Chapter Text
Chapter 15: Womp
August 4, Reign of Forest, Year after the Fifth Year of Floods
Jonah is wearing Jon's What the Ghost hoodie. It looks stupid on him, too casual and modern by far over his nineteenth-century trousers. The sleeves are pulled over his hands, flopped beside him as he sleeps.
Jonah has always looked older than his years, in an ageless kind of way that made it hard for a stranger to guess. Once, Jon had made the mistake of mentioning it, and Jonah had gotten an irritatingly pleased look on his face before bragging about his distant Fae heritage.
Now, he looks older than his years in the way Jon always has—stress lines on his face, his hair starting to dull with grey hairs. He keeps making little noises of distress while he sleeps, and Jon wishes it didn't tug at his heart whenever he heard it. He doesn't want to have sympathy for Jonah. He doesn't want to have compassion for Jonah's own idiotic choices.
Jon can hear the world screaming in his mind. This world, and a million others, every place that the Entities have infected because Jon chose to let them out.
He was so close to the end, to the martyrdom he was always accused of pursuing. Too little, too late, but he can't undo the choices he already made. All he can do now is refuse to continue the cycle. Let the Eye take his body for its own purposes, but at least he could save his own soul.
And Jonah had ruined it.
And for what? Jonah's sacrifice hasn’t fixed anything. Jon still requires the sustenance of monstrosity. He is still cursed to feed on nightmares, to live in the world as a guilt-ridden predator. All that has changed is that Jonah no longer has his cherished refuge of Dream.
Jonah makes another little squeak of fear in his sleep, and Jon rubs his hands over his eyes. Wrong again! he thinks manically, nearly laughing. He had been so certain that Jonah was exactly like his counterpart, that given enough time and enough knowledge, he would have made exactly the same choices.
But Jonah Magnus of Jon’s world would never have sacrificed himself for the mere sake of giving his husband a few more weeks to live. It would have been anathema to his very being.
Even though Jon abandoned him, turned his friends against him, and destroyed his reputation, the Jonah Magnus of this world had made that sacrifice without hesitating. Evidence, finally, that this world had cultivated a different version of Jonah. That the man Jon loved wasn’t a lie, wasn’t a fantasy Jon had willfully blinded himself to.
He was real. He had tried to help. And Jon had taken away everything he held dear.
What is left for Jonah now, except to try and open the door?
Jon reaches out and shakes his shoulder. "Jonah."
Jonah jerks awake, and Jon can't help taking a startled step backwards, nearly tripping over Ophelia, who has wound herself around his legs. Jonah looks around blearily before his eyes settle on Jon. "What," he says, and his voice is dull and pathetic.
Jon has no idea what to say. "You were having a nightmare."
"Yes." Jonah laughs hollowly and relaxes back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "I'd better get used to that, shouldn't I?"
"Why did you do it?" Jon asks, and even as he says it, he knows it’s a bad question. He knows the answer already.
Jonah turns his face away, but Jon sees his expression crumple. He takes a deep breath, but his voice still shakes when he speaks. “Do you need something?”
Jon stares at him for a second longer, this man that he wishes he held no affection for. Then he drops to his knees. "Give me your hands."
Jonah stares at him for a long moment, holding his hands close to his chest, still hidden within the sleeves of Jon's hoodie. He looks like he wants to refuse, but Jon holds his gaze, waiting with his own hands outstretched. Finally, Jonah offers them over.
His hands look bloated and disgusting, covered in peeling flakes of salve and ugly blister-like marks from the wasp stings. Carefully, Jon places Jonah's left hand down on the couch. Then he begins rubbing his thumb into the palm of Jonah's right hand.
"Ow!" Jonah protests, trying to pull his hand away, but Jon holds him fast.
"Stay still," Jon orders, giving him a fierce glare. Jonah goes quiet, and Jon keeps rubbing the palm of his hand, staring intently at it, willing the spell to work. Finally, Jonah relaxes slightly, letting out a little breath of relief. Jon releases his hand and Jonah takes it back, flexing the joints.
"What spell is that?" Jonah asks as Jon switches to his other hand.
"Something original," Jon says, which is a bit of a simplification. His project since the Entities began manifesting in this world was finding magic that could counteract them, that could help the smallest bit.
"I didn't realise you were venturing into proprietary spells," Jonah says.
"Well, you were a little busy, weren't you?"
Jonah practically flinches. "I'm—"
"Don't," Jon says. He finishes with Jonah's hands, and he feels Jonah relax and then tense again. There is something so fragile in his eyes, something deeply hurt that is poised for more. So Jon doesn't let go. Instead, he slowly moves his hand into Jonah's, lacing their fingers loosely together.
"It doesn’t get better from here," Jon says. "It just gets worse. More painful. More exhausting."
Jonah draws in a shaky breath, then slowly reaches out the hand that Jon isn't holding. He makes room on the sofa and Jon allows himself to be guided up. Jonah's arms come around him, and Jonah buries his face in Jon's neck. He inhales deep, his breath tickling against Jon’s skin.
“Please just stay,” Jonah exhales like a prayer.
He can at least promise this. “Okay.”
Jon feels Ophelia jump up onto the couch and settle down between their legs, kneading at Jon’s trousers. His heart aches unbearably, and he can barely breathe through the fear. But Jonah is warm, and when Jon closes his eyes he can pretend it could be like this forever.