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Jon didn’t like going up to Elias’s office. It always felt too bright, too visible somehow, despite the fact that he’d always kept the blinds closed, the lights somehow dim even with standard office fixtures. But the sense of being watched, of being studied remained, even as Jon mounted the stairs to his office, crossed the hall, and approached the door. It was even stronger now, this feeling, ever since he returned from the States. Ever since, he presumed, he’d gotten more comfortable using the powers of sight and persuasion that Elias had been so insistent that he hone.
Jon was surprised to find voices emerging from behind the mahogany frame as he approached the office. Elias had set up a meeting with him, and it was incredibly unlikely he’d had forgotten about it. He’d never really heard Elias angry, but the sound of vicious determination was unmistakable.
“––what little dignity you have left.”
“Dignity?” came another voice, high-pitched and racing. “Like the dignity of being trapped in your flat by worms, or sleeping in the Archives clutching a corkscrew––”
Martin? What was he doing here? His voice was raw in a way that unnerved Jon. He’d heard the tapes with Melanie. He’d seen the brutality of a man’s head crushed and bleeding on the floor of his office. He knew what Elias was capable of. The thought of Martin somehow inspiring that kind of anger in Elias––
“––let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
It sounded like a threat, and something stung in the back of Jon’s brain, a sudden push of Knowing about to overwhelm him. Something awful, too intimate. Images––where did they come from? Elias?
Someone older, they looked like Martin. A woman in a wheelchair lashing out, trying to push someone’s warm hands away. Hatred. Bitterness. He almost stumbled with the force of it, gripped the wall as he tried to purge the raw emotion out of his brain. Was this about Martin? Why was Elias thinking that? Who was she? The answer pressed into his brain the moment he considered the question, and fear gripped Jon as he instantly knew what was about to happen. He grabbed the handle to Elias’s office, pushed it open without even bothering to knock. He stood there in the doorframe, coming only so far in his plan as to disturb the scene at play.
Elias was stood behind his desk, his tall frame leaning forward in a confrontational stance. And Martin, standing on the opposite side, fists tightly clenched. His head snapped around to face the doorway, and the tense determination in his round face chilled Jon right to the core.
“Martin,” Jon said, firmly, calling up whatever dredges of authority he had left. He looked decidedly at Martin, ignoring Elias’s biting glare.
“Jon!” With the single word, Martin’s voice dipped, wavering from its anger to something tentative and breathless. For a minute, Jon let it center him. Martin was okay, he sounded almost normal.
“Please leave, Martin.” Jon snapped quickly, opening the door wider and stepping aside, crossing the small office and planting himself in front of the desk and alongside Martin. Martin had a moment of wavering uncertainty, his fist unclenching and looking back to Elias for a moment before settling on Jon again. “I was trying to––”
“Please, Martin. Let me handle this.” Jon didn’t really care that Elias could hear him. He doubted there was much he could hide from Elias, at this point, and the man seemed smug behind his desk, watching him… always watching him. “You don’t know Elias, what he’s… what he can do.”
Martin looked fierce at that, both offended and scared, if such a thing was possible.
Jon put a hand out, touched Martin lightly on the arm. The small motion somehow defused whatever confusion had set on Martin’s face, and he visibly softened. “Okay, Jon.” He swallowed. “Alright, I trust you. But… Please let me know if you need… anything.”
“Yeah…” Jon said, distracted, torn between parsing out the layers to Martin’s words and looking at Elias, who was now pinning him with a strange, intense stare. “Yeah, of course, Martin. Now, please.” He raised his voice. “I told you to leave.”
Martin reluctantly moved to the door, giving Jon one last, hopeful look before shooting daggers in Elias’s direction. “I’m not done with you, you know,” he said.
Elias grinned pleasantly, but he didn’t look at Martin. “I look forward to our next meeting, Martin,” he said, but his eyes were piercing Jon like a razor.
Martin huffed, leaving the office and closing the door behind him. Jon glanced at his receding shape through the pane of decorative one-way glass around the door, and felt his nerves settle a little at the victory of getting Martin out of the room. Then he turned to Elias and planted his palms firmly on the desk. “I know what you did to Melanie.”
“Do you?” Elias’s demeanor shifted slightly as he slinked back into a honed pleasantness as he sat down, crossing his legs under the desk.
“What are you doing to Martin?” Jon felt the compulsion surge into his voice, and he hoped it hit like a freight train. Somehow he figured it didn’t really work that way on the other end, or maybe just not for Elias.
The man chuckled, and he broke eye contact briefly to close his eyes and hum contentedly, savoring… whatever it was he was enjoying. (Jon knew exactly what it was.)
Elias’s voice, when it finally came, was almost breezy. “Oh, Jon,” he preened.
Jon slapped his fist on the desk. “Just answer me.”
Elias broke out of his reverie, steepled his fingers and shot Jon with a disappointed frown. “Patience, Jon. You know when you compel, your subject is bound to answer.”
Jon locked his jaw.
“Martin seemed to have… settled… on a misguided attempt at heroism. He doesn’t understand what’s at stake and his little tantrum is evidence of that. I have to teach him a lesson. But your untimely entrance means I have to play this entire scene over again.”
“Do you expect me to just stand by while you…” Jon remembered the sound of Melanie crying, the painful silence and the weight of her presence now. How he wasn’t around to stop Elias, while he was running all over the world chasing dead ends and being hunted by god knows what. Even Tim, Elias was ready to kill him if he had to. And Martin… Jon had barely even talked to him since he came back, but he seemed to care, to want to help. And… Martin said he trusted him, just now. He trusted him. “I won’t let you destroy my team,” he said, finally.
Something burned behind Elias’s eyes. “How do you expect me to keep him in line, Jon?” he asked, fingers now tracing the edge of his desk, slowly, as he peered up into Jon’s eyes.
Jon tried to read him, to See into his mind, but Elias was closed to him. Yet somehow it felt like a leading question. Jon didn’t know what to do with that unsettling feeling, than just state his truth. That’s what the Eye wanted, wasn’t it? The truth. “I am your direct report,” he said, firmly. “You talk to me and I will take care of my staff. Whatever they’re doing that displeases you or your...” Jon clenched his jaw. “…our… master. Let me handle it.”
Elias scooted forward, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “Then let’s make a deal. I won’t inflict any further emotional harm on your assistants, if you allow me certain liberties with, um… you.”
“Liberties…” Jon’s mind did a heel turn. He had expected Elias to laugh in his face, or pull rank on him, or give him some heady reminder about being the beating heart of this place. But Elias was pinning him again with that ravenous look in his eye, like a panther about to launch. Jon swallowed. “You don’t mean…?”
“Archivist, there are some things I know you will refuse to consent to, even if I believe they would be for our mutual benefit. I’m merely taking advantage of… well, let’s call it a strategic opportunity.”
So he was talking about that. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh I am very serious, Jon. You’ve seen how much Melanie has changed. Would you have the same happen to Basira or Tim? To Martin?” The chill that ran down Jon’s body was damning.
“There is an added benefit to our intimacy, of course––”
Jon almost laughed. The words couldn’t be real, surely.
“You and I are servants of the Beholding. You fight it, constantly, but there are advantages to learning from one who has served our master for much longer than you. You would do well to observe and to feel and to submit to my instruction. And in doing so, understand just what beings like ourselves can accomplish when we work together, not against each other.”
The sound that came out of Jon’s mouth was wry and incredulous. “Honestly, Elias. You can just say you want to have sex with me.”
“And would you––”
“No, not willingly.”
There was a moment of genuine hurt in Elias’s face, and for a moment Jon felt maybe he’d actually landed a win against the man. But after a beat, Elias’s face shifted and Jon turned away. He didn’t want to see the look on Elias’s face as he put two and two together. He’d known for some time that Elias was interested in him. He’d seen the hunger in his eyes when they were alone in Elias’s office, the way he’d come down to Jon’s office long after hours to ask if he was sure he’d be alright heading home alone. Jon refused him, of course, usually just slept in the office if it was really that close to midnight. But the sense of eyes on him whenever he was in the Institute wasn’t just their patron. He’d felt it crawling up his spine whenever Elias gazed at him from over those almond glasses, felt it in the tether that he felt grow to Elias’s presence the more Jon leaned into his own powers.
And Elias had so few weaknesses, it seemed. He could see everything and know everything, if he wanted to. Melanie had tried to kill him, and Martin, well he didn’t know what exactly Martin was trying to do, but it wasn’t going to end well, he was sure of that. They were just human, and Elias was…. well, how could any of them possibly have an edge over someone like that. But Jon had the Eye, just like Elias; he had his position as Archivist, which seemed important to the man. And he had this, apparently. He just wasn’t aware Elias was willing to blackmail him for it.
Elias rose from his seat and came round to Jon’s side. Jon felt something burn in his face, as Elias crept just so into his personal space. Jon turned away to sit on the edge of the desk, gripping the ledge to steady himself before he looked up to find a smile curling at the corners of Elias’s lips.
Jon set his jaw. “I am holding you to your word that you will not traumatize anyone else.”
“Not for the duration of our arrangement.” Elias smiled sweetly.
Jon bit his lip, holding back the bitter words that wanted to spill out of him.
Then Elias raised his hand, almost tentatively, and laid it on Jon’s shoulder. As if gauging Jon’s reaction, watching intently. Jon felt his breath catch and tried to keep the fear off his face. He was good at this, hiding his emotions. He could do this. “I… I’d like it in writing,” he said. If a contract of employment tied them to Elias, could the supernatural binding work both ways? Keep Elias to his word. Would Elias even give him a straight answer if he asked him…
Elias patted his shoulder once, gliding briefly down Jon’s arm as he moved to gesture vaguely to the papers on his desk, mildly amused. “Of course, Jon. But first, I have some budget reports to finish, before I can properly plan our new venture. I’ll draw up a contract and meet you in your office soon, perhaps tomorrow, to go over details. Does that work for you?”
“Like I have a choice,” Jon spat.
“I want you to, Jon. As much as is possible for people like us.” Elias’s voice had dropped, and Jon could almost call it sincere. He bent down, and for a moment, Jon thought he might try to kiss him. But he stopped, just close enough that Jon could feel the brush of Elias’s breath on his lips. “That is part of the lesson in this,” he whispered. “Remember that.”
• • •
It was too early to leave work for the rest of the day, and Jon didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions, particularly Martin’s. But everything was a bit hazy after he left Elias’s office. The sense of being watched, studied took on a peculiar, intrusive quality, like he was on a dissecting table and everyone he met had a scalpel.
Jon settled on just not leaving his office for the remaining work hours. He attacked his pile of backlogged statements, forcing himself to record one after the next, the tape recorder buzzing in a state of constant static. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to achieve, exhausting himself until he couldn’t think. He was grateful Martin decided not to stop by. He had passed him on his way back from Elias’s office and tried to wave him off by telling him Elias would need him working overtime that day and please not to disturb him. He tried not to read too much into Martin’s pleading, confused face, or the wrecked expression in his eyes when Jon paused at his office door, telling him, “Thank you, Martin.” For what, Jon actually wasn’t sure. It just seemed the right thing to say to satisfy Martin. And he did mean it… But… well, that didn’t matter right now.
The statements he read were disturbing, gnawing into his heart as he sunk tetherless into them. A group of students maiming themselves at a weekend camping trip. A contractor who’d buried himself in the foundation of a new high rise, and gave his statement before doing it. A gardener who lashed herself to a tree and let the bees nest inside her, and her husband who begged the Institute to do something. But they couldn’t do anything, could they? The Magnus Institute, the Archivist, the Eye, all they were good for was to watch and consume and chronicle pain. Even wielding the apparent power he had, all it gave him was the ability to take their suffering and file it into the endless corridors of his master’s maw. And he still had some shred of humanity left to mourn that fact. But for how long, he didn’t know. So Jon let his body swim in the anguish of scared human beings who thought something could be out there to save them. And it felt good, to feel lacerated and wretched, to lose himself in other people’s pain… instead of considering his own.
After the seventh statement, sleep finally took him and he collapsed at his desk, falling into the horror of familiar nightmares. He woke up screaming when Prentiss touched him in the dream, her mouth, this time, spilling its hoard of filth and worms into his own throat and forcing him to swallow. Jon wanted to retch but he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. But the empty crawling in his stomach felt sharp and aching, centering him. The clock on the wall told him it was four thirty in the morning and he thought vaguely about the shower in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Something awful made him think Elias wouldn’t give him much time to prepare before his visit. He should… well, he didn’t even know what Elias wanted him to do, what he’d decide to take from him on this initial meeting. Jon felt very small suddenly, curled in his office chair, trying to hide from that feeling of being observed, from having his spiraling thoughts on display. What did Elias even see in him?
After showering, Jon changed into the spare set of clothes he kept in his office. He felt vaguely unwell pulling on the clean pair of pants, lightheaded with hunger, pained when the tug in his mind became constant and insistent. Was it Elias? Was he here already? He waited for the knock on the door, but there was none.
It could simply be a headache, he thought. I should eat something. It was already five and the small corner shop should be open. He might have to buy… he didn’t even know what size or brand Elias used. God, he felt sick. The throbbing in his head was fierce now. But if he ate something now, he could probably go the whole day without another meal. That could be helpful, he thought.
• • •
Jon made a point to greet the archives team when they came slowly in to work that day, in the hopes they’d leave him alone for the rest of the day without him making a point of saying it. The last thing he wanted was to bring attention to himself. He tried to avoid Martin, feeling that the man would needle him for an explanation on what occurred the previous day. And honestly, Jon didn’t have the energy to come up with a convincing lie.
Martin tried his best to hover around him, though, when Jon tried to escape to the break room after his awkward round of wishing everyone a good morning.
“Martin, please,” he finally said, his heart rate racing for some reason. He felt so goddamn exposed, like everyone in the office knew what was about to happen. But they couldn’t. No one could possibly know. “I told you I took care of it. Elias won’t be bothering anyone here anymore.”
Martin was this close to reaching out to touch him. Jon almost wanted him to just do it. Instead Martin wrung his hands, trying not to look into Jon’s eyes. “But how? What did you say to him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jon cursed himself for how dry his voice had grown, or how damning that line of words must have sounded.
“Jon––”
“Please, Martin. Elias is Head of the Institute. I’m Head Archivist. He needs me. We worked something out.” He was deflecting so hard it made him cringe. He ran a hand over his face and sighed deeply. “Martin, I have a lot of work to get to today. Please don’t disturb me. I’ll be free tomorrow.”
“Is something wrong?” The sudden crisp, commanding sound of Elias’s voice sent a wave of panic through Jon. The latent fear of Elias flaunting his newfound win terrified Jon, and he felt a flush of shame burn across his skin. Thank god Martin was distracted, as they both turned to look at Elias––the tall man was framed in the entrance to the breakroom, a box of teacakes and pastries in one hand and in the other, a cardboard carry out tray of two cups steaming with something warm. Jon could feel the smug faux innocence radiating off his face.
Jon decided it was a wrong idea to have ever left his office.
Martin stepped forward and made to put himself bodily between the two of them. Jon grabbed his forearm. “It’s alright,” he said, almost under his breath. Martin’s entire body stilled upon the touch, and Jon regretted it almost immediately. He couldn’t deal with this right now. And he didn’t dare meet Martin’s eyes.
Elias smiled, warm and disarming. “Martin, I have some training sessions planned for our Archivist, to help him develop his new faculties. Unfortunately, they are quite involved, so I apologize in advance for taking up so much of his time and energy.”
It took all of Jon’s willpower to keep the sarcasm out of his mouth. He released Martin and weaved a path between him and Elias to get to the exit. “We’ll have that meeting now, if you don’t mind,” he said, and he didn’t bother to hide the grudge in his voice.
“I thought some breakfast first. You had a long night, Jon.”
Jon clenched his jaw, meeting Elias’s eyes and daring him to read all the awful fear and hatred and disgust that had plagued him the night before. But maybe that’s exactly what got Elias off. Jon could feel his body vibrating, on the verge of fight or flight. He couldn’t let Martin see him like this. The man was already ready to throw hands, his frame looming over Elias as his eyes darkened ominously behind his square glasses.
Jon had to end this. “Elias,” he said, commanding. He walked out of the breakroom and did everything in his power to not make it look like he was fleeing to his office. Elias was on his heels, matching his speed easily. Jon let him inside his office and shut the door behind him while Elias laid down his… peace offering… on the desk.
Jon pressed his head to the door frame, clicked the lock and closed his eyes to try and steady his pounding heart.
“Sit down, Jon.”
Jon turned, steeled himself. Elias had thrown the carton away and was laying out the coffee cups on the desk, alongside a few teacakes on two small plates.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Of course you are.” Elias beckoned him lightly, rolling out Jon’s office chair.
Jon didn’t move, let Elias stand there for a couple beats, just to show him. “I thought you wanted me to have some choice in this,” he said, finally. “I don’t want to eat.”
Elias tapped his fingers on the headrest of Jon’s armchair. “I understand. We can skip that today, but please know it was a genuine gesture. We can try again later.”
“What’ll it be, dinner next?” It rolled off his tongue, bitter and hopeless.
Elias ignored the tone, couldn’t help but look extremely pleased. “I have a couple fine establishments selected, actually, that I think you’ll enjoy.”
“Of course you do.” Jon felt the fire inside him strangle and choke. He had to get this over with. He forced his body to move, to walk the enormous distance it felt to go from the door to the wheeled leather armchair behind his desk. Elias bent his head down as he approached, gripping the sides of the chair as Jon settled into it.
“So… uh.” Jon’s mouth felt like a desert. “The contract.”
“In due time, Archivist,” Elias hummed. “It’s all written, like you asked. But… I was not expecting to start our sessions quite so soon.” Elias’s hand played casually at the edges of Jon’s hair. “It’s in my office.”
Jon cursed at himself under his breath. “Then, will we be going over details today or are we…” He prayed he wouldn’t have to name all the terrifying options he knew were possible in situations like this. The last time he tried sex with another person, it was an aborted attempt with Georgie and it ended up devolving into half-clothed spooning under the covers. When did he even last have proper sex? There must have been something, somewhere in the hazy memories of that one day his amateur theatre group bussed up to Welshpool for a festival and stayed the evening. Drunk then and coerced now. Were those the only times? Well, that was rather pathetic.
By the time he came back to his thoughts, Elias was standing in front of him, gently turning Jon’s chair to face him. Jon felt his heart drop, his mind trying to work out the physics of his position, what Elias could or couldn’t do to him.
“You seem rather eager, Jon. So if you don’t mind, let me start by getting to know you.”
Jon felt something hot and awful rise up in his throat, as Elias bent down to him, his thin pale fingers sliding up his collarbones to the top buttons of his shirt. Elias smelled of bergamot and sandalwood, woody and intoxicating. It was a new expensive smell, and Jon tried to focus on that, to drink in the sophisticated elegance that reeked off the man, as his fingers, soft and lithe, unbuttoned Jon’s yielding clothes to expose his shaking chest underneath.
Jon closed his eyes, the unrealness of it all thick in his skull and pounding in his heart. He didn’t want Elias to know how much this scared him right now. He cursed himself for even thinking it, for feeling this confused and incapable. And Elias, as if on cue, drew a line down his chest with a finger and tutted lightly.
“Jon, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Jon grit his teeth. “You don’t get to tell me that.”
Elias hummed, clearly displeased. He continued to unbutton Jon’s shirt, pressing a finger occasionally to a scar he found along the way. “I know you have doubts, Jon. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my Archivist.” Elias reached the last button above his trousers and for a moment, Jon felt his heart sink to his stomach, as Elias paused and laid a hand on the buckle of his belt. No, please no, Jon thought, frantically, hopelessly. He felt Elias exhale in response, disappointment lacing the sharp sound. And it was that easy, condescending annoyance, more than anything, that finally broke something in Jon, and he choked out a sob, the desperate attempt to hold it back making his chest heave.
Jon had told himself he could do this, he’d made a deal. But the right decision didn’t always mean the one he wanted, and Jon knew he was crossing a line he could never come back from.
“Shhh.” Elias’s hand splayed out and pressed against his chest that beat in wild gasps, the other hand bracing his back, holding him steady. “Shhh, it’s alright.” Elias said quietly, his lips and cheek pressed to Jon’s head and nestled in his hair. He kissed Jon lightly, keeping his lips pressed to Jon’s skull, holding him as Jon tried desperately to rein in the flood of fear that threatened him. “It’s alright,” Elias whispered. “It’s alright.” They stayed that way for a stretch of time that seemed to go on forever, Jon allowing Elias’s hands bracketing him to steady the vibrations wracking his body and his lungs.
Because what did it matter, all this, if something had already taken his body and his soul, changing him into something he didn’t even know the shape of yet. What did this flesh even matter. He sniffled back a last sob and gripped the armrests on either side. “I know,” he said, softly, still closing his eyes.
He could feel Elias smile, and the hand on his back moved over his shoulder to open his shirt more, tugging it loose from his trousers. The hand splayed upon his chest remained, stroking him now with small gentle petting from his fingers. “You’ll get used to it soon enough, my Archivist.”
Jon bit his tongue and let the iron taste fill his mouth. Elias’s hand searched him, wide-palmed and patient, finding the crests of his ribs, the deep indentations of Prentiss’s workmanship, the raw bruises from his recent misadventures that still stung with pain when Elias pressed his fingers to them. Elias felt more confident now, more willing to own and wander Jon’s body. So when his hands finally slunk down to Jon’s trousers and flicked the belt off from around his hips, Jon could only feel the dull ache of surrender. But he could not stop the quiet, keening cry that escaped him when Elias burrowed through his clothes and found his flaccid length. He forced the thought into his brain, over and over again, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.
Elias’s gentle ministrations continued along this new path, slow and curious as he stroked him, dug his fingertips down between his balls, then gripping the base of his dick and stroking experimentally. Jon refused to give him a reaction, even as the motion triggered something tenuous and strange between his thighs. The hand at his back slid down now, digging into his tailbone and sliding directly under his pants. Jon gasped at the sudden coldness of Elias’s fingers between his cheeks, and Elias laughed, breezily. Jon dug his fingers into the armrests, grunting as Elias prodded him on one side and stroked him on the other.
Jon’s breaths were growing ragged, heavy with something he didn’t want to name.
“Look at me, Jon,” the command came softly, almost tenderly, but with a firmness that belied its true nature.
Jon forced his eyes open, blinking back the moisture that now flowed freely past his cheekbones. Elias’s face was inches from his own, pupils blown wide and lips parted. He looked strangely and alarmingly undone. Something blurred in his vision as he stared at Elias, like analog distortion around the shape of him, and Jon knew at once it was the truth of this creature that bore Elias’s name. It blinked around the edges of him that shimmered and shifted, burrowing into Jon and making him squirm in the sheer indulgence of those eyes upon him. And Jon tried to See, tried to capture the whole of him, to pin down the shape that blinked black and ghostly behind the man.
“Elias––” he gasped, and it was then that Elias kissed him. His lips were violent and desperate, pushing Jon’s head into the backrest and leaving no space for Jon to react. Elias pushed his tongue between Jon’s lips, mouthing him with a hunger that demanded Jon’s passivity. Jon let his mouth hang open for him, tried to kiss back but found Elias’s pace too unrelenting to follow. He let the man explore him, let his lips bleed when Elias bit him, let his tongue wrap around Elias’s when the man forced himself further down his mouth. He tried to swallow, to breathe, but Elias seemed to like the constricted gasps he made when he attempted either, and he found himself denied the chance for both. He felt dizzy, dirty with saliva leaking down his chin, trapped between Elias’s mouth and the hands that still moved rhythmically beneath his pants.
Finally, Elias stopped, but not before giving his dick a sharp squeeze just as he left possession of Jon’s lips. Jon’s gasp for air collapsed into a choked whine as something hot and taut drew a line down his body, like a rubber band about to break. Elias’s hands left him then, and Jon felt his face flush suddenly. He turned away, trying not to look at whatever pleased smile Elias must be giving him. But the voice that came out of Elias was unexpectedly hoarse. “I’m sorry, Jon. I was… I got carried away.”
Jon risked a look back at him, squinting, but Elias looked human now, more human than he’d ever seen him. Hair mussed, tie skewed, red blush creeping down his cheeks and throat. Somewhere along the way, he’d taken off his glasses and his blue eyes flickered with what Jon could only read as regret.
Jon felt the tang of bitterness in his tongue again. “And which part of this are you sorry for, exactly.”
Elias looked actually hurt by that. “Please, Jon. If I could make you understand––”
“I’m not doing this for you.”
“Yes, but I am. I––” Elias stopped himself abruptly. Something flushed and irritated passed over his face and he sat back on the edge of Jon’s desk, hand gripping the edge.
Jon huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He brought his hand up sharply to wipe Elias’s spit from his face, then moved to tuck himself back into his trousers.
“Not yet,” Elias said suddenly, gripping Jon’s wrist. Jon felt his skin go cold, his mouth dry as Elias guided his arm back to its place on the armrest. Elias then took Jon’s other wrist and held him in place on the opposite arm of the chair. Pinning Jon by both hands on the armrest and wheeling him forward up to the desk and between Elias’s legs, angled as he was off the edge of the desk. Jon tried not to look between his legs, at the evidence of Elias’s arousal and what that could mean for him. But Elias merely leaned over him, angling his head to kiss Jon’s lips again, this time taking Jon slowly, patiently, waiting for…. Jon swallowed, worked his mouth awkwardly to kiss back, timing his movement to Elias’s stable, languid rhythm. He closed his eyes, focusing on just this, an almost chaste kiss, and the sound of Elias’s breathing coming in ragged over his skin, the soft moans that escaped Elias. Then Jon felt those thin hands wrap around his length again, and he tensed, readying himself for whatever Elias would inflict upon him now. But Elias’s hands merely squeezed him rhythmically, to the same lazy beat as their kisses.
Jon knew this was the best case scenario and didn’t dare disturb whatever equilibrium had captured Elias. He kept kissing him, letting a moan escape his lips when Elias thumbed the head of him, as he felt blood rush down to his center and between Elias’s ministering fingers. He fought the urge to squirm, to smother or indulge (which one he wasn’t sure) the increasingly painful stimulation. But Elias continued working him, trying to crest him, and Jon whined as the choice became a demand.
Elias broke off the kiss then, watched him intently with those wide, now nearly black eyes. “Ask me, Jon, how this makes me feel.”
Jon shook his head, deeply confused and distracted.
Elias pressed his hand around Jon tighter and Jon gasped, pain lacing his voice. “Compel me, Jon.”
Jon mumbled something as he tried desperately to obey this new command. “Um… how does…” He swallowed, tried to remember the intent behind his words, how he directed it at people to make them talk. He looked at Elias. “How does this make you feel?” The crackle in his own voice felt comforting, familiar.
Elias’s eyes flickered and he shivered visibly. Then he surged forward, taking Jon’s lips in his mouth as he had the first time, all-consuming and eager. “You make me feel human, Jon. You make me feel alive.” Elias’s lips moved down to mouth Jon’s jaw, his throat, the scar on his chin. Elias took his free hand and wrapped it around one side of Jon’s neck, gently, almost reverentially, as he kissed the other side and licked the healing wound there. “You and I are the same. You know that.” Elias looked at him, those black orbs searing and bright, the hand on his jaw now caressing his face. “And the sooner you accept that, accept this, the better it will be for you. You are changing, Jon. But you do not have to do it alone.”
Jon wanted to recoil, to say that he’d never become the cold-hearted, cruel thing that Elias was, that he’d never lose grip on whatever fleeting emotions made him human, that he’d still be Jon and not my Archivist…
But that was a lie, wasn’t it. He didn’t know the first thing about what he was becoming, except that it didn’t ask him for permission to rip his soul out and plant something foreign that now grew there. And he knew that Elias would read the awful truth the moment he thought it, that in the deepest most terrified part of himself, Jon believed him. It scared him that maybe Elias knew the monstrous thing that would be Jon’s final form, and that he’d recognize and accept and maybe even love it in a way Jon never would.
And so Elias went on kissing him, pressing warm lips to the scars in his chest, holding Jon’s head with one hand, fingers tangled in his hair. And Jon leaned back, felt the warm moisture threaten his eyes again, didn’t stop himself from keening when Elias stroked him again. Let himself try to push into Elias’s hand as the confusing mix of pain and pleasure became nearly unbearable. He moaned sharply, gritting his teeth, hoping it was a sound that pleased Elias, that he’d let him go or finish him here. For years, he’d struggled to finish himself off when he was alone, how much more now… “Elias, please––” he whined, but he didn’t know exactly what he was begging for. “I can’t,” he said, simply, breathing hard and praying Elias would just Know.
Elias thumbed his head once more, causing Jon to wince in pain. “Please, Elias,” he repeated, more desperately this time.
Elias let his fingers slide off Jon’s length, petting the trembling thing before tucking it back into Jon’s trousers. “Don’t worry, Jon. You will come for me. Eventually.” He zipped up his Archivist and started on the buttons, hiding his prize from the world and its unworthy eyes. He reached the top button and leaned in to whisper in Jon’s ear. “And you will learn to take me, as well.” He kissed Jon’s cheek, and Jon felt his face go cold as Elias’s lingering lips burned against him.
And then Elias left him, standing to smooth out his vest, adjusting his tie and running a hand quickly through his hair to restore whatever decorum he’d left behind. Hiding the strange Elias who seemed so undone against Jon’s skin.
“We didn’t talk details,” Elias said, his voice clipped, business-like. Slightly surreal in Jon’s ear. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, report to my office an hour before work. Bring a fresh change of clothes with you. On Fridays, you will end the day at five and we will continue to work on your progress. Maybe allow me to take you to dinner. I will provide any necessary supplies and equipment, and you will receive the usual paid overtime. Do you have any questions?”
Jon just sat there, watching the strange after-scene all play out, still breathing hard, chilled from the horrifying realization that he’d given Elias a blank check on his body. He felt exhausted, ashamed, paralyzed, numb, terrified of Elias finding him… broken, again. “No,” he said, faintly. Then looked up at Elias, trying to find the bit of him that had kissed his wounds and held him softly, clinging to it, hoping that it would be that Elias waiting for him when the day came he had to sacrifice what was left of himself and his dignity. “Could you…” He didn’t really know what he was asking for. Mercy, maybe. “I don’t want to be this, um, afraid… next time.”
“Oh, Jon.” Elias bent down, tipped Jon’s chin up and captured his lips lightly in his own. “You’re learning well. We’ll figure it out together.”
Jon felt something awful about the ease with which Elias claimed him as a lover, scared of the compromises he seemed so ready to make to make this whole thing bearable.
Elias had at least the grace to shut the door softly behind him as he left. As soon as he was alone, something collapsed inside Jon, and he felt his legs give out, and he slid to the floor off the side of his desk. The small trash bin toppled as he fell, spilling crumbled paper and the cardboard carry tray that had held the cups of coffee growing cold on his desk.
He lay there, knees bent under him, his body numb and lifeless, his mind desperately holding back the image of what his future had become. He could hear, in the silence, the distant hum of a tape recorder, and he vaguely wondered when it clicked on, which part of this experience his master deemed interesting enough for its eyes. And if it decided that whatever breakdown he was about to have was judged worthy to witness.
But he didn’t feel like crying, and he didn’t have the courage to be angry. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, and maybe it didn’t matter. This place had taken everything from him, and somehow he’d been the one to hand it all over. It was taking his soul, and now, he’d give it what was left of his body. Maybe it was better that way. To hate the skin he lived in so he could better part with it when something else came to cleave him from his humanity. Maybe Elias’s affection was all that he could hope for.
• • •
He didn’t know how long he lay there, watching the morning crawl slowly into daylight. The tape recorder had stopped long ago, and Jon felt a perverse pleasure in having waited it out without succumbing to its pull for a statement. But he had felt it, crawling in the sides of his mouth, trying to claw its way out. But he would never confess the things that would happen here, not for as long as he had some will left in him.
At some point, there was a soft tap at the door and the clink of china.
Jon didn’t need to hear his own name being spoken from outside to know who it was. He felt a heaviness at having to face Martin now, at having to put on the mask and protect him from seeing what he’d become.
The door opened, quietly, tentatively. “Jon?”
The way that voice, that familiar voice, could fit so many emotions into a single word…
Jon tried to say something, found his voice clotted around the burn lodged in his throat. He blinked and found himself crying again, just water leaking down his face. But he couldn’t feel it or stop it.
Martin came into view then, and Jon somehow found it in himself to hold up a hand, trying to stall him before he did something rash.
“Oh god, Jon––” Martin was on his knees in an instant, his body brushing Jon’s legs. A terrifying ache washed over Jon, something about the easy warmth of this man next to him, the way he looked at Jon like the whole world was ending.
“Did Elias––what happened?” Martin reached out, wanting to lay a hand on Jon’s knee, and Jon couldn’t stand the hesitation anymore. He gripped Martin’s hand, kind and soft and always reaching, always giving, even when the person on the other side didn’t deserve it. Jon held his hand tight in his lap, pressing it between his palms, letting it ground him. Martin was saying things, fast and urgent and wrecked, but Jon didn’t hear them. He just looked at Martin, at the soft pools of blue behind his glasses, the tousled straw of his hair. There was safety, warmth, and something desperately unconditional in him. Jon wished he had the strength to ask for that part of him, or the bravery to reach in and find out if such a thing could even be true.
But Jon didn’t want to know. Because Jon had decided that, with everything in him, he would spare Martin from this place, from every horror Jon was destined to ally with, from every dark secret his powers were meant to extract and expose. And Jon had decided that, when the time came, he would spare Martin from himself. But today… today he wanted just one thing.
“Can you hold me, Martin?” It came out a whisper.
There were tears in the other man’s eyes, and his frantic words stilled. Without hesitation, Martin gathered the broken pieces of Jon’s thin, mangled shape close to his own. And for a moment, Jon felt consumed by something that, in another life, he might have called love.
