Chapter Text
Some days now Elias felt startlingly old. A sensation he quite disliked, and that for years — decades, a whole two centuries — he’d managed to ignore with success, each new body bringing novelty and youth with it. Without the Panopticon, however, without his original skin sitting safe in its place of power, and with the Eye so weak in this world, the risk of age and what came with it — its indignities, its fears, its end — had become a true threat all over again.
He was, of course, determined not to let that happen; but it did mean he was aware of the years passing by, dripping down between pale fingers that had been his now for almost thirty years. His hands bear the mark of time; there were more wrinkles to be found, more white hair to conceal each new day, and all of them brought up uncomfortable, uneasy feelings that he struggled to chase away. He found himself dreaming of old memories, old men, old places long gone from anyone’s consciousness and history.
He found himself nostalgic, yearning for a past he’d sabotaged on purpose, with glee and delight, with the certainty that this was to be the culmination of his life’s work, his own beautiful, horrific eternity.
A lofty dream, so quickly gone, and if there’d been relief in still being alive afterwards, it turned out being retired, as it were, as the villain of the story, hardly suited him. He’d long moved past the first months of survival, had found a quiet and peaceful job in an office that cared little for the blatant lies crafted on his CV, lived in a relatively nice part of town in an adequate flat but oh, how he missed it all — his institute, the Eye, the monsters and the prey, the horror and the power…
Thankfully, he supposed, eyeing his already opened door with a shiver of anticipation, he was not the only ghost of this foreign London, nor the only one too sentimental to ever let go of what had been.
Jon stepped through the door looking furious and conflicted as he always did, his gaze immediately finding Jonah’s. He was shaking: it was, after all, November, and the fight with Martin must have been harsh enough that he’d left their home without a proper jacket. Jonah only had to raise an eyebrow for him to let out a curse and close the door behind him, snapping:
“Don’t get ideas. I didn’t mean to come here.”
“I’m sure. In which case, I won’t thank you for indulging an old man by stopping by,” Jonah answered smoothly. “Do you want to fight some more or warm up first?”
“I—” Jon wavered. He pressed a hand against his eyes with a tired, angry sigh. “This was a bad idea.”
It always was, certainly. But Jonah had never loved Jon more than when he stumbled from bad habits to bad habits. It did help that Jonah appeared to be one of them, of course.
“I thought you hadn’t planned to come here,” he noted with just enough amusement to antagonise him further.
“Shut up,” Jon muttered. “If you weren’t being so — bloody loud, all the time —”
Jonah got up from his favourite armchair at last. Contrary to Jon, he’d gotten used to the constant hum of Jon’s mind and heart that thrummed under his skin; the remnant of a bond that couldn’t be fully erased by parallel universes or death, that exposed them both too much to the other in a way that fueled just enough of the Eye to keep them both healthy and somewhat fed well. Hardly the feast of terror they both craved (although that Jon only admitted in the darkest of days, his voice raw from crying against Jonah’s stomach), but it had to be enough, like everything else.
If there was one thing Jonah knew how to do, it was how to adapt.
“My apologies if my yearning for you is bothersome,” he said. “Unfortunately there’s little I can do about it.”
“There are millions — billions — of people out there,” Jon said. “ Surely there’s someone else that could…”
His voice faded awkwardly as Jonah reached him, raising a hand to card his fingers through his hair. His eyes fluttered, lips parting in a quiet sigh.
“Nobody else is you,” Jonah murmured with genuine affection. It was hard, when Jon came by, to restrain himself long enough to play the dance they both had to dance for Jon to grow comfortable in letting go. He wished there were more nights of Jon stumbling in with wide, feverish eyes, craving for Jonah to take his due, no question asked, no consent desired. “Have I not made this abundantly clear before, Jonathan?”
“It doesn’t mean that’s a good thing for me,” Jon retorted, glancing back at him.
He didn’t move away, though, didn’t even stiffen. That fight must have truly rattled him deeply. Jonah smiled at him, brushing his thumb over his cheek.
“It never has,” he agreed. “But where’s the interest in doing only things good for us?”
A light frown appeared between Jon’s brows. He, too, had more wrinkles that he’d once had; Jonah knew each new morning brought him new aches, that he suffered from past scars more and more, that he struggled some rainy mornings to get out of bed, although he still had too much pride to tell Martin (never mind that they were both aware that Martin knew. Martin had always had keen eyes). This, too, scared Jonah, and it was a new fear. He’d never loved anyone enough before to be afraid of them aging and eventually disappearing.
Jon shivered — no doubt he’d felt that, the sudden surge of fear making Jonah’s stomach twist a second — then he bridged the last of the distance between them, his nose brushing against Jonah’s.
“I don’t want another fight,” he admitted very quietly.
“I suppose I’ll learn whatever Martin has said this time later, then.”
“Don’t— say his name—”
“Does he even know you’re here again?”
“Yes.” Jon’s guilty exhale was warm against Jonah’s mouth; Jonah’s hand moved to wrap the back of his head, steady and possessive.
“Does he approve? ”
In a way, of course, Martin always did — had to, however reluctantly, because there was no separating Jon from him. Jonah was sympathetic towards him, truly; there had been many times before he himself had wished Martin dead or gone, so that he might have Jon fully and completely for himself.
“I don’t want to fight,” Jon repeated, gripping his shirt.
So, no: not this time. Ah, well; it only meant Jonah would have more visits in the following days, and that Jon might even stay here for more than the night. Not a bad outcome at all.
“Let’s get you warm,” he said, and kissed Jon at last, hungry and impatient.