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He can’t sleep.
There’s something at the edge of his consciousness that he can’t quite place. Then again, maybe that’s common these days. After his mother, after starting at the Institute… sleep is hard-won and short-lived. That doesn’t even account the headaches, but for now, they are blissfully absent. His mind should be silent. It isn’t.
He doesn’t know why, but he knows it isn’t good. Gut instinct has gotten him this far and his gut is rioting, nausea curling into the pit of his stomach while he sweats and squirms in bed. He wonders if it’s supernatural, and he knows that it is.
Gerard gives up on sleep.
The room is bathed in darkness, the kind product of a shitty flat tucked away into the furthest corners of your run-down suburb. He hits the switch and blinks against the flash and flicker of the lights; it chases away the last hopes at sleep, and wiggles behind his eyes and settles there, ready to pinch his brows and furrow the lines in his forehead if it builds to the usual, nagging pain. He ignores it, ties his hair back, and hooks his ankle around the chair at the desk to sit down and rifle through his things.
He decides on sketching. He does that a lot. He roughs out the archives by memory, just like the covers of Leitner’s books he’s burned and another sketch of Gertrude’s deep scowl as she pores over cases. He outlines his own bedroom, and the shadows along the walls, and the eyes he’s painted there. And when he imagines Michael, sat there at the end of his bed, he draws him in as well, and he takes too much time detailing the curve of his face and the curl in his hair. The pen moves without thought, mindless and easy. He has Michael memorized. He has for some time.
The sensation at the nape of his neck doesn’t go away, but all told, Gerard doesn’t much mind missing out on the sleep tonight.
Gertrude returns from the Arctic, and something is very wrong. He feels it in the same way he’d felt that night, a few days prior. Churning in his stomach, aching in his head. No one else seems to feel it. But he does. He does.
Gertrude greets him like usual, tells him of the Ritual and its failure. He doesn’t ask after Michael– never does– but she tells him, anyway: that she’d given him a few days off after their return, etcetera, so on and so forth.
The feeling swells into a headache, a migraine starting to pound beneath his skull. Something metallic coats his tongue and he frowns, a twitch of the lips, and Gertrude’s gaze hardens. She sends him on his way, latest follow-ups in hand, and Gerry can’t quite place it, but the eyes on the back of his head seem to follow him closer than ever before.
He isn’t being watched; he’s being analyzed.
He isn’t entirely sure why.
He doesn’t call Michael– not until the third day.
They aren’t the phone call type. Well, he isn’t. Michael would be, he thinks and has thought, with his quiet, gentle compassion. The days he had spent passing the halls, finding Michael absorbed in a conversation with a co-worker that lasted well past Gerry going to and from the library two or three times. And all the times Michael had stayed late, tucked up in Gertrude’s office, lounging in one of her chairs and nattering on about the day’s research. Gerry wouldn’t liken him to an extrovert– Michael was too quiet and calm and shy for that– but infinitely more engaged than he could ever be.
If Gerard was the dark, Michael was light. Fitting down to their hair color, he’d always thought with sarcasm.
Gerry was good for texting, if the need for communication came up. But even then it wasn’t his bag, and through it all, they’d text or call only if necessary. They co-existed in the quiet. Fingers in hair and mouths against skin, tangled in the moments before dawn or dusk between their shifts.
So he doesn’t call, not until three days go by without a response to the text(s). He gets a beep, too loud in the silence of the night, and a message that the number is no longer in service.
Gertrude doesn’t answer her phone, either, and Gerard goes storming the Institute in the middle of the night.
She’s there, of course; Gerry isn’t sure she leaves anymore. The Archivist’s work was never done. He shoves into her office and demands what she’s done. He demands to know what she’s done with Michael.
Gertrude looks back at him, over the glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose, finger still held aloft over the recorder. For a moment, he’s stupid enough to hope. That it’s a coincidence, that Michael is sick, that something normal is wrong. But then Gertrude parts her lips to speak, and says, unwavering, “who?”
But this wasn’t The Stranger.
Gertrude remembers, and so does he.
It surprises him how quickly he comes to grip with the fact that Michael isn’t coming back. He doesn’t know what that says about him, or them, or any of it. But he knows.
He works in the daytime, same as always. He isn’t precisely sure what else he’s supposed to do, so he keeps doing what he knows. He also knows it doesn’t bode well for him, for his future, here, at the Institute, with the Archivist. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.
He does a different kind of work at night. Sure, he searches for answers, but he’s been here long enough to know the consequences of the things that they chase, and if Gertrude had sacrificed her assistant, it hadn’t been without cause, and it wouldn’t be without consequence. He’s learned the consequence of hoping.
He does a lot of art, in the weeks following. For the first time, it’s all Michael, as Gerard finds himself struggling to remember things he knows that he’d known. Lost details aren’t supernatural. They’re just the product of a mind forgetting over time. He doesn’t want to lose those last pieces of Michael, even the ones he barely remembers even now, the ones that fit together oddly in his memories, like puzzle pieces that don’t quite slot together right.
He starts to forget the curve of a face and the curl of blonde hair, and the touch of a gentle hand against his.
For all of the bullshit he’s had to put up with, Gerard didn’t expect his night to end with vampires. Or something like the bloodsuckers from old statements, whatever they are. He doesn’t care, and he doesn’t want to get close enough to find out. He throws open the first door he finds that’s unlocked– home, business, cultist hideout, he doesn’t give a shit right now. It’s bright yellow, garishly so, and he slams it behind him to the sound of a thud on the other side. The thing doesn’t follow him. He lets out a breath, and takes stock of where he is.
It’s an old building, abandoned. But that’s okay, that’s fine. What’s wrong isn’t the old, damp, dirty rot of the building crumbling from the inside out. What’s wrong is the doorways, lines and lines of them. He’s left that thing on the street, and wandered into The Spiral’s realm.
He doesn’t put away the blade held backhand, but wraps his fingers around it more securely, and starts tentatively through the hall. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he doesn’t think he wants to leave… just yet.
“What do you want with me.”
No response. No surprise. He’s never been a fan of The Twisting Deceit, not that he’s particularly a fan of any of the Entities these days. Not even the eyes inked across his knuckles, scratched out from every book he owns.
“Why am I here?”
“You looked like you could use a door.”
The voice is wrong, and loud, and encompassing; it startles Gerard to even get an answer at all, nevermind one that echoes and wobbles through the air. The headache starts before he can blink, but he thinks it’s the least of his problems.
“Fuck off.”
“That’s not very nice.”
He braces himself as the movement starts around him. The darkness seems to swirl, and twist, and Gerard’s caught up until he’s nauseated from it. He closes his eyes and takes a step back, catching the handle of another door. He wrenches it open and steps through, and comes face to face with the thing from outdoors. He shouts and jerks back; the door slams shut on its own volition, and now he feels the looming threat of something else at his back, over his head. He doesn’t know what it is, but it– apparently– seems to be saving his life today.
“Fuck.”
“Are you sure you didn’t need a door?”
“Much obliged,” he spits, and makes himself turn to face the slightly less dangerous thing behind it.
It’s tall, taller than him by a head or two. It isn’t solid, no. It’s shifting, gyrating, formless within the form it's contained in. And even then it’s spilling over, limbs and teeth and hair. Its arms are too long, the fingers too sharp. Gerard sees a hand, and a stomach, a foot and an ear, melting into one and he feels like he’s drowning. He can’t think, function, and this thing spins him further and further away from himself even as he stands, dagger bared, motionless.
But he knows it’s The Spiral. The knowledge alone stops him from descending into the madness.
“What do you want?” he hisses, and the thing almost reaches a humanesque form when it starts to laugh. The pain explodes in Gerard’s head, once, twice, on and on, like a cat caught in a paper bag, and he drops his knife, and drops to his knees, and braces his palms on the ground to stop himself from collapsing outright.
“You are… familiar.”
Familiar how? he wants to say. He doesn’t, because he looks up and glares through watering eyes and The Distortion is less, well, distorted. The body is a body, the face is a face. Blonde hair falls in twisted ringlets– long, too long, but– and bright blue eyes– off-focus, shifting, spirals, but– the curve of a face and the curl of blonde hair.
“Michael?” he blurts instead, and the thing– Michael, their Michael, his Michael– tilts its head as though seriously considering.
“Once.”
Once. “What did you do to him.”
“I did nothing… I don’t think,” it adds.
“You don’t think?”
“It was unknown.”
“What?”
“I. Before Michael. He was known. And here we are.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” The Distortion laughs, and Gerard grits his teeth against the pain. His head feels like it’s going to burst. He pushes himself to his knees, and The Distortion? Michael? continues. “Ask your Archivist.”
“Gertrude did this.” It isn’t a question. He knows the answer. He has. Not the extent, but he’d had his suspicions. His theories. “What are you,” he demands. “Are you Michael?”
“You could… call me that.”
“But are you.”
Another tip of the head. Colors that burst and the headache that throbs. “Does it matter?” The Distortion asks.
… it had called him familiar. And Gerard can see Michael in the thing, the curves and angles and gentleness that isn’t an immediate death even though it is a manifestation of an Entity. It has his eyes. And its hair is too long now and its hands are too big, and the thing seems to fold in on itself even as Gerard continues to watch again. But there’s reminders. Other things he can’t place. It feels like madness because it is, but he can feel safety of Michael in there, too.
And, well, the two of them had always been a little crazy to begin with.
The Distortion’s still waiting on an answer.
He can’t unsee it. Gerard shakes his head, because he knows that it doesn’t, now. He might be damned for it, but it’s a piece of Michael, no matter how small.
The Distortion smiles in a way that should terrify him. It doesn’t. There is recognition in the baring of teeth, and his head hurts, his chest hurts.
Gerard smiles back, a true smirk of appreciation.
“Your Archivist wouldn't be amused by your being here.”
“Yeah, well.” Maybe she wouldn't, but Gertrude had been the one to sacrifice Michael Shelley, and, Gerard is sure she will make that same sacrifice for him some day, too. Death isn't far off. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows. “Tough shit.”
“Why do you keep seeking out my door?”
He shrugs, and takes another draw from the cigarette. The room is smoke and swirls, a kaleidoscope of colors. It reminds him of being younger, in the nineties, when everything was color and light and twisting, turning patterns on every surface and layer around him. He doesn't remember his younger years fondly. He thinks Michael’s realm has already surpassed those days.
Honestly, it does remind him of The Stranger, in a way. Something he knows but doesn't quite. There's fractals there; he can pick them out, morphing and merging. But there's no fear. There's just… familiarity. In a way.
“Don't have anything better to do, I guess.”
He doesn't look away when Michael looks at him. The sheer force of his gaze isn't lost on him, no, but he's been here enough times that it has… somewhat lessened the affect. And if it had wanted to kill him, it would have a long time ago.
“You're different than he remembers.”
“You're different than I remember,” he gripes, and Michael grins. It's very wrong, but very much Michael’s smile.
“I am!”
“Don't sound so happy.”
“Oh, but would you be? If we weren't here?”
He glares, and flicks the cigarette butt at him.
“Exactly, Gerry!”
Michael laughs, and the laugh is known, and loud, and aching. But the headaches don’t bother him, and something else echoes in his head, anyway.
Gerry, Gerry.
He ought to get back to work before Gertrude knows he's gone.
He stays a while longer.
It’s not Michael. Gerry knows. But then it says shit like we’re one and the same and the he is we bullshit, and… he recognizes more and more of him every day. He thinks he does. Maybe he’s lying to himself. Maybe he doesn’t care about that, either.
He’s good at dealing with unrecognizable monsters. But Michael isn’t one of them.
“The fuck do you have to be so tall for?”
Michael giggles, not-quite-but-the-same as the way that Michael Shelley had used to laugh when Gerry had complained about him being too short. At least he’d had an edge, back then. But now he doesn’t have half a foot to stand on, because, even in a mostly normal form, Michael’s still too goddamn tall.
“Just deserts?”
“Yours or mine?”
“Hmmmm. Both?”
“Don’t riddle me today. I’m not in the mood,” he complains, and pulls Michael down by his endlessly curled hair to keep kissing.
For being so curves and loops and meandering planes, there’s still parts that are sharp. His nails can cut like butter and his teeth, good Christ above. He takes it into consideration. Maybe Michael does, too, although he seems to think in terms of more abstract construction, and Gerry isn’t keen on having his dick lopped off from his preternatural partner’s hands or mouth. Nevermind Michael could snap his dick in two. Nevermind that Michael could snap him in two. He’d let him, to be honest.
He isn’t sure what Michael gets from this, if anything. At least half of it is The Distortion, but– he is we and it never seemed to express a disinterest. The contrary, actually. And Gerard is sure Gertrude had never put a study out on if you could fuck The Spiral. (Answer: you could.)
“But I am riddles!” Michael protests, in the tone of voice that Gerry thinks is its version of happy. Playful. Teasing in old ways he knows. “We’re insanity, Gerry.”
“Yeah, I’m out of my goddamn mind,” he supplies, and bites at Michael's mouth and ear and neck.
The press of its body against him never seems quite right, but Gerry’s desensitized to that sort of thing by now. It’s too heavy and long and lean, and movement is like wading through water, walking through sand. But it isn’t unkind, and it isn’t unpleasant. It had never been the thrill of fucking an Entity. It was about the one beneath it that was infinitely more important.
Michael laughs when he comes, and Gerry breathes hard against that strange lack of scent of Michael’s skin, and combs his fingers through the twisted blonde hair spread out along his own.
“I really am out of mind,” he mutters, because it’s true. It has been.
“It’s not bad… when you get used to it.” Michael laughs, tucking up against him.
Gerry knows. He got pleasantly used to it a long time ago.