Archive of Our Own ^beta

Light in the morning is always the softest.

He stands a few paces ahead, his back turned to you, his hands folded. He moves aside heavy velveteen drapes to invite in more light, the sudden illumination forcing you to squint while your eyes adjust. People dot the busy streets below in a rush to get to work. He’s always had a penchant for watching over regular life, never commenting, always ruminating. Which leads you to a question with which no answer could satisfy.

What is worse: when Johan is silent, or when he speaks?

“You like to be of service to others.”

It’s a complete thought that you feel little motivation to supplement. This conversation has already been exhausted, to the point revisiting the subject further dissuades your appetite. The untouched pastries on your plate are looking less and less desirable by the second. What does catch your eye, however, is a silver gleam. A knife that room service so diligently provided.

One for you — just not one for him. For in the eyes of society, he does not exist.

He’s waiting for a response this time. Your irritation is further exacerbated by the cheap, instant coffee you’ve downed two cups of, the beverage dialing your senses up to eleven. His deliberate decision to welcome in direct sunlight confirms that he’s well aware of your sensitivity but cares little for it. Unfortunately for you, today’s mood must err toward provocation. Your least favorite divination for the dowsing rod to fall on.

“We’ve established that,” is your response. You sniffle, finding it terribly cold in here. Winter could find a rival in hotel air conditioners.

“Yes, we have,” he agrees. In the window’s reflection, you realize he’s staring at you. Anyone else would look away should they be caught in the act. Not him. His gaze remains. “Tell me why that is again.”

You sigh. It’s better to lay things down on your own terms so that he can’t spin his take without meeting resistance. While you might get splinters from dismantling his loom, the alternative of leaving it unscathed is far worse.

“We live in a world where there is an immense disparity between those who have and those who don’t. I feel it’s the duty of those who have the means to help, to help. I just want to do my part in that. I’d be a hypocrite if I felt this way while doing nothing.”

“And are you not a hypocrite in other ways?”

“I’m sure I am,” you shrug. “Everyone is, if they’re being honest about it.”

“Even me?”

You can tell he’s smiling from the tone of his voice. It’s a gesture you don’t reciprocate.

“I don’t know. To be a hypocrite, you must first believe in something with a firm conviction. But you…” you take a deep breath, wondering if your next words would be better left unsaid, “... You believe in nothing. So no. I don’t think you are a hypocrite.”

“Coming from a morally upstanding person such as yourself, that’s quite the compliment.”

It’s a purposefully cheap shot that you can’t work up the energy to get offended over. He doesn’t want your offense, you’re far past the point of assuming his dubious intentions to be that straightforward. You long for the misguided days when you clenched that notion to your chest as if it were a prized treasure. No, what he wants is nothing as simple and easy to comprehend as earning your indignation. That would just make too much sense — give you something to work with.

For what he truly wants is more troubling than anything you could possibly fathom. 

“Surely, you didn’t rehash this topic just to say that.”

“Indeed not. It was helpful to reestablish your worldview so I know I’m not being hasty in my next judgment.”

Johan is lying without making an effort to conceal it. While he is setting the scene, it’s not for his sake, but for yours. Hidden beneath the veneer of niceties is a viper that strikes at the heel. Slow is the venom he injects, so that you might experience the malaise to its fullest. Anything less than that would be a mercy from him.

“One more question, then I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast in peace.”

Also a lie. Where Johan went, peace never followed, it was the antithesis to his nature. You were amazed he was capable of uttering the word without going up in flames. You nod, not that it makes any difference, he’s going to see his designs brought to life no matter what fight you do or don’t put up.

“Would you say it’s wrong to help others if you’re ultimately doing it for your own benefit?”

Out of all the questions Johan has posed, this might be the easiest.

“Yes, I would.”

There’s mirth dancing in his eyes. Not the innocuous kind that most people are familiar with, but a twisted, sinister rendition, that you liken to a hunter who found its prey caught in a trap set days prior. What little sits in your stomach threatens to crawl back up. You take a sip of lukewarm water to discourage it.

“I’m afraid you are a hypocrite then, based on your definition of the word,” he almost sounds genuinely apologetic at forcing you to face this revelation. “Since if we’re being honest, you and I — you do want something in return. Just not in a material form.”

He turns to confront you directly. It’s remarkable how a voice so soft could penetrate deeper than any knife. You lose your ability to meet his gaze, dropping it downward, examining every dip and groove of your now cold breakfast. He approaches with a calm gait, taking the time to pull his chair out and settle across from you.

Johan rests his elbows on the table, leans forward, and steeples his fingers. He rests his chin atop them. “It gives you a sense of belonging you couldn’t earn from your own merit. You, who is average at everything, yet excels in nothing.”

It’s fitting that his eyes are ocean blue. For he is a riptide that so many have drowned in, when they make the mistake of fighting back and exhausting themselves.

“Who would choose to keep you around if you had nothing tangible to offer them? You rush to aid the fortunate just as much as you do the unfortunate. By making them laugh, or flattering them, you cement your place by their side. A place that you must know to be in competition for. Should anyone come by that fulfills your duty better, you wouldn’t be discarded, oh no. You would be forgotten altogether. No effort would be made to throw you away.”

You stand up.

Though you might tower over him in height from this position, it is still he who looks down at you. You think about the alluring knife resting an arm’s length away. The door that he never keeps locked, as he is confident you won’t walk out. He wouldn’t move to stop you even if you did. Not when he knows you’ll come right back.

Johan wants to show you the total collapse of this world — you want to prove there is something in it worth saving.

In the same way Abraham beseeched his God to spare the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, you too seek to challenge Johan’s total disregard for human life, on the grounds that each person has inherent value. There is no legal recourse you could seek against him. He is a ghost, sand that falls through the sieve of the law. His many wicked acts have no documentation. No method to corroborate besides a few rumors and records wiped clean from the planet.

For some reason or another, he has allowed your meddling presence to remain where others have been reduced to bloodstains on pavement. Perhaps it started as mere amusement. A way for him to occupy his time in between major events, an outlet where he could show his true, hideous nature. No one would believe you. At times, you find it difficult to believe yourself.

Taking deep breaths, you hear the thrum of your heart die down. It’s a slow and agonizing process. Your head feels light but your resolve is heavy.

Feeling that the reigns to your body have been returned to their rightful owner, you sit back down.

“You don’t have the complete scope of things. All you have is conjecture.”

“Is that so?”

He sounds genuinely curious. Johan doesn’t want to destroy you so much as he wants to deconstruct you — this is proven by how he pauses his verbal onslaught to gauge your reaction. Whether it be a soft spot for you, or, more realistically, an unspoken acknowledgment that not letting you speak your piece is the same as admitting you have a point.

“The way you phrase things makes it out to be more heinous than it actually is,” you start nibbling at your danish. “Of course people want those who they surround themselves with to have some use, but I’d argue it’s subconscious for most. We’re a social species. We wouldn’t have progressed past the Stone Age if not for the instinct to band together.”

You swallow the sweet, flaky treat. “What you’re describing is friendship. In the same way you can make anything sound bad depending on how you describe it, I can put my own positive spin on things.”

“Maybe there have been times where I was over-eager to earn the approval of others. So what? If I’m aware of that fault of mine, that means I can improve it. I like making people smile. I like making people laugh. I want to show others their worth,” you nod, slowly, full of conviction. “Yes… that does set me up for being a hypocrite at times. I can live with it if it means I’m set apart from people like you.”

Johan closes his eyes.

“Do you think this is enough to convince me?”

You feel the inquiry is pointed more toward your overarching goal than this specific argument.

“No. I won’t count myself satisfied until you walk into a police station and confess to each and every one one of your crimes,” you reply. The pastry is gone but your ravenous appetite is not. “That’s when I’ll know I convinced you. Not a moment sooner.”

He appraises you after hearing this.

Johan extends his hand across the table, his palm up, silently urging you to give him yours. You stare at the outstretched invitation warily. He won’t force you to go along with his whims — to do so would mean going against a silent agreement you both somehow arrived at — so you consider the prospects.

Your decision comes not long after.

His cold fingers wrap around yours to secure their prize, the touch no more aggressive than a breeze too soft to make the flowers sway. He lifts your hand and moves it in the direction you gravitated toward in your darkest moments. 

Over the knife you don’t dare touch, even when your meals call for it.

“You could always put an end to things yourself, [First],” it’s rare he speaks your name. It’s even rarer he says it like that, without superficial charm dripping from each syllable. “You once asked me if I had a heart. I’ll let you cut me open and see for yourself.”

Your fingers twitch yet they deny the impulse.

“That’d be letting you off too easy,” you decide. “Besides… I’m not a doctor. I’ll let one of them check in my stead.”

For some reason or another, this comment amuses him greatly, an inside joke that has shoulders shaking as he laughs.

He squeezes your hand once and pulls away.

"There’s always mine. I’ll have to ask him to let you know.”