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Time is… complicated to describe, but if Jonathan, who is and isn't Jonathan Shelley, had to describe it, he would refer to it as a tangled ball of string.
His earliest 'memories' are of the twisting, endless kaleidoscope halls, and a blond man who is and isn't connected to the Distortion's song. He knows the man is Michael Shelley and also Michael… and yet, time dictates that he is neither of those things until Michael walks into the hallway and sinks into its core.
Jon grows quickly into a small man with staticky edges and hazel eyes that shift color with every breath he needs not take. He's soft and sharp and too many colors in places, but those few humans who have come across the eldritch have called him beautiful… before the madness ate their minds and hollowed their broken bodies… He wants so badly for Michael Shelley to see him.
Michael slides along his being, drawing him to the door… to the door that Jon’s used for years to spy on Michael Shelley. He drops to the floor beside the sleeping man who resonates with the song spilling out from Jon's very pores. Needle sharp and fraying into silky fur, Jon can almost feel the blond's skin part at his touch, and he wants to sink into his center, to wrap himself up in that unique fractal that eats away at the Eye's tempestuous hold.
Jon can feel the promise in his avaunt's marks, that it will fade from Michael Shelly when he returns to the hallways… when he finally comes home.
His fingers drip with ink and blood and paint when he stands and traces marks into the wall beyond the tacky paper that hides his claim. Michael Shelley always sleeps better in this room surrounded by the groves of his triskele.
Michael hums just beyond fragile skin… and it takes every ounce of Jon's devotion for Michael Shelley to remain intact.
Just beyond the painted rounds, the Beholding smiles and presses its weight on Gertrude Robinson’s mind…
It whispers worries about the Spiral's upcoming Great Twisting. It reminds her of how innocent and trusting Michael Shelley would do whatever she asked because he believes she has his best interests at heart. It offers her knowledge that it shouldn't know… It tells her the layout of the Distortion and offers to help her make the map that will draw Michael Shelly home…
But she doesn't Know about Jon...
She doesn't Know that the spiraling is eager to disclose this information to his avaunt…
She doesn't Know that Jon's lying in bed next to her assistant and watching the human facsimile of his love sleep, lulled into sweet dreams by the humming from Jon's skin…
She doesn't Know that she's a pawn again.
Michael Shelley looks almost at peace when he's handed the map to the hallways. Gertrude assumes that he's certain that he'll come back out, that he'll be safe within the Distortion's walls. Yet, it isn't that assumption that drives him to the door. It isn't that assumption that pushes him to turn the handle and step into a kaleidoscope of nonsense…
No, it's the bone-deep feeling of completion that leads him to walk in without fear, to heed Gertrude no mind when she makes a small noise of confusion about how eager the Spiral feels.
The floor feels so soft and yet unyielding beneath his feet. The ceiling seems so high and yet caging in the most comforting of ways. The walls shift between cornflower blue, violent yellow, and sweet-scented lavender.
The door shuts behind him.
And a man who looks so much like himself and yet not stares back from a mirrored picture frame.
"Michael…"
There's a feather-light and candy-sweet voice behind him, and Michael Shelly finds that the door has vanished and only the speaker remains. He looks at the beautiful young man and finds himself reaching out to a familiar stranger. He feels the static in Jon's edges caress the part of him that does and doesn't belong to this place, and the humming grows louder between them. He hears Jon sing a tune that Michael
Shelley
knows to be himself.
"Come home?"
There is no voice in the traditional sense, but Michael hears it in every part of his being.
The response is harder to initiate; he's fraying at the edges, growing lankier and sharper with each passing moment. His own voice… if that's what one calls the way the air trembles and winds around Jon's blooming skin… sings through their bodies with a finality.
"...take me home, triskele… It's time."