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bubonickitten · 3 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?�� Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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serenefreakgeekao3 · 6 years

Text

Falling In Like

Requested By: @danasauurrr

Summary: Returning for his eighth year, Harry finds himself followed by girls catcalling him, surrounded by paired up friends that would rather snog in his presence, and unexpected thoughts that begin to fill his head to the point of confusion. With some gay novels thrown in.

Rated: T

Warnings: Fear of coming out (of the closet)

Words: 5256

Author’s Note: I just want to say right now that I am not a gay boy, and that the way that Harry came across learning to be gay is just the way I envisioned it in this story alone. I do not claim to know how the mind works with those trying to find themselves, and the way that Harry finds himself might actually seem a bit silly? I’m not sure. No offence intended in Any way.

Read It On Ao3 Here

Harry took a few steps closer, glancing around his new common room. It was decorated in bland shades of grey and brown, as if the room itself were afraid of any colours lest it be associated with a specific house. The eighth years all crowded together, taking in their new common room before walking toward the middle of the room where a giant wall board sat, announcements hanging up with the Roommate List in the very centre.

“Hey, Harry!” A higher pitched voice called out, dragging out the vowel sounds of each word. As Harry spun around, trying to locate the source, he heard a ton of girls begin giggling, and he spotted a group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, none he actually recognized, standing toward the back of the group and waving. Harry blushed, shaking his head and turning back around, eyeing the board for his name.

“Oh, just ignore them mate. They just want you for your fame, y’know?” Ron appeared as if out of nowhere, bumping his shoulder with Harry’s and grinning widely. “Besides, we have to celebrate! Each room only has two people, and it’s me and you in ours!” Harry grinned, nodding and slapping Ron’s proferred hand in a high five. He heard the giggles behind him again and tensed, glancing down toward his feet.

“They’re just being silly. You’re like a celebrity, and they likely don’t know that no matter how famous, people are just people.” Hermione said, also appearing as if out of nowhere. They were all surrounded by a cloud of students and Harry scooted closer to his friends, suddenly getting a bit claustrophobic. Ron greeted his girlfriend with a kiss on the cheek, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close. “And at least you’re rooming with Ron. I have to room with Lavender.” Ron and Harry both laughed at that, and she just rolled her eyes in response, lightly slapping Ron on the chest.

“Let’s head up to Harry’s and my room! We can start getting unpacked and compare schedules!” Ron suggested, pulling Hermione closer against himself as if afraid she’ll say no. She laughed, shaking her head but agreeing anyway. Harry nodded quickly, moving along with his best friends as he heard another girl call his name from behind him.

It was around the six-minute mark that Ron and Hermione completely forgot about the silent Harry, snogging endlessly on Ron’s bed. It was about one minute and thirty-six seconds in that Harry gave up waiting for them to stop and just left his room. Besides, he had other friends he wanted to see. Walking down the steps two at a time, he exited the eighth year common room, running immediately into someone and knocking them down.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry began, standing and reaching over to help the other one up. Once both were standing did he notice who it was. “Oh, Ginny! I was actually just looking for you!” He said brightly, smiling at her. She hesitated slightly, a wary look in her eyes before she smoothed it over and smiled, if a bit strained.

“Oh, me? Why would that be?” Ginny responded, placing her hands in front of her and folding them before almost jumping slightly and moving her hands behind herself, before finally letting them fall at her sides and rubbing her palms against her pants. She seemed jumpy and nervous, but kept her eyes focused on Harry as he studied her.

“I just wanted to catch up? Ron and Hermione are snogging in my room so I figured I’d hang out with someone else for a bit, y’know?” He tilted his head, his slightly longer than normal hair falling against his eyes slightly before he reached up to push it away.

“Oh. Okay. Actually- yeah, Harry, let’s hang out. I wanted to talk to you about something.” She turned around immediately, beginning to walk down the hall and Harry ran a few steps to catch up to her, matching her absurdly fast walking pace.

“Uh, sure. What is it?” Harry asked, glancing back toward the eighth year portrait- a knight with brightly shining silver armour- before turning a corner and following after Ginny. “And why are we walking so fast, Ginny? In a hurry to get somewhere?” His questions went unanswered as she played with her hands in front of her, watching the stones on the floor as they walked. Harry eventually noticed they were heading toward the Entrance Hall and briefly had a thought to fly his broom sometime out on the field.

They finally stopped in the middle of the Entrance Hall, Ginny glancing around the emptiness nervously before taking a deep breath and glancing up toward Harry with resolve. “Harry, I know that we said we’d wait until after the war to get back together. And I know that at least for me, that helped keep my spirits up during the war. But times change, people change, and people discover themselves better when they’re not in the throes of war.” Ginny began evenly, twitching her hands slightly in front of her, though betraying no other nervous features. “I just- I’m sorry Harry. We can’t get together. I can’t- I’m- I don’t-” She stuttered toward the end and Harry furrowed his brow, taking a step forward.

“Ginny, it’s okay. What is it?” He asked, reaching out to place his hand on her fidgeting hands.

“Harry, I’m gay. I like girls.” She finally said, taking a step back and withdrawing her hands. “I hope you don’t hold this against me. I would still rather love to be friends.” She got quieter as she went, lowering her gaze away from Harry’s surprised expression.

“I- Wha- Oh, yeah, of course, Gin.” Harry finally managed to set his brain straight before nodding and smiling brightly toward her. “I’m happy you found this out. You would have been miserable with me. You can be happy now- or, happier.” He grinned, lowering his head slightly to try and catch her eye. “I’m not mad Gin. This is you. It’s who you are.” Harry finished softly, raising his eyebrows and smiling toward her sincerely. When she finally glanced up she had tears in her eyes, and she took a deep breath, nodding and smiling shakily.

“Thank you for being so kind, Harry. If it’s as easy with you as it is everyone then I shouldn’t be so worried.” Harry tilted his head, a confused expression plastering on his face before she continued, “Oh, uh. I haven’t told anyone yet. Well- besides Luna. She helped me solve this whole thing. But Ron doesn’t know, none of them do. Could you maybe not tell anyone? I just need to be ready for it, I’d rather tell them all myself.” Harry nodded, agreeing quickly before she smiled and patted Harry’s shoulder, walking backwards slowly. “I need to get to practice now. Good talk.” She spun, running outside and down the stairs as Harry watched after her, his mind racing.

Why did he feel so relieved about this?

A month going back into the school didn’t stop the catcalls and whistles he heard when he stepped into a public area- girls giggling into their hands and becoming too excited every time Harry even glanced their way. And all it did was make Harry extremely uncomfortable. He’d even taken to keeping his eyes firmly on the ground while he walked between classes, afraid that if he looked up and accidentally met eyes with someone that they may faint or, worse yet, approach him and try to talk to him.

All of his worries weren’t unfounded. He had his run-ins with at least three people asking him out on a date a day, or a girl once fainting because he accidentally brushed her arm and apologized. He felt like a fool, completely uncomfortable in the one place that used to feel safe, and yet he couldn’t do anything about it. Ron and Hermione had been practically inseparable, studying and snogging together constantly. Harry tried to hang out with them, but it always became too obvious just how much of a third wheel he was before he left to go find another friend.

Ginny and Harry were awkward at first, but after she realized that his feelings honestly didn’t change that much and that they were still perfect best friends, they started hanging out more than anyone else. Ginny admitted to having a crush on Luna, then a few weeks in started dating her. Now the girls were hanging out all the time, Harry again feeling like a third wheel, so he decided to switch things up a bit once more.

“Hey, Neville!” Harry called out, waving toward his friend who was deeper inside the greenhouse. Harry stood where he was, jamming his hands into his jean pockets, glancing around at the harmless plants near the door, and eyeing the more dangerous ones farther away. He knew how bad he was at this stuff, and also knew that if he wandered in further instead of waiting for Neville that something bad might happen- he didn’t know half the plants here, and of the ones, he did know he didn’t want to get anywhere near.

“Harry! It’s been awhile!” Neville finally appeared from around a bend and Harry sucked in a breath, his eyes skirting over Neville’s form. He was fit. Neville wiped his hands on a towel, tossing it onto an empty table before clapping a hand onto Harry’s shoulder once he was near enough. “What brings you here?”

“Just- just wanted to hang out- or rather, see if you wanted to. To hang out. With me, I mean.” Harry's voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat, glancing toward the hay covered floor and furrowing his brow in confusion. Why was he suddenly acting like this? Neville was his friend. Neville was his friend and was fit.

“Oh, sure, yeah. I just finished planting the gloomshadows anyway, so I’m free for a bit. Want to grab a snack from the kitchen and sit outside near the lake? I missed lunch.” He grinned and Harry nodded his answer, turning and beginning the walk back to the castle with him.

It was weird, feeling this way around his friend. He had never actually felt this way- the butterflies or the- physical reaction he was receiving from looking at his friend. He realized way too late that he was attracted to Neville now. How had he not seen Neville fully until now? He had filled out rather well after the war, and Harry knew that one of the reasons was that Neville now exercised daily.

He knew his friend was hot, had heard rumours about how he had grown over the summer. Harry, himself, considered him hot, but there was something off. His hair was too dull as it brushed around in the breeze, or his eyes too dark when he glanced at them. Harry slowly calmed down, his nerves fading until they were gone, and Neville was just his mate once again. He didn’t understand any of what had happened besides knowing that he had never actually felt that way for Ginny before, or Cho, or any other girl he had his eye on before. And it confused him, scared him, and he left a bit early from his hang out with Neville now that he had a personal crisis going on inside his mind.

Harry attempted to find Ginny since maybe she would have some sort of explanation for this, but running down to the Quidditch field only rewarded him with a sight of the girls snogging outside the changing rooms, and Harry would rather not be the one to interrupt that. He shook his head, wondering when he became a third wheel in every friendship he has. Aside from Neville. Though, that was a problem of its own right now.

Harry entered the common room, glancing around and hoping that maybe it was that ten minutes that Hermione and Ron wouldn’t be glued to each other’s face. But with no such luck, he didn’t even spot the two in the common room. Glancing around, it was emptier than it ever really has been for the last month, with only one head in the armchair near the fire- wait.

Harry blinked a few times, taking in the form of Draco Malfoy sitting in a high-backed silver armchair, a book propped up on his right leg that ran across his lap, his right ankle laying on his left knee. He seemed peaceful, almost secure and safe in his expression, the firelight dancing across his features as he read. Harry remembered Draco being the only Slytherin that had returned this year- he also remembered a conversation that Hermione had started about how Draco had apologized and asked to work with Hermione during the few classes they shared, and she had agreed to it.

“He really has changed,” She had insisted, ignoring Ron’s remarks and Harry’s eye rolling. Now, standing there staring at him, Harry could see such relaxation that wasn’t in Draco during sixth year, or really anytime before then. Maybe he just really liked reading?

He didn’t know why, but Harry found himself taking a few steps forward toward Draco, sliding to sit on an ugly, but comfy, brown couch across from the boy. He waited a minute, staring at Draco the entire time until he looked up, slightly scowling.

“Could I help you with something, Potter? Or are you just going to keep staring at me all night? Please, let me know right away so I could go ahead and retire to my room.” His drawl was still the same, his snark ringing in the air, though Harry couldn’t find himself to be mad about any of it. He hadn’t even insulted Harry, he noticed, which was the most surprising part of all of this.

“Hi, Malfoy.” He watched Draco roll his eyes, placing a ribbon down as a bookmark before slowly closing his book, turning his attention now to Harry.

“Hello, Potter. Do you need something?” Harry studied him for a moment before smiling, nodding toward his book.

“What are you reading?” Draco seemed surprised by the question, glancing down to the book in his hands before lifting it to show the title.

“Champagne Nights,” Draco admitted slowly, and Harry studied the cover. It showed a man’s back, naked, as he reached up and cupped his hands around a full moon in the sky. Harry blinked a few times, surprise sparking in his mind. It looked almost completely like a trashy romance novel.

“What’s it about?” Harry asked just as slowly, turning and grinning toward Draco. Oh, this was perfect. Draco Malfoy read muggle romance novels?

“It’s a muggle book,” Draco began, lowering it and placing it on his lap before he looked away, a blush rising on his face. Harry smirked slightly, sort of proud that Draco was embarrassed to be reading a romance novel. “It’s about an accountant who meets a man that just moved into town. They fall in love, through trial and error. Some events take place here and there, the man gets arrested once for something he didn’t do-”

“Woah, spoiler much?” Harry interrupted, grinning as Draco almost jumps, turning and shooting Harry a disbelieving look.

“It’s not as if you’ll read the damn book, Potter.” He snarks back, scowling and turning away once more.

“Oh? And what makes you think that I won’t? Maybe I like trashy romance novels.” He watched Draco’s brows shoot up before he sighed, turning and facing Harry better, studying his face for a moment.

“It’s not trashy. And what I meant when I said that was that I didn’t expect you to read a gay romance novel.” Harry jumped in surprise, blinking a few times as Draco nodded and made to stand. Harry quickly jumped up after him, shooting his hand out to grab onto Draco’s wrist.

“What is it with people around here thinking that I hate gay people?” Harry practically screams, watching Draco jump and look startled before composing himself and taking his hand away from Harry.

“I said no such thing, Potter,” Draco replied, keeping his eyes fixated on the ground between the two- which admittedly wasn’t much room.

“Let me read the book,” Harry said quickly, not thinking it completely through. He watched surprise flicker across Draco’s face as he glanced up, studying Harry’s face as well.

“What do you mean, let you read my book? I’m reading it right now.” He shot back, slightly glaring at him. Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, maybe not that exact book- you did just give me spoilers after all. But do you have another one? I want to read one.” Harry still felt slightly unsure about reading it, he had always felt awkward reading romance novels in the past, but he almost wanted to prove something to Draco. What it was, he wasn’t sure.

“You want to read a gay romance novel?” Draco questioned, his brows furrowing as he crossed his arms. “You just called them ‘trashy,’” He added, raising one eyebrow and waiting for a response. Harry just sighed, shaking his head.

“That’s not what I meant. That’s just what people call them.”

“What people?”

“I don’t know- just people. The people. People in general.” Harry waved his arms around as if to encompass everyone, though no one else was with them in the common room. Draco just sighed in response, shaking his head. “C’mon, Malfoy. I’m bored. Everyone around me is pairing up, I’m like the third wheel everywhere. Let me borrow a book.” He leaned forward, nudging him with his elbow. Draco huffed, shaking his head and raising his gaze to the ceiling.

“Merlin’s tits, fine, Potter. Follow me.” Draco finally agreed, unfolding his arms and taking long steps toward the hallway that led toward the bedrooms. Harry stood there for a moment, watching Draco’s lanky figure walk away before jumping and jogging after him before falling into step behind him. They passed Harry’s own room and kept going, further down the hallway than Harry had ever actually been before.

Finally, Draco pulls to a stop in front of the very last door on the left, glancing at Harry warily before sighing and opening the door, stepping inside. Harry takes a step forward, staying outside the room but glancing inside in curiosity, then widening his eyes in surprise. Inside the room lay only one bed in the centre of the room, larger than Harry’s own, and outfitted in an ice blue colour instead of the Slytherin greens Harry had expected. On both, the left and right walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering the entire walls, mostly filled with books aside from a few shelves sporting potions ingredients or cauldrons or the like. The carpet was a dark shade of grey, and the few other furniture, nightstands, a coffee table, loveseat, and an armchair all sport the same light grey colour that compliments the style well. The only window in the room, situated in the middle of the far wall just like in Harry’s own room, had its own curtains drawn shut to create a room devoid of natural lighting, lanterns hanging up in different areas adding a flickering fire-glow to the room.

“Are you coming in, Potter? Or would you prefer to stand there gaping?” Draco drawled on, as if bored, though once Harry glanced over toward him he noticed how tense his shoulders were or how his knuckles tightened on the book he was still holding. Harry took a few steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“I assume you don’t have a roommate, then?” Harry asked, nodding toward the bed.

“What do you think?” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes.

“Unless you’re rooming with a man who thoroughly enjoys cuddling,” Harry joked, grinning as Draco blushed and glanced away. They stood there for a moment in silence before Draco began walking toward the left wall, Harry watching after him but staying in place.

“I have a few titles by the same author as this book- I rather enjoy their work. They deal mostly with gay romance, so you can pick out of these which story sounds the most interesting to you.” Harry nodded, approaching the shelf and glancing at the ‘few’ titles, which amounted to be about fifty different books listed in alphabetical order. He grinned, picking one at random and reading the back of the book. “They’re all muggle so they- they might be a bit- I mean they-” Draco stuttered, and Harry glanced up with a confused expression before Draco huffed loudly, taking the book from him, placing it back on the shelf and grabbing another one and practically shoving it at Harry, “For Salazar’s sake, this one, Potter. This is a good one.” Harry jumped, smirking slightly before looking at the back of this book now.

“Thanks, Malfoy. I’ll bring it back when I finish reading it.” Harry promised, glancing up and smiling gratefully now.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll expect that’ll be in a months time,” Draco finally murmured, and for some reason instead of getting angry about the insult, Harry just grinned and nodded along. Draco blushed slightly, glancing away and forcing out, “Alright, well, have a nice night then.” Harry chuckled slightly, nodding.

“Alright, I’ll leave now. I hope you have a nice night as well,” Harry spun around, walking toward the exit and leaving without a backwards glance.

Only a few days later, Harry had finished the novel. He had immediately been sucked into the life of Naden Gartira and his simple farm life turned upside down, reading the book everywhere he went, obsessed with figuring out who the mystery man was, why he was helping Naden, and why Naden was afraid of finding out. Finishing the book, he sighed, staring at the cover of an open farmscape at sunset and wondering what to do with his life.

His life. He blinked a few times, glancing up and realizing slowly something he probably should have known a long time ago. Standing, he glanced around, furrowing his eyebrows at the empty common room. It was full to bustling earlier when he had sat down to begin reading his book again.

“Something the matter, Potter?” Harry jumped, glancing behind himself to notice Draco sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, one eyebrow raised and a different book than before sitting in his lap. Harry blushed slightly, blinking a bit before raising the book he was holding.

“I just finished your book,” Harry replied softly, lowering his eyes before they started to take in unneeded details of Draco’s face, like the way his eyes glowed in the firelight, or the way his hair shone brightly against the dark background of rain out of the window behind him.

“Ah? Did you enjoy it as much as you thought you might?” Draco asked, smirking and standing, taking a few steps closer toward Harry.

“A lot more, actually.” Harry murmured, letting his eyes glance back upward toward Draco, taking in his surprise and a different, less recognizable flicker of emotion.

“Really?” He asked quietly, holding his own book to his chest, his face falling softer, his smile turning genuine. “You can borrow more books, if you’d like? Maybe we could talk about them sometime?” Harry studied Draco, the sincerity of his words, the way he tilted his head to the side after asking his question. Harry drew in a breath, closing his eyes. No, this can’t be- He’s not- Harry blinked open his eyes, observing a slight concern flash across Draco’s face. “I mean, only if you want to-” Draco began, taking a small step back. Harry immediately took a few steps forward to close the gap, staring up into Draco’s eyes for a moment, feeling his cheeks heat.

“I appreciate you letting me borrow this. I’d love to borrow another book in the future, I just-” Harry hesitated, pushing the book he held currently into Draco’s hands quickly, lowering his gaze to tried to hide his blush, “I need to go- for a walk, or something, I just-” Harry backed away quickly, turning and sprinting out of the common room door.

Harry wandered through the halls, paying no mind to whichever direction he was heading. He passed several hallways he had only ever seen a few times, and wandered up and down many floors to the point where he was unsure if he was in the old charms corridor or if he was located near the old historic section of the castle. Either way, unused classrooms lined the halls, and a fine layer of dust covers every surface surrounding him. It was a nice place, quiet and peaceful, and Harry hoped to remember the way back here for the next time he needs to take some time for himself to think.

His mind raced with the possibilities. He had felt attracted to Neville before, unlike he had with any previous girl he was romantically inclined toward. But that had confused him even more. He did like Cho, and Ginny. He wanted to date them, wanted to be with them and hold their hand. He had just figured that when it came to being sexual with them, that it’d come eventually, even if he hadn’t felt it at first. Even if he was scared to push himself to do it, his body showing all signs of ‘No, you don’t want this.’

Yet when he read that novel, he wanted that as well. He loved the dynamic between two men, he loved that Naden had been struggling with his own sexuality as well, knowing that his family had disapproved yet unable to stop himself from feeling the way he felt. Harry’s mind raced, even showing Ginny coming out to him at the start of the year, how afraid she had been and how relieved she felt when Harry had fully accepted her. Maybe he could talk to her about this stuff? Maybe she would understand what he was going through and would help make sense of it. Or Luna? She had been the one to help Ginny through her sexual identity crisis.

“Potter!”

Harry spun around, his eyes widening as he took in the dishevelled appearance of Draco, his robes unbuttoned to show a white shirt and black slacks underneath, his hair slightly tousled. He was breathing slightly heavy, and had come to a stop at the end of the corridor that Harry currently inhabited.

“Well, I’m just glad that you had the sense of mind not to wander outside into the rain. These robes are horribly expensive, they do not need to be soaked by the rain.” Draco uttered, smirking as he took a few steps toward Harry before stopping, turning his head to glance out of the floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the hall. Harry glanced out as well, the rain pouring down adding to the calm atmosphere that Harry had been craving. Rain puttered against the window and Harry smiled slightly, enjoying the repetitive sound.

“Why did you follow me?” Harry wondered aloud, turning his gaze back toward Draco to notice that he had taken a few more steps forward, his eyes trained on Harry.

“I wanted to know what had happened in the common room? Did the book really effect you that much?” Draco bit his lip before taking another step forward and continuing, “It’s one of my favourites, but I don’t remember there being a bad ending.”

“No, there wasn’t any bad endings. For Naden, anyway,” Harry mumbled, turning his gaze back to the rain, feeling slightly shy. “I just needed to think some things through.”

“Like what?” Draco asked quietly, taking another few steps toward him.

“I don’t know exactly, my head is a mess,” Harry admitted shrugging and glancing toward the floor before looking back up to Draco. “I never-” Harry stopped, biting his lip as he took in the concerned look on Draco’s face.

“Never…?” Draco repeated, taking slower steps forward and tilting his head slightly.

“I never had time during the war to question myself. To find myself.” Harry lowered his gaze once again, a flush rising against his cheeks. “It wasn’t just the book that spurred this on. I’ve been feeling attracted to- to certain blokes. And G- and one of my friends admitted that she was gay and that made me start thinking about some things too. And all of my friends are paired off, I’m the third wheel in everything-” Harry stopped, feeling like he was just whining at this point.

“So you think you might be gay?” Draco asks, and Harry glances back up toward him to notice how close Draco was now, only a few feet away.

“I-” Harry began, but cut himself off with a long exhale. Saying it aloud made it seem so real.

“You’ve been attracted to certain blokes?” Draco tries again, taking a step forward and closing the space between them. “Could I-” He hesitated, letting out his own exhale of breath before continuing, “Could I ask who?”

Harry widened his eyes, taking in the lanky man in front of him. He thought back to the common room a few days ago, thought of how much Hermione advocated for him. And he had come after Harry. “Well, Neville,” Harry began honestly, watching Draco’s eyes dim slightly, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly. But Harry noticed. Harry had always noticed Draco. “And, you.” Draco’s eyes widened slowly, blinking a few times.

“Me?” He squeaked out before clearing his throat awkwardly, glancing down toward the stones.

“Well, I find you attractive. I found Neville attractive too, but he is most definitely straight, so there’s nothing going on there for me.” Harry admitted, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I apologize if my admitting this makes you uncomfortable. I don’t even know if you are-”

“I’m gay, Harry.” Draco interrupts, glancing up and meeting Harry’s eyes finally. They both stand in silence, staring at one another, almost daring one of them to speak first.

Harry could see it, easily, he admits to himself. Dating Draco, sitting next to him in the common room, reading books together or walking to Hogsmeade hand in hand. He could see Draco becoming great friends with Hermione, and Harry putting in the effort to get to know Draco’s own friends better. He could see himself kissing Draco, sitting in Draco’s room on the loveseat and snogging for hours, like Ron and Hermione do in Harry’s room. He could even see himself going farther- farther than he had ever been with anyone else. Farther than he had ever wanted to go with any girl.

“Draco, I-” Harry began, but found it difficult to continue. Literally. His mouth wasn’t able to move to form words, and it took him a moment to process that the reason for this was that Draco’s own mouth was pressed against his. Harry closed his eyes, leaning forward into the kiss and sucking in a breath once Draco started to respond eagerly, pulling Harry against his chest and licking at Harry’s own bottom lip. Harry opened his mouth for him, letting in Draco’s tongue and moaning slightly into the kiss. Raising his arms, he wrapped them around Draco’s neck, feeling the sensation of kissing Draco Malfoy, the puttering of the rain against the windows the only other sound he hears.

Harry could definitely get used to this.

#writing:requested #writing:falling in like #harry potter #draco malfoy #hp #hp universe #drarry #coming out #finding yourself #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #maybe #ao3

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