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The shock keeps Credence on his feet. To see that face again—and yet not, because… How different it is. Older, mangled. Graves is barely breathing. He keeps fainting with his arm slung over Credence’s shoulder and his weight so horribly light. Credence stumbles, again. People try to help, again. He ushers them away (“He’s sick!”) and drags the both of them on in the directions Graves’ weak mumbles point him to. After what feels like forever, they make it into a building, a lift. Panting, with shaking knees, Credence sags against the wall, the yet-again unconscious wizard to his feet, obscured by the oversized puddle of his fine coat. That coat. How clearly Credence remembers its texture.
On the correct floor, the journey continues to the correct door. The key is found and produced from a pocket and Graves’ head rolls to the side yet again while Credence fumbles with the lock, hot from head to toe even before the man’s forehead slides cold-slick against his throat.
“No, no,” he hears, heartbreakingly weak, and it doesn’t make sense until Graves’ hand layers over Credence’s on the key. Graves attempts to pat himself down. Credence helps, spiraling.
“What? What is…?”
“Spell,” Graves huffs, groaning with the effort to not slump to the floor. Credence finds the wand, helps Graves to wrap his hand around it. Collapsing, Graves taps the lock with his last ounce of focus. Finally, the key turns (on its own): the door swings open. Credence drags the wizard inside the apartment before securing the door and lock once more.
The loneliness is new. Days creep and race by Credence with nothing to do but keep Graves alive, familiarizing himself with the apartment and its equipment. The stove seems to never have been touched although meals wait in the cupboard: endless supplies of pickled goods and crackers and bread and cheeses laid out by—whom? The first time Credence bumps into one of them in the middle of the night, his heart nearly gives out. Small, wrinkled fellas with big, haunting eyes and ducked heads, working away invisibly. Credence runs some water that he boils, dilutes it to a temperature he can dip the washcloth in. The elves offer to help, but he declines.
For one person, the place seems way too big. Towers over you with all the beautiful furniture, the expensive decorations. Credence carries the washtub into the only room bearing light, bearing life. Or whatever is left of it.
Mr. Graves does not stir. Gently so as to not make noise or spill the water, Credence sets the tub down next to the bed, next to the stool he found and set here. He sits, grabs the soaked washcloth that he wrings out before he takes it to the unconscious man in front of him. Credence swallows as he wipes sweat and grime off this stranger’s skin. As he relearns the sensation of Graves’ hair between his fingers. Everything about the real him is so…slim. Wasted away.
Graves wakes only for nightmares, and he is not himself when he does.
Snaps upright in his bed with a shout or a gurgle, foaming at the mouth and whimpering like a dog, his eyes wild and unfocused, unseeing. Credence learns quickly to touch, to bed the man back down: and Graves does shudder for it, sobs weakly and begs as he fades back into the darkness of his exhaustion. Begs: no more, please. Please stop it. Please let me go. Let me out. I’ll do anything.
Credence sweats, too. Wipes his growing hair out of his eyes and sniffles, his breath labored, the bed silent and dead once more. Graves’ arms look that much skinnier in the loose sleeves of a shirt that must have once fit him well, given how Credence pulled it out of the drawers of this very room. Credence squeezes one lifeless hand, gets nothing in return. Graves’ head is turned to the side, towards the window. The moonlight emphasizes the deep hollows under Graves’ eyes, in his cheeks. Despite the amalgamation of emotion that grabs Credence every time he dares to study that face, he cannot bear to stop doing it. How fascinating it all is. How cruel of a thing to throw upon him—upon them. Graves, too, did not ask for any of this to happen. Neither for Grindelwald nor for Credence.
Credence expects him to show up, and maybe that’s what keeps the wizard out. Ever since their fight in the underground and Credence’s ensuing flight, nobody has inquired his attention. To be fair: he himself thought he was done. But then he wasn’t, and the Obscurus hasn’t shown itself since. Maybe it was destroyed and only he is left. A shell without a core. Unlike Graves, Credence recovers rather soon. He doesn’t feel different.
Day after day, Credence grows accustomed to this new rhythm of his life: wake up, feed Mr. Graves, wash Mr. Graves, feed and wash himself, rest, repeat. There is a magnificent peace to it all, only dulled by the fact that Mr. Graves’ constitution remains mostly unchanged. The nightmares and sweats increase, if anything. Some wounds won’t close no matter how Credence dresses them and there are scars and marks that seem to breathe on their own, warping and pulsing with a vengeance that sends shivers down Credence’s spine just by watching. The elves frown and mumble and doctor around a bit; magic, they say, like a diagnosis. Old magic. Bad magic. There is only so much anyone can do.
Credence keeps Mr. Graves’ wand on the nightstand so that if Mr. Graves wakes he must not fret and look for it in a blind panic. The sight calms him, Credence learns, like a wedding band or a similarly dear memento. Credence picks it up, sometimes. Weighs it in his hand, rolls it between his fingers. How odd, to imagine this tiny thing nearly killed him. How innocent it can be.
The first time Graves gets a hold of it, Graves can barely brace himself on his elbow, but he can form a fist and shake and stare at Credence, paler than the sheets he sweated through (again).
“Who are you—and where the fuck am I?!”
~
The real Mr. Graves is much more distant than his impostor. Which makes sense, now that Credence begun to puzzle the pieces together. However, no amount of sense may combat his disappointment. The shameful hurt that possesses him, finding himself by the side of a man he thought he knew—a man Credence thought he would be known by. But, no. No, the real Mr. Graves is a stranger. A rowdy dog recently unleashed, beaten and confused and not much sympathetic. Credence must remind himself to be patient. All those months Grindelwald played Mr. Graves, the original was tucked away in some dark place, restrained and tortured and exploited for valuable knowledge: oh, how much sense it all makes, now. How clear Credence’s naivety blares him in the face.
Although more lucid, Mr. Graves speaks very little. Grunts and huffs, mostly, distrustful and rough but at least he lets himself be fed, lets himself be washed. Moments of calm are rare and deceiving: like an open vein, Mr. Graves’ discomfort lays in bed with him, tangible like its own person, a shadow so thick you could touch it. Credence observes, waits. Waits and waits and waits, because there is nothing else to do, nowhere else to go or to be but here, where he is needed.
The first time Mr. Graves looks at him with something other than distrust, the evening has started to settle. Credence picks up the dish and the napkin and Mr. Graves says, “You don’t owe me anything, you know? You can just leave,” and it’s only two sentences but they are so clear, are spoken so genuinely that Credence freezes and then does not know what to do beyond that, silly with the dirty things in his hands and this helpless man at his mercy, and he could… Yes, of course he could leave. The elves would probably take over, all would be well. Graves would get better. But that’s not the point. That never was the point.
Credence mumbles, “Yes, I know,” and Mr. Graves does not argue further beyond a thin snort, and Credence takes the dish away and Mr. Graves will be asleep by the time he makes it back, and that will be all right.
~
The past is so close, still. Still so warm and only a thought brings Credence right back: into a pair of arms that no longer exists, and never was real to begin with. A game, and he fell for it, and now the game is over and nobody won. Credence touches: those hands, rougher and skinnier than they used to be, and Mr. Graves makes soft noises because nobody has touched him in so long, because he was locked away and Credence had grown familiar with a body that was a mere mirage. A still life.
A challenge, to not think of it: how these hands would hold Credence, would cradle him. How that mouth would kiss him, would whisper promises beyond even Credence’s wild imagination. Credence swallows, forces himself to let that hand go, to massage the upper arm, the shoulder. Mr. Graves is dozing off. He usually does, around this point. “Don’t stop,” Credence hears (sighed and almost-gone), and swallows again. Nods, although Mr. Graves will not see that, and runs—his hands along all that emaciated body, the sheets tucked off only where Credence must reach. Mr. Graves is always cold. Credence scoots further onto the bed.
Grindelwald would guide Credence—would guide his hands, his mouth. Would let him do anything to this body (with a smile), would use this body to… Oh, how silly it all seems, now.
The lonely hours stretch on although they grow rarer. Roaming the apartment has lost its novelty and so THE THOUGHTS return. Mother can no longer chastise him, nobody can. Nobody to keep him in check. He’d always dreamed of this. Now that he has it, it seems excessive. Dangerous, like the powers.
With his forehead flush with the bathroom wall, Credence chews hard on his lip. His eyes are shut tight and his hand works frantically. The sun’s out somewhere past the thin, light curtains. Credence’s breath stutters out of him. Yet another wad of toilet paper goes down the pipes. Credence washes his hands as meticulous as ever.
Surprisingly, Mr. Graves is awake when Credence returns. Credence says nothing as he moves around the room to tidy it up, highly aware of the persistent flush high on his cheeks that darkens under the following weight of those eyes. Once satisfied (there isn’t much to straighten with only one out of two people moving around), Credence sinks onto his spot by the bed, his stool. Mr. Graves huffs like he knows what’s upon him.
“You seem rested, sir.”
“Hm.”
“Maybe you want to try and get up? Stand for a minute.”
“’Cause that went so well the last time.” Mr. Graves makes a face. He sighs. “All right. I mean, you’re right. Yeah. A hand?”
Credence flies off the stool. Mr. Graves grabs his offered arm to pull himself closer to the edge of the bed, and this alone suffices to make him grunt although Credence pulls with him.
“Slow and steady, sir…”
“I know, goddammit…”
The poor thing. Credence does his best: slowing the movements requires twice as much strength from him and his muscles strain as he stabilizes what little might Mr. Graves fought back to. Sweat stands on both their foreheads by the time Mr. Graves makes it to a sit, swings his legs off the bed. He slumps, pants; the sweat drips. Both hands engulf his anchor that is Credence’s fist. Mr. Graves features twist with pain.
Credence earns himself a snort for mumbling, “Very good, sir. On three?”
“Sure. Sure.”
“Okay—one…two…! Three—!”
“F-fuck… Fuck, fuck…!”
“Very good—there you go, see, you’ve got it—”
Mr. Graves grits, “Can you shut up for a SINGLE second?!” and, just as his knees buckle, they get his behind back on the bed—but he slips, and Credence must scoop him up and hoist him, and Mr. Graves roars with frustration and indignity and Credence says nothing. Credence doesn’t make a noise at all.
Credence fetches the washtub after tucking the man back in. They both ignore the added wetness that pours from Mr. Graves’ eyes; it’s all salt, in the end, all of it. Credence’s pulse and breathing recover as he cleans, dabs away. Mr. Graves snatches the cloth from him, eventually, and takes over. Credence sits back, doesn’t watch. Looks at his own hands, at the edge of the bed. Mr. Graves grunts and huffs, still. Again.
Mr. Graves sleeps but wakes with terrible noise after not even an hour. It takes all of Credence’s stupidity to brave his hand on the man, to carefully offer anything beyond his invisible presence. Mr. Graves does not stop sobbing. He does not turn his face into the hand that strokes his hair.
After the worst is over and Mr. Graves has wiped his face red with the sleeve of his pajamas, he says, “I’m sorry for earlier. You did nothing wrong,” and Credence hears that, he does. And it does something to him, it does, but the sensations are off, out of reach, and he just feels his face tingling and nods, and feels stupid, and stands up to grab something from the kitchen that neither of them actually requires right now.
~
He dreams of it, sometimes. Of the other Mr. Graves. Percival—call me Percy. Hey, look at me—look at me, Credence. There’s my boy. Hey, it’s all right. Remember? No need to be ashamed. It’s just us. Just you and me.
Credence wakes tangled in the blanket, down on his stomach. His breathing is heavy and his head is hot, and he… Ah, Mr. Graves, tossing, somewhere up on the bed. Still early. Must be turning to autumn, outside. The nights are getting chillier.
As the turmoil up on the bed settles, Credence grants himself another moment of dwelling in the afterglow. The display of his lust throbs hard between his legs, still, pressed between the thin bedding and his own stomach. How close Mr. Graves’ voice still is if he lays completely still. How close that dream. Those hands.
Up on the bed, the actual Mr. Graves sighs unevenly. Another bad dream, and he might not be lucid at all. His breath flattens eventually. Silence, as always. Somewhere down in the street, an automobile rattles by.
Feels good, don’t it? Yeah, let’s see it… Let’s see it, boy, come on…
Credence swallows, exhales. His hand worms under his body, into the borrowed pajamas. Excited to the point of wetness, the warm sheets around him…! Temptation sways him. He should get up, do it in the bathroom, at least. But he can be quiet, can be silent. The bed needs a washing, anyway.
Careful not to create noise or movement, Credence strokes himself, awkwardly contorted and a cramping wrist guaranteed, but that does not matter, it will not take long… Oh, my dear boy… You are so special. I wish you knew just how special you are to me.
The world is dark-red behind Credence’s shut eyelids. Is quiet and hot, and he forces his excited breathing so flat he cannot hear it over the thuds of his pulse. The bed to his left is quiet, too.
~
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Hesitantly, Credence lowers his cup to the table. Opposite to him, Mr. Graves’ frown deepens.
“…No, sir.”
“Not even the way you came from?”
“No. That place is long gone, sir.”
Mr. Graves thinks on that for a moment. His hair and beard require clippers and attention but he has been so good this morning: put the morning robe on himself, came to sit in the kitchen with Credence. He cradles his steaming cup of coffee with both hands. Credence swallows. He shifts in the chair.
“Is it a problem? That I’m here? I can…I can pay rent, of course, I just hoped to get you better before I find an occupation—”
Mr. Graves grumbles, “Oh, shut up with that nonsense,” and Credence presses his mouth shut, ducks his head. A sigh, somewhere. The tips of Credence’s ears burn. “What would I do with no-maj money? And if anything, I owe you. So don’t worry about that, okay?”
Credence nods. He feels like crying. He wants to put his drink to his mouth but his hands won’t listen.
“… Sorry. Put my foot in my mouth again, didn’t I? Credence?”
Credence looks up. Up at Mr. Graves, the tired blinking of his dark, dark eyes. So much softer than they were. Real.
This is real. “I just… I was just wondering, s’all. ’Cause you’re not obligated to be here, and I don’t want to keep you stuck with crippled, old me.”
“You’re not—”
A sighed, “Don’t make me shut you up again, please,” and Credence blurts out a small, embarrassed laugh, and he still wants to cry. Wants to laugh, too, and maybe he does a little bit of both. It’s not fair. None of it is. “I appreciate you; I sincerely do. I’m terrible at showing it, I know, so you’ll have to believe me when I tell you this.”
“I know,” Credence manages, somewhere. Mr. Graves sips from his coffee and sighs into it with his nose, and Credence hears the slippers dragging across the linoleum under the table as those bare feet shuffle in them, and he wants…he wants. This. For as long as they can have it. He blinks into his coffee, smiles. “You’re not so bad, actually.”
Mr. Graves snorts, but when Credence dares to peek, he’s smiling, too.