch the car,” Gerry explains, giving Jon a tiny, pained, smile. Ripping the pocket knife out of the ignition, he slipped it into his jeans and moved to grab his things from the backseat. “I would’ve dropped you off at the door but–”
“No, no, I can’t stay here,” Jon interrupted. Dried salt pulled at his cheeks when he spoke and his chest ached at the notion of not going home.
Gerry paused and furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I can’t stay here,” Jon repeated, a bit more force behind his words this time. “What if she followed us? Or, or sent something after us? I can’t bring her here, it’s not safe for you if I stay here.”
Gerry gave him a look that, if Jon was thinking just a bit clearer, would have told him this was a battle he was not going to win. “Where do you suggest we go then? To the Institute? Back to Georgie’s flat?”
Jon shook his head, mind racing. Jon did not want to go to the Institute and Georgie’s flat, where Nikola kidnapped him from, was also an automatic no. If Nikola followed them, there really was nowhere to go but the Institute and even though the focused power of the Eye was a strong deterrent, there was always the chance she’d risk attacking anyway. But he didn’t exactly want to walk into the Archives naked, either. Was there anywhere that was safe? The Eye couldn’t focus on her very well and he couldn’t see her location clearly. If she found him again, she’d waste no time in taking what was hers. Or worse, what if she took Gerry?
“No. Not the Institute.” Jon’s breath seized, throat tightening. “I…I don’t know where to go, I-”
Gerry softened, a bit of guilt flashing in his eyes as Jon’s breathing audibly picked up speed. “Jon, look at me,” he insisted. Jon pulled his eyes away from the street and met Gerry’s steely gaze. “I doubt Nikola would risk coming after you again this close to the Unknowing. And yeah, she’s pissed, but losing you didn’t exactly stop anything. She took you to rub her victory in Bouchard’s face, flaunt the Stranger’s ‘grand triumph’ over the Beholding or whatever.”
Jon nodded, dryly swallowing. Gerry was most likely right. Gerry didn’t do comforting lies—he wouldn’t have said all of that to Jon if he didn’t at least partially believe it.
“And I appreciate the concern,” Gerry continued, a hint of amusement in the back of his throat, “but I can take care of myself just fine.” A deft hand snaked between them and unlocked Jon’s seatbelt. It thunked against the side of the car as it retracted. “So let’s go home, okay?” Gerry finished softly.
“Okay,” Jon murmured. The paranoid part of his mind was screaming but he took a deep breath, opened his door, and stepped out into the night. That soft and emotional part of him, the part he liked to keep tucked deep beneath his sternum, stopped trying to strangle him the moment he conceded. If they were unsafe at their flat Gerry wouldn’t have brought them here, Jon reasoned. His heart was kicking like a jackrabbit, despite.
The twin slams of the car doors rattled Jon’s teeth and the rough sidewalk bit into his bare feet. Jon looked down the street, his hair a curtain that shielded his face from the gaze of a passing car. Jon could only hope that they didn’t run into someone on the way to their flat and, God forbid, they tried to ask questions. Gerry hurried to his side, standing close enough that Jon could feel the heat radiating off his body.
They trudged down the street and up the stairs to their flat, Jon clinging tightly to the leather coat. Jon’s legs ached, stiff from days of immobility, and exhaustion gnawed at his bones—it wasn’t the first time Jon lamented their choice to live on the third floor. Thankfully, they passed nobody on their way up. Based on the faint hum of static in the air, Jon figured Gerry was partially responsible for that; it didn’t escape Jon’s notice either that all the cameras had glitched as they passed.
Gerry dug his keys out of his jeans and unlocked the door. Warm air rushed over Jon as he hurried into their flat. The soft scent of incense and peppermint candles, Gerry’s burnt coffee and Jon’s leatherback books, flooded his lungs. A lamp glowed from the side table by the couch and all the kitchen lights were on because Gerry always forgot to turn off the lights when he left. Jon’s shoulders finally slumped, the coil of anxiety in his chest loosening, when Gerry closed the door and relatched the truly absurd number of locks. To be fair, they were two severely traumatized, Beholding-aligned people living together.
Finally, Jon was home.
Jon held himself as he took in their flat, the relief pooling in the hollow of his throat so thick he was nearly choking on it, willing it to all be real. Releasing a shuddering breath, he forced down the relieved and overwhelmed tears—holding tightly to his last threads of composure.
Gerry’s boots thunked against the hardwood floor as he moved to Jon’s side, his eyes flitting over Jon. “Do y–”
“I’m going to go shower,” Jon blurted out, cutting him off. He needed to scrub his skin until he couldn’t feel her plastic hands, until he didn’t smell like lavender. “I…I need to shower.”
A flurry of emotions passed over Gerry’s face, his lips pressing into a thin line, and settled on something Jon couldn’t quite decipher. Jon watched the way the light glinted on his piercings as he spoke, unable to fully meet his eyes. “I’ll bring you some clothes. Go on ahead.”
Jon nodded and shuffled off to the bathroom. As he walked, he was painfully aware of the line of his body, of that strange non-space that existed where his skin stopped and the air around him began, and of the bones that held him up. The floor was cold beneath his feet and pushed up against his heels. It felt so real that it became, somehow, surreal. The lotion Nikola had worked onto him made his legs slide uncomfortably against each other.
Though he didn’t want to look, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dark bags were under his bloodshot eyes and his hair, greasy from going unwashed, now fell past his shoulders. Nikola wasn’t exactly worried about trimming it for him, despite her occasional attempts to brush his curls. The skin he saw in the mirror glistened with lotion and oils, the jagged edges of his numerous scars smoothed out, and for a split second he didn’t even look like himself. The skin he was wearing didn’t feel like his. It felt like the skin of a stranger pulled over his weary bones.
It was over now, he told himself. It sounded flimsy even in his own mind. He moved away from the mirror. Gingerly, and with a bit of subconscious reluctance, Jon took off his borrowed coat. He laid it on the countertop, feeling unbearably vulnerable without it despite the closed door and shivering from the immediate chill.
Stepping into the shower, the warm water slowly coaxed his muscles to unwind. Jon watched, felt, as the water slid down the ridges and curves of his body. Soap lathered into frothy bubbles, filling the humid air with the pungent scent of sandalwood and a hint of pine. Jon scoured his skin, scrubbed up his arms and torso and his thighs and every single part of himself that was subjected to Nikola’s hands. The skin turned slightly red under his hands and the nearly boiling water but the sting was better than that slimy, crawling sensation.
The odor of lavender was stuck in his nose, the ghost of it haunting his senses. Jon just barely resisted the desperate urge to dig his nails in, to peel away the tainted, corrupted, flesh. Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on the smell of the soap, on not scrubbing so hard.
Tears might’ve been running down his cheeks but if they were, they were lost in the shower spray.
Lathering shampoo into his hair was just as thorough of a task as his body, raking through the tangled curls with a vengeance that was personal. Nikola’s attempts to brush his hair weren’t exactly gentle but there was a certain level of investment; a care that one might take while holding an old, already chipped, glass cup. If you drop it so what, but you’d rather not clean up the mess. The violent scrubbing left his hair more knotted and tangled but it felt clean, so he didn’t care.
When Jon felt somewhat closer to himself again, he shut off the water. Stepping out of the shower, water droplets raced down his limbs and pooled beneath his feet. The shower helped but he was still unmoored, afraid, memories lingering in lieu of what he’d so valiantly washed off. Jon’s skin was tinged red and flushed, and he quickly wrapped himself in a towel.
He tried not to think about it.
Clothes were resting on the countertop—he hadn’t noticed Gerry coming in. Gerry had left him a pair of underwear, his favorite pajama bottoms, and an old and faded jumper that was technically Gerry’s but Jon was very fond of. Warmth rushed through his chest. Jon quickly dried off, not wanting to be naked for a moment longer, and pulled on the clothes. The fabric was soft and worn from age, easy on his shot and sensitive nerves, and the jumper smelled like Gerry. It was black, fraying at the sleeves, and was one of Gerry’s first attempts at painting with bleach. It was a little messy, splotchy with orange from unnoticed droplets and one knocked over cup of bleach, but the arms were adorned with intricate dragonflies. Their height difference made the jumper hang slightly off his collar, falling down to the tops of his thighs. Gerry relentlessly teased him over the fact Jon probably wore it more than him, but that was neither here nor there.
Jon ached for him, suddenly and acutely.
Peering around their corner revealed their bedroom to be empty, so Jon turned left down the hall towards the kitchen. While the prospect of sleep was practically calling his name, Jon would honestly much rather be near Gerry at that moment.
Gerry was sitting atop the kitchen counter in his pajamas, which were nothing more than a t-shirt that’d seen far better days and a pair of boxers. His hair was loose down his back, free from the previous ponytail. He looked up when Jon padded into the kitchen and that small ache in Jon’s chest was sated. “Feel any better?” he asked.
“A bit,” Jon replied, shuffling closer to his partner and hovering by the counter near his legs. His voice was taut. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Gerry seemed to let that slide for now but cast a knowing look at Jon. He didn’t want to even think about it—hands buzzed at the edges of his senses, he pushed the feeling away.
Gerry simply hummed in response, peeling an orange with unhurried hands. Black-painted nails dug into the soft and porous skin, the small pieces getting stuck under his nails, the scraps forming a pile on the counter. The slices of another, already peeled, orange sit on a paper towel. Jon watched sticky, pungent, juice flow in small rivulets down Gerry’s fingers as he cracked open the spine of the bleeding fruit. There was a painful level of attentiveness and care in the way Gerry, legs idly swaying as he worked on his little task, separated the slices, peeled away the weird stringy bits, and didn’t seem to mind the mess he was making on his hands. Jon’s ribs felt tight, guilt and warmth warring inside of his heart, as Gerry pushed the orange slices and a glass of water towards Jon.
The two of them were much better with actions than words.
Gerry grabbed one and popped it in his mouth. “I’ll eat what you don’t,” he said, somehow both a compromise and a request. Logically speaking, Jon knew he should eat. The food the Circus shoved down his throat was even less than lackluster. But the lingering sickly feeling of so much panic and fear and violation made his stomach churn at the thought of it.
Jon briefly glanced at Gerry, at his glistening hands, and decided he should at least try. Oranges were generally a pretty safe food for him anyway. Jon took a sip of the water, the condensation chilling his hand, and selected an orange slice. The tart taste flooded his mouth. When his stomach didn’t rebel, Jon cautiously picked up another. “Thanks,” he said, slowly chewing.
“No problem.”
Gerry watched Jon eat, his black hair sliding over his shoulder in uneven waves and the weight of his stare pressing against Jon’s skull. Gerry drummed his fingers against the counter top.
Jon ate about half of the spread and pushed the remains in Gerry’s direction, feeling significantly less woozy from hunger and low blood sugar. Gerry seemed satisfied with Jon’s effort, eating two of the remaining slices at once. “Finish the water and you can be free.”
Jon weakly smiled and drained the rest of the chilly glass. The water felt heavenly on his still too-dry throat. “I’m sorry about the, um, mess,” he mumbled, waving at the state of the counter and Gerry’s hands.
“Since when has a bit of a mess ever bothered me?” Gerry sighed, fondness lacing his slightly weary tone. He slid off the counter, standing close to Jon but not invading his space. And Jon was suddenly angry because on any other day that would be the exact moment Gerry would reach over and tuck his curls behind his ears. He didn’t and Jon was glad that he didn’t.
Another thing Nikola had taken from him.
Jon felt tangled up on the insides. “Point taken,” he conceded with a little huff.
“A four A.M. orange isn’t some grand gesture,” Gerry added, finishing off the orange and cleaning up the counter, his hair moving like an ink spill as he moved.
Oh but it was, wasn’t it?
Gerry washed his hands in the sink, lemon-scented bubbles lathering over his long, pale fingers. Over the years, Gerry had both torn down Jon’s walls and learned to navigate through the labyrinth with an ease a younger Jon would balk at. Gerry knew exactly what to say, which, at that moment, was, “You’re not a chore, Jon,” in that dry way of his. “Like I said in the car, I got you. Whether it’s fucking…breaking you out of the Circus’ basement or peeling an orange. I want to do this. Just like you signed up for my bullshit, right?”
Jon could only nod, not trusting himself to speak without dissolving into pathetic tears. How unfair it was that Gerry could just see right through him, how beautiful. Gerry gave him a smile, as if he knew he peeled Jon’s heart open as easily as the oranges.
Gerry dried his hands and guided him down the hall to their bedroom. An old stained glass lamp glowed softly on the bedside table alongside flickering candles that filled the room with the aroma of vanilla and sandalwood. The blinds and navy curtains were pulled tight, the walls littered with Gerry’s paintings and old prints.
The bed had never looked more inviting in his life. It was unmade, though it rarely was made, and piled with soft blankets and an old quilt Jon’s grandmother had made. Jon sank onto his side of the bed—the side against the wall—with a tired huff, the frame whining softly beneath his weight. The sheets were chilly and Gerry helped untangle and spread the many blankets over him. Weary, sore, bones ached in relief as the mattress enveloped him, gravity tugging him down into the plushness.
“Comfortable?” Gerry asked, standing next to the bed.
“Mhm,” Jon eloquently replied, curling up into what was basically the fetal position. His pillow smelled like Gerry’s shampoo. He said as much, cracking back open his eyes.
“I missed you,” Gerry replied and his gaze was soft in the low lamp light. “It smelled like you.”
Jon swallowed thickly. “Oh, I, uh, missed you too.”
Gerry exhaled a laugh through his nose and reached over to the lamp. “Need anything?” he asked. Jon shook his head. Gerry clicked off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness, and did not lay down like Jon expected. “Goodnight, Jon.” Gerry said and Jon heard him start to walk towards the door. “S’good you’re home.”
Fear spiked through his heart. “Where are you going?” Jon quickly asked, sitting up on his elbow, squinting into the darkness. In the light that seeped into the room from the hallway, he could make out the inky blob of Gerry’s silhouette turning around.
“The couch?” It sounded almost like a question.
“Why?”
Gerry shuffled back to the bed. The mattress dipped when he sat down. “Didn’t think you’d want to share, after all that.”
Jon frowned. He…didn’t know exactly what he wanted. He wanted Gerry with him but his stomach churned at the prospect of touch, especially that much. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he said anyway.
“Jon, don’t force yourself to—”
“No, no, it’s not like that,” he quickly clarified. “I–I don’t want to be alone.” The words tumbled from his lips, loosened by the dark and the lingering taste of oranges. “Please stay.”
“We’ve had enough heart-to-hearts tonight to last us a year,” Gerry said, his tone conceding. The mattress rippled as he stood and closed their bedroom door, the small bout of panic in Jon’s throat receding when he heard the lock click.
Gerry slid under the covers, the bedframe creaking and fabric rustling. Warmth quickly built beneath their shared blankets and the strange but comforting, visceral presence of another person—of Gerry—pooled in the gap between their bodies. They weren’t touching. Just near each other.
Jon grabbed a pillow and placed it between them as a sort of barrier. “There. Now you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”
Though he couldn’t quite see, he knew Gerry was smirking. “Guess not.”
Jon was once again overcome with that stubborn longing and righteous anger, that desire for physical reassurance warring with the phantom of hands digging in and leaving fingerprints like he was made of soft clay. Slowly, a hand that was beginning to shake with fine tremors crept across the bed. Jon’s fingers stuttered when they brushed Gerry’s arm and Gerry shifted in faint surprise. He kept going. His fingers curled over Gerry’s muscled and scarred forearm, over the whorls and slightly raised flesh of healed burns. Not flawless plastic, not cold and oily and taking what it wanted without permission. Gerry, not Nikola.
Gerry was still, waiting for Jon to move or speak.
Jon’s hand moved down to Gerry’s hand, where the burn scars faded into callouses and rings. Jon curled his fingers around Gerry’s palm and brought it to the little pillow between them.
“Is this okay?” Gerry asked quietly, voice weighing heavy in the darkness. Gerry began tracing light circles with his thumb over Jon’s knuckles.
“Yeah,” Jon murmured, fighting to keep his voice from shaking. “But only this, for now.”
“‘Course,” Gerry hummed.
Sleep came fast, faster than he’d expected, like a truck to a deer. Exhaustion beat the whispers of paranoia. For the first time in a while, he fell asleep without fear of unwanted hands, without Circus music and silk around his wrists.
They’d talk in the morning or the day after or that day after that. It was far from over, the Unknowing, and Jon knew that it’d take a while before he felt comfortable in his skin again. The touch of others would return even slower. But that was okay. They’d figure it out.
For now, Jon fell asleep to the soft scent of home and Gerry carefully holding his hand.