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"Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me?" Jon demanded. He was scared, downright terrified, but more so of the wax and mannequin figures that surrounded him- watching, listening, unmoving- than the thing right in front of him.
Michael- or the thing that calls itself Michael- let out a laugh that made Jon's hackles rise, like nails on a chalkboard. It echoed and bounced and doubled over itself, a joyous malice in it that seemed to writhe as it needled into his ears. "If you scream loud enough, the circus might take notice of me, but," It giggled through too many mouths and not enough throats, before it took a breath it didn't need, "I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them."
It cackled again, its body and the eye-straining colors of its clothes seeming to ripple and twist like guitar strings as it was wracked with that sickening delight. It raised a hand, fingers too long and too many, pretending to wipe away a tear from one eye, then the other. Then the other. Then the other, and then none at all. Then he went quiet, blinking two, glowing eyes at Jon expectantly, his smile too wide and too toothsome.
As the echoes of its laughter died away, they were left staring at one another in silence, until all Jon could hear was the pounding of his heart and the whir of the tape recorder. He swallowed with a painfully dry throat, the dusty air unpleasant as he took a shaking breath.
"Okay." He whispered; if it was between being skinned alive and, what, starving to death in a maze? He'd take the maze. He'd heard starving hurts, but the gentle kind of hurt at the end, up there with drowning. So what if he was to be Michael's plaything for a while, first? Better than a half-dead existence, helping to usher in an apocalypse of the Stranger.
"Good." For a moment, the echoes and twisting sound of its voice dropped into a serious tone that spooked Jon more than the manic cackles; it meant what it said. He tried not to look as it stalked around him, the shifting of its body and the colors it was clad in difficult to keep track of. He felt one of those clawed fingers against his wrist, felt it curl, and with a clean ripping sound, the thick ropes that bound Jon's wrists behind the chair dropped away, cut through like warm butter. "Right this way." Michael continued, preening with glee at having stolen the Stranger's prey. As Jon rubbed feeling back into his aching wrists, he stood on wobbling legs- he didn't have his cane, he'd dropped it when Breekon and Hope grabbed him- and when he looked up, he saw that yellow door, standing in the stone wall as if it had always been there, the edges of it flickering like TV static.
Michael was standing beside it, waiting, one long finger petting the door frame with what Jon could almost call affection. Limping, shaky, Jon approached, his heart beating faster with every step like it was going to flee through the door, first. "Open it." Michael crooned, it smile sideways and upside down and dripping with malevolence like venom off a spider's fangs, "Open it, and all of this will be over."
Jon's hand trembled as he reached out. He felt Michael move behind him, blocking off his exit, making sure he couldn't run- where would he even run to? Back to the circus?- as he placed his hand on the knob. It was hot, cold, solid, soft, it twitched like a agitated nerve and Jon imagined it was the same sensation as sticking his hand in a pool of electrified water.
But it didn't hurt. Not yet.
Mustering whatever courage he had left- or whatever he could pass off as courage- he turned the knob and pushed.
Nothing.
He heard the knob rattle and click, but it only turned part way before it stopped, and the door did not budge. Jon stared at it, dumbfounded. "Uh..." He blinked, "It's, uh..." He tried again, just to be sure, but the same thing. He heard the mechanations click, and then- stop.
"What?" Michael asked, distracted.
"It's... locked." Jon explained, bewildered, and Michael snorted.
"It's not." It assured pleasantly, giggling like he'd just told a funny joke. Its claws prickled on Jon's shoulder, its body too tall and twisted as it leaned over him.
Jon huffed, trying the knob again, harder, and still, it didn't budge. "Why is it locked?" He demanded, fear giving way to irritation. If this was a game Michael was playing, Jon wasn't having it, he refused to let this thing drag out his humiliation any further.
"It can't be." Michael rolled too many eyes.
"Well- you try it!" Jon let go of the knob that was nibbling on his fingers, whipping around to face Michael and gesturing towards the offending handle indignantly.
The look Michael gave him was utterly unamused and spiteful, as it stepped forward and grabbed the knob itself, fingers wrapping around and around too many times with too many knuckles. Staring into Jon with those swirling eyes, it pointedly jerked the knob to the side and-
Nothing.
Michael's irritated expression dropped in an instant and its head snapped towards the door, eyes bulging wide in... fear.
Both hands were on the door now as it wrestled with the knob, its breathing beginning to shorten and quicken in a panic that made Jon take a step back. "Th- that- that's not-" It stammered, rattling the knob desperately, its mass of blond, curly hair writhing like snakes.
Then they both heard it, as it pulled its hands back and stared at the door- the knob, or whatever lock it had, clicked of its own accord, and Michael went very, very still.
"... Oh." It breathed, "Oh, no."
Jon was about to ask what was wrong, what was happening, would it just quit with the joke- when Michael began to scream. All at once it doubled over, letting out a sound that Jon would hear for the rest of his life and never be able to describe, as the door before them glowed a toxic, neon yellow that lit up the room like a spotlight. It bulged and writhed like it was boiling, like something from inside was straining to get out, the wood of its current form creaking and snarling.
Michael was clawing at his face as he stumbled back into Jon, nearly knocking him over. As it was, he collapsed into Jon's arms, his form a mass of popping bones and fractalized flesh and shifting colors that made Jon want to throw up. He had to force himself to look away as Michael seized, the sound of his terrified and sobbing wails echoing like it was a thousand, thousand, thousand voices screaming through underground tunnels and empty halls. Then all at once he collapsed, a sudden weight to him that surprised Jon and made his kneels buckle, forcing him to the ground.
He opened his eyes and looked down, to see... Michael. No longer stretched like taffy, no longer a shifting, amorphous liar pretending- it- he- was Michael.
Human Michael, at least as far as Jon could see. He was limp in Jon's arms, unconscious, his head lolling onto Jon's shoulder and crimson blood dripping from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and his ears. Jon's breath was quick as he looked down at his hands-
And saw five fingers. Five normal fingers, other than a reddened blistering at their tips that struck him as... frostbite.
Michael was cold, he realized, and for a moment, he panicked that he was holding a dead man.
"M... Michael?" He asked shakily, reaching up to touch his chest, and felt it shallowly rise and fall with breath, felt a fluttering heartbeat beneath that. He only had a moment of relief, before the door in front of him creaked loudly and he looked up, to see it opening with a groan.
To see a figure standing in the dimly lit, impossible hall beyond, and Jon's heart fell into his stomach.
"Do you want to come in?" The Distortion asked softly.
"Wh... Helen?" Jon croaked in disbelief. But it was. Now the Spiral was wearing Helen's face, her purple suit, and her hands- that had been so warm and gentle as they grabbed his, shaking it in thanks- now stretched and clawed, "H- Helen Richardson? But- but y- Michael-"
"Michael isn't me." Her- its- eyes, shifting and iridescent, landed on the unconscious man, "Not now."
Jon just sat, dumbstruck. "What happened?" He asked, his voice faint.
"He got... distracted. Let feelings that shouldn't have been his overwhelm me. Lost my way."
He didn't like the way she said that. He didn't like the way she was staring at Michael. "And... now... you're Helen?"
"I don't know. I never know, not really." It looked down at her hands, turning them back and forth in silent contemplation for a moment, before it looked at him again, "Do I need a name?"
Jon opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "No, I... I suppose not?"
"Helen is better than Michael." It shrugged.
"But... she's gone?"
"Yes." It looked down at Michael again, utter disdain in its eyes, "As is Michael. Or, he will be. There's only me."
"... Okay." Was all Jon could think to say.
"Do you still want to leave here?" She asked.
"Are you still going to kill me?" He replied; he wasn't asking Helen.
"No," And she rolled too many eyes, just as he'd done, "that was Michael's desire, not mine."
What was the difference, he wondered. "S- so, what do you want?"
Helen tipped its head in thought. "I don't know. Helen liked you, so... there's a lot to consider. But I will help you leave."
Jon let out a breath he wasn't aware of holding, nodded, and looked down at Michael. "Can... can you take me to a hospital? I- I think he needs help."
It made a grumbling noise, before it sighed, "I suppose so. Are you coming?"
Jon swallowed again, as best he could, his throat feeling like it was full of sand as he tried to rise. His bad leg twinged, threatening to knock him down again, but he grit his teeth and hauled himself up. Jon was not a strong man, but as he tried to lift Michael, he found that he was able to pick him up alarmingly easily; he was suddenly so... small, and Jon could feel gaunt ribs even through the heavy, fur-lined coat Michael was wearing- had he always been wearing a coat? Jon suddenly couldn't remember.
Every step was unbalanced and awkward as he stumbled into the yellow door, and he felt Helen's uncanny claws on his shoulder, steadying him. He puffed out a, "thanks," but the word was drowned by the sound of the door squealing shut behind him, and static filling his ears.
He wasn't sure how long they walked, but it wasn't far. At least, it didn't feel far, but his every muscle was screaming at him by the end of it; to be fair, though, he'd been stuck in a chair for... he didn't even know how long.
Either way, it felt like he blinked, and then Helen was holding open another door for him. He stepped out into blinding, afternoon sunlight, and found himself on an empty sidewalk, across from a hospital. He looked over his shoulder, about to thank her- it- again, only to see bare brick wall.
"... Right." He huffed. He turned back, mustering himself once more, and began to stumble across the road, towards the sliding glass doors.
Thankfully, someone must've seen him coming from inside, as he was only halfway across the street when a pair of nurses rushed out, one pushing a wheelchair, and met him. Jon couldn't find the strength to speak as one of the nurses helped him lower Michael into the chair, the relief of being relieved of his burden overwhelming. One wheeled Michael away as the other helped him stay upright, half-dragging him into the hospital's waiting room.
They got him into a chair and brought him a water bottle, and after a minute to catch his breath, Jon was handed a clipboard to fill out for Michael. "Are you his partner? His friend?" The nurse asked him as they fussed over him. They pinched the skin on the back of his hand, which smoothed back out quickly; his skin was plenty hydrated, thanks to Nikola, but the rest of him was... questionable.
"Uh... I... c... coworkers." Jon stammered. That wasn't... completely a lie? They both worked for the Magnus Institute at one point or another. Not as big a lie as "friends."
"What happened?" The nurse asked.
"Uh, he... he collapsed. I don't know." Also not completely a lie.
"Right. Okay. Well, fill out what you can, and leave any contact information with us. Do... you need help? You look quite-"
"No, no, I'm- just... shaken, I suppose." Jon deflected.
"Right."
Eventually, the nurse left him alone, and he did his best to write out what he knew about Michael, which... wasn't much. He internally cringed as he saw the disappointed look in the nurse's eyes at the front desk. He mumbled an apology, then added, "Is... he okay?"
"He's being seen to." Was all the nurse could offer, and he nodded.
Not sure there was anything more he could do, Jon borrowed the hospital's payphone to call Georgie and ask for a ride. She was not happy to hear he was in the hospital after having abruptly disappearing, but calmed down once he assured that he wasn't there as a patient, and that he'd explain everything once she got there.
He did- or at least, he tried to. He found out from Georgie that he'd been gone for a full month, which explained her initial freak out over the phone. Despite her protests, he begged her to take him to the Institute, and eventually she begrudgingly agreed- but not before taking him back to the apartment to shower and change, and hitting up a drive-thru on the way to get him something solid to eat.
Things moved fast, after that, and Jon nearly forgot about Michael.
Nearly.
He was packing up a luggage and a backpack under the disinterested supervision of The Admiral, a plane ticket to China on the coffee table, when his phone next to it began to ring. It was an unknown number, but he answered anyways, a fistful of shirts still clenched in the other hand.
"Uh, yes? Hello?"
"Hello, is this Jonathan Sims?" A chipper voice asked.
"... May I ask what you're calling about?" He asked suspiciously.
"Oh, um- you left your contact information with us when you brought Mr. Michael Shelley to the hospital?"
"Oh!" The relieved breath rushed out of him, "Yes, right- I- yes. What is- is Michael okay?"
"Yes! In fact, he regained consciousness, just this morning. We thought we should let you know, so you could inform his next of kin, or visit him if you'd like."
Jon's heart sank; next of kin. Did Michael even have any? Parents or... siblings, maybe? He shook the thought away. "Right, yes, I... I'll do that. Am I allowed to swing by and see him?"
"Of course!"
"Great. I'll be there soon, then. Thank you. Uh, goodbye."
He hung up, finished throwing the shirts into his luggage, grabbed his cane- he'd had to get a new one- and hurried to the nearest subway station to get a ride to the hospital. His mind was racing the entire time he was on the underground, questions filling up his throat and buzzing in the back of his skull; Gertrude, the Distortion, did Michael know anything about rituals, what all did he remember, why did-
The speakers announcing his stop spooked him out of his thoughts, and Jon hopped up from his seat. He hobbled as quickly as he could back to the surface and down the street to the hospital. Getting checked in as a guest was easy enough- apparently the nurse at the front desk was the one who called him, and she happily told him what floor and ward he could find Michael in.
For some reason, it was more relieving than he thought it'd be to see the hospital room's door was painted a pale blue when he got there. He knocked politely, before trying the handle and finding it opened easily. The lights were on, but Jon couldn't help but notice that the curtains were drawn over the window.
He saw Michael laying on the bed, his mass of blonde, curly hair haloed around his head. There were several machines and IVs clustered around him, the tubes stuck in his arms and bandaged hands, and for a moment Jon had the distinct mental image of a marionette puppet with its strings gone slack.
Slowly, Michael turned his head to look at him, and Jon was struck by how green his eyes were. They hadn't... been green when he was the Distortion, had they? He couldn't recall. He squinted at Jon, brows pinching in the middle. He looked so... tired, Jon thought, and an unexpected pang of sympathy struck him.
"... Michael?" He tested, "Michael Shelley?"
"... Archivist?" His voice was thin, whispering, and the corner of his lips- cracked and dried and peeling- twitched in an attempt at a smile, "H... hello."
"Hello." Jon replied, crossing the room. He spotted a chair set against the wall and hooked his cane under the leg of it, using it to drag the chair over so he could sit, "Er... how- how're you feeling?"
"Mm... bad." Michael rasped.
"Right. O- of course. Can I... do anything, or-?"
Micheal shook his head, the movement so small and feeble. It was frightening, to see him so... hollow? Flat? Unanimated? Compared to what he'd been... before.
"Where is he?" His soft question snapped Jon back into focus.
"Sorry? Who-?"
"Gerry?" Michael blinked at him, eyes wide, round, and pleading, "Where... do you know where he is? Is he... okay? I thought... has he come to visit?"
Jon blinked, his mind racing. "I'm sorry, I don't... I don't know a Jerry. Is he your friend, or...?" Michael just gave another small shake of his head. Jon waited, but he said nothing further. "Uh... Michael, do you... I mean, would you mind if I asked you a- a few questions?"
Michael sighed softly. "... What year is it?" He asked instead of answering.
"Oh, uh, t- twenty-seventeen."
Michael blinked. "Oh." He said faintly, and then nothing further for another minute. "... No," He said finally, "No, I... I'm sorry, but I don't... want to answer questions right now. I'm..."
"Of course, of course." Jon assured him quickly, suddenly feeling guilty for asking at all, "I- they can wait, Michael, don't worry. Just... rest. Focus on recovering, yes?"
The tiniest nod, but Jon could see the thoughts racing behind Michael's eyes. After another heavy pause, he asked brokenly, "Has... is... Ms. Robinson...?"
Jon's stomach dropped. "Uh..."
Michael must've seen it on his face, but he asked anyways, his voice a shaky whisper. "Is she dead?"
"... Yes."
Again, Michael said nothing. He turned his head away, and Jon saw his breath hitch in his chest. His hands were shaky, but none the less Michael knit them together over his stomach and began to fiddle with them, twisting them together anxiously.
Jon didn't need to wait for Michael to ask him to leave. He understood that he was dismissed, that Michael was... grieving.
"Michael, I'll... I'll let you rest. Um... feel free to contact me if you... need anything."
Again, Michael was frighteningly quiet, and offered no response as Jon stood up and quietly left.
From China to America, Jon chased the answers he was looking for, and never once did he receive a phone call from Michael, although the hospital occasionally called to let him him know of improvements on his condition. Apparently, he'd been frighteningly malnourished and underweight, and he seemed to have chronic pains, now- they said it was especially in his joints and hands, which had in fact been frostbitten, as Jon had first thought.
Once Trevor and Julia caught him, though, he didn't have time to give much thought to Michael again.
At least, not until he met Gerard.
As he was helping Jon puzzle out "Smirke's Fourteen," Jon noticed something. When Jon mentioned the Spiral, Gerard... reacted. It was slight, but Jon saw him flinch. He clenched his jaw, his eyes tightened, and his hands curled into fists, his pale, tattooed knuckles turning white as he clenched them. Then...
"I think… I think I’m ready to go." Gerard sighed at last, "I’m done. Hide my page, and when you’re out of here, burn it. Please."
Jon took a breath and nodded. "I will. Thank you, Gerard."
"... Gerry."
"What?"
"Gerard was what my mum called me." He elaborated, before he chuckled, an almost embarrassed sound, and rubbed at the back of his neck as he added, "I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry."
As they had been doing for the past half an hour, another puzzle piece clicked into place in Jon's head, and he inhaled sharply. "Oh-!"
Gerard raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"
"Did- sorry, Gerry, I- one last question, I swear." Gerard made a face, but Jon pressed on hurriedly, "Do you- do you know a man named Michael Shelley?"
Gerard went still. His boots were propped up on the table- at least, they seemed to be, although if the attempt to hand him a cigarette was anything to go by, Gerard couldn't actually touch it- and the foot he'd been casually bouncing as they conversed stopped abruptly as he sucked in a breath of his own.
"... Yeah. Yeah, I do." He said quietly, "... Why?"
Jon explained everything, as much as he could, as quickly as he could- being kidnapped by the circus, the Distortion appearing, the story it told him, how that Michael had planned to kill him, how the door had been locked and done... something to him, and he was seemingly human again, now laid up in a hospital back in London. As he talked, Gerard sat up, and took to staring at the table as he listened, his elbows braced on it and his hands pressed over his mouth and nose.
"Oh." He croaked at last, and Jon swore he saw what he thought might've been tears glistening in his eyes. Then Gerard blinked, and they were gone. "Oh, God. He's... alive."
"Uh-"
"Gertrude- she- she told me he'd been... devoured, on their trip to Russia." Gerard continued, "I'd... I'd assumed The Hunt got him, or something went wrong when they were stopping the Spiral's ritual. I didn't know... she... sacrificed him... Mikey..." His voice cracked on the nickname, and Jon saw his throat bob as he swallowed. He took a deep, sniffling breath, and shook his head, "Okay, uh- change of plans. Please, when you get back to London... can you take me to him? Burn my page after that, but I need to-"
"Of course." Jon agreed immediately, "Of course. I promise, Gerry."
"Thanks. See you later, then."
"Right. Uh... I dismiss you."
Gerry disappeared, and Jon tucked the page into a deep pocket before he closed the book.
As soon as he got into Daisy's car at the airport, Jon asked her to take him to the hospital.
"What? Why? Did something happen?" She narrowed her eyes at him, scanning him up and down, then looked around the parking lot suspiciously like something was about to jump out at them from behind all the cars.
"No, I just- I need to visit someone."
"Elias wants-"
"I don't give a damn what Elias wants. Please, Daisy." Jon pressed.
Daisy stared at him for a moment, before she looked away with a growl. "... Alright, fine." She huffed as she started the car.
The ride was tense and silent, other than the podcast radio drama Daisy had playing. Every time Jon tried to speak, to ask her about how things had been while he was gone or make any other small talk, she pointedly turned the volume up, so he took the hint and shut up.
He was all too grateful to get out when they got to the hospital, unbuckling before she'd even fully stopped the car. "Thanks, Daisy. I'll, uh- I'll try to be quick." He told her as he scrambled out, remembering to grab his cane at the last second.
"Sure."
He hurried inside, and quickly made his way to Michael's room once he'd checked in. His hand was shaking as he knocked, he realized, and he gripped the handle tighter than he needed to as he opened the door.
Michael was in bed, still, as if he hadn't moved since Jon had left. He knew that wasn't true, though; the nurses that called said he'd been going through some physical therapy, and the like. There were less tubes plugged into him now, Jon was relieved to see, although his hands were still bandaged, his face still gaunt and tired.
Even so, when Michael turned his head to look at him, Jon saw the faintest smile cross his face.
"Hi, Jon." He said, his voice far stronger than it had been last time.
"Hi. I, uh- I... how have you been? How're you feeling?" Jon asked as he shut the door and approached.
"... Human." Michael replied, then he giggled; it was the same, lilting laugh as the other Michael, just without the... well, the distortion to it. Without it, his laugh was almost... sweet. "Where have you been?"
"Uh, traveling. China, then America. Chasing some... leads on the whole Unknowing business." Jon explained, stopping next to the bed.
"Ah." Michael nodded, the rings of his curls bouncing.
Jon nodded, too, before he took a breath. "And, I, uh... I met your Gerry." He added as casually as he could.
Michael froze, before he sat up so abruptly that Jon thought he might rip out his IVs. "Wh-? Where? In... China?"
Jon nearly laughed. "Uh, no- America. And I... brought him home to see you."
"You did? Is he-?" He strained to look over Jon's shoulder like Gerard was hiding behind him, the hope that flooded his eyes almost painful to see.
"He's here," Jon assured him quickly, motioning with his free hand for Michael to calm down, "but, uh... not quite... how you'd think."
Michael paused, turning to look at him again. "How do you mean?" He frowned, suddenly wary.
"I mean... uh..." He sighed heavily, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the page. "Okay. Look, just... read this, alright? Out loud. And... you'll see." He held the page out, and Michael hesitated, uncertain, before slowly reaching out to take it.
He looked down at the page, and Jon watched his eyes dart back and forth, reading over the neat scrawl of Gertrude's faded handwriting. "I... I don't understand." Michael said shakily, "What.... what is this? Gerry, he... you said..."
"It's... just read it. I promise, it'll make sense."
Michael laughed at that, a shockingly bitter sound, and he sniffled. "No, it won't. Nothing ever makes sense anymore." Jon opened his mouth, then shut it again; he didn't know what to say to that. Either way, Michael took another breath and began to read, his voice small and wavering like he was flinching away from the words, from his own voice. Tears were rolling down his face by the time he finished the relatively short paragraph, his voice cracking as he read, "... and so Gerard Keay ended."
Jon didn't need to turn around to know Gerard had appeared; he felt his presence behind him, and he heard Michael's gasp loud and clear.
"G- Gerry?"
"Oh, fuck- Mikey. Michael, I- hi." Gerard laughed, breathless, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder- which he felt and didn't feel at the same time- as he moved past him; not quite walking, but not floating, either, until he could sit on the edge of the bed. Michael reached for him like he was going for a hug, but faltered as his hand sank through Gerard's shoulder.
"Wh-?" His voice cracked.
"Yeah, I... hell. Jon?" Gerard looked over at him.
"Yes?"
"Nice to see you again, but- can you give us a minute?"
"Of course."
"Don't go far."
"Right. I'll- I'll just be outside." Jon promised, awkwardly pointing at the door like he needed to clarify which "outside" he meant.
"Thanks." Jon made for the door, glancing back only once to see Gerard stretching out, facing towards Michael, his head propped on his hand. Michael was staring up at him, one hand still partially raised, as more tears were silently rolling down his face. "Hey, now, Mikey, baby, none of that. I'm here." He heard Gerard say as he slipped out the door.
He shut it behind him and took a seat in the nearest provided chair, exhaling shakily and gripping the top of his cane. "Right." He said to no one, as he sat back to wait.
Gods and the lack thereof- he looked just like Michael.
Well, of course he did, he was Michael, but not in the same way as- as that Michael. No- as his Michael.
His Michael had looked younger, just turned thirty-one when Gerard kissed him goodbye at the docks, before he boarded Peter Lukas' ship with Gertrude on the way to Russia- to Sannikov Land, which Gerard now knew wasn't real.
His Michael had been a bubbly, sweet, and adorably naive man who always looked on the positive side of things, his smile as bright as his golden hair. He'd been Gerard's one connection to normality, his single respite in a world of terror and monsters.
But this Michael? This Michael was different, and Gerard saw it all in his eyes. While he still looked the same, there was a darkness to him. A shadow, a scared vacancy that bloomed from the hollow pits of his pupils, only just hidden by the glistening of tears that clumped on his thick eyelashes. His face was weathered, exhausted... lost. It had lost that glow of innocence, and it made Gerard want to cry.
They stared at each other, soaking up one another's appearances in silence, neither willing to break it for several, long seconds.
But they had to, eventually, and Gerard chose to be the one to do so, with the first thing that came to his head. He pointed at the page Michael was clutching. "That's made out of my skin, you know." He said.
Michael spooked at the sound of his voice, blinking like he'd been startled awake. He looked down at the page, then at Gerard, then at the page again. "Oh." He squeaked, and Gerard almost kicked himself; why did he say that? He was about to apologize, when Michael held the page up, inspecting it, "... Absolute worst way to get a tattoo, huh?" He said after a moment, with the tiniest grin, and Gerry was so surprised that he laughed.
"Yeah, right? I mean, a tattoo detailing the events of my death would be cool, but I think I'd rather it actually be on my body." He gestured to his incorporeal self, before he realized, "Well, when I had one."
The casualness of his tone didn't help- he saw it in Michael's eyes as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and before he could say anything more and try to take them back, Michael burst into tears.
He slumped over with a wailing sob, and Gerard instinctively reached out to catch him-
And he did.
He felt Michael's weight against him, the first thing he'd properly felt in who knows how long, and didn't even have time to process or puzzle it out- whether it was ghost powers he'd never tapped into or just the universe granting him one small fucking mercy- before he was wrapping his arms around him, drawing him in and petting a hand through his hair, shushing Michael softly.
"Hey, hey, it- it's okay, Mikey. It's okay. I'm here." He murmured, just as he had all those times, years ago now, that Michael's anxiety had gotten the better of him and they'd wound up cuddling on an old, dusty couch in the archive room.
Michael buried his face in his chest, clutching at Gerard's shirt and the leather of his jacket, and Gerard was amazed to see it actually bunch up under his fingers. He sobbed, hard enough that Gerard thought he was going to throw up, and Gerard couldn't think of anything to do other than hold him tighter. He laid his cheek on Micheal's head, and could smell his hair- something floral and cold, like snowdrops- and just let him cry, his fingers carding through that lion's mane of curly gold. He rocked them back and forth slowly, his heart- or whatever he had that passed for one in this form- threatening to break in his chest.
He wasn't sure how long Michael cried on him, but he made no moves to make him stop; from what Jon had told him, Michael had been through so, so much- and he was certain that the tears weren't for Gerard alone.
And if Gerard shed some tears, himself, grieving what could have been, what had been, and what had become of them, well... they weren't real enough to matter.
When Michael finally quieted to sniffles, to whimpers and hiccups, Gerard pulled back to look at him. Michael tipped his head back to meet his eyes, his face blotchy and red and tear-streaked. Gerard tried for a smile that was more of a soft grimace as he cupped his face, wiping the wet mess away.
"Better?" He asked, and Michael gave the tiniest nod. "Good." On impulse, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Michael's brow- and felt the warmth of him against his lips. He heard Michael's breath hitch, and he probably would've started crying all over again if he hadn't worn himself out the first time. Gerard pulled back, blinking down at him; he wasn't going to apologize for that. "I've missed you, Mikey." He said softly.
"I've missed you, too." Michael croaked, his voice thick with emotion, "What... what happened to you? How did you end up... like this?"
Gerard sighed; he couldn't say he hadn't been expecting the question. "I, uh... I died. Brain tumor. Didn't catch it until it was too late, and by then- I just figured I'd keep hunting Leitners until I croaked. And... I did. In Pittsburgh, of all places."
Michael nodded, even though his lip wobbled. "And now you're a- a ghost?"
"An echo." Gerard shrugged, and felt Michael tighten his grip "A... memory? I dunno. But, yeah, basically. Bound to that page." He nodded to it, where it had fallen into Michael's lap.
"But... how?" Michael pressed, and Gerard bit back another sigh.
"... Gertrude." He admitted at last. Michael's face fell immediately and he recoiled, pulling back from Gerard slightly. His expression closed off, something tight and afraid.
"Oh."
"She's dead." Gerard added quickly, squeezing his arm reassuringly, and Michael nodded.
"Yeah... I know. Do... do you know how-?"
"Nah. Jon just mentioned she went down fighting."
Michael dropped his gaze, staring into nothing, and Gerard knew they were wondering the same thing; how many people did she take down with her? How many more of her sacrifices and fodder went down before her killer got to her?
"... What about you?" He asked after a moment, "Ger- ... she, just told me that you were, uh... eaten."
Michael made a noise that Gerard couldn't decipher, something between a whimper and a laugh. "Yeah. I... she... the Sp... the... door. She sent me in with a map. I... I couldn't think, I just... followed her instructions. And then I was..." He let go of Gerard's shoulder and stared at his hand, turning it back and forth slowly as he wiggled his fingers. Gerard watched, remembering how Jon had mentioned Michael's hands being far too long and claw-like.
"Fuck." He sighed. He sat back against the bed cushions, sweeping back some of his bangs with his fingers and staring up at the ceiling. A bitter laugh bubbled in Gerard's throat at the injustice of it; why did he- the man touched by fear and monsters since day one- have to die so... boringly, by a fucking brain tumor? And the man who never asked for any of this, who was so kind and just- good, got eaten by the horror of madness and lies itself? Made into a monster for- what, a decade, maybe?
It wasn't fair. Gerard squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched tight in frustration. He wished it had been him, he though despairingly; he'd have rathered he'd become the skin of an eldritch horror than the skin page of a book, and Michael got to live, sweet and innocent, and then die the same way- of old age, or something. He could've gone on coffee dates and late-night takeout dates and library dates with someone else, once Gerard was gone. Just been- normal. Given someone else that ray of hope that he'd given Gerard.
He felt Michael shift, until he was laying against Gerard's chest, one arm wrapped around his stomach. Gerard wrapped his arm around him without a thought, exhaling a shaky breath that he didn't need.
"I'm so sorry, Mikey." He whispered.
"It's... yeah. I know. I'm sorry for you, too."
"Yeah."
"... What will happen to you, now?"
Gerard grimaced. "... You first."
"I... I don't know." Michael sniffled, "I don't have anywhere to go. I don't... think I can just be normal again. I might..." He laughed, a brittle sound, "maybe I'll check myself into a residential mental hospital."
"Or go haunt an abandoned one." Gerard suggested, and Michael huffed.
"That's what you'd do."
"Hell yeah, I would. Or the archives."
"Haunt Jon?"
"Mm... yeah, maybe. He seems like he'd be a fun haunt."
Michael laughed silently, his grip tightening around his waist. "... Your turn." He added after a moment.
Gerard opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling and its florescent lights. "I... I want to go away, Mikey." He said quietly, "I can't stay like this, trapped as an echo on a page. It hurts. Jon promised to burn my page, but I asked him if he'd bring me to see you, first. So I could... say goodbye."
He felt Michael stiffen. "Don't- don't say that, Gerry."
"Michael-"
"No!" Gerard lowered his head to look at him as Michael sat up, his IVs beeping in warning as he tugged on them, nearly dislodging them with the sudden movement, "Don't- please- I- I just got myself back, and now I've got you back, and I can't- if I-" His scrawny chest was heaving with quick breaths, his eyes wide and frantic.
"Michael." Gerard reached out to touch him, but Michael flinched away. Gerard took a deep, patient breath, dropping his hand, "You don't have me back, Mikey. I'm not... here. I'm dead. I've been dead. I don't even know if this," He gestured to himself, "Is my soul, or a black magic impression of my old self, or just a memory. Either way, my time is up. I want it to be up. Everything hurts, and I'm tired."
He didn't say the second thought that sprung into his head, then, that by him finally dying for good, he could at least undo just a bit more of the damage Gertrude had done; Michael got to be normal again (as normal as he could be, now), and Gerard got to rest at last. That sounded so, so very wonderful to Gerard.
But tears were filling Michael's eyes again, and Gerard's heart was crushed by the sight. "Then..." He started, before his voice cracked. He stopped, sniffled, choked back a sob, and gathered himself with a deep breath, "Then... will you... will you at least stay a little longer?" He pleaded quietly, "Just... a few more minutes?"
Gerard's throat tried to close up on him. "Yeah. I can do a few more minutes, Mikey." He whispered. He opened his arms again, inviting him back, and Michael slumped against him once more.
They held onto each other, two ghosts- one metaphorical, one literal- left broken and left behind by the world, by a singular woman who saw fit to use them as tools. Pawns.
They were silent for a while, but Gerard didn't bother trying to count the time, letting himself escape, for just a little while, to happier memories of other times he'd gotten to hold Michael. Of warm summer days spent walking the beach, of rainy evenings sheltered in a library together reading ghost stories, and all the stolen moments in between the shelves of the Magnus Institute's archives, before he kissed him goodbye on those salt-encrusted docks.
He could feel Michael leaning on him more and more, heard his breathing begin to even out and deepen; he was falling asleep, worn out.
"... Mikey?" Gerard whispered.
"Hm... mm?"
"You know... Jon would probably be willing to help you out. With... you know, where to go from here, and stuff."
"Mm... yeah. He seems... good. I'm glad I didn't get the chance to kill him."
Gerard laughed quietly. "Yeah. Me, too." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to Michael's head again. "I love you, Michael Shelley." He murmured.
A sniffle. "I love you, too, Gerry Keay." He whispered back. Michael shifted, lifting his head, and blinked slowly, sleepily, up at Gerard. "... Can you kiss ghosts?" He asked softly.
Gerard raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. "Dunno. Wanna find out?"
A smile grew on Michael's face, one so soft and familiar that it made Gerard's unnecessary breath catch. "Yeah." He whispered, almost shy.
Gerard bit back a laugh as he leaned in. Their noses brushed, then their lips, so light and brief that Gerard thought maybe he'd imagined it, maybe they couldn't kiss after all-
and then Michael surged up, pressing their lips together properly.
Gerard melted into it, his surprise turning to delight, which in turn became an overwhelming, warm affection, until he felt like he was burning up all over again from the Lightless Flame's stupid book. His hand came up, sliding up the back of Michael's neck and tangling in that massive mess of curly hair that he loved so much, as Michael's hands gripped his shoulders like he could pull Gerard back into the world of the living.
Gerard wasn't sure when he started crying again.
He wasn't sure when Michael started crying again, either.
When they finally parted, they didn't go far. Michael dropped his head, pressing his face into his shoulder, and Gerry held him, and for a few minutes nothing else mattered. Not Lietners, not monsters, not fear. There was no fear, here.
... Maybe he'd been wrong, Gerard thought as he felt Michael falling asleep on him; maybe there was an entity of love, after all.
And if there was, he knew its name was Michael Shelley.
When he was asleep- properly, fully asleep- Gerard carefully pulled away and got up. Careful not to wake him, he tucked Michael in, petting his hair back one last time as he pulled up his blankets. He leaned over and kissed his cheek, sighing through his nose.
"I love you, Michael. I'll see you again someday, yeah? See you... somewhere else. Until then- live for me, won't you?" He whispered.
"... Gerry..." Michael mumbled in his sleep, and Gerard laughed softly.
"Yeah. ... Bye, Mikey."
He stood up, picked up the page he was tied to, and forced himself to turn away, turning out the lights as he went.
He'd go tell Jon they were done, remind him to burn his page when he gets the chance, and ask him to watch over Michael.
And if his time as an avatar of the Eye meant anything, then with any luck, maybe Gerard could watch over him, too.