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He knows (well, Knows) that the village is next. That tiny string that’s hooked to his body tugs him in that direction, steering him toward the next domain.
As they move closer, he picks at a spot on his hand, a tiny circle made long before his body was able to mend itself, in a time when a woman flesh hive was the worst thing he was up against. The voices floating in and out of his head give him clues of what to expect when they arrive.
Kit can see the maypole from his window, framed almost perfectly by his yellow curtains. It stands tall and proud in the center of the village. He watches the cloth flutter Jon? in the breeze, charred Hey Jon and dirty from years of burning
“Jon.” Kit’s words are quickly replaced by the sound of Martin’s voice. He’s got one hand on Jon’s shoulder and his brows are crinkled together in concern.
Jon blinks, suddenly aware that he has stopped walking. The static surrounding them fades as soon as he registers its presence. “What?”
Martin’s hand drops from his shoulder and brushes against his knuckles. He carefully intertwines their fingers and is rewarded with a small smile. “You just zoned out. I was getting worried.”
“Sorry,” Jon says. “Sorry, I’m trying to ignore it, but it gets harder the closer we are.”
They begin moving again, feet crunching against what he hopes is gravel (Beholding informs him that it is in fact not gravel and he makes a conscious effort not to Know any further).
Martin swings their arms a little as they walk. Jon counts their steps in groups of three.
(Three is good. Three is safe.)
“You said these places are like...zones, right? Domains?” Martin asks, clearly choosing his words carefully. “If the last one was The Slaughter, then what’s this next one?”
“If all the infection talk that I keep hearing is anything to go off of, I’m going to assume The Corruption.” Jon says. His voice is nearly ripped away, replaced by the thick mold that covers Billy’s arms is a blinding emerald green, which was once it’s favorite color but now is everything it must hide, a terrible thing that must stay hidden. He pushes it down at the last second before it bubbles over.
Beside him, Martin visibly tenses up. “The Corruption? Are you going to be okay?”
They both know of Jon’s tendencies, things that began long before either of them knew of the existence of The Crawling Rot, of Filth. To Jon, everything is numbers and dirt and symmetry, filtered through a lens of fear and obsession. It seems that working in the Archives did nothing if not fuel the fire, and now Jon refuses to be the one to carry the long kitchen knife from Daisy’s safehouse because of the terrible things he’s afraid he might do.
(Martin is convinced that it’s some sort of childhood trauma response, probably from seeing a man get killed right in front of him, but Jon is pretty sure it’s just another way Beholding had stoked the flames of fear and paranoia inside him and marked him from the beginning.)
Eldritch or not, neither explanation serves to stop the way his palms buzz with unseen filth every time a new voice shoves their way into his head, describing something unclean and impure. There were no sinks in the apocalypse, but the desire to sprint for one does not disappear.
Alex spends hours in the bathroom, scraping their nails against the grey spot that’s sprouting on the back of their hand. Pieces flake off, sticking to the edges of the white basin like dirty, mud soaked snow. They can hear knocking on the door, screams on the other side demanding they come out. Buzzing with frantic energy, they grab the
Martin’s full on shaking him now, both hands on his shoulders as his mouth forms Jon’s name over and over. The static humming in his ears fades again until he can finally hear clearly.
“You did it again.” Martin says, and in one fluid motion pulls Jon against his chest. Jon nearly stumbles in surprise but manages to catch himself, shifting so his ear is pressed against Martin’s chest.
The steady thump thump thump of his heartbeat nearly drowns out the words inside his skull. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about all the germs and dirt and grime that is probably clinging to the fabric of Martin’s shirt and instead attempts to anchor himself with the comforting weight of his boyfriend against him.
“Sorry.” He mutters, unsure if Martin can even hear him.
To his surprise, Martin hums and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Come on, let’s keep moving, yeah?”
Jon shoves his hands in his pockets when they start walking again, instead of reaching for Martin's hand like he normally would. Martin shoots him a concerned side glance but thankfully doesn't mention it.
“We’re getting close.” He says after a while. He has no idea how he knows this, so it’s almost certainly something that he just Knows. The faint pressure against his chest feels heavier and the voices in his head have become clearer and are fighting even harder for his attention. It takes every bit of his concentration to parse out what Martin is saying when he speaks.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” He adjusts his backpack on his back, tilting his head toward Jon. “Can’t we just...skip a domain?”
Jon smiles but shakes his head. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Martin.”
The two of them step over the crest of a hill and sure enough, there it is. The village, complete with tiny houses and the maypole. A pit forms in Jon’s stomach when he thinks of how much it looks like the village near the safehouse.
“This is the domain? Are you sure?” Martin asks, as though hearing Jon’s thoughts. “I mean...it doesn’t really look scary.”
Jon opens his mouth to assure him that, yes, this is what they’re looking for, but control of his voice is wrestled away from him and what comes out is a stream of Charlie is certain no one knows he’s been infected. He is careful, wrapping strong medical tape over every inch of his skin and covering up in thick fabric before ever stepping foot outside. His neighbor stares at him for a moment too long but he convinces himself that they cannot possibly know about
Jon shuts his mouth with an audible clicking sound, pressing his lips together firmly so no more words get out.
Martin stares at him, eyes wide. “Jon?”
Jon shakes his head frantically. The hot static on his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, trying to force its way out. He’s sure once he opens his mouth again, it will all come spilling out. He gestures toward the village, certain if he can get the statement that Beholding wants from this area, it will all stop.
The look Martin gives him is utterly incredulous. “What? No! We need to go somewhere else.” He says, already looking around despite the fact that this is the only thing for miles (or what counts as miles, in this place).
Jon grits his teeth and does the gesture harder. Beholding is evidentially not pleased with the suggestion that they skip this domain and now he can hear five different voices (no, six) in his head, all pleading for his attention.
(He hates how familiar it feels, how similar the pull to speak their stories is to the compulsion to check the locks on the safehouse doors.)
Martin sighs and looks over Jon’s shoulder. He doesn’t need to be an Avatar of The Eye to know that he’s staring at the Panopticon, which sits on the horizon like a dark twisted lighthouse. "Will going there help?” He asks, in a voice that suggests he already knows the answer and hates it.
Jon nods. He’s not entirely sure, but Martin doesn’t need to know that.
“Okay. Alright, let’s get this over with.” Martin holds out a hand.
Jon stares at it for a few seconds and Martin starts to pull back, but at the last second he reaches out and locks their index fingers together.
The point of contact still burns through Jon’s skin, like he is just another village inhabitant with a crawling infection spreading over his body. At the same time, though, the physical presence of another person (specifically Martin, really) pushes a deep breath through his lungs and lets a small wave of calm settle on his shoulders.
Martin smiles. They enter the village.
The statement fills him with a horrible feeling, and not just with the normal guilt and dreadful satisfaction that every statement seems to give him now. The sick village settles in his gut like a rock and for a few moments he worries that the infection has spread to him, too, but he Knows seconds later that that’s not the case.
(Beholding is funny like that sometimes, holding reality just out of Jon’s reach for just a few moments and enjoying the terrible conclusions that he jumps to before slipping him the knowledge he craves.)
This village is infected, weighed down by their own secrets and accusations. What was once a happy community now turns on eachother, setting fire to those deemed not worthy of safety. The deep-seated paranoia is familiar to Jon. So is the fear of disease.
Jillian Smith’s life spills from his lips, forming the scene before him as Mrs. Kim is dragged towards the maypole.
She screams when she dies. Jillian Smith blooms.
And he feels it all; how the rot on Mrs. Kim’s body was the first to go as she burned, the heavy weight of the infection straining against Jillian Smith’s bones, the horror of each member of the village that inhaled one of the purple spores and the itchy feeling of it taking root inside their lungs.
He shudders when the statement ends.
Sure enough, the statement fragments in his head have slowed to a steady drip, like a leaky faucet as opposed to a fire hose. He inhales shakily and closes his eyes tight as though that’s ever done anything against the images that force their way into his mind.
“Statement ends.” He says, because that’s what he’s supposed to say and that’s what he’s always said (and god knows what will happen if he doesn’t say it). As though confirming that this was the right choice, a tape recorder clicks off from...somewhere.
Jon sits there for a while, listening to the loud drone of the fly that keeps zipping by his ear before he can swat it away. He counts his inhales (one, two, three) and exhales (three, two, one) until his breathing is somewhat steady (three is good, three is safe).
Eventually he struggles to his feet, refusing to touch the ground and risk getting his hands covered in dark ash. Still, he rubs his palms against the fabric of his pants until they're bright red from friction, hoping to dispel the feeling of dirt against them.
He finds Martin sitting in the open field next to the village, pulling bits of grass out of the ground. A gentle breeze blows his hair and Jon can almost pretend that this scene is normal.
“Careful.” He says, making Martin jump in surprise. “You might pull up a person.”
Martin’s hand freezes on the flowery weed he’s got hold of. “Really? Th–That doesn’t seem like a Corruption thing?”
“It was supposed to be a joke, but,” Jon shrugs, “Who knows.”
“That’s not that reassuring.” Martin frowns, brushing a few blades of grass off his leg.
Jon picks at the spot on his hand. “Statement’s done. This place is...We can leave now.” He decides not to go into the way that the voices are simply fainter now, easier to ignore and pull away from. The Beholding has what it wants, but he Knows that he could stay upwards of forever, describing the pain and fear being experienced here.
Getting to his feet, Martin visibly relaxes. “Good.” He gives Jon a once over. “Are you, you know, okay?”
Some part of Jon that’s still paranoid and afraid wants to shut down, prevent Martin from seeing behind the curtain. But they’re together now (they’re together ) and he tries not to do that anymore.
“I mean, it wasn’t fun. It felt...bad.” is all he can manage to say, though.
“Bad.” Martin echoes, raising a brow.
“It felt bad and I would like to leave now.” Jon says.
Martin laughs, dry and humorless. “You don’t need to tell me twice.”
Jon shoves his hands in his pockets, but still goes up on his toes to press a kiss to Martin’s cheek.
They set out for the next fear domain, following the persistent tug inside Jon’s chest and the faint sounds of carousel music ringing inside his head.