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Jon has always had an affinity for the historical. Classics was his major in university; a field chosen out of passion. A thread easily traced through a childhood love of books, of stories, of emperors who couldn’t hold up doomed civilizations. Of myth and long dead languages.
It appealed to a fanciful side of him, he could admit. In this sense, his title of Archivist rang appropriate; one who catalogues disaster already struck, parses out the why and how when there’s no longer anything to be done about it.
It had been a point of camaraderie for Jon and Elias, before everything.
He thinks about the fact with some bitterness as he makes his way to Artefact Storage, where Elias’ secretary had directed him. An important shipment had come in; apparently important enough that it required the head of the Institute to oversee the process. It’s a problem, considering the situation with Prentiss was certainly going to get worse before it ever got better - as certain a truth as the silver worms that kept appearing at the corner of his vision. Always once he had already forgotten them.
And not that he knew what good going to Elias again would do about it. Elias always seemed hesitant to take more action, but he still put on a show of listening to Jon - sparing an ear and expressions of concern as he needed it, and Jon did need it. There were many ways Jon’s new role still felt larger than him, but Elias had appointed him with such certainty that it left no room for hesitation.
Elias, the most experienced mind in their field. Knowledge is stability, and Elias had enough to be the sturdiest of foundations. He could be, Jon once thought, his bedrock and seawall, were it not for his tendency of eroding away from under your feet as soon as the tide came in.
Frustration lingered as Jon slunk through the dark corners of Artefact Storage. It’s vaulted ceiling did little to lift the stagnation from the air and no amount of light could detract from the darkly cavernous effect. Jon had been there often enough, both on the clock and on personal agendas. He followed the traveling sound of commotion past the rows of storage cells to where Elias stood with staff and open boxes scattered around them as they catalogued.
“Jon,” Elias greets, looking up from the clipboard he held.
Jon tries his best to sound confident as he speaks, “I know you’re currently occupied, but there’s something rather important I’d like to speak to you about.”
Elias always acquiesces to his requests with quick smoothness, “Of course. Five minutes? To finish this up.”
Jon nods, and Elias’ responding smile is diplomatic. Jon can only return it sheepishly before slipping his hands into his pockets, turning around to give Elias working space. He starts to survey the new acquisitions as the discussions of artefact staff begin once more.
There’s a great number of things joining the collection it seems, all of them aged and carefully preserved museum pieces. There’s a statue of a woman made of a strange dark material that seemed to warp the surrounding shadows, laying still in its shipping crate. There’s parchment encased in glass and showcasing an illuminated script that Jon can’t make out. There’s other minor items that Jon examines with an open eagerness that he does not touch despite the urge.
Likely, these things were brought here for more than their age. There is little doubt in his mind how malicious intent may tie itself to the material; the same way Leitners are imbued with plague and pain and death. He cannot ignore the possibility that these objects are no different if they caught the attention of the Institute.
All to say, he almost misses it, at first. Distracted by another small statue that stood by it. The wooden crate was square and flat, and Jon could see the misalignment of panels that allowed a peak inside, ever so slight. The box had been opened, then closed again.
Curiosity lends itself to Jon like breathing, and his hand moves with the unthinking ease of sighing. Before he can think better of it, he lifts the top off the box carefully to peer inside, gently, as if not to disturb.
The sudden eye contact is disconcerting. A portrait is revealed. A small oil painting of a young man, with rich brown hair and pale eyes that look directly at Jon. He’s always thought it to be a strange sentiment - frozen expressions and painted dead eyes that followed you around the room. Jon had never understood it, not till that moment. No matter where he looked in the painting, his gaze would eventually come back to the focal point.
It was a complex study in light and dark. Shadows cloaked the man entirely, except for a strip of light that emphasized his eyes; that highlighted their intensity. His expression was coquettish, made demure by a lilt of his head in the opposite direction.
There was little else in the painting to place the scene, but the lighting, the pose, the blouse slightly opened - were all things that struck with a sort of intimacy. Intimacy underscored by a familiarity that Jon could not place. Jon isn’t sure how long he remained transfixed by the picture; it must have been several minutes before Elias’ voice pulls him out of it.
“Quite a handsome portrait, isn’t it?”
Jon breaks eye contact with the painting, unsettled enough he can’t bring himself to meet Elias’ eyes.
“Uh, yes,” Jon responds, “It’s rather… striking. And familiar, though I can’t place it.”
Elias seems surprised for a second before it gives way to a pleased expression.
“I wasn’t sure if you would catch it,” Elias says, “It’s a portrait of Jonah Magnus.”
Jon immediately recalls the other portraits he had seen around the Magnus Institute. Large, purposefully imposing and gold-framed things that showed an aging, grim-faced scholar. It’s the difference between night and day. This portrait exuded the quality of youth, that unquantifiable charisma. He wonders if put side-by-side, if the eyes would be the same.
“It’s certainly a different take on the man,” Jon comments, to which Elias hums in agreement.
“That’s understandable. He is significantly younger in this portrait - only twenty-four - and it was painted by a lover.”
Jon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Elias laughs, “- or so we speculate. The earlier parts of Jonah Magnus’ life are not as well-documented.”
“I’ll admit, I knew little about him until I joined the Archives.”
“Ah yes, you’ve read some of his letters. They’re very popular among our visiting academics.”
“I understand the inclination myself,” Jon says. He looks back at the portrait, staring as if it might reveal something. As if it might take to life and start speaking to him.
“Jon,” Elias says, “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
Jon sighs, takes a step back.
“Right, yes -“
Two days pass, and Jon does not think of Jonah Magnus. The disappointment he felt at Elias’ lack of action distracted him. He should be used to the dispassionate way he seems content to leave them to their fate, but still he is too caught up in the fear of it all. What with Sasha’s encounter with the entity who calls himself Michael, there’s a lot of reason for Jon not to think of the painting again until a certain evening.
He’s leaving late. Lights around the Institute were already being shut off in succession, but the main hall was still lit, and there he saw it.
The portrait of an older Jonah Magnus, the one he always pictured when he thought of the man. Jon’s feet move on their own accord, turning him around and leading him up the steps of the grand foyer.
There was no richness of color to be found in this piece of art; an observation that could be reached now that he had a point of comparison. Jonah here was bearded, surrounded by piles of his life’s work, with age creasing the features of his face. His expression was passive in a way that made Jon feel like the observer of a scene rather than a participant. Below the painting, inlaid in the dark wood frame was a gold inscription which read Jonah Magnus, Founder of the Magnus Institute.
Jon’s fingers trace the engraving, feeling the detail of the carving under the tips of his fingers. Something about the smooth, icy touch of metal is comforting. When he looks back up at the painting, it’s with special attention to his eyes - duller than their presentation in the younger portrait but still the same light gray, almost yellow like tempered glass. Unintentionally, his mind attempts to map out the outline of Jonah Magnus’ life, wanting to tease out the in-between of point A and point B.
He stands there for too long because suddenly the lights flicker off, the way they always do when the clock strikes nine and the Institute is set to close for the night. He’s loath to make the trek home this late, would have stayed on the cot in his office were Martin not taking residence there currently.
The dark cloaks Jonah Magnus in looming shadows, that make him look taller, more ominous. Suddenly he feels quite small, and quite afraid in the black night; now that all details were obfuscated to him and allowed to take on a less solid, more monstrous shape.
He stumbles back before turning around, careful to hold on to the handrail as he goes back down the steps and out towards the exit.
That night he dreams of a young Jonah, sitting across from him at his desk at the Institute. Playful eyes and carefree movements. He leans over towards Jon and in his dream, he feels racked with piercing anticipation. He thinks Jonah will touch him. He is unsure if it is something he wants or something that scares him. Instead, Jonah leans over to a tape recorder and presses play.
He is not sure why the dream sticks to him throughout the day. There’s no reason for it to. He rationalizes that it’s a dream about work and about something that’s piqued his interest. That’s natural, understandable even, and there’s no cause for alarm. Jon’s always been prone to these things - historical fixations, which occupy his mind until he’s researched them thoroughly. Until he’s consumed all there is to consume on the topic and then and only then can it be laid to rest.
But it is that so little in Jon’s life these days is mundane. At his first break of the day, he finds himself drawn back to Artefact Storage. He’s lucky; the boxes had yet to be sorted out of the new arrivals section so he can chart a path back to the portrait with little trouble.
He finds it still in the box. Jonah, just as Jon remembered him: inlaid in a wooden frame and stretched out on canvas. Jon’s first thought is that it is a masterful work and such is the cause of his fixation. The carefully placed browns and golds of the light and shadow, the delicate pink upon the man’s cheeks, were all impressive demonstrations of artistic skill.
His second thought, which comes after far too many minutes are lost to him simply standing there, transfixed, is that Jonah is beautiful. Beautiful in ways both grand and simple. It is a lofty thought to have a painting, Jon inwardly scolds.
But is it not natural? Is it not why people flood art museums, form queues in front of a single portrait? Jon has always been susceptible to grand stories of people long dead. He wants to be close to history. When he passes marble statues, he always must hold back the urge to touch.
Above the textured picture, his fingers hover. He’d like to feel the grooves of it; the soft, rubbery feeling of dried oil paint that’s been layered for effect. He wants to touch but doesn’t. Such a thing is no good for the preservation of the piece.
His mind is littered with questions: who is this man? What were his intentions?
He’s bought out of it by approaching footsteps.
“There you are,” Sasha says, “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It is extremely difficult to break eye contact with Jonah.
“I was on my break,” Jon says by way of explanation, flustered as he swiftly closes the box of the portrait.
“A break?” Sasha says, confused, “We figured you were taking lunch. It’s been an hour.”
A cold chill settles over him, making a place in his marrow.
“What?”
“Yeah, we had to put off the weekly meeting.”
Jon jerkily lifts his wrist to read his watch. In cruel confirmation, it shows an hour since he last stepped out of his office. As if to further drive home the point, he feels the soreness of his back from standing and looming over the painting for such a long, uninterrupted period.
“Are you alright, Jon?” Sasha asks, head tilting in both worry and suspicion.
He is not, but he nods his head, regardless.
“Of course. I just...lost track of time. Let’s go back.”
She doesn’t seem convinced but says nothing. It must all be kept a secret, Jon decides inwardly.
Visiting the painting starts like most bad habits do - with no intention to make a habit. It’s something done on lunch breaks, at first just to see if the effect was the same. Scientific, Jon justifies, to see to what extent the lost time and fixation is of an unnatural sort, if this has anything to do with the phenomena tied to Lietner’s, or something like that maybe -
He loses track of empirical study very quickly. Jonah becomes an indulgence he partakes in whenever there is a free moment. Since he cannot touch the paint, he traces the frame. Instead, he memorizes details. Instead, he sears Jonah’s features into his mindscape.
Perhaps it gets out of hand.
Jon thinks about Jonah whenever he’s home. One night when he cannot bring himself to sleep, he pulls out his laptop in the dark of his room. He types in the address of the Magnus Institute website and reads the short and vague blurb written on the history page, mentioning only the most basic of facts regarding Jonah’s role in the Institute's founding. It doesn’t do much to scratch his itch.
He clicks around and ends up on a page about current leadership, where he finds a picture of Elias: an older photo, taken at an event where he stands with a group of donors while smiling politely. Jon remembers seeing this same photo back when preparing for his first interview. He had felt so woefully under-prepared for his role at the time - and still does - but Elias had been so cool and collected while hiring him. Surely he was a man who knew what he was doing.
Jon remembers thinking then that the pictures had done him little justice. He was much more handsome in person and in motion, when you could see how confidently he held himself.
Jon’s heart tugs, and he sighs, closing the laptop.
That night he dreams he is sitting at his desk again. Jonah and Elias both sit across from him. They are having a conversation that he cannot hear. Their mouths are moving, but there is no sound. When Jon tries to call their attention, they ignore him.
He dreams this dream three times.
It is the dreams that drive home to Jon that this is something deeply unhealthy. He knows better than to dabble in such things - his life experiences have long warned him of the dangers. And yet, a compulsion is a compulsion. He resolves to stop. He removes the temptation by burying himself in work. When he feels the need to go look at the portrait, he instead finds a statement. It doesn’t stop the thoughts, but it stops the action, which is good enough.
It works only for a week.
On the following Monday morning, he’s looking for Elias again, with a stack of papers that needed to be signed off on for one bureaucratic reason or another. He’s directed by a secretary towards a place he has only been to once - restorations. The lack of restful sleep, the anticipation of Elias’ attention, both have him tense. When he walks into the room, his eyes trail to the ground instinctively submissive and avoidant of eye contact.
It’s never bothered Elias before and the man still greets him warmly for his standards. They go through the usual pleasantries and updates, Elias hinting that it was about time Martin moved out of the office and Jon hinting that they needed more help, all before papers are exchanged and signed. It distracts him enough that he does not immediately notice all the paintings being worked on by restoration staff.
Mid-conversation he sees one of them is the portrait of young Jonah, finished and put aside. The fixation begins swiftly and he loses track of what words are being spoken.
“Ah, you’ve noticed it,” Elias says, “Our staff has only recently finished their work on it.”
When Jon doesn’t answer, Elias offers, “Would you like a closer look?”
Jon nods shakily as Elias leads them to the working area where up-close Jon can see the changes: how a whole layer of age and grime had been removed from its surface, allowing the colors of the paint their full vibrance. New details of Jonah’s face could now be seen more clearly; his eyes were now crystal and the shadows that played off of him a more obviously complex affair.
“They’ve done a wonderful job,” Jon comments.
Elias nods and looks prideful. “We only hire the best. As you can imagine, things related to the founder take foremost priority.”
“I’m surprised we don’t already own everything related to the man.”
“This is one piece I’ve had on my radar for quite a while,” Elias admits, “Unfortunately it had fallen into the hands of private collectors.”
Jon briefly wonders how much of the institute’s budget is allocated to such things, “Did we buy this off of someone?”
“I had to do some considerable convincing on the merits of an auction.”
Jon chuckles, “I can see this is an area important to you.”
“I confided in you once that I have a historian’s heart.”
Jon remembers that with outstanding clarity. It had been at a gala for one of the Institute’s rare public exhibits. Elias had spent a considerable amount of time that night at Jon’s side, to both his shock and pleasure. It was before Jane Prentiss, when Jon had held Elias in the most untouchable regard. That image had weathered over time, as further familiarity bred both an easing of pretenses as well as disillusionment.
That being said, it was very easy to fall back on the memory. “Yes, I remember. You told me you had your own collection.”
He forces himself to look away from the painting and back at Elias with considerable effort.
“That’s correct,” Elias says, “And it reminds me. I have something for you.”
It perks up Jon when Elias hands him a manilla folder. “A statement?” he says.
Elias hums in confirmation, “Something I thought you might find interesting.”
Jon nods, unable to quash his natural curiosity at a statement hand-chosen by Elias himself. He is still inclined to see his expertise favorably.
“Take your time with it,” Elias says, “I would like to hear your thoughts.”
All he can do is nod again before excusing himself and sneaking a glimpse at the portrait behind Elias’s shoulder. Attempting eye contact with an inanimate thing; he knows the sentiment is ridiculous, objectively, and yet the glance leaves his heart pounding. Or perhaps it is Elias or the statement he holds close to his chest on the way back to his office.
He plans to read the letter when he returns but he is caught up with information Sasha’s dug up and time passes over work. He remembers the folder near the end of the day and he reads it alone after everyone else has left, as he nurses the last of his third cup of coffee.
Its aged paper kept from his touch under stiff, protective plastic. There’s no foreword or written explanation anywhere to contextualize it, so Jon just starts reading. Aloud, without really meaning to.
My dearest Jonah,
It pleases you so to act obtuse about the matter. You find the performance of ignorance to be a divertissement on par with a fine piece of music - a sweet, distracting morsel to keep your otherwise sharp mind occupied. A waste, and yet, I am such a wretched slave that I allow you all your inclinations. I once claimed my victories in terms of those rare occasions where I could force out that cleverness so inherent in you, or in capturing the complexity of your person when you sat for my portraits; something to me still an honor akin to communion, or perhaps another deep and rare intimacy, but that can no longer bring me comfort.
You laughed at me in your cruel way when I spoke of it in person, but I must insist upon it again, having taken pen to paper in hopes of giving our predicament a more tangible shape and thus more demanding of our mutual severity. Art is an irrevocably private affair - a private affair that we have deemed acceptable to publicize, for the way the average spectator may gloss over the confessions weaved into layers of paint. This ignorance of the fact, however, does not detract from the inherent voyeurism of the matter.
Allow me to contextualize further: I look at every painting I have ever done and I see myself. Even in portraits where I look upon the face of another, I do not see them. Rather, I see a series of decisions made whether consciously or subconsciously that go into the reproduction of any given scene. Do you understand? I see my perception of that person, the minute details that I, as the artist, have chosen worthy of display. All to say, a portrait can tell you more about the artist than about the sitter. This a truth I stand by steadfastly and that I can attest to through years of experience and anecdotes dating back to my days as a youthful apprentice.
And yet, this latest portrait of you...I see only you. I see only you and it frightens me. I look at oil upon canvas and I see the essence of you, trapped in pigment and it fills me acutely of guilt - you could have never known. You could have never possibly consented to such a thing, to such a theft! What stares back at me is my best work, a work which does not belong to me. I implore you to take this painting from me, Jonah, for it is not mine to keep.
There is, too, something else I must confess. In the same room, I feel it watches me with a weight that could only possibly come from a thing burdened with consciousness. It is a prickle at the back of my neck - something recognizable with an acute and animal instinct. I have taken to spending great lengths of time simply staring at it, for I fear that should I look away it may find life and take to some unholy task. It is ghastly and unnatural, but it is the truth, my dear Jonah. You must abandon those pretenses you are so attached to and recognize the validity of the tale I tell you.
In the dark hours, it drives me to inexplicable paranoia. I would have already thrown it into the open fire did I not fear that its destruction may in turn harm you. God forgive me. I only hope that our deep and mutual affection should temper the ill feelings that may arise in you due to my irrevocable trespass, this thing which I can only describe as a sort of violation…
Please come see me with the utmost haste upon receiving this letter.
Maddeningly yours, always,
A.
The letter sticks to him like a bad dream. He turns it over and over in his mind as if he might uncover a secret meaning. He reads it several times for the same purpose and takes it home despite knowing such practices are discouraged. It’s a compulsion, impossible to avoid.
It cannot be real, he rationalizes - the mad ramblings of an artist clearly in love. And yet, Jon’s gut found it difficult to let the sentiment rest. How many hours has he lost to the portrait? He thinks of the face of young Jonah more often than not.
“A strange letter, is it not?” Elias comments over lunch. It is an occurrence that has not happened since before his promotion; not since danger became a part of his life and Elias’ inaction had left him feeling cold and distant.
“It couldn’t be true.” Jon says, “The neurosis of an artist.”
Jon is keenly aware of how much it sounds as if he’s convincing himself, first and foremost. But Elias nods, unbothered and approaching the topic with such a level-headed intellectualness that it calms all his nerves like an anchor. Like a steady weight.
“It's true, artists can be prone to such whims of fancy. We have little information on him, but we do know they institutionalized him shortly afterward. Jonah kept all their letters, and it is the most detailed account of his life that we have.”
Jon sighs. “Not very different from a lot of the statements we get nowadays. Much of the Archives’ work is sifting through what might be mad ramblings.”
Elias hums in agreement, “The mind is a fragile thing; easily made unreliable when swayed by emotion and fear. However, it does not mean there is no truth to be found in the madness.”
“Do you believe there to be truth to the letter?” Jon asks. His plate is long empty, and he leans over the table in eagerness to hear the answer.
“Things of a strange and paranormal nature marked Jonah Magnus’ life, did they not? Now there’s an interesting thought to consider - whether he stumbled upon it all or sought it out purposefully.”
Jon didn’t seek it out. It was thrust upon him as a child who never truly had any hope of letting it go.
“I suppose it makes little difference in the end, once you’re already set upon a path,” Jon says.
Elias gives a small smile, with an affection palpable enough it sets Jon’s heart to beat just slightly faster.
“Well said, Jon. Some outcomes have their own sort of inevitability.”
“How did you end up here?” Jon says.
That slight smile, again, “The same way all of us get to where we’re meant to be.”
Jon nods and allows Elias to pay for lunch. The walk back to the Institute is done in companionable silence and when Jon hands Jonah’s letter back to Elias, he finds himself savoring the way their fingers brush purposefully; finds himself denying the longing he thought he had long buried.
Jonah Magnus was born in 1791 to a landowning family of middle aristocracy, the only son out of seven who lived past the age of three after a long history of miscarriages.
Jon lies in bed with the light still on and the pages of the book close to his face.
The only heir to his family’s fortune, Magnus was the recipient of an extensive education, namely in the form of private tutors and then boarding schools, at which he studied until age eighteen. Afterward, moving for a university education at Cambridge.
A biography on Jonah Magnus’ life checked out from the Institute’s library. Jon didn’t sign his name, feeling a sort of mortification about the fact. Someone might see and ask questions, and what was Jon to say? He is too cowardly to return to restorations and confront the staff there, so he must find another way to quell his obsession. No, better to keep Jonah something exclusively his.
Academically, Magnus was a high-achieving student, who in his final year had a work published in the student academic journal: "An Empirical Approach to Preternatural Phenomena". This would foreshadow the work he would eventually undertake ten years after his graduation, leading to the creation of the infamous Magnus Institute. The period in-between his graduation and the start of his career in supernatural occurrences, however, is an interesting blank for historians.
Was he a serious, unapproachable student? Older Jonah seems like he had been made serious with age. Jaded, perhaps. Young Jonah was surely charming, popular. Passionate, maybe. This unknown period was when the portrait was painted.
As a young man he was known to move around London’s elite academic social circles. He was taken under the wing of several noted philosophers of the era, though the exact nature of these relationships and to what extent they influenced Magnus is unknown.
Jon remembers the portrait. He remembers the letter. He wonders if Jonah had a string of lovers. Men who would gift him drinks and cigars in smokey lounges. Was his taste exclusively in men? He is quite sure Jonah never married.
The thought is overwhelming enough he closes the book. It sits on his chest as he stares up at the ceiling. He feels distinctly foolish. He wonders what Elias would say.
After several moments, he opens the book again. He reads until it is almost dawn.
Work is grueling with so little sleep. What motivates him is his plan to visit the library again once the workday comes to an end. It is unlike him to leave his post so promptly and it causes suspicious stares from Martin and Sasha.
He checks out three books: Jonah Magnus and Trends in 19th Century British Spiritualism, A Critical History of the Magnus Institute, and Beyond the Epistemological: The Empirical and Supranatural Research of Jonah Magnus.
Unsurprisingly, aside from the biography he already read, there is little literature focused on the mundane personal details of Jonah’s life. He catches glimpses of it though in books about his work - for there seemed little more important to the man than that.
He does love to read words written by him. It leads Jon to imagine things like the cadence of his voice, to imagine his temperament, and what it must have been like to know him. Jon takes to always having at least one book on his person at all times.
Jonah Magnus, like many intellectuals of the time period, was highly fixated on the question of predetermination. Magnus, however, approached the question from both a scientific and archival background. Quite notably, causing a large debate in theological circles…
Jonah was controversial, of course. The Institute to this very day is at the center of skepticism and disbelief. And yet, the sway and success of their founder has held on for centuries. It causes in Jon a sense of misplaced pride, as if Jonah was a close friend he admired, and not a figure of books.
The books make Jon more romantic than he is generally inclined to be. After several days, the books have worsened the itch of an inclination that he had been attempting with all his might to bury.
He wants to see the painting again. Jon cannot even hold out until the end of the day, instead using his lunch break to sneak over to the other side of the Institute, to restorations. He walks around the department as casually as he can, disappointed but not surprised to find the painting had already been moved.
A restoration employee shoots him a questioning look as he lingers. He cannot bring himself to ask where it has been moved to and ends up rushing out while avoiding all gazes. It means when he turns a corner down the hall, he runs straight into someone, tumbling to the floor and spilling the contents of his bag everywhere.
It’s not until after Jon mumbles out apologies that he realizes who exactly he’s bumped into; Elias is leaning down to the floor to pick up the book he’s dropped, reading the cover with an amused glint in his eye.
Jon scrambles to pick up the rest of the papers and pens, resolving to look anywhere but at him.
“Jonah Magnus’ biography?” Elias asks, and before he can explain himself, Elias hands back the book to him, with a smirk forming on the edge of his lips, “A man after my own heart.”
The ever-present noose in Jon’s chest tightens.
“I had just been thinking about it, after our conversation,” Jon explains uselessly.
Elias hums, helping Jon stand with a casually offered hand.
“It’s just...a project. It’s nothing.”
“I hoped you might come to me. You know it’s a topic I enjoy.”
“I wouldn’t want to presume,” Jon says. It is one thing to approach a boss with concerns about the workplace - that Jon had no qualms about doing. It was another thing to be friendly, to want things more than friendly, as he so often did.
“You’re always welcome to my time, Jon,” Elias says and then he does something that undoes whatever attempt at composure he had been gripping onto. Elias places a hand on his shoulder and Jon’s breath stops.
“I have few other letters,” Elias says, “Part of my private collection. I’d like to have you over for dinner one day. Perhaps we can discuss your research.”
Jon hasn’t been signing his name at the library because he had wanted no one to know. When it’s Elias, being known becomes a thing equal parts mortifying and satisfying and thrilling. It takes him a moment to choke out a yes.
He feels oddly like they have a voyeur. Jonah, perhaps, resenting Jon’s attention being stolen. Maybe it’s something else.
“Perfect,” Elias says, smoothly removing his hand, “I’ll phone you the date.”
That night he dreams that he is alone in his office. He goes looking for Elias and demands to know where Jonah is. Elias laughs. He wakes up feeling like he has recently noticed a black void at the center of his life. Like he’s finally caught the light that peaks out from around it. He doesn’t know what it means. It's a puzzle.
Later in his life, Jonah Magnus was well-known for private soirees held at his London residence. Though popular rumors at the time would point to seances or exorcisms, Magnus’ personal correspondence do not corroborate as much and instead paint a picture of debate and information sharing among other prominent scholars.
Jon’s mind reels. Concentrating on work becomes increasingly difficult. He thumbs the page of his book for comfort. It’s after hours at the Institute already, and the rest of the staff has already gone home, save Martin still living on the cot in the other room. He’s waiting until it’s time to leave for Elias’ house, forgoing a visit to his own home for how far in the opposite direction it was.
He’s nervous. One thumb keeps to the paper, the other goes up to his mouth. He has a tendency to bite his nails under stress and does so then. Reading about Jonah helps. He wishes he knew where the portrait was being kept; as if catching a peak of it now would grant him courage.
Elias knows, he thinks. Of his little love affair. Is that what this is? He embarrasses himself with his own thoughts. He flips back to the first page of the biography, again.
Jonah Magnus was born in 1791 -
A knock interrupts him and is followed by the opening of the door. He shuts the book closed, like it’s something to hide, and glares at his intruder.
“Ah, sorry - I didn’t, uh mean to interrupt?” Martin says, looking uncomfortable in the doorway.
“No, it’s nothing,” Jon says, trying to put his books away all faux-casual. It’s done just a little too desperately and it makes Martin lean over curiously.
“What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” Jon says, again too quickly. He’s not sure why he feels so defensive, but he does; a feeling born deep in his chest. He stands suddenly, “Excuse me, I’m leaving for the night.”
Martin looks both confused and hurt, but Jon can’t think about it. It is that Jonah is something private, that he has to protect. His companion in this time of uncertainty. His companion that is leading him towards something large and unknown that he’s so close to understanding. Not for prying eyes. Most definitely not for Martin.
As he makes it out onto dark streets, it strikes him that he has never had that feeling with Elias’- he feels as if Jonah is his secret too.
Elias doesn’t live very far from the Institute. It’s an old Victorian that must be terribly expensive based on the location and size, and Jon finds himself freezing at the door. He sees the lights on in the window but he’s stuck in place, suddenly unsure as to Elias’ intentions, as to what someone like Elias could possibly want with a man like him.
He wishes he had taken a look in a mirror before leaving the Institute. As his hand grips at his side uselessly, the door opens to Elias, summoned as if by his very thought.
“Just on time, Jon,” Elias says, stepping aside to let him in.
Like on most things, Jon follows his lead. He follows him inside to the living room, sits awkwardly on the couch, and accepts the offer of wine to ease the nerves.
The small talk is stilted until it isn’t, until Elias brings Jon to his table, home-cooked dinner served on nice china, one glass of wine turning into two, and the topics of conversation the sort of things they used to talk about before. Jon, back then, had fantasized about this - time spent alone with Elias. It is that Elias has always been handsome and Jon has always been attracted to a steady hand. Elias is good at conversation, charming in these moments in a way not obvious when you meet him in the professional sphere.
Jon’s heart rate is a little too fast throughout it all.
Once the plates have been empty for a handful of minutes, Elias brings up the topic. “Would you like to see the study? It’s what I lured you here with after all.”
“Uh, there’s no need to need to lure me anywhere,” Jon stammers, and then, “I would have come regardless…”
“Is that so,” Elias says. The side of his eyes crinkle, like he is amused or privy to a secret joke. Jon doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed about it because Elias stands and beckons him to follow. Down the hall of the first floor, at the last door to the left, is the study. It is more than Jon could have imagined. High ceilings, walls lined from top to bottom in shelves, all in low light. There is a desk, a couch, a fireplace.
“Take a look,” Elias says, “I’ll light the fire.”
Jon approaches the shelves and skims the titles - there was a wide range of topics covered, not organized in any sort of system that was immediately evident. Military history, entomology, parapsychology, and theory. Jon wouldn’t know where to start.
The fire introduces a warm red light to the room. Jon’s fingers are on the spine of a book - A Treatise of Human Nature - when Elias approaches him, with a light touch on his lower back. The touch catches him off guard, and in his shock, he leans back into it. Elias looks pleased.
“It’s Jonah you want, isn’t it?” Elias asks. Jon is focused on where they are touching when he nods.
“I know it’s been a point of interest for you,” Elias says, as he leads Jon to the couch, “So I’ve bought you something.”
Elias picks up another letter from his desk, kept in the same protective plastic as the last one. Elias pulls it out of its cover, handing the aged paper to Jon.
Jon’s breath hitches at how frail the paper feels in his hand. It is like touching the past itself; it is touching something far older than he is. He thinks of Jonah receiving this letter at his home in London, in a study not unlike this one.
He recognizes the handwriting. “Is it - Is it from the same artist?”
Elias lounges back on the couch beside him, legs crossed, “Yes.”
He thumbs the page again, starts reading internally, but Elias stops him.
“Ah. Outloud, please.”
Jon’s head shoots up off the page to look at him. The intensity of the eye contact is unexpected. Gray eyes. Jon swallows.
“Right,” Jon says, preparing to shift into the right headspace, the one he reserves for statements, “Dearest Jonah, -”
Even not looking at him, Elias’s gaze is heavy, the gaze of thousands rather than one. Jon shivers, loses his voice, and starts over once more.
Dearest Jonah,
The depths of my affection for you have never been a negligible thing. Thus, I have always in our association been inclined to forgive your moments of cruelty, as I don’t consider them to be an inherent trait of your person but rather the inevitable consequence of a brilliant mind often burdened by insufferable bouts of ennui. Is it not what drove you to your studies, initially?
What has become unfathomable to me, however, is your inaction. Or rather, how you pretend at intervention. You come over, you kiss me, offer comfort, and listen to my tales and ramblings about my worsening state with rapt attention but at the end of the day - you leave me with the painting in question still in hand. Why won’t you free me of it? You know I can’t bear it falling into the hands of someone untrustworthy… Is this your way of punishing me? Perhaps you lied when you said you forgave me, and this is your revenge.
But no...I don’t think that’s it. I’ve come to think this is an exercise that brings you pleasure. I think you’re curious. I think the gears in your mind are turning, inspired, like you have caught a glimpse into that demimonde you so lust for and want desperately to understand it.
I should loathe you for it. I should. But perhaps there is a pleasure for me, too, in the reverse - in being watched and known and catalogued. Now I know I must be mad.
Jon’s voice breaks on that line, and he realizes then his hands are no longer steady. Realization is not sudden. It is not a violent wave that crashes against him, and knocks him off his feet.
No, it is much more subtle than that. It is the cold prickling fear of knowing. It is the dizziness of suddenly noticing the curve of horizon; the proof that makes something intangible, true. It is like there is a crack, and a light, and like suddenly every scrap of information he's gathered is snapping distinctly into place.
Elias is looking at him, but Jon cannot bring himself to look back. He cannot finish reading.
Jon stands suddenly, and the letter falls to the ground.
“I’m - I’m sorry,” he says, stumbling. From what he can see out of the corner of his eye, Elias looks impassive. As Jon attempts to run away, Elias stands, holding him by the elbow.
“Think on it,” Elias says, “Is it possible to believe something like this? Something truly unbelievable?”
When Jon looks up at his expression, it surprises him to find his pupils blown, his gaze intense. Gray eyes. The connection is clear, evident, in his mind, as ridiculous as it seems, as unlikely.
“I have to go,” Jon says, and Elias lets him leave. When he runs out onto London’s streets it’s to cold air and pavement made wet with a light rain. He runs down several blocks until his breath starts coming out too quick from his lungs, in and out in a panic.
There is only one thing to do. The decision is made for Jon with no introspection and with no doubt. His feet carry him all the way back to the Institute. He uses his privileges as Archivist to allow himself in through the back way, with the front entrance closed after hours.
It’s pitch black inside; past nine o’clock when the lights are turned off and everyone else has gone home. Jon follows the darkened corridors through to their end, up the grand foyer and down to where he knows Elias’ office is.
He has to force the lock, but it opens easier than he expects it to.
Elias’ office is a place he knows well, that he’s visited innumerable times throughout his tenure and yet - he now feels as anxious as that first time; being interviewed, being assessed and watched, and has it always been about that? Has it always been about an unseen watcher, that Jon is only now noticing?
Jon is at Elias’ office for a reason; he finds said reason hanging upon the wall behind the desk. He knew it would be here. It seems obvious now, in retrospect. Jonah in oil paint and upon canvas, framed and displayed. Jon is still pulled along by it; Jonah, no matter how frightful, has made a home in his ribs and cannot be extracted.
He makes eye contact with him, and thinks gray, of course. But eye color isn’t evidence. The evidence is inexplicable, something that sits at Jon’s gut. Something that sits outside of Jon and whispers truth into his ear.
When he reaches out to touch the painting, brushing his fingers against the waves and texture of dried pigment, he knows for sure. Impressions strike him like they are being transferred through touch, like he is touching Jonah and Jonah is confirming that he has always been right to fear shadows, confirming that some shadows will elude explanation, but not if he looks harder -
He strokes at Jonah’s face; the details of youth, the flush of life, present even in the dark shadows of the room. A tempest stirs within him. There is a stake through his heart.
“Am I interrupting, Jon?”
Jon jolts back, caught. When he turns around, he finds Elias walking towards him from the dark doorway.
“Has it captured you in its thrall?” Elias asks, and Jon feels acutely like an insect pinned through with a needle. Elias’s steps echo in the space and each step forward of his feels like one Jon should take back.
His tongue is heavy in his mouth. He knows the sharp tell-tale signs of fear. When Elias stops in front of him, this time, Jon looks straight at his eyes.
Gray, like glass.
“Elias -“
Elias tuts, a hand coming up to touch the side of Jon’s face, to keep him in place.
“No, no. Try again. You know better.”
It is difficult to swallow.
“Jonah,” he says this time, in a voice small and pathetic even to his own ears.
Elias’s - no, Jonah’s - shoulders slacken with pleasure. His smile is satisfied in a way Jon’s never seen. Jonah caresses his face and he cannot move.
“Now aren’t you a clever boy. Full of surprises,” Jonah chuckles.
“How,” Jon is able to force out, as he clutches at the other man’s chest, “How is it possible?”
It’s not possible, his mind supplies, the part of his mind that attempts to rationalize and compartmentalize uselessly. There is another part, however, that’s always known the world is not quite what it seems to be. This is what had led him to the Institute to begin with - his desire to pull back the veil.
“There are things you aren’t ready to know yet,” Jonah says, “My plans for you involved something much more gradual. This secret, in particular, is the deepest door at the center of my mind, kept under tightest lock and key,” a pause, and then a smile, “But there you were, feeling around for the latch.”
Jon is caught off-guard by the undeniable pride in his voice. He is caught off-guard by how much that pride melts fear off of him and quiets the panic in his mind. It is his Jonah after all.
“I want to know. Everything.” Jon says.
“Yes. In due time.”
Then, much needier, “I want you.”
Elias smiles. Brings Jon closer with arms wrapped around his waist. His touch is firm, confident, and Jon has always desired it. He can tell Jonah desires him too; it's in the possessive grip, in the lidded eyes.
“Good," Jonah says, "Tilt your head back. Let me have your mouth.”
He does exactly that. They meet in a kiss and Jon thinks he’d let Jonah have everything.