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Elias closes his eyes, for all the good that does. The fragile skin of his eyelids is a barrier all too easily penetrated, inconsequential under the torrent of sight and sound and sensation that courses ceaselessly through his mind, fed by innumerable stolen eyes. Or perhaps now he should consider them gifted eyes, though as with all gifts, they come with a heavy cost.
Still, he does take solace in lying on the ciselé velvet sofa, running his fingers over the edges of the swirling patterns as he shuts off the one stream he does fully control. In this speck of darkness, he has space to listen to the ticking of the clock, to strain mortal ears and catch the creak of footsteps on the warped wooden floorboards.
A door opens, and the footsteps grow louder. Elias does not stir, nor does he look. No one could take him unawares now, especially not the man whose weight bows the cushion next to his head. Fingers brush along his forehead, flicking hair away from his closed eyes. Another shift, and his head is lifted, placed onto the lap that has taken up its former position.
“Jon,” he murmurs, and smiles as fingers brush his jawline in acknowledgment.
Elias turns his head, burying his face in the rough wool of the cable knit jumper that covers Jon’s stomach, inhaling cigarettes and sweat and old paper. He nuzzles at the barrier, and Jon tenses. Uncertain even now, not yet used to the majesty he can no longer deny. It only makes Elias push closer, long for him more, to drink in those fragile remnants of naiveté. Soon, they’ll be lost, another memory consumed once, and stale ever after. But for now, Jon hesitates when Elias raises a hand to tug on the edge of his jumper. Sighs, fond and exasperated, before pulling it off and tossing it aside.
Given access to bare skin, Elias finds himself eager, despite the throbbing in his head. He nips at Jon, laughs softly when he yelps, then groans when Jon’s fingers dig into his scalp. A warning, but not discouragement. When Elias wraps his lips around a puckered nodule, he’s rewarded with a gasp. And then punished again when Jon jumps, jostling his tender head.
“It’s causing you problems again, isn’t it?” Jon asks out of habit; he knows before the thought is fully formed.
“It will pass. It did before.” Habit is hard to break, and Elias has always found a certain comfort in routine.
“Maybe…” Jon sighs, clever fingers massaging Elias’s scalp, summoning shivers and prickling insight Elias cannot help but welcome. “Maybe I can help.”
Elias shivers again, half-anticipation and half-fear, a heady cocktail he is quickly growing accustomed to. Underneath the kind offer is the same hungry curiosity that brought Jon here, that will continue to bring him here, where he can find the brightest outlet for it. It terrifies Elias, though each day he finds his own will erodes under its onslaught. That each time it is easier to simply do as Jon says, to let his sweet words guide Elias along paths he thinks he might once have abhorred.
But he can only be as he is, and that is a man who is no longer a man, who wants what Jon wants, and will give anything to him. Who will take anything from him, however terrible, knowing that Jon knows what he needs. So he presses closer still, tasting in Jon’s skin salt and the screams buried beneath. It hurts, but in a way unlike the pain that had built behind his eyes, a difference that only increases as Jon’s fingers tighten.
The clock ticks, each click of the mechanism growing louder, a beat for his heart to follow as the roar begins to fade around him. Not silent, but muted, as Jon takes sight from him, the images blurring and darkening, the nerve endings cauterized to leave him blissfully numb. Lost in a true darkness for the first time in so long, he can no longer remember if there was a time before this. Before the Eye Opened, he doesn’t think the strain had been so significant. He remembers that sometimes, he could rest. But even then, the foreign presence would remain.
Now there is only Jon.
“You are truly a marvel,” Elias says, a prayer given to skin that ripples and breaks under his lips. His tongue darts out, marking flesh with his blessing, small as it might be.
The loss of his sight lets his mind wander, allowing him not to see but to imagine how Jon might look right now. The flush of his cheeks, spreading down his neck to grace the sweeping arcs of his collarbones. Despite his power, Elias’s Archivist is still so easily flustered. Jon’s fingers tremble as they comb through his hair; a sign Elias is not the only one beguiled by what builds between them.
For a time, he drifts on the edges of terror, rocked by the rise and fall of Jon’s chest. A sweeter, softer terror than the one he has grown accustomed to; a safe harbor in the storm swept world he has brought about. Jon stands as a bulwark against it, but even he cannot stand forever. The tick, tick, tick begins to fade, and Jon’s muscles tremble with the strain. But he holds it a moment longer, and again Elias wonders at the power he has brought into being in this frail human body. One greater than Elias has ever had chance to hold, greater than he will ever hold. He cannot be king of this new world. But he is still its kingmaker, and there is a power in that. A power that now holds him in loving hands.
“I can’t keep it up much longer,” Jon says, rubbing apologetically at Elias’s temples.
“You’ve done wonderfully,” Elias says, finally turning so the back of his head rests on Jon’s lap. He reaches up, and Jon bends for him, letting Elias grasp the back of his neck, pulling them together until he can feel Jon’s breath on his lips. Lips he captures, drinking in the small noises Jon makes, the desperate moan vibrating across his tongue as Jon lets go, and it all comes rushing back. The stench of blood and meat and rot. The sound of clawing, crying, and a calliope. The pull of unseen strings on limbs and the numbness brought by a cold and empty wind. The stomach turning fall and the crushing weight. The flames burning it all away. The darkness that conceals from all, but not him, not them. None of it hidden, none of it owned, none of it possessed except by the Eye, which sees and sees and will never blink again.
Elias opens his eyes.
To gaze upon himself from a dozen angles, distorted and fractured and strange and small and beautiful as Jon leans over him and looks at him as he looks back, a kaleidoscopic view drawn from a thin man who trembles when Elias touches him again. Pressing his lips to one of the many beautiful lenses, nipping and tugging at the fragile lid, drinking in the sight of himself before moving to another. This one circled with his tongue, another caressed with his breath. His fingers massage a forth as he draws Jon into his arms, his body against Elias’s, close enough that through his thin shirt, Elias can feel him blink. Jon tucks his head into the crook of Elias’s neck, and as one set of eyes fall shut, a dozen more open along his arms. To look to Elias, and then to look above.
Elias runs his fingers over the eyes one last time. The strain is always easier, always sweeter, when Jon is with him. A pain he almost welcomes, holding Jon steady as he leans for the mechanism next to the sofa. Fingers resting in the indention, as he presses a kiss to Jon’s temple.
“We can both watch now,” Elias says.
Together. Jon knows, Elias sees.
He pushes, and leans back, as the grating of metal on stone echoes throughout the room, gears turning and catching and drawing back the lids. He shifts until Jon’s back rests on his chest, his cheek pressed to Elias’s, so Elias can feel his smile. The seal cracks, and the sky that is always parted is revealed. White and veined and darting from side to side, and never moving at all, for it has no need. It is everywhere and everything and they are but a fraction of its majesty, renewed only to look upon it once more. Still, they are also what they were. Frail bodies of human flesh, warm and wanting. Jon captures his lips again, and Elias lets his eyes fall shut. He has no need to watch.
Not when he can never look away.