Chapter 5
Gerry is wonderfully and incandescently drunk by the time he kicks his socked feet up into Michael’s lap, giggling into his wine glass at a story Jonah is telling with much animated movement from his hands and getting comfy on Olivia’s huge L-shaped sofa. Gerry’s got himself wedged into the corner, a mostly empty plate balanced on his thighs and a wine glass in his hand. Michael looks up, eyes blue, so fucking blue in that shirt, eyebrows shooting up.
”Everything alright?”
Gerry smiles, feeling warm and cozy and just a bit flirty, admiring the way his hair looks when its not pulled back into one of his signature ponytails. “I’m doing perfect, just getting cozy. Hope you don’t mind,” he says, and Michael shakes his head. Taking this as answer enough, he turns back to Jonah, leaving Michael to his third beer of the night and his plate of horrible looking sugar encrusted biscuits. Olivia climbs over the back of the couch with a bowl of soup in her hands, sipping the curry broth in an undignified manner, not even bothering to use the spoon as she cuddles into Gerry’s side. There’s only a few people left, sitting on the floor or the few open cushions, just and playing cards or chatting, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a home cooked meal and good company. Michael looks relaxed for once, his hair a bit of a mess and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a pair of delicious collarbones that Gerry keeps dragging his eyes away from with a herculean effort. Honestly, he has no right to look this lovely, it’s unfair to Gerry, borderline cruel to his drunken mind as Olivia takes his hair out of it’s updo and begins to braid tiny plaits into it.
“Your hair is so soft,” she says admiringly. “You need to let me play with it more often.”
“Only if you promise to dye the roots as well.”
“Done deal, I want to do my hair in pink next, so you’re on bleaching duty.”
He hums in agreement, gaze drifting back to Michael, who’s incredibly politely asking Jonah a question about his time at Uni, noticing the effort he’s putting in to make a good impression. It’s incredibly sweet that he’s still so kind and eager to please after all the hardships he’s had in his life. Gerry suspects there’s a lot of things Michael doesn’t tell him, but he won’t push, won’t pressure for information when he himself hasn’t shared his past either. After awhile, the sound of voices and the music and the warmth against him lull Gerry into sleep, head cushioned against Olivia’s shoulder. The last thing he registers before darkness consumes him is Michael’s voice and the warmth of a hand on his knee seeping though his clothing.
-
Something is wrong.
A man sits at a desk, fog curling around his ankles, though he doesn’t know it yet. His face is buried in soft hands, tears leaking between his fingers, a journal sitting between his elbows marked in pen with the initials J.S.
He is crying quietly, like it’s habit, like he’s always been a quiet thing, like silence and solitude are in his blood, pumping through his heart as cold and unforgiving as the creeping loneliness that consumes the air around him.
A man is dead.
It is not the J.S, not the missing man, not the one who lies dormant and still in a hospital, his head empty and his soul gone and his mind elsewhere, no.
This man died, and this J.S was spared, the Dead Man’s bitterness clings to the walls in a way that makes Gerry uneasy, he tastes it in the back of his throat, and it smells like rotting flesh, like burning paper.
The man cries, he’ll die crying, his life is christened by tears.
He misses his Archivist.
He will always be alone.
-
“Gerry, wake up, it’s time to go home.”
Michael’s hand is warm on his shoulder as he’s thrown forcibly back into his body, halfway to sitting up before he realizes where he is.
Olivia’s house, her couch, Michael’s skin against the fabric of his shirt.
The air feels too hot, and Gerry is so, so cold.
“Gerry? Are you alright?”
“Yes, I—” he is, he just needs to get his bearings back, he just needs warmth and family, and more touch, because it’s a tether, isn’t it? It’s a lifeline, it’ll keep the fog away, the lonely at bay— “I’m alright, sorry.” He grips Michael’s hand as he sits up, shuddering softly at the heat of him, the solidity when just a moment ago, he’d been just like one of those spirits in his head. “Sorry, I think I’m still a bit sloshed.”
Michael releases him, looking down at him, and—
His eyes are swirling again, blue and grey, except there’s more, there’s supposed to be more, something bright and head aching and it’s missing, missing, he can feel it.
Gerry is far too drunk for this, his mind still clouded by his visions.
“I can’t go home like this, Gee-Gee will get worried,” he says, closing his eyes, regretting the wine and the few tequila shots Reece dared him to take.
“It’s alright, you can call her, tell her you’re staying with me.”
“With you?”
“Yes, Gerry, with me, Olivia just went to bed, she told me to tell you she loves you, but that her landlord is coming by tomorrow morning and she can’t have vomit on her carpet when that happens.” His mouth quirks, and despite Gerry’s pounding head, it’s a nice look on him. He has a smile line that doesn’t get used often enough.
“Alright,” he acquiesces, standing up too fast as the room begins to spin. Michael’s hand grips his elbow, steadying him before letting him sink back onto the couch.
“Wait here,” Michael says gently, before disappearing around the back of the couch. He returns a moment later with a glass of water and Gerry’s boots, handing him the cup and kneeling to help him into his boots.
Sweet, Gerry thinks, gulping down the water as Michael double knots the boots neatly, patting his knee before he straightens.
“Now, lets try that again, shall we?”
Gerry has the decency to set the glass on a coaster, leaving it on the coffee table as he stands once more, much slower this time. The world isn’t spinning anymore, and he gives Michael a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he says, tugging on his own shoes and grabbing his coat from the rack by the door, covering up the lovely blue button-down. Exiting her apartment, they make their way downstairs and out into the cool night air. Gerry waits patiently as Michael calls a cab, looking up at the dark sky. It’s well past midnight, quiet in this neighborhood, yet the night feels alive, buzzing and shifting in a way Gerry notices but doesn’t comment on. Michael finally hangs up, pocketing his phone and looking at him. “Are you sure you’re alright? You looked upset when you woke, you had me worried for a moment.”
“I—” he thinks again of the bitter walls and the lonely man, sighing. “I just had a strange dream, that’s all.”
Fog creeps into the edge of his vision, sending a shiver down Gerry’s spine that he masks by wrapping his arms around himself, blowing out a breath. Michael, ever observant Michael notices this anyways, brow creasing. “Are you cold?”
Before Gerry can reply, he’s already shrugging off his coat, wrapping it around Gerry’s shoulders and letting him slide his arms into the sleeves. Buttoning it up for him, Michael’s hands are quick and clever as he works, eyes flicking up to Gerry’s. They’re just blue now, no trace of the too much left anymore. They’re just the right amount now, clear and bright, silver flecks looking like shards of ice shining in the moonlight. Jesus, Gerry is still too drunk to deal with this right now.
“Would you like to…talk?” Michael questions tentatively, fixing the collar to make sure it warms the back of Gerry’s neck as well, elegant fingers brushing his pulse point and making it flutter as he looks away, drawing back. Gerry huffs, giving him a faint smile, trying to hide the fact that he’s most definitely blushing by now, Michael’s phantom warmth still clinging to his skin.
“Thanks, but not really, I barely remember what it was about.” A lie, but it’s not like Michael has to know that.
“Alright, if you say so.”
The cab pulls up a few moments later, and Michael ushers Gerry into the back, folding his wiry frame in after, giving the address to the driver as he settles back, tone polite and soft, the man looking tired himself as the car drifts back towards where it came. The drive is quiet, the only sound that of the radio and traffic outside, Michael’s knee brushing his as the minuets tick by. They get out in front of the Castle, Michael paying despite Gerry’s offer to do so, and head up to the apartment. It’s warm, the heaters left on when they left, and the lamp casts a golden glow over Michael’s face as he enters, tossing the housekeys onto the coffee table and kicking off his shoes. Slumping down onto the cot by the coffee table, he looks up at Michael, quirking a small smile.
“Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“It’s not my name on the lease, is it,” Michael says, shrugging and moving back to Gerry, kneeling down to undo the laces he’d so carefully tied before. He’s so gentle with him, his hand cradling Gerry’s bare calf as he pulls the boot off, the sock following, and when he switches to the other side, Gerry can feel his handprint burnt into his skin like a brand.
“There, is that better?” He asks, earnest and soft, looking up at Gerry with those goddamn eyes, knelt between his thighs like he doesn’t know how that makes Gerry’s mind race, his fingers resting gently on his ankle.
“Yes,” he rasps, heart pounding in his ears as Michael reaches up, fingers sliding into his hair, and for a moment, a moment he thinks he might be kissed, but Michael is gently untangling the arms of his glasses from his curls, setting them on the paint stained coffee table by the keys, before he stands.
“Would you like to borrow something to wear to bed?”
Gerry nods wordlessly, head still spinning at the thought that Michael had been close enough to kiss, had thought they were going to, until—
Well.
Michael goes to the chest of plastic drawers shoved up against the wall across the room, finding him a tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants and letting him slide by to change in the bathroom. Locking the door behind himself, Gerry spends a moment just staring at his own reflection, breathing unsteadily. He’s still wearing Michael’s coat, and it’s too warm, he’s overwhelmed, and it’s all too much for Gerry’s exhausted brain to catch up with.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, stripping off his clothes, breathing a sigh of relief as fresh air hits his bare chest, soothing his overheating body. Why the hell did he even drink tonight? Why the hell did Michael touch him so gently, look at him like that? Why the hell did he get himself into this situation?
“Questions, questions…” murmurs the man with the Eye earring, looking smug and cruel as he stands at Gerry’s elbow. “Curious little thing, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Gerry mutters, stuffing himself into the tee and sweatpants and fleeing the bathroom. The man doesn’t follow, thankfully, and Gerry enters the living room/kitchenette/temporary bedroom, finding Michael in his own tee and boxers, standing by the microwave and watching the numbers tick down. “What’re you making?” He asks, feeling a bit guilty at the way Michael jumps, turning to face him, hair pulled back into a makeshift bun. A few golden curls have already escaped though, and they fall tantalizingly into his eyes. He looks domestic and relaxed despite the surprise coloring his cheeks just seconds before.
“I thought you should eat something before bed,” he says, blushing still as he pours a bit of soy sauce into the pink cup of microwave ramen, the small cartoon bird of the front staring Gerry down accusatorially as Michael tears open a pair of bamboo chopsticks, dropping the paper case onto the counter and giving the noodles a stir. “It’ll help soak up the alcohol,” he explains, passing Gerry his share and grabbing his own from the microwave.
“That’s kind of you, Michael,” Gerry smiles, taking his food to the cot as he watches Michael prepare his own.
“It’s nothing, really.”
“No, seriously, you’ve been incredibly kind to me all night, thank you for that.”
“I—”
“Take the damn compliment, Michael,” Gerry says, not unkindly, voice firm and holding a bit of amusement.
Michael is blushing again, ducking his head as he stirs his cup with vigor. “Well then, if you insist, you’re welcome.”
Gerry smiles, scooting back to lean against the wall to give Michael room to sit down too. The bed is barely big enough to fit two, their knees pressed together as they begin to eat, Michael sitting with his legs tucked under him and his shoulders bent inwards slightly, as if he’s used to minimizing the space he takes up, no matter where he goes. Eating quietly, he grabs his phone from where it was discarded, shooting off a quick text to Gee-Gee to let her know where he’s staying tonight. Michael keeps looking at him, pretty and soft in the lamplight, the sleeves of his tee reaching to the middle of his skinny biceps, making him look a bit like a child stealing one of their father’s old shirts. For a moment Gerry misses the blue shirt, hoping secretly that he’ll wear it again soon, just to let him admire the color it brings out in his cheeks and eyes.
“What?” Michael says finally, a soft, nervous trill of a laugh escaping his throat, and shit, holy blessed shit it’s the most addictive little sound Gerry’s ever heard in his life. A second later it registers that he’s been staring, and a flush begins to creep up the back of his neck.
“Nothing, just got lost in thought, sorry,” he says, stuffing another bite of noodles into his mouth to cover up the half guilty tone of his voice.
“Good thoughts, I hope?”
“Of course,” Gerry offers a small smile, and Michael mirrors it, his own crooked and lovely, his lateral incisors more prominent than his central teeth. Gerry could get drunk from that smile alone, wants to put it in a jar and keep it to look at on rainy days.
Well fuck, isn’t he just absolutely whipped?
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “How was work today?”
“Work was fine,” he hums. “Berta Jeane is buying a new cat. She seemed excited that I was going out tonight.” The tips of his ears go pink at that, and Gerry feels warmth blooming in his chest.
“You told her you were going out?”
“She asked first,” he says, smiling down into his ramen.
Gerry hums, finishing his own share, setting the garbage on the small table. Michael stands immediately, taking them both to the trash. “I have an extra toothbrush in the bathroom if you want it,” he calls, pouring himself a glass of water.
Gerry complies, heading down the hall to get ready for bed, hanging his clothes up on the towel rack and splashing cold water onto his face. By the time he’s finished, Michael is already making himself a spot on the floor, having stolen a few blankets off the bed and a single pillow and settling down as Gerry pads across the floor.
“Can you get the lamp?” He says softly, looking up at him as he takes his hair out of the bun, golden curls falling around his face in a soft curtain. Gerry nods, feeling a pang of regret as Michael becomes a shadowy figure as the light flicks off. He settles himself into the cot, looking down at Michael’s thin form curled on the floor, eyes drifting over the delicate curve of his spine as his eyes adjust to the darkness, something curling tight in his gut at the sight.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
“Goodnight, Gerry.”
There’s a pause, a heavy quiet that makes the darkness feel like a soft, heavy blanket around them. After a moment, Gerry breaks it, voice soft in the room.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming with me today. I-I really enjoyed spending time with you.”
Michael goes silent and still, and when he finally speaks, his voice is soft and thin. “Of course, Gerry. I’m glad you invited me today. I’m-I’m really glad.”
Gerry smiles into his pillow, closing his eyes and letting the safety of the dark slide over his mind.
-
Insanity.
What a
Funny word.
Michael Shelley was not insane
No, no, no.
Michael Shelley was mad, but
He
Was
Not
Insane.
Michael Shelley was
Pure.
Michael Shelley was
Fresh meat
Michael Shelley was…
Well.
Michael Shelley
Was an undoing.
Michael Shelley was nothing,
And then he was mad,
And then he was everything,
And now he is
Rotten.
Meat.
He
Is
Tainted
By the Darkness,
And the One Who Watches,
And now,
The Forgotten Hunter, the boy made of
INK
And
TERROR
And
SKIN AND FLESH AND BLOOD AND CIGARETTES AND BITTER BONES TAINTED BY HATE HATE HATE OH HOW HE HATES
And oh…
He will hate again.
Madness upon many,
He will hate again.