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When Elias Bouchard wakes up in the morning, the first thing he always does is See. His eyes are never shut for longer than necessary, and that rang true this morning: he sat up immediately as though waking from a nightmare (he wasn’t) and looked around his room. The sun was peeking through his gray curtains, flowing gently in the wind: he liked to leave the window open, especially during the springtime.
And this springtime was especially temperate—a breeze blew like a gentle smooch into the room, painted eggshell with monochrome furniture, neatly organized in every corner. It’s how he liked to decorate—he liked design in general. His bookshelves stood tall like a tower, black, books alphabetical, and next to them was a round table laden with candles, a cloth, and a few statuettes.
Along with a crown.
He took a deep breath and stretched his back, arching like a cat might. Standing, he padded to the bathroom.
By this time of the morning, he was usually checking on Jon and watching him sleep, his little baby experiment, while he quickly showered and got ready for work. Except, things had been different lately.
Quarantine.
So, things had to be slower. That was fine. Elias could do slow—he could do patience. He was the very image of it.
Ah. Aha.
A thought popped into his head like a spring suddenly launching and he recoiled at it like it were visceral—real.
Today, I’m… not going to peek at anyone. I’m not going to intrude. I’m not going to bother. Nothing has changed.
But—he reasons with himself—what if it has?
It hasn’t.
But I won’t know unless I see.
You can see tomorrow.
… He puffs his cheeks and nods once, looking in the mirror. He stares at his emerald eyes, the light freckles that dance over the bridge of his nose: he’s painfully white, and his hair is going gray in places, corrupting the otherwise dusky, soft brown. Blink. Blink. At least he has nice eyelashes.
Yeah, okay.
Elias wanders back into his room for his phone and speaker, turning the speaker on with an idle thumb while scrolling through his music on Spotify. Miracle Musical. He’s just glad no one other than Jon really knows his music taste. Or—Jon could know.
There’s far too much Carly Rae Jepson to ever live it down.
It’s just—sometimes you needed something for when you’re driving 80 on 60 and the windows are down, and everything feels like it’s floating: Elias is human after all.
Vaguely. Unimportant.
Introduction to the Snow begins and Elias is stripping, grabbing a towel, and slipping into the shower. He decides to sit. He doesn’t need to justify himself, but if he did need to, he’d say his old man bones are in so much pain that he can’t bear to stand.
And he needs to shave really badly.
So, he does, humming along softly. Elias is trying not to get his hair wet because he washed it yesterday and usually it’s easy to style when he’s going someplace, because he just runs a comb and some gel through it to keep it neat and tidy, but when he’s not going anywhere, he has absolutely zero reason to actually do his hair, and so he needs it to dry in a specific way so it doesn’t get in his face and irritate the shit out of him, and it’s obnoxious, so he’d rather not deal with the hassle today on his day off.
Well, his day off while being off work. Kind of.
Today is about me. Every day is about me when I’m me, of course—and Jon and the Archives—but today is just about me.
Oh, that feels very strange.
Because when you’re the avatar of something higher, something so grandiose and beautiful, you shine, but you shrink. It was hard to make tangible.
He stares at his feet. Feet are weird. He thanks the Eye every fucking day that no one he’s ever dated has a foot thing.
Though, he does need to paint his toenails.
Mundane.
Elias finishes shaving, clucking his tongue softly when he looks at his right knee and realizes he’s nicked himself. What a cruel world, he decides, with a gentle smile. He slides his legs back under the burning hot water and a svelte hand traces up to his neck to rub upwards onto his chin, moving it from there to his forehead to pull his scalp and smooth back his hair. First his legs give out, tenseness dropping like a bag of bricks. Then, his stomach relaxes, and his shoulders, and eventually, he trusts himself enough to close his eyes.
Into that blackness he goes for something he hasn’t experienced for a moment.
Meditation.
He used to do it more regularly when he wasn’t considered an avatar—it was a meaningful way to connect with the Beholding. He would close his eyes and simply let himself go—Elias was the type who was practiced to the point where he could shut off his thoughts if he wanted to: it was just… he regularly did not want to do that! At all! There was always so much to look at—it would be a waste of sweet and precious time to do anything but watch. Occasionally, things called for a pause: like today. There were other aspects involved—offerings involving strawberry scented incense and jars of sweet cinnamon whiskey, journal pages stolen from classmates and lost earring backs, hair torn out from stress, trapped in a little glass jar, rattlesnake bones, Timothy Stoker’s baby teeth, specifically his upper right canine and lower left farthest back molar, pens and pencils that had been chewed to bits, black coffee thrown in the garbage can that yes, he did root through, white prayer candles from the dollar store, cleansed crystals he had done with water from the moon’s own generosity: that one white eye that peered over all as they slept—how badly he wished to be her.
A little thievery never hurt anyone.
And honestly, he really missed that part of his life. After his transition into Elias, he needed to reform his connection with the Eye, but now it’s so close to him that it’s essentially attached to him by umbilical cord.
He missed the late nights at the local park, dropping his crystals and pendulum in the water of the pathetic creek, focusing his intention, and Seeing so brightly and clearly. Swinging his opal pendulum over his velvet mat, watching it go wild with yes, yes, yes, I am here, and I am always here. He missed fumbling with his tarot decks, chilly in the winter, watching each card come up: The Moon and King of Wands loved to haunt him, their bent edges equal parts careworn and despised. He sometimes missed the lack of traction he got—the fight, the burn, the sweat.
London was good for many things, but it was not good for gardens—which is the only thing he was really lacking right now.
His ritual is interrupted with the creaking of the bathroom door—whoever could it be? He peeks and sees a small black and white kitty padding up to the edge of the tub.
“Hi, Iris…” He greets, smiling as she sniffs at an outstretched hand. “You really don’t want me to pet you.” She rubs against him anyway. “I told you.” He chides as she purrs. The water doesn’t seem to affect her, so he smooths his palm over her flat little head. Now, that, she did not like, and so she scurries out of the steamy bathroom. Elias shakes his head and laughs softly.
Eventually, he decides to get out, after washing his face and body. He wraps himself in a fluffy white towel and heads into his room to get dressed: today he decides on a black pair of biker shorts, and… well.
The mortal dilemma of picking what shirt to wear.
All his clothes are business clothes. He has a singular System of a Down tee that he may or may not have gotten from Hot Topic, but that fits too well: he needs something baggy. So, he decides to look through his closet for one of Peter’s shirts.
And then he’s thinking about Peter, and how weird he is. Elias knew everything about him: his family, his money, his… body. But there was always going to be something foreign about Peter—something he could never touch. It drove him wild in the best way possible—he wanted to reach into Peter’s chest and pull out bits of him he hid so far in the shadows that no one could possibly see: he wanted to dissect him, and hold him—he wanted to drive down the freeway with him, grinning as he takes his hands off the wheel and looks over at Peter, knuckles white as he holds onto whatever is stable—and Elias would laugh and turn his music up louder, so loud it would make Peter groan and flinch—and he would go faster. The windows would be down, and Elias’s hair would be blowing all over the place, caution would be to the wind, and Peter might slowly tug his salt and pepper hair from its bun, and Elias would take such a deep breath he would think his lungs would implode. Elias is screaming big boy man he’s a big boy man and Peter is yelling and turning into static from Everything, and only then does Elias turn down the music and… whisper… big boy man he’s a big boy man. They would get to the coast, waves crashing against the rocks: it would be part of the soundtrack now, and Elias would tear him up and cannibalize him in front of a tangerine sunset. Blood would be all over his face and hands—he’d hold Peter’s still beating heart in front of his face, and watch his crystal eyes widen, pupils darting nervously from side to side as if he had a chance or choice or anything left: because Elias wants to take it all in a fit of manic rage.
Elias would love that. Elias could love
mm.
Oh yeah, he forgot to take his medicine, silly him. That’s okay.
He eventually tugs out a large gray shirt—it’s big on Peter, and Peter big, so it absolutely swallows Elias like an anaconda. Perfect. He tones his arms, legs, and face with witch hazel, and then heads to his kitchen to make himself some… oatmeal. Is that really all he has? Oatmeal? Oatmeal??? Is he ok? Oatmeal is good—that’s not the issue—it’s that that’s literally all he has. Oh—yeah. And one brown fucking banana. Great.
Tomorrow, he says to himself, tomorrow I will go grocery shopping and it will feel so good. But today, he says to himself, today I will eat my sad oatmeal.
He eats his sad oatmeal.
Elias wanders back to his room and considers reading a book. He is bored now. Usually he would spy on one of the archival assistants at this point. Let’s see… Martin is either baking or crying, sometimes both, Tim is doing something stupid that he shouldn’t be doing or sleeping until 3 PM, Melanie is plotting murder and… maybe sometimes knitting. Ragefully. Power to her, truly.
But we’re not doing that today, Elias. He huffs a sigh, musters some self-control (sometimes it’s very difficult, but he usually wins), and heads to the closet to dig out something he hasn’t touched in a while.
A Stratocaster—grey—and an amp.
He sits on the edge of his ottoman after plugging it in and takes a deep breath, plugging the amp into the guitar and turning it on. He strums a warning pitch to check the volume, adjusts it accordingly, and plays some chords. C, Am, F, A, Em, E… B7. The instrument purrs, and he smiles—he’s still got it, but his fingers certainly don’t, because he can tell they’ve gone soft and it’ll sting when the calluses reform.
Elias isn’t even sure what he wants to play. He just sort of… goes for a moment. He’s wearing a bracelet Peter got for him (well, technically, Elias bought it with Peter’s credit card and without his knowledge, so it’s a gift from Elias and Peter! In fact, he can remember where the very card is, because he still has it!) and sometimes it hits the strings and makes an interesting sound—he decides he kind of likes it, and so he keeps it on that wrist. His hands drift to a familiar song to him.
“She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak,”
Ah. He’s singing without realizing it.
“I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks,”
Why, he asks himself? There is very little reason to sing. There is very little reason for him to play.
“I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap,”
Other than for… fun, he supposes.
“I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black.”
… huh. Fun.
He plays the rest of the song—not too loud, but not too softly, either. It’s like wading into a pool—he starts shallow and small, unused to using his voice that way, and then it slowly builds, until he’s singing. Elias Bouchard used to be in choir.
His voice is lower than it used to be—he’s happy with it now, but he used to be very opposed to it when he first settled in Elias. He had only been on testosterone for a few months at that point and was just getting to the awkward portions of ‘repubertizing’. Even now, Elias finds himself using plenty of deodorant and groaning at the occasional back pimple.
Sometimes he looks down at his chest when he’s topless and just cups them, blinking as he thinks about how he’s scheduled to get them lopped off soon. He wonders if they’ll let him keep them.
When he’s done playing, he sets the guitar off to the side. One song for now will do, he supposes, and stands.
Iris steps into the room anxiously, looking around for the spooky sound. Elias giggles and approaches her.
“Hi pretty girl. Did I scare you? I know I did. You hungry? You want a soup?”
She gets visibly excited.
Elias pads into the kitchen and opens Iris’s food cabinet, firstly dumping some dry food into her bowl before taking a Friskies Natural Grain Free Wet Cat Food Compliment Lil Soups™ in the tuna flavor (blue!) and opening it. Iris jumps on the counter, and he holds a finger out.
“No dirty kitty paws on my marble countertops.” Pause. “… but you have the cleanest kitty paws in all the land. Don’t you?” He gives her the soup, and she indulges heavily.
He enjoys her little slurping noises. His nose crinkles.
“I would kill for you.” He whispers. Alas, she cannot respond—she’s eating soup! Also, she’s a cat.
Elias moves on with his day.
He reads, he does crosswords, he watches a little bit of The Real Housewives of Orange County—he just… sort of exists for a day in a way he doesn’t normally do, and he finds he enjoys it. And at some point, he gets tired, and decides to curl up on the couch with a blanket. There’s the sound of a windchime somewhere—he smiles and closes his eyes. Iris is purring somewhere, Peter is gone, and there’s just the white noise of the world around him. No seeing.
No seeing.
No…
His eyes shoot open. No seeing.
A strangled look curls on his face. He feels his heart race—his breathing quickens.
What. Am I. What is.
No seeing.
There’s confusion in his head. Can he really not handle one day?
No seeing.
He doesn’t want to. He needs to. He wants to. He wants to laugh at Jon.
No seeing.
It’s anxiety.
Oh, it’s anxiety. Okay. I can deal with anxiety.
He stands and moves to his bedroom, feeling his hands twitch. Needing. Wanting. Desperate. Seeing. None of it. Elias searches around for a bit before he finds it.
His… well. His bong.
He manages a shaky laugh as he packs it and lights it on his balcony, feeling like the world is crumbling around him. Maybe he didn’t drink enough water or didn’t eat enough—but there’s something else there that needs fixing too, and he doesn’t know how, so he’ll just plug the leak.
He doesn’t. Know how.
He doesn’t.
He.
He almost drops his bong when he realizes that he doesn’t know himself entirely, that there’s something wrong with him that can’t be “fixed”, that his Beholding doesn’t make him whole and so he sits down on the ground, staring at the street below, eyes fringing with something strange. Why is he so panicked? Why is he so tired? Why is he fighting so hard? Things would go away if he—if he lost.
Swallow. His head is starting to spin, everything is becoming muffled. Everything is laying down. Everything is down—goose down, getting in his nose, his lungs: soon all he’ll cough up are feathers.
He coughs. His shoulders slump.
And for once, Elias decides that he doesn’t know what will happen. He’ll See tomorrow, but… he doesn’t know. This feeds his God—this is okay—this is…
Swallow.
He doesn’t know.
Swallow, a third.
There's something so lonely about it. What he's doing right now. He's sure if Peter could see him he'd be eating him up-- part of him wishes he was there so he could bite him or tear apart his shirt or hiss at him or some other show of frill, but that just makes him feel lonelier. And he feels watched, which is equal parts comforting and terrifying, and he's watching, even though he said he wouldn't: he watches the old woman on the sidewalk cross the street so slowly, and he feels the impatience of the young woman behind the wheel, knowing she could probably run the light and over the old woman and get away with it. But he would know. He would see.
So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and hunches over. Head hanging.
It hurts, and he admits it, and he realizes that he's very, very tired. His mouth is in a line. He doesn't know what to do: he thinks he's forgotten how to stand, that someone came and replaced all his bone marrow with gelatin.
Hot, burning, steaming in his body. Cooking and cracking the outer shell of bone.
Swallow.
He tucks some hair behind his ear and forces himself to get up and turn back inside-- to curl up on his couch, hug a throw pillow, and stare at the gray fabric until he sees things that aren't there, and never will be.
Seeing.
Swallow.
Sometimes he wishes he were sorry-- sometimes he is sorry, sometimes a part of him burns so white hot that it shreds everything around it: desolation in his chest-- and then it's back to being ignored. He nibbles at his bottom lip until it bleeds, peeling.
It's not like he can just stop. It doesn't feel good to stop. It's exhausting. He's exhausted.
So he goes to sleep.
Maybe you'll exit tomorrow
The sorrow sweeping you off as your island replies
Sudden invincible flowing
A river clearer than all thou might view with thine eyes