Work Text:
Jonathan Sims can't stop thinking about Gerard Keay. Gerry.
Perhaps it's a blessing. His dreams have been a living hell for the last few years, and perhaps he should see it as a break from the usual. In his dreams he sees a wide-eyed child cleaning up pools of blood as his mother sits in the corner and reads. Every night, like clockwork. Every night a new monster, a new hell.
Perhaps that death was a blessing. Perhaps burning Gerard's page was a good thing.
Lord, he can't imagine living with those memories inside him.
It hurts to exist, Gerard had said before. Did it hurt before, too? Had it always hurt?
After a while, he doesn't have to imagine what it was like to grow up like that. He lives it every night. Watching. Feeling. Experiencing. If that's not hell on earth, he doesn't know what is.
How he can watch the Statement of someone permanently dead, he's not sure. He supposes he can't expect the Fears to be entirely logical.
He skims through the Statements containing Gerard Key's name. He listens to his old recordings, slumped at his desk and bone-tired. When he plays #0080307, he feels the vomit rising to his throat and he barely manages to make it to his garbage can before he empties his stomach.
Daisy walks in, unamused. "What's your problem," she says in her low, soft voice.
Jon just gags one more time, unable to answer, choking on his own bile. It tastes raw and stale in his throat.
When he manages to catch his breath he tells her he's fine, thank you, I'll talk to you later.
“Elias wants to see you. About the Unknowing. Whenever you're available,” she says on her way out. At least she shuts the door behind her.
Jon stays on his knees hunched over the trash can, too exhausted to move. Mary's crooked voice rings through the dead room and it makes his head swim. Now that he's here, on the floor, he can't quite bring himself to get up. He'd be content to die here, choke on his own vomit and stop breathing. Let Elias find him dead and rotting on his office floor, for all he cares.
The Distortion has been hanging out in his office. Mostly he just sits there in a corner, an ominous presence that seems hell-bent on distracting him.
"What do you even want from me," he snaps one day, trying to listen back to a tape that just sounds like static. "Other than to get in my way."
Helen shrugs. It- she, as it prefers- closes her book.
"Archivist, I'm just here for the company!"
He doesn't like the emphasis she puts on things. It feels unnatural, like she has some kind of Distortion accent. Archist, company. It's strange and unsettling. Perhaps it was his fault for asking her.
"Oh, how I wish he'd go away," Jon mumbles, thinking of #376-U. He chuckles, even though it's a joke in poor taste.
He opens his laptop, skims through a wikipedia page on bombs. Nothing in here he wasn't already vaguely aware of or had guessed before. Or maybe it wasn't a guess and the Eye had popped that information in his head right before he read it, and he just thinks he's smart.
"Can you leave, please?" He exhales, pressing his palms into his forehead. Everything hurts.
"But where would I go?" She tilts her head to the side.
He sighs. "Your... I don't know, your hallways. Go bother someone else. Melanie's your friend, right?"
The Distortion laughs like a headache. "Friends,” it sighs. "What a strange concept."
He'd agree if she wasn't so fucking irritating. Her issue with relationships is very different from his issues with relationships. ASD’s manifestation isn’t the same as being a sub-human monster, a lesson it took Jon long enough to understand.
"Helen," he snaps.
"Whot?"
He hates how she pronounces things, he hates her feigned ignorance, he hates her presence in his office. It makes his skin crawl and feel too tight and too loose on his body, uncomfortable in a completely supernatural way.
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to, dear."
He clunks his head against the desk and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep right here.
"I suppose you'd follow me if I left, right?"
She doesn't answer, but he can hear the sounds of static rise and fall like the tide. It almost luls him to sleep. Almost.
Jon just finished a statement, and for once he's relishing in the high of it. His skin buzzes, his eyesight feels heightened, he feels like he can get his entire life together at 3am in his bedroom. He feels like he's in uni trying weed for the first time.
As he's coming down from it, his stomach starts to curl and that ever-present feeling of anxiety is back. When he's pacing about, nothing to do and nowhere to go, Jon thinks about dying.
He takes melatonin to get to sleep at night, now. Nothing else works; drinking, wearing himself to exhaustion, nothing. He dreams of pale, slender fingers and a thousand inked eyes. He wakes up painfully lonely and wishes he could go back to nightmares.
"You look like a lesbian from the 1930s," Jon tells Helen. If she's going to hang around his flat as well as his office, he might as well converse with her. It's not the same as a human connection, not really, but he imagines Georgie would be proud of him.
Does it count as socializing if you're only talking to the shell of a person? It doesn't matter. He'll take wins where he can get them. When life gives you lemons you appreciate the lemon juice, or whatever the saying is.
"I wonder what the 1930s were like," she muses, and hushes him when he opens his mouth to infodump. "Not like that. I want to experience it," she emphasizes, stretching out on his couch. He scowls at her.
"Time doesn't work like that." He's a bit miffed she doesn't want to hear his lecture about underground lesbian culture, but maybe she's just doing it to antagonize him.
"Archivist, we live in a world with monster pigs, sentient dolls, books that eat people, and... well... you and me in it, are you really going to tell me time travel is the least likely out of all of these?"
Stunned, he just sits there, blinking. Huh. Well. He might as well factor that into his understanding of the universe.
"I’ll... make myself a drink," he says slowly. "Do you want one?"
"I can't get drunk. But yes."
As a teenager, Gerard listened to a lot of the Cure. Jon has no idea who was playing until Boys Don't Cry comes on. Gerard has an extensive record collection. One evening, Mary breaks his copy of an album called Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death . He yells at her and she wacks him in the head before slamming the door shut and telling him he's grounded. He doesn't move the whole time, just stares angrily in her direction. She looks like she's shouting in a brick wall. When Mary leaves, Gerard curls up on his bed and cries, the sound of Just Like Heaven playing to cover it up.
It's more painful than any of the horrors Jon's witnessed while asleep. He wants to reach out, touch him, give him a hug. Sit on the edge of his bed like Georgie used to do when he was too depressed to move.
He's stuck there, standing in the corner and watching as Gerard sobs.
After a week of those dreams, Jon throws the remainder of his melatonin in the trash. It's the chemicals that are making him like this, it's got to be.
It's not.
Seeing adult Gerard in his dreams is almost worse. Jon wishes he could have just one more conversation with the guy instead of watching him chainsmoke and run errands for his mother from a distance.
Sometimes, when he's lonely, he'll relisten to their conversation in his headphones. He bought a walkman just to carry it around with him. He considers making a mixtape based on the music he's seen Gerard listen to, but he never did that back when mixtapes were a thing and he wouldn’t know how to now. It feels sad to hear his voice, a little bit, but it also feels... so nice, to relieve that bit of connection.
Helen calls it pathetic.
Late at night, Jon scrolls through his old voicemails, dating back to 2008.
Georgie, Georgie, Georgie, Georgie, his old employer, Georgie, Georgie, Georgie, Grandma, Grandma, Georgie, Georgie. The list goes on like that until he hits the bottom. He hits play, his stomach sinking.
[Georgie laughs] Jon, as glad as I am you've finally gotten a flip phone, you have got to learn how to text. I can't call you every time I need to commune with you. Anyway-agh, Mom! I'm on the phone! Yes, it is my boyfriend- I’ll talk to you in a minute, OK? Anyway. Yeah. Lunch later today? Wait, no, I have finals. Augh. Um. Dinner and a movie? Or something? It talk to you later, call me back? [beep]
He closes his eyes, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest and clicks on the next one.
[Grandmother] Jon? Is this thing on? I wanted to know what kind of food you want when you come to stay. My neighbor made me a bunch of lentil soup, do you like lentil soup? I’ll see you this weekend. Love, Mom.
[Georgie] Jon. No one listens to voicemails anymore. Text me. [beep]
[Georgie] Actually, I take that back. I like hearing your voice. Love you! [beep]
[Boss] Jon, perhaps you should turn your ringer on. If you get this, we need you to substitute for Annabeth's shift on monday, she's having family health issues and requested time off. We'll pay you for the overtime, of course, but if you can't come well have no one else to cover: Call me back. [beep]
[Georgie] Hey, I'm sorry for whatever I said last night. I was fucking wasted and I don't remember, but can you please pick up the phone? I just want to talk, please. I'm sorry. I love you, bye. [beep]
Jon takes a deep, steady breath. He doesn't want to keep listening, but he doesn't click pause as the next one starts.
[Georgie] Jon, I know you're upset, but can you please at least reply to my texts? Are you even listening to these? [beep]
[Georgie] Are we still going out to stay with my Grandma for Christmas? She wants to know. [beep]
[Georgie] On my way to your house with the car. Are you all packed? I've got hours worth of podcasts loaded up, haha, even that science one you like. It'll be a fun road trip. See you in a minute, love ya, all that jazz. [beep]
At a certain point, he has to stop listening and turns his phone off, putting it on his bedside table. He curls up on his bed, wrapping his arms around a pillow and shutting his eyes. He imagines it's someone else he's holding, someone happy to sleep in his bed, be held by him and be in his company.
He doubts that's something he could ever achieve, anyway.
Jon sighs heavily, feeling his ribs expanding in his chest. Is this feeling what it is to be alive? To be human? He's not sure what that is anymore.
He cicks record.
"Statement of... Mikaele Salesa, regarding an antique meat grinder in his possession during the autumn of 1999. Original statement given January 4th 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."
Jon doesn't want to think about the Unknowing. He has to, but he doesn't want to.
One morning on the Underground, listening to Gerard's tape, an idea pops in his head.
"Helen. You... you said you can time travel?"
Helen looks uncomfortable like this, her effort going into appearing normal. She looks like an average British businesswoman; normal enough not to be questioned, but still exploitative and slimy.
"When do you want to go?"
"September," he breathes, remembering it perfectly. "September, 2010, in- in Genoa."
She eyes him. "What are you up to?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"That's a lie."
He scowls at her. She smiles. As they step out of the train, Jon finds his feet hitting soft carpet and he has to catch his breath. This is a terrible idea. She might just kill him in here. What's behind that smile... he doesn't like it.
She leads him to a door, offering the handle to him. He grips it, hesitantly. He feels dizzy this far away from the Eye. Probably not a good thing.
"Go on," it encourages with its cheshire-like grin.
Well, he got himself into it. Might as well trust her.
Jon opens the door.
He steps out in the middle of a street, a car honking at him is the first thing he hears.
"Goddamnit, Helen," he mutters, running over to the sidewalk and continuing to grumble to himself as he goes.
He immediately checks his cell- the time hasn't changed, but the date reads September 5th. A grin breaks out on his face. She wasn't lying to him.
Then he realizes this is 2010 and his current bank account isn't set up yet, so he'll have to make this trip just with the cash he has in his wallet.
It also hits him that he's in a strange Italian city, speaking no Italian, hoping to track down a dead goth he had one conversation with before assisting his suicide and tell him he has cancer and needs to seek medical treatment. Georgie is right, he is impulsive. A part of him wishes Melanie would spawn up behind him and lecture Jon about how stupid he's being and how he can fix this easily, you idiot!
He starts walking with the sea of traffic, just to get moving. He spots what seems to be a cafe and clears his throat, wondering if the Eye would see him struggling and give him the magical powers of Italian.
Nope.
"Excuse me, er, do you speak English?" He cringes at the sound of his own voice.
The barista nods. "What do you want to have?"
"Just a plain coffee, thanks." He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop fidgeting with them. He takes it from her and takes a sip, even though it's scaling hot, and sits down by the window. No tapes show up, so he pulls out a pad of paper from his bag and tears out his last page of incomprehensible.notes.
So, he has roughly sixty pounds in his wallet for emergencies. Twenty euro for emergencies. He just spent some of that on coffee, which was probably stupid. He can go into a bank and get that sixty traded out, but it's worth less here. He definitely doesn't have enough money for a hotel or an apartment, so a homeless shelter it is. He spent enough of his young adulthood there, whenever his grandmother got tired of his drinking and told him to find some other place to do it.
Anyway. He'll spend the day scoping out the city, maybe get familiar with Google Translate.
He doodles in his sketchpad as he watches out the window- a little skull, a cassette tape, an Eye. They look terrible, of course, but they're fun. They pass the time.
At some point, the barista comes back to ask if he wants anything else, in the if you don't order something, sir, you'll have to leave kind of voice Jon has come to expect when sitting in cafes. He orders another coffee and continues doodling.
An utterly terrifying thought strikes him maybe an hour after finishing his coffee- what if he's stuck here?
He stares at the empty seat across from him, hesitantly squinting. He glances around the cafe, no one's looking at him.
"Helen," he whispers. "Helen?"
Nothing happens. The room is empty, there are no new doors, and he supposes he just looks like a freak talking to himself.
The bell over the door rings as someone walks in, and Jon's just present enough to snap his head up to look.
A tall man with huge eye bags walks in, a Hawaiian shirt tucked into his obnoxiously tight black jeans. His shitty black hair is fried and teased to the point where it looks like a rat's nest in some areas, and you can only see the tattoos on his knuckles farthest from his hand, the rest are covered by fingerless leather gloves. There's hole punctures where spikes might have been screwed in before.
Jon's heart skips a beat. Gerry.
He has no idea what he's going to do from here. Gerard sits at the bar towards the back and starts drinking by himself. Should he approach him? Say hi? I helped you kill yourself in the future when you were a ghost? No, that's ridiculous. Probably wouldn't do any good, either.
Jon orders another coffee- he's not hungry, not anymore. He puts his notebook there and tries to sneak as few looks at Gerard as possible. Even in that stupid Hawiian shirt, he looks good. God, Jon hardly knows him and it's killing him not to go over and talk to him.
Well, hardly knows him is an understatement. He's watched the worst parts of Gerard's life like it's a movie every time he falls asleep, he feels guilty just thinking about it. It feels disgusting, like an invasion of privacy. To invade the past of a dead man.
Well, he's not dead anymore. Should Jon apologize? No, that would just make him feel worse, and is already a weird way to start a conversation. Jesus, he's overthinking this way too much.
A second person comes in and orders a coffee. She looks exhausted, too, and keeps flipping back to reread a part of her book she just finished.
Andrea, Jon realizes. What a fucking coincidence. If there's a God out there, He's laughing.
Sure enough, after Gerard finishes his drink he starts staring at her, brow furrowed. Now that he's looking generally in Jon's direction, he does his best not to stare.
When Gerard gets up and starts walking in their general direction, Jon's heart leaps in his chest. It doesn't calm when Gerard goes and talks to Andrea- he can't make out what they're saying, but he remembers it just enough. You're marked by the Lonely, picture your mother, remember her face, so on and so forth. When Andrea gets up to leave, he calls after her- "Remember your mother, to keep her face in your mind."
God, his voice. Just hearing it again sends shivers down Jon's spine.
When Gerard sits back down and fixes his gaze on Jon this time, he a swell of anxiety knocks him down like a tidal wave.
He asks the barista where her bathroom is and when he gets in there, he locks the door, sinks down into the corner, hugs his knees to his chests and tries to take a deep breath.
His anxiety doesn't quell when he hears the door open, instead his heart pounds so hard in his ribcage he thinks it might burst."
"Archivist, what are you doing on the bathroom floor?"
Oddly enough, he breathes a sigh of relief. Helen.
*He... scares me," Jon admits in a rush. He doesn't particularly care that it's Helen he's confiding in, just that it's someone. "He's tall, he's confident in- in his life and his job and he's not intimidated by things, and God, he's attractive, and I'm a skinny, alcoholic barely guy with a bad job who came from the future via the Distortion to warn him about his incoming death in the next four years. I'm a socially awkward failure and all my coworkers hate me, and they have a right to hate me because fucking look at me, and this is honestly the shittiest I think I've felt in a while."
"Tha's... tha's a very human emotion, Jon," Helen says after a minute of silence.
Jon. Not Archivist.
Helen is not his friend. He's sure of that. But... maybe she's right. Maybe he does need to be a person, and being a person means doing awkward things. Ugh. When did the Distortion start communicating like a new-age therapist?
When he looks up, Helen is gone. He didn't get a chance to ask her when he could leave. Maybe he just has to trust she'll get him out of here when he needs to.
That's a terrifying thought.
He exits the bathroom and sits down at the bar, orders a whiskey. He cringes at the sound of his English, but it draws Gerard's gaze his way.
"Fellow Brit, eh?"
Jon smiles awkwardly. "I have no pride in my country," he says as a disclaimer, and he's glad he said it because it draws a laugh from the goth. God, it's a beautiful laugh.(He is, as Georgie would say, 'down bad)
"Where are vou from?"
"Edinburg," he says casually, feeling as though he might have just spoken his credit card number out loud. "You?”
Gerard shrugs. "My mother and I traveled a lot when I was growing up, I don't really consider myself from one place or another."
Right. Of course.
"That must have been interesting, at least."
Gerard laughs, a bit heartlessly. Not as if he found something amusing, but as if there was something sad he needed to play off as a joke. "You could say that."
They drink in silence for a minute, and Jon tries to think of something to say that isn't by the way, I'm from the future to tell you that you have a tumor in your brain that'll kill you in 2014 and your boss is going to let it happen and then bind you in a book.
Anything but that.
"Did you know," he says tentatively, "That one possible root of the word Genoa is Janus, the god of two faces, because this city has two faces as well- one facing the sea and one facing the mountains?" He pauses. "It could also mean door, but the first option is prettier."
Gerard nods. "That's interesting. I'm Gerry, by the way."
"Jon."
He feels like they should be shaking hands.
Gerry's black lips quirk up into a smile. "Is that short for Johnathan?"
"There's no h," he insists, "and yes. Yes it is."
Gerry laughs. "Well, the name suits you."
"I'm not old, I promise. I'm barely in my 30s. I just look like this from... stress." Maybe that's a weird statement, but Tim had thought Jon was in his fourties when they first met.
"This is my 30th birthday week, actually." Gerry takes a long drink. "I'm on vacation, but it doesn't really feel like vacation."
Jon nods. "That girl back there?"
Gerry's glance is knowing. "What about her?"
"You... you helped her, didn't you? Went out of your way?" He shrugs. He shouldn't have said anything. "It was a nice thing to do, whatever it was."
Gerry relaxes in his seat. "Yeah, probably. Just felt like another chore, I'll be honest. My boss is not very chill."
Jon snorts. "Mine neither."
He remembers that in the moment, in 2010, he doesn't have a serious job. Jesus, it's easy to get lost like this. Forget what you're doing. He'd love to spend forever in this bar, talking like this. He misses being this young.
They talk for hours. As the night gets longer more people start pouring in for drinks and shitty live music that Jon can't understand, and Gerry starts paying for the alcohol when Jon runs out of cash. They laugh and talk about work, mums(or lack thereof), he gets Gerry rambling on about music. He has no idea what any of it is or what it means, but it's nice to watch his face light up. He feels like they've been friends forever. In Gerry's mind, they'd only just met.
At some point, Jon knows Gerry ll have to leave and they might not run into each other again while Jon's here. He has no idea how long Gerry's vacation is going to last, and he didn't come here to chat and make friends, although it's been nice.
Around 12 AM, Jon touches his shoulder lightly. "Can I... talk to you? Outside."
Gerry nods easily and they walk outside together after paying the final bill. They walk just about a block, finding an emptier part of the street barely lit by the streetlight. It was a warm and muggy evening, the stars barely visible through the thin sheen of cloud. When they're standing, Gerry towers over Jon in his platforms and their silver piercings glint in the light. He has two in his lips, one through his septum and another through the side of his nose, one on the bridge of his nose, two on his eyebrow. A part of Jon wonders if there are piercings anywhere else on his body.
He tries to think of what to say, and while he's paying attention to that, he doesn't notice Gerry cup his face and kiss him.
His lips are soft and his piercings press gently into Jon's lips, and he's frozen in the moment. His entire body feels like it's melting and before he gets a chance to kiss Gerry back, he pulls away.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't read this wrong, did 1? I'm not good at people, Jesus, I'm sorry, that was stupid-" Gerry babbles on, all confidence lost once he sees the stunned look on Jon's face.
Jon has no way to process what just happened. He was about to bring up cancer, for Christ's sake! But Gerry's apologizing for something Jon wanted to do all night and he has no idea what to say, it's like his brain is emptied of words, so he grabs Gerry by the face and shuts him up effectively by kissing him back.
Gerry pulls Jon close to him, and he's warm. He's scrawny, sure, and if Jon were to, reach out he could probably feel each and every rib, but he feels solid. His nose brushes against Jon's cheeks and when they come up for air, Gerry laughs softly against his neck. "I am." he says slowly, "really bad at reading people."
Jon laughs back, Gerry's breath tickling him. He likes his head there, though, buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He squeaks when Gerry kisses him there, surprised. The look on Gerry's face says God, you're adorable. Jon feels like he could melt.
"Do you want to come back to my place?"
Jon's heart flips around as he smiles and says "Yeah, that sounds great." More than great. He feels over the moon.
He twines his fingers with his, and Gerry leads them down the coquina sidewalks and in the direction of a large hotel. On their way up the last block, Gerry glances in his direction.
"Oh, um. I don't think it came up, but I'm transgender. Transexual, transvestic, a tranny, Whatever you want to call it. Just... if that's OK with you."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
He watches Gerry's shoulders visibly sag and he feels anxiety pool in his stomach. What did he do, what did he say to make Gerry uncomfortable and scared?
"I dunno. Some gay guys are weird, just wanted to check in. Didn't want to give you, like, a jumpscare."
Jon laughs, and that makes Gerry relax even more. He stops holding his hand so tightly as they walk inside the hotel building.
“I’m, um...” His mouth goes dry, struggling to find the words. Struggling to say them. “I'm fine with, um. Sex. I just... it's weird. I don’t, um… feel attraction like you do." Blood rushes to Jon's face.
"You’re asexual?” It looks like the blush isn’t leaving. “It's fine, Jon, we don't have to do anything you don't want to do and all that."
Jon smiles at him, his throat closing up for no reason. He can't remember the last time he had such a casually nice conversation like this. It hits home in a way he can't quite place.
—
Jon wakes up as he always does. Gasping for breath, thrashing the blankets off, his throat closed off like he'd been screaming. The room's dark and he can't See, and suddenly someone's arms are grasping him so he can't thrash.
"Jon, Jon-"
Gerry. It's Gerry. He's not asleep. This isn't hell. He's OK.
His breathing goes from panicked to slowed and he relaxes, slowly. He takes several heavy, deep breaths as the world stops spinning and he screws his eyes shut, refusing to let a tear drop.
"Hey, hey, it's OK, take a deep breath. You're OK. I've got you," he says softly. Goddamnit, if he keeps this up, Jon's heart is going to break in two.
He clenches down on his jaw and refuses to cry. He takes a few heaving breaths before saying as steadily and calmly as he can, "I- I'm fine, Gerard." He's amazed he can talk, that he hasn't lost all coherence.
His arms stay wrapped around his torso, but they both lie back down. At some point, Gerry had hauled him into his lap to stay still. He can hear Gerry's pounding heart against his, his bare chest warm.
Jon shuts his eyes and tries to relax.
Gerry sighs, holding him close. When he whispers, his breath tickles the back of Jon's neck. "Are you alright?" He pauses, bumping his head into Jon's shoulder. "I guess that's the wrong question. Do you wanna talk about it?"
He's tired. He's always tired. All he wants is one, good, solid night of sleep. The idea of rest sounds so appealing, to lie in bed in a state of relaxation for as long as he can. He hasn't had proper sleep in years. He thought going back to a time where the Eye hadn't marked him would at least let him do that.
"I..." he huffs a sigh, and Gerry's breathing stays steady. Jon can't tell how well he's listening. He's barely awake.
"I... have nightmares. Just about every night. They're hyper realistic and bloody terrifying." This is the first time he thinks he's ever said that out loud. "When I wake up, I ... it's like I've died and gone to hell. It feels that way, too," he chuckles. "And then I have to remember where I am and what was a dream and what wasn't."
"That sounds rough."
That's an understatement.
"I'm fine," Jon breathes, "I just... go back to bed."
Gerry holds him close, his hair tickling against the back of Jon's neck. For some reason, it doesn't bother him. Eventually, he drifts back to fitful sleep. This time, he dreams of Andrea Nunis. She might have been lost, but she wasn't alone. Not while he was there, watching her torment, and she knew it. That didn't make it any better.
—
The next time he wakes up, it's to the gentle, sweet smell of nicotine and smoke.
Gerry's sitting up shirtless in bed, smoking with his eyes closed while a record plays at the lowest possible volume in the background. Jon cracks his eyes open, taking a moment to just... look.
Messy strands of long, black hair draped over his shoulders and a few messy strands fell from where it was tucked behind his ear. The eye tattoos on his ribs rise and fall with each puff of the cigarette. He's got dark eyelashes that stand out when his face isn't caked in makeup. He's scrawny, a lot less intimidating when he's not towering over Jon in those platforms. He looks quietly beautiful.
He opens his eyes and grins down at Jon. “Mornin, sweetheart."
Jon buries his face into his pillow and Gerry laughs, loud and warm. Jon wants to capture that laugh in a bottle and never let it go.
He puts his cigarette out on the motel bedside table, curling up in bed next to Jon. His hand ghosts his face before kissing his forehead. "Fall back asleep ok?"
"Mh," Jon grumbles, not wanting to lie but not wanting to say his dreams hadn't been any better. "What's this song?"
Gerry smiles wistfully. " Sunday morning," he starts singing softly, "brings the dawning... It's just a restless feeling by-y my side. Early dawning, Sunday morning. It's just the wasted years so clo-ose behind. Watch out, the world's behind you, there's always someone around vou who will ca-all.. It's nothing at all." He pauses, and Jon wishes he'd brought a tape recorder over for this. "Sunday Morning by the Velvet Underground(and Nico. One of her indie albums is attributed to the founding of goth, you know."
"I have no idea what that means," he admits honestly.
Gerry laughs- he seems to do that a lot- and wraps an arm around Jon. They're tangled, both with each other and with the blankets, and he never wants to leave.
Gerry buries his face in the crook between Jon's neck and his shoulder and holds him like a koala.
"All koalas have chlamydia," he says suddenly, laughing at the fun fact he learned years ago.
Gerry snorts. "What the fuck?"
"You reminded me of a koala, and then I remembered every single one of them has that one STD."
"I can assure you I do not have chlamydia."
"I sure hope not," Jon says, indignant, and they both dissolve into a giggling fit.
They lie in bed like that for God-knows how long, talking about nothing and holding one another. Jon aches for this to feel normal. He never thought about it much until Georgie was gone, how much he longed to be held in someone's arms. How painful it was to go without casual touches, hugs and handholding and forehead kisses, lying in bed and cuddling, sure, even sex, because it was that kind of closeness and intimacy Jon always felt cut off from.
He never had any friends as a child. In uni, there was Georgie, and she never seemed to care. He lingered in her friend group for a bit, but was ultimately unremembered by any of them.
When she left him, their relationship had deteriorated beyond repair. They were both alcoholics, but Jon got tired and sad and she got angry and lost her filter. She broke plates and bottles, would yell about anything that upset her, and it was never directed at Jon so he never told her she scared him. He was never 'emotionally fucking there’, apparently, and they had taken to sleeping in separate beds, avoiding each other once every conversation became an argument, and he was completely alone again.
It left him shell-shocked, like someone had plunged him into icy water. He'd never longed for companionship until he had it and lost it.
Then years went by and with enough alcohol and work, he got used to. his perpetual state of isolation. Just like being a teenager again, only the drinking grew less and less often and he was able to quit smoking and doing drugs after nearly overdosing three times in a month. He didn't form new bonds, but he wasn't abusing substances anymore and sure, he didn't like being in his own head, but he was the only one who had to deal with himself.
And then... Gerry. The first conversation where an eldritch being wasn't trying to kill him. His story was sad, tragic. He'd talked to Jon like a friend, once he trusted him a bit. Joking around, being dramatic, asking for a cigarette. And yeah, he was cute. Really cute. Jon couldn't get the image of him out of his head, and he started to crave that kind of companionship once more.
He can fantasize about it, when he's tired enough and no longer self conscious. If they had met when they were younger, with no Fears in their lives, he could convince Gerry to get cancer treatment. Would they both be wrecks? Probably. But(based on one conversation) it didn't feel like something temporary or fleeting. He hadn't connected to someone so well, found them so easy to talk to, in God knows how long.
Sure, whatever this is that he found, it's temporary. Jon knows it has its expiration date. Gerry might still die with treatment and as much as he loves it here, he has to go back and stop the Unknowing. He doesn't want to mess with time too much, too afraid of making things worse.
But God, if he died in Gerry's arms, he would die happy.
—
They go out to a different cafe for lunch, as they lounged around indoors for the better half of the morning. Gerry pays, thank God, because Jon's not sure how he would have explained the few euros in his wallet. The day seems to pass in no time at all.
Mostly, they just drift. Neither of them know where they are, they find obscure thrift shops to search through or find a side street to walk down. Italy's more beautiful that Jon could've imagined, with its old, rustic buildings, winding streets and blue skies. This is the first time in months that he's properly enjoyed himself, without the threat of the apocalypse looming over his head.
Gerry shows him a strange album cover in a record shop, a brain with eyes and legs. He laughs and says he'd appall whoever shared the apartment with him if he bought it.
A wave of anxiety washes through him as he remembers why he's here, and Jon wonders if now is a good time to bring up Gerry's imminent death.
Four years. He has as much time left in his life as an American high schooler has before graduation. It nauseates Jon to think about.
They wander to one of the back rooms with shelves and shelves of used records. Gerry hooks up a record on the open player and messes with the needle. When he adjusts the volume, he lies down on the carpet and closes his eyes. Jon joins him, listening to the music.
He has to laugh. "This is that, uh, that one emo band, right?"
Gerry cackles, wiping tears from his eyes. "MCR? Yes, Jon, this is that one emo band."
"What's so funny?"
He shakes his head. "God, you act so old sometimes."
Jon joins him in laughing. It's a different tone than how Tim says it, it's not a joke. He can’t out his finger on what it is, but perhaps affectionate is the right word?
The last song on the record spins and Jon feels something in his stomach clench and his throat closes up and he struggles to breathe.
Gerry hums along to the song, nodding his head to the beat. The song is simple, just some piano and a hollow, painful voice singing about dying a slow death.
Now turn away
Cause I'm awful just to see
Cause all my hair's abandoned all my body
All my agony
Know that I will never marry
Baby I'm just soggy from the chemo
But counting down the days to go
It just ain't living
And I just hope you know
That if you say
Good-bye today
I'd ask you to be true
Cause the hardest part of this
Is leaving you
Jon feels like someone is trying to tear his heart out of his chest. As the song ends, he's clenching his eyes shut and trying to dissociate from this moment. It's too surreal.
When the record stops spinning, he hears Gerry get up to put the record back in it's sleeve.
"So? Thoughts on my weird emo music?"
If he opens his mouth, he's going to cry.
"What's that song called," is all he can think to say. He feels like he's on autopilot.
"Cancer, Gerry says. "Not to sound like a teenager on Tumblr, but I've been considering getting a tattoo based on that song. I've already got so many, as you saw, so I'm not sure where I'll put it." He laughs, but it hurts his throat.
Gerry puts the record back where he found it- I have a copy back in my London flat, he explains- and they continue wandering. Jon reaches for Gerry's hand, hoping the casual touch will calm his racing heart. It doesn't.
—
That night, they curl up on the hotel bed under the comforter and Gerry puts on some show Jon's never seen before. He's not paying attention, not really, he's more than content to wrap his arms around him and hold him close. He never realized how much he loved physical contact until now. Gerry's hands gently untangle his hair as they watch, and Jon realizes it's been weeks since he did anything other than tie up his hair and ignore it. With his forgetfulness, maybe he should get it cut short again. This is nice, though.
His eyes drift shut and he struggles to keep them open. Everything feels warm and fuzzy, pleasant. He's never felt this safe in someone's arms.
—
His eyes fly open and it feels like the reverse of being dunked into ice cold water. He wakes up from the most harrowing nightmare imaginable to a warm body wrapped around him, a room smelling of coffee and cigarettes.
He doesn't fall back asleep for the rest of the night, just lies there breathing deeply. It's comforting. He and Georgie always had separate beds. He had always hated touch, and sharing a space with someone was always difficult. She would steal all the blankets, he would wake her up in the middle of the night, she'd kick him, he'd end up sleeping on the couch. Eventually they just got separate beds.
He sighs, turning around so he can see Gerry. He can hardly believe this is real and happening, and he's still half convinced it's a dream. It'd be a sick, twisted dream, but maybe it'd be better that none of this happened.
He's got long eyelashes. Without all the makeup, his face is still pale, but there's a few freckles smattered across his face. His hair is messily tied up so he doesn't have to sleep on it, but a few strands fall across his face. Jon watches his chest rise and fall and wonders if his tumor has started growing yet.
—
His eyes fly open and it feels like the reverse of being dunked into ice cold water. He wakes up from the most harrowing nightmare imaginable to a warm body wrapped around him, a room smelling of coffee and cigarettes.
He doesn't fall back asleep for the rest of the night, just lies there breathing deeply. It's comforting. He and Georgie always had separate beds. He had always hated touch, and sharing a space with someone was always difficult. She would steal all the blankets, he would wake her up in the middle of the night, she'd kick him, he'd end up sleeping on the couch. Eventually they just got separate beds.
He sighs, turning around so he can see Gerry. He can hardly believe this is real and happening, and he's still half convinced it's a dream. It'd be a sick, twisted dream, but maybe it'd be better that none of this happened.
He's got long eyelashes. Without all the makeup, his face is still pale, but there's a few freckles smattered across his face. His hair is messily tied up so he doesn't have to sleep on it, but a few strands fall across his face. Jon watches his chest rise and fall and wonders if his tumor has started growing yet.
—
When Gerry wakes up they have slow, lazy sex. When they're done, they hold each other closely and Jon closes his eyes, resting. He feels good, sleepy, and comfortable, but anxiety pools in his stomach. This can't go on forever.
"Gerry?"
"Hm?"
"Um... you know the Distortion, right?"
"Yeah?"
He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to face him. Gerry cups Jon's face in his hand, gently running his thumb over his cheek. It doesn't make him feel any better.
"She... well, it ate someone else. And her name's Helen. I suppose. And... she exists out of time. So she took me back here so I could find you."
"I suppose there's more to the story than that?"
"I.." his throat feels like it's closing up. God, he was never good at communicating. "I met you. You... You died, Gerry. You had brain cancer and died in America, and Gertrude turned you into a book. I-I I don't know if you knew and didn't get treatment but I just- I don't- I couldn't-" he's hyperventilating now and he can't get the words out, he feels inarticulate, like everything's so overwhelming that his speech was intercepted before he could vocalize it.
"Jon- Jon." Gerry sits up, pulling Jon with him and into a hug. "Breathe. It's OK."
He can't. He feels like if he opens his mouth he's going to burst into tears. Gerry holds him tighter, rubbing his hands against Jon's back. It'd be calming if all Jon could envision was Gerry, seizing on a hospital bed, slowly dying as the doctors could do nothing to save him.
He opens his mouth to tell Gerry he's fine, it's all fine, he doesn't need help, it's OK, but when he does all that comes out is some kind of gasping sob.
It's mortifying. He hadn't cried like this in years, and certainly not in front of anyone.
Gerry doesn't seem to mind, just holds him closer.
Jon forces himself to stop, hiccuping and shoving his emotions down. Gerry doesn't acknowledge his apology, just shushes him and squeezes him. The pressure of the hug takes away all the other sensory input, and Jon never wants to face reality again.
“Jon,” Gerry says gently, not letting him go, "I know."
"What?"
He can't bring himself to specify what he means. How does he know? Why is he so ok with it? Why isn't he doing anything about it? How is he so calm?
Gerry sighs, long and heavy. "I... I've had to think about this a lot lately. The Eye showed me my death and it... I'll be honest, it got to me for a bit. I was thinking emotionally rather than logically."
How can you think logically about your own death! Jon wants to shout. He can't. His words are still stuck in his throat.
Gerry's fingers trail up and down his spine slowly. It's meant to be comforting, but Jon doesn't think anything can help.
"I... I'm going to die someday. Everyone is. We all End, you could even say," he chuckles. "And I. I know when this one's coming." Jon can hear him swallow once, pause. "I'm going to go with Gertrude to America. For research. I'm going to have a seizure, they're going to take me to the hospital, and I'm going to die there. And I know it's going to happen and it's going to be horrible but I- I know it's going to happen."
"And she's going to turn you into a book," he says quietly.
"And she's going to turn me into a book," he confirms.
His entire body tenses and shakes. He has no way of calming himself, no way of stopping it. He wants to tear his hair out. He needs some kind of way of getting this anxiety out. He wants to throw up. Scream, maybe, scream into a pillow for a solid hour.
Gerry keeps talking. "The Eye showed it to me for a reason. It... it wanted me to do something else. To avoid the cancer. And I'm not going to do what I- what I want to be right, because inevitably, something just as horrible will happen. Maybe IlI be mauled to death by a giant pig. Maybe I'll end up committing suicide. Maybe, just maybe, Ill be unable to help Gertrude stop the apocalypse and be the one to trigger it or whatever and then my life will suck. I don't know, Jon. But I can see this coming. And maybe.. maybe it's the best of a bunch of bad options.”
He can't choke back his sob, even as he buries his face in his shoulder.
"Jon," he whispers, "it's OK. I'm alright."
"No, his voice cracks, "no, no, no... that's not OK."
Gerry holds him tightly, and they sit like that for a long, long time.
—
Gerry takes him out for dinner. It's frivolous and ridiculous and Jon doesn't want to leave the hotel.
Gerry had looked him in the eyes, put a firm hand on his shoulder. I am going to die, he said, and Ill be damned if I don't take you out on a proper date first. They order fancy Italian pizza and Gerry strikes up a conversation about alternative subculture history, which Jon uses as an opportunity to lecture him on the Cold War's effect on the nuclear family, and they have fun. It's fun. It's fun. Jon can almost forget he's dying right in front of him.
After that, they walk back to their hotel. Holding hands and pausing at red lights to brush their lips against each other and laugh. The streets are dim and they only pass a few small groups of tittering young adults, all of whom stare at Gerry like he's from outer space.
Jon raises an eyebrow at him. "In their defense, you look very strange."
"What, you don't think some kind of goth-punk-thing can't pull off a Hawaiian shirt?"
He snorts. "Nah, you make it work."
Gerry smiles, his lip piercings flashing under the streetlight. Jon wants to kiss him, and the wildest thing is that he can. He can just... get up on the tips of his toes and kiss him. And so he does, and he can feel Gerry's smile, and everything's just.. Perfect. It's the perfect night.
There's got to be a cost to this, a price he's yet to pay. No one gets something so nice without it coming back to bite them. Is that price the temporariness of it all? Gerry's tumor? That's a sick price to pay for three nights.
Back at the hotel, Gerry puts on a record he bought the other day. It's got a blue cover, people flying in what appears to be waves or maybe clouds, and the faces of a creature blending into the background. Gerry wipes the record with a special rag to get rid of any dust that would get in the way of the sound.
As the first song starts rattling off, Gerry ties his hair up so it's out of his face and turns to Jon with a smile.
"We, he says, "are going to dance. Because I assume you don't like bars with loud music and dance floors and that doesn't sound particularly fun to me either."
Jon laughs. "I don't know how to dance!"
Do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive
Do every stupid thing to try to drive the dark away
Gerry takes Jon's hands, placing them on his shoulders, and holds his waist. Jon shakes his head. "This is ridiculous."
"You're smiling."
"Shut up."
Let people call you crazy for the choices that you make
Climb limits past the limits
Jump in front of trains all day
And stay alive
Just stay alive
Most of their 'dancing' is just awkward swaying and twirling. Jon bops his head to the music, closing his eyes. It's a stupid song. It doesn't make him feel anything. Nothing at all. He bites his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut, resting his head on Gerry's shoulder as they sway. His body is warm and close and his throat constricts. Something about the first track hits close to home, like a punch to the gut. There’s nothing remotely happy about it.
But it seems like Gerry’s trying to make him feel better. He’s trying to make the best of a bad situation, and it’s not even Jon with the problem here. He came here to fix Gerry’s problem and now it seems like the tables have turned.
He's going to enjoy this night if it fucking kills him. For Gerry.
—
Jon can't sleep that night. He can’t sleep most nights, but this sticks out.
He lies next to Gerry, who stretches out and takes up over half of the bed. He's lying shirtless on his stomach, hair splattered across the pillow. Jon can see every tattoo down his spine, cut off by his sweatpants. Jon watches him from where he lies on his side before sighing and flipping over on his back. His eyes don't close and he stares at the ceiling.
He believes it's called popcorn plaster, the way they have it. Like a stippled painting. He thinks he can make out patterns in it, but every time he tries to focus on them they disappear.
Jon takes a deep breath, holds it in his chest for a couple of seconds before exhaling.
He used to take melatonin, back in Uni. Without it, he could study all night and only go to bed when the world spun when he stood up. When he took it, he'd crash within 15 minutes and get up the next morning. It was a form of control over his life, to choose When he got to go to bed. Without the medication, it felt like he had no control over his own body. Late nights felt like a fever dream and he always paid for it the next morning. He would curse himself, swearing to go to bed earlier the next night and always failing to do so.
Bad decisions. Jon makes bad decisions.
But are they even decisions if he can never help them? Can he really be held accountable for them? Maybe there is a God out there and his goal in life is to antagonize Jon.
See, this is why he shouldn't be allowed up late. These thoughts.
Just as he's starting to nod off, he hears an eerie, static door creek open and he bolts upright. Helen peers out at him from the ceiling, her grin Grinch-like as it curls up around her face.
"Hello, Archivist."
He lies back down, burying his face in the pillow and peering back at Gerry. He's sound asleep, even snoring gently. "Christ, Helen.
She slinks down onto the floor, perching over him like a lamppost. "Let's go on a walk. Do you need a smoke break?"
He closes his eyes as if he were praying. "No. No, I'll just see you in the morning."
She extends her left hand like she expects him to shake it. "I wasn't asking. Come on."
Jon drags himself to his feet quietly, slipping on socks and his work shoes, which he hadn't bothered to change before coming here. They're stiff and not meant for walking, but Jon doesn't want to risk leaving them here. He can't afford another nice pair. On the other hand, it feels surreal to be worrying about his shoes right now.
Unlike London, the instant they step outside the entire night sky is visible. It's a beautiful evening, with dim street lights and bright shining stars littered across the galaxy. It'd be breathtaking if Jon weren't so caught up in his own mind. He's jittery as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, offering one to Helen.
She takes it, lighting it with the tips of her fingers and lifting it to her... mouth. Or whatever it is. How can she smoke? Does she have lungs to damage? That's a question he doesn't want the answer to.
They walk aimlessly, unsure who is taking the lead. Jon doesn't like the idea of following Helen around and he's not sure he wants her following him, either. No one's out at this hour and when they've walked long enough that Jon has... not relaxed, but adjusted ot the situation, he says finally, "He is... committing a glorified suicide."
"Hmm. Pass me a fag?"
He has nothing left in him to be shocked. He twists his mouth at her turn of phrase but passes her a cigarette anyway. What could it hurt?
A lot.
"I just.. he shakes his head, unsure why he's talking to her. If he had anyone else to say this to- "It's so stupid. He could live, live much longer, live to- it's even stupider, but live to join me in the present. And all he wants to talk about is destiny and outsmarting the entities.
She tilts her head, watching him with disorienting eyes. "Archivist, do you remember Masato Murray?"*
Dread pools in his stomach and he knows where she's taking this but says anyway,
"remind me."
Her toothy grin makes him regret his word choice immediately.
"In August of 2003, a man named Masato Murray came into possession of his dead not-so-friend's book. It had described his death in perfect detail and now Masato's death was predicted in there as well. He thought it was a prank, couldn't destroy it, got paranoid- a bit more my thing than Death's, but oh, what can we do?- and every time he looked, it changed. He didn't know how or when he was going to die, but knowing that he could know, if only for a little, drove him insane. So he disappeared, completely willingly, and was never found. You assumed him dead."
He gives her a dry glare. "What's your point."
"Gerry," she sighs, 'is lucky. He knows how he's going and it’s not going to change. He knows where he's going, at least up until the book. After that is the only mystery he has left. He can plan, he can budget his time, so long as he doesn't get the cancer treated and goes to America with Gertrude."
Jon stares at the ground, lighting another cigarette. He doesn't need this right now.
When it seems he hasn't got it, she keeps going. The bitch. "He's picked a path and he can work within it. You fighting that just makes this harder for him. He's going to die at some point. Wouldn't you rather have cancer than, I don't know, turn into something like me?" She grins to make a point.
"No," he says. "No, I want to live. Finally, I want to live, and the- well, he doesn't. This is just an excuse to die without it looking like he finally snapped and killed himself, alright? And if what he wants is to die then he's not in his right mind, so he can't be trusted to make that decision.
"Archivist, Archivist! It's easy to dismiss him as mentally ill. Then he's not making the rational, sound decision to pick how he ends his life but is a reckless and uncontrolled danger to himself. That's where you get the authority to make his decisions, don't you?"
"Shut up," he snaps at her, 'What do you know about the mentally ill?"
"Well-" she starts to chuckle but he's not done, cutting her off once more.
"If my suicide attempts don't grant me a fucking opinion, you can-"
"Leave?" instead of getting upset, she just sounds pleased. "Would you like to stay here with your Gerry? Watch him die? Live alongside your double? Try to gauge the repercussions that will have on the rest of humanity? You need me."
He takes a long drag of his cigarette, enjoying how it burns his lungs and fills his chest with a hollow, blistering heat. The streets are so empty that even if he did lie down in them, he doubts any car would kill him before the sun rose and the police drag him off to a ward. Fuck.
"I want to go back," he decides.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Right now?"
He exhales smoke, watching it drift into the dark and cool sky, feeling something in his chest pull and tear in two. "Yes.
"You're an odd one, Archivist."
"Indeed," he says dryly, stubbing out his cigarette and putting the pack in his pocket.
He's wearing Gerry's jacket and left his journal at the hotel, but he wasn't expecting to leave it behind and the idea of going back makes him want to throw up. He should know better than to trust Helen, but- no, the one to blame is himself.
A part of him knows that it's a bad time to leave like this. A small part of him is desperately clinging to the idea of one more night, one more hour, one more minute with Gerard, but it's unsustainable.
Being around him... it's both new and old at the same time. It's something he's never experienced and yet it reminds him of being curled up on the bathroom floor shortly after breaking up with Georgie, hurling all the pills he took out into the toilet. His vomit was bright pink and he thought he was going to die there and it was, objectively, the worst he's ever felt.
Is he going to feel like that again? Can a relationship so short be so impactful? He and Georgie were together for years, but this... this is intense on a supernatural level.
Maybe he'll try to kill himself again and finally succeed. Is that one of the factors that makes him take Helen's hand, walk through a door to a bar that doesn't really lead to the bar? Perhaps the best thing would be to take himself out of the equation. Gerry has his out, his pseudo-suicide, and Jon... what? What happens when he gets back?
Is he supposed to go back to normal?
Talk to his coworkers about stopping the apocalypse? Track down dead end after dead end? Feel like you're chasing down puzzle pieces but you don't know where they go or what they add up to? Everyone hating him for mistakes he feels doomed to make again and again and again?
That's no life to live.
His mind grows fuzzier as she leads him down her hallways, grin turning more exaggerated and unnatural by the second. He grows detached from his body and everything distorts and contorts and he feels odd tasting bile rise up in his throat. He tries to call it's name but all that comes out is white noise.
Giggles echoing around invisible speakers, Helen lets him out through a different shaped door than the one he entered in. Feeling like he's taken every drug and also none, Jonathan stumbles into his bed with every thought evaporated.
What is this? Who am I? What am I doing here? Who is that strange, strange... woman?
With a lack of understanding of the world around him, Jonathan Sims falls asleep with a smile on his face.