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Many lifetimes ago Jonah stood in a similar spot, a ballroom of sweeping marble floors and crystals dangling from the ceiling. He remembers a fleeting moment of watching the facets of the cut crystal reflect light, little stars gleaming in the already brightly lit room. It’s a whimsical memory, one that revisits and brings with it the taste of old wine from a vineyard long gone, of stiff clothing modern innovations streamlined comfortable and sleek.
Jonah’s learned to keep his memories carefully curated, far too many to allow room for each passing fancy, each buried gem of a humanity he’s also carefully dissected the most useful parts of. This particular memory he keeps for the gentle blow of it, the ennui of his life then compared to now, and for memory linked to that brief moment.
Mordechai standing across the way, broad shoulders and windswept hair, pale and dark-eyed with smudges of dark lashes. The first man young Jonah felt any sort of stirring for and a cruel man besides, one who saw his interest- sees his interest across the room, smirks at him with a delicate, lavish quirk of his lips. Oh, how Jonah’s heart betrayed him with a few resounding thumps and oh, how Mordechai ruined him with careless, sweet cruelty in the time after.
The new Lukas stock barely hold a candle to Mordechai, who knew Isolation before they planted the terrible seed of it in Moorland House and gorged themselves on the fruit. Mordechai didn’t hollow himself, understood the gravity of his singular universe was all the more astounding if he deigned to peek into the worlds of others. Mordechai understood mortification of the flesh, the ecstasy of pain for his god and the reward.
A shame he never learned the secret Fairchild, Rayner and Jonah himself did, Jonah thinks, if only so he could witness Mordechai’s reaction to the fruits of his labor. His family, alive and thriving but so dreadfully dull as a whole, shadows on the woodwork, well-dressed dolls. None understand the joy of Isolation as Mordechai did, and Jonah smiles to himself at his own nostalgia. James Wright’s body is growing old, it leads Jonah down such winding paths of thought sometimes, tricking him into feeling he’s growing old too.
The current party is a thinly veiled to-do, thrown by Simon in a fit of pique as far as Jonah can tell. There’s something brewing between the Lukas lot, Simon and Raynor, a plan they mean to keep the details of private but Jonah already knows it’s a collaboration using the promising new frontier of space. Clearly it’s been too long if so many domains are merging together for such a pointless indulgence, and this party to eye each other up is just another distraction.
Jonah looks up at the crystals, not quite as fine as the chandeliers of his memory but even he is susceptible to rose-tinted glasses when it came to the old days. People dance to a live string band, all long, mournful melodies that echo and highlight the empty chamber of the hall. Through the dancers, most human and foolish, some smiling and twirling with monsters sure to make a meal of them, through them all Jonah sees a broad back cut in navy cloth, windswept hair and pale skin.
It makes the breath catch in Jonah’s throat for the first time in years, such a novel experience after so very long without surprises. The figure turns and for a moment Jonah truly wonders if the End spit Mordechai back out, stole from him the years that wrinkled his skin and greyed his hair. But no, not this young man is not Mordechai, the face sharper, the eyes not quite the right shade of sea green.
This young man does turn as Mordechai did all those years before, lips tugging in a secret smile as their eyes catch. When the dancers twirl and break their line of sight the man is gone as they clear.
Jonah indulges the moment, allows it a place alongside that old memory of Mordechai, a place of honor in the maelstrom of so much seen. He waits until Nathaniel approaches him, waits through the niceties, doesn’t bat an eye when he asks after the young Lukas in a navy suit.
“Peter,” Nathaniel tells him, as toneless and dull as he’s ever been. “I am sure he’ll introduce himself to you soon, he will be captaining the Tundra when the time comes.”
“An old duty,” Jonah offers as small talk, a pointless observation to hide his interest in this news. The shape of that interest he doesn’t know, just a whimsy to distract from the encroaching dread so many years alive sometimes mine out of him, wrenched from the meat of his composure like jewels.
After so very long Jonah’s learned to enjoy himself in each moment he can, to revel in the heady addiction of watching the world unfurl around him. He packs away the thought of Peter Lukas, the passing delight of such an old memory syncing with such a new one. Peter vanished from the dance it seems, but Jonah is an expert in patience.
-
In all honesty Elias finds the venue tacky. Not every party can be ballrooms and crystal, though this one would do well to realize its pretentious airs and embrace simplicity.
He expects as much from government fare- gone are the days of excess and peacocking, sadly, though he finds a certain amount of enjoyment watching the facade peel at the cracks. It’s Elias now, not Jonah, as Jonah’s found it important to embrace his new identity wholly when he first starts out. Only at the end of a body’s life does he allow himself his own name again, like peeling off an old skin.
Elias has no family but a pedigree that means people recognize the name, smile and talk about family members long past. Elias is also young and fit, lean and my, so pleasant now that he’s lost that put upon look he used to carry. How he’s grown, some say, how he’s matured and blossomed. A shame he’s wasted on that Institute and all its laughable fantasies of ghouls and bogeymen.
The fresh body is always enjoyable and it has been some time since he’s allowed his vanity to sway his decision in that regard. As Jonah he was quite an attractive man, if he may say so, and it’s nearly nostalgic to garner the looks he used to. It certainly caught Peter’s eye, deepened the little game between them. Elias considered it quite the victory when Peter’s gaze raked him over for a lingering moment the first time they met again. Such a delightful instrument to play, is Peter.
An unfortunate problem does arise with his new face in the form of an older couple setting their sights on him. Old money and handsome, typically an amusement but privileged and persistent enough the blatant flirting is starting to get on Elias’ nerves. They see a pretty thing, young enough for their tastes and imagine themselves clever and powerful enough to get him to their bed with ease.
More than dignity, more than his comfort, more than anything else it's the song and dance so dreadfully played out that irritates him.
“How do you keep your figure?” the woman asks him as her sharp eyed husband watches her trail a hand up his arm. The touch bothers him, this body only a few months settled and still sensitive, still learning him. The curl of their thoughts confirming they don’t intend to leave empty handed spells a long night.
“A secret, I’m afraid,” he tells the pair with all the charm he can muster, grip too tight on the cheap champagne glass. At least in some small way it fascinates him to react this way, old anger and hurts from his days as Jonah, a pretty and sought after face.
A hand presses to the small of his back, hold and faint, as though its barely there. Elias can see the film of mist before he notices Peter is beside him, a solid bulk yet flimsy as paper. He hasn’t shaved, no doubt to irritate Elias, a short, trim beard that suits his face. Every look suits Peter in his monstrous, easy confidence born from truly and deeply not caring about the thoughts and opinions of those around him.
“I finally found you, darling,” Peter tells him, lips and unfortunate beard brushing close to Elias’ ear. Peter’s perfected his mask of civility and connection, a thousand impressions melded so seamlessly you would think he’s a person and not skin wrapped around mist. Elias smiles at him, allows a genuine feeling of gladness to see Peter seep in and color his expression with warmth. All just to see the flicker in Peter’s eyes- discomfort, amusement, disgust, want.
The couple sense a new opportunity in Peter, another pretty young thing of a different flavor, built and broad rather than lean. Well they do until Peter smiles at them, the gentlest of tugs in fog and then Elias can see a shift in their minds like-
We’re too old for this why do I allow him to drag me along with these plans do I really want this have I ever really wanted this?
and
She never looks at me that way why won’t she look at me why do we continue coving this farce why am I not good enough?
They still smile, well trained in propriety, though Elias’ eyes slide to Peter instead. He’s rather glorious like this, Elias will admit, raw and cruel in such lovely packaging. Maybe as a thanks he’ll allow himself a few moments to dwell on their own farce, the dance around each other as though the final steps won’t be sliding a knife in the other’s back.
“I see you abandoned me for your new friends here,” Peter says, plays the part of charm and impishness well.
“You’re so easy to lose in a crowd, I simply found new company.”
Peter clicks his tongue, leaning close. “You know I’m too jealous a man to leave you alone for long.”
“We were just leaving,” the woman says, pleasant but short enough her husband’s expression flickers with a flinch. While they leave Elias watches the seed Peter planted begin to bud already, the horror of new life.
“A shame, they would have been generous donors to the Institute,” Elias muses, mildly surprised Peter keeps in close. He snatches Elias’ glass, hands it off to a passing waiter and steps in close like a dance. Elias Bouchard is taller than Wright and Jonah but still needs to glance up at Peter. He’s quite certain Peter enjoys looking down on others, the comfortable distance.
“Are you going to play that I didn’t do you a favor?” All Peter needs to do is take his hand, and when he does they’re in proper form. Years of strict Lukas tutoring included ballroom dancing, Elias finds, and a great many of Jonah’s lives involved it to. It’s as easy as heartbreak to fall into step, a damp curl of fog making the rest of the room wavering shadows.
“You entertained yourself,” Elias tells him as they twirl. “Unreasonable jealousy is the bread and butter of the One Alone, is it not? And you did just steal two donors to the mist. I’d say you owe me.”
“Incredible,” laughs Peter. “You could make a man apologize for being born with that mouth. I should have left you to their tender mercies.”
“Let one escape long enough to come to us and I’ll consider us even.”
It’s irritating how Peter can still steal his breath with a dip, effortlessly bending Elias’ back. It’s more irritating still that he can still surprise Elias when he vanishes completely just before their lips meet, sending Elias falling in an undignified heap on the floor with Peter’s support gone.
He brushes off concern and stands, smiles and offers youthful nerves that win him sympathetic points. At the very least Peter does send the wife to him with a truly dreadful story before she too vanishes. Elias doesn’t consider them even for Peter’s slight but it does soothe the jagged edges of his god’s dreadful, gaping hunger for a few blissful moments.
-
It’s rare Peter allows him to see through the fog. The Lonely is not a place Elias can ever truly pierce, no matter how he tries, but the outer layers are sometimes thin enough he can slip his gaze into the mist. Like all Lukases Peter refuses him concrete answers on the nature of their isolated world but Elias has seen enough to have his own impressions.
Once upon a time Mordechai threw him into his own little hell after all, an empty forest of blackened wood, chased by his thoughts. Peter’s is never wooded, always carries the distant sounds of the shore. Personalized, Elias imagines, and wouldn’t it be so like the self important, stubborn Lukas lot to bend a place of power to their will?
Or perhaps Mordechai and Peter are special, as Elias always suspected. One day Jon will pierce the veil and return all the answers Elias seeks, maybe not right then but soon, soon.
Today Peter’s generous and takes him to the same ballroom they met in, this time with fog and far off waves beyond the windows. “Look,” Peter says in his ear and Elias does, gaze drawn to the man swaying in the center of the room.
It takes Elias a moment to recognize the man is dancing with himself, twisting and twirling, tears running down his face as he jerks through the motions. Elias’ first thought is the Stranger, puppets on strings, and then the Spiral, madness in motion. But no, this man weeps for a partner he does not have, alone in his personal hell. A brief brush through his mind and Elias shivers with how decadent his fear is, longing to be touched, aching to be proven human again by just a hand on him.
“Not the typical reaction,” Peter murmurs, drunk off the heady terror the man emits. “Usually they go through the grief stages, all very by the book if not a little boring. He was quiet until he wasn’t, and then this. Only been here a couple of weeks.”
“As though time feels the same in Isolation,” Elias points out and Peter chuckles.
“Watch him.” And Elias knows Peter means more than the shallow gaze he sets upon the man now. Isolation has always worked well for the Eye, a glass prison to watch squirming subjects, watchers so steeped in passive regard they let every connection melt away.
Elias slips into the shallow waters of the Lonely, lets his eyes plant unpleasant ideas into the man’s meat. Their show drops the act and turns, and turns, looking for eyes watching him, afraid to be found even after so long wishing for anyone, anything, anything at all.
Peter’s breath is warm against Elias’ neck as he steps up behind him, teeth to Elias’ pulse as the man screams and screams. Elias ignores Peter entirely to watch and Peter shivers with the disregard, hands and teeth all the more heated for it.
-
Jon is an absolute mess, he sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the attendees. He only just met that irritating pest Michael, had his hand sliced open for his troubles and- the true baffling delight of the matter- is mourning the woman lost to the halls. Helen, Elias supplies effortlessly, and really, what a waste of Jon’s dwindling, paranoid energy to dwell on a person he didn’t know. At first Elias feared Jon’s unrelenting humanity would be a hindrance but he must admit it’s done wonders, kept his fear fresh and living, feeds their god in ways that feed back into Jon and make him slowly, every so slowly stronger.
The fundraiser isn’t even one of the Institute’s grander affairs but Elias forced Jon’s hand purely to keep feeding his paranoia, gifting him with the heightened dread of so many eyes on him. From here Elias can practically taste the sickly sweet fear Jon wallows in, the darting thoughts of why he’s being watched, what people are thinking, who might hurt him.
He’s so wrapped up in Jon’s delicious terror he almost doesn’t make note of Peter’s heavy gaze, the cold hand on his back. “That’s really him?”
“That’s really him,” Elias answers pleasantly.
Even Elias can feel the weight of Peter’s eyes on Jon and watches in muted delight as Jon shivers as though catching a sudden chill. Peter cloaks them but Jon still almost glances their way, almost, wild eyed and so promising Elias lets out a soft sigh.
“Kind of scrawny,” Peter drawls.
“No need to be jealous,” Elias answers with a thin, satisfied smile, always amused to watch Peter’s religious fervor war with his more human wants. His next words are careless even as he constructs them carefully, ever curious to see if they’ll hit Peter cruelly or sweetly. “After all, you’re a hollow man. You never stood a chance against anything interesting and alive in a way you’ll never be.”
Peter laughs against his throat, lovely and warm and unseen. Elias feels the stomach drop of his disappearance, categorizes the moment as an interesting one, an expected result, Peter fleeing as he always did. In that way he’s nothing like Mordechai, Elias muses. Mordechai was never as interesting as Peter in all Peter’s flickering humanity.
His eyes go back to Jon, watching the circular scars peeking up over his starched collar. A sign of impending divinity, and one that almost distracts him when Peter doesn’t come back.
-
In the world built anew Jonah can tear through the fog of the Lonely, deep into the quiet shore and the body pale in the sand.
He walks to it, each step terror and fever and escalation, an endless cacophony of knowing and known. Jonah regrets and savours it in equal measure, this horrible reality of his own making, this fascinating hell. Pieces of the Stranger dig into his old fear and raise Peter’s corpse to its feet, makes his cold lips smile in a mockery of what grief Jonah affords Peter’s death.
There may be a way to drag Peter back, shove him back in his broken body and enjoy the fruits of his labor. If they were a love story perhaps Jonah would, a pygmalion effort to retain a lost spark.
But they’ve never been a love story, merely a string of stories like love in a greater horror tale. The best Jonah can do for Peter and their tale is to let Peter’s absence be an ache, let him escape and end as a prayer to his absent god.
Jonah doesn’t have the same stipulations about Mordechai though, who will fit quite well in Peter’s body if he can fish him out of the End. He does owe his old friend anguish and a chat while Jonah waits for Jon to find him again and for that greater story to finally come to a satisfying conclusion.