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The Lonely looks like a foggy Bournemouth. He knows it only looks like that for him, for Martin, coincidentally, it’s another beach — perhaps they’re just lonely places — for Peter, however, it’s a large house, full of halls that if not empty are filled with the uncaring faces he knows so well, yet might as well be strangers to him.
It’s unfair that it’s Bournemouth. He’s grown out of it. He’s seen worse, experienced worse than Mr. Spider, a few bullies, and his grandmother’s pinched expression that he knows is because of her own grief and not because she hates him, but it feels like she hates him, it’s always felt like she hates him. He’s… grown out of all of that. He’s grown out of it.
He used to walk along this beach when it was cloudy but not rainy. He’d collect seashells sometimes, sometimes just walk. Because it was comforting, because he had no friends to spend time with, because he didn’t want to go home to see his grandmother’s at best fake love.
He’s over it. He’s grown out of it. He’s grown used to the knowledge that he’ll have a lonely childhood and a lonely adulthood and die alone.
At least… at least until Martin. Martin. Their awkward conversations when Martin was living in document storage and Jon was leaving the Institute far too late and coming in far too early for Martin’s liking. Their lunches at nearby cafes where neither met the other’s eye. Their first proper conversation in — if Jon is being honest — five months where Jon made a variety of jokes in admittedly poor taste about lotion mannequins and the newly improved quality of his skin and Martin didn’t even try to hide his growing concern.
He wants his Martin back. His friend, maybe even his… boyfriend if he wasn’t going to die in the Lonely to save the world he’d unknowingly doomed.
Martin’s not his to lose. Martin’s his responsibility though. And he’s going to get him out as the last thing he’ll do.
“Martin!” he calls, exhaling a cloud of fog like cigarette smoke. “Martin!”
“He doesn’t want to see you.” Peter Lukas sounds like he’s coming from behind him. Jon spins around but there’s nothing for him to face but more fog.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not here, Archivist. No one is,” he sounds irritated. It makes Jon irritated, more than irritated. “It’s only you.”
“Fine.” He grits his teeth, faces another direction at random. “Then maybe no one can answer some questions.”
“You’ve still got time, Archivist. Turn around and leave. You’ve played your part. Now go.”
He has, hasn’t he. He’s been the best little puppet he could be. He’s followed his script to a tee, not ever missing a que, not even now that he knows what it’s leading to, the great tragic ending that’s been planned all along.
He’s not leaving though. He’s not following through.
“What’s wrong, Lukas? Afraid of talking face-to-face?”
Peter laughs, his chuckles echoing just like his words. “Of course. Or haven’t you been paying attention?”
Jon huffs and continues to walk. Christ, he knows Peter’s not going to co-operate and Martin’s his top priority, not talking to an avatar of the Lonely who would probably prefer never to talk to another living soul ever again in his life. Good thing he barely has a soul anymore.
“Martin!”
“It’s odd, really. You each think you’re so focused on the other, but how much do you really know each other?” Peter says, almost conversationally. “How much time have you spent together when not working, or bickering, or fleeing from that latest thing that wants to kill you?” Jon continues to walk. Footsteps on a gravel path next to an endless, foggy beach. “So. What are you seeking? The image you’ve each created of the other?”
He’s seeking a happy ending. He doesn’t know him, sure, but he wants — he needs Martin to be okay. Heh, he needs him to be okay. An echo, an echo, always one step behind.
“The people you think you love don’t exist. Not really. And that’s a very lonely place to be.”
“Shut up.” He’s got enough introspection to do on his own without Peter distracting him with his monologue designed to stop him from looking, like that’ll ever be enough, like anything with ever be enough to keep Jon from fighting tooth and nail to save Martin K. Blackwood. “Martin!”
“He doesn’t… want… to see you.”
“Then let me hear that from him,” he snaps, turning his head around as if to face something that… isn’t there. Did he see something? Is it Martin or Peter?
“Just go.”
“Make me.” There’s a pause. “Unless you can’t. The Lonely and the Eye aren’t too far apart, are they? Not really. What good’s being alone if you don’t know how alone you truly are? Which means…” He can feel himself begin to smile. “Well, I think you’re worried. You know I’ll find him eventually, and you know I can find you .” There is another, heavy pause. He laughs, a small heh. “Thought so.”
He continues to walk. The air gets… heavier, somehow, it feels like a humid summer’s day, it feels like the opposite of lonely. It feels like- “Martin!”
He’s standing there, his back to Jon, but he recognizes the sweater and his hair that’s grown slightly and Martin himself, buried in fog as he is.
“Jon?”
Martin sounds… tired. Tired and quiet. Echoing faintly, just like… Peter.
“I – I’m here. I came for you.”
“Why?”
Because he’d burn it all, he’d set the world on fire to let Martin be safe? Because it’s not like him to be alone, because someone as kind and caring and forgiving and loving and strong and smart and perfect as Martin shouldn’t be languishing alone in this eternal fog? He can’t find the words, or he just can’t say them.
“…I thought you might be lost.”
Martin’s voice sounds like he’s holding back a cold laugh. “Are you real?”
“Yes! Yes, I-I-I am. Come on, you’ve got to get out here.”
“No.” Martin still hasn’t turned around. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why?” He wants to reach out and take his hand.
“This is where I should be.” Not Martin. Not for Martin. “It feels right.”
“Martin, don’t say that.”
“Nothing hurts here. It’s just quiet.” It’s overcast, the clouds are fill to bursting, they will never rain and ruin the tense peace they have created. “Even the fear is gentle here.”
Martin shouldn’t be saying this. Martin shouldn’t be alone.
“This isn’t right. This isn’t you.”
“It is though.” Martin laughs a wry laugh, finally turning around. He looks as defeated as he sounds. “I really loved you, you know?”
“Martin listen he — he’s done something, Peter’s done something to mess with your-“
And then he’s gone.
“Damnit! Martin?” he calls once more. “Martin!”
“I tried to tell you.” Peter’s voice is almost pitying. “He’s gone. He made his choice. And it wasn’t you.”
Jon puts his hands in his old What The Ghost hoodie’s pockets. “It was for me though. I’m the reason he- I did this to him as much as you.”
Yet another mark he arranged all on his lonesome. Barely any interference necessary. And Martin managed to get manipulated into it too.
“Yes.” Peter sounds… happier. “Where are your friends, Archivist?”
“Tim and Sasha are dead.”
Sasha for his collection of traumas, a useless mark, considering the Unknowing was on its way. Tim whose last words to him were that he didn’t forgive him, not that Jon ever deserved his forgiveness.
“Yes?”
“Daisy and Basira are… probably dead.”
Or worse. Daisy given into the Hunt. Basira torn apart and worn by that thing that called itself Sasha for so long without him noticing.
“Because. Of. You.”
“Georgie and Melanie have left me.”
He can’t blame either of them, not really. The disappointment and pity and eventually anger on Georgie’s face matched hers in the dream. She had every right to leave, his self destruction, his impulsivity would and has dragged down everyone who tried to care about him or was even in close proximity to him. “He’s welcome,” Melanie had said. “As a friend.” The first offer of friendship he’d ever had from her and that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to drag her back into the mess she’d gouged her own eyes out to escape.
“And?”
“Martin’s gone.”
“You’re alone, Archivist. The last one standing. I did warn you. I did want you to leave but, perhaps it would be better if you stayed a while. After all — you can’t hurt anyone in here.”
“Maybe,” Jon laughs bitterly, voice shaking from the cold. “You’re right of course. All of it. I can’t get anyone killed in here. I can’t doom a world in here.” Jon’s eyes find Peter. There’s no difference between him and the rest of the fog surrounding them, he sticks out like a sore thumb. “But, I can hurt someone in here.” Jon takes a step towards Peter. “And honestly, more than just wanting to hurt you, I-I’m curious. Too preoccupied with saving Martin to really think about what you two had planned, how much of a hand you had in giving me-“ The words are sour on his tongue. “My final mark.” He looks to the side. “Besides, it’s been a while since I took a live statement.” He looks forward again, making direct eye contact. “So, tell me what happened.”
—
His victory, his prize, his winnings in a bet. His Archivist, his Archive, his scared little boy who saw a spider and couldn’t get over it.
It’s not enough. It’s not enough, Peter knows more about Magnus’s plans, what he’s going to do when Jon doesn’t come out, what he’s going to do when he does.
“Tell me more about the bet,” he growls.
“There’s nothing more to say,” Peter says. “He got you if he won.”
“The ritual. Tell me about the ritual.”
“You won’t hear anymore from me. I’m done.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m not…” Peter says, audibly straining. “Saying… another word.”
“Tell me or I will rip it out of you!”
“No!”
“Answer my question!”
“NO!” Peter yells. “LEAVE. ME. ALONE!”
“TELL ME!”
Peter screams as he is torn apart. Not physically, there’s no physical body to rip and tear through like Jon does to the fog all around them. It’s his mind, it’s his knowledge, lost because of his defenses of loneliness and never truly knowing another person.
And now he’s dead. And his knowledge is dead.
But he’s dead and Jon can’t help but take a glib satisfaction in that fact.
“Stubborn fool.” Jon stares at the place Peter Lukas was not for a second longer than turns around to see “Martin.” Jon’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “He’s gone, Martin. H-he’s gone.”
“His only wish was to die alone,” Martin says. His voice is eirily similar to Peter’s. It makes Jon want to look next to him, check that nobody’s there.
“Tough. N-now listen to me, Martin, listen-“
“Oh. Hello, Jon.” Martin looks through him.
“Listen, I know you think you want to be here. I know you think it’s safer, and… well, it is.” How’s he supposed to do this? How’s he supposed to drag Martin out of the Lonely when he can’t leave, lest he destroy the world and condemn everyone in it to eternal torment. “But… you don’t deserve this, Martin. You don’t deserve to be alone. And you’re not, t-there’s Melanie, she got out, you know, she’s better now, she’d welcome you as a friend, a-and-“ Jon stuttered on, not leaving a gap for Martin to voice any protests. “Daisy and Basira, I know you’re mistrustful, I am too, still am, honestly, but they care about you, we all do.” He swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I do.”
“No you don’t. Neither do they. No one really does, not really.” He smiled. “I did this for me, you know. So, I could die. I stayed for me, too. So, I wouldn’t have to deal with a guilty conscience when he took you, too.”
“Because you cared. Martin. I- I can’t, I need you to be safe, I need you to be okay, I can’t lose you.”
“I’m sorry.” Martin turns as if to walk away. Jon grabs his wrist, it’s ice cold.
“Martin. Martin look at me.” Martin turns back towards him, still just looking through him. “Look at me and tell me what you see.”
“I see…” Martin looks directly in his eyes. “I see you, Jon.” He laughs, a small laugh like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I see you.” Martin starts to hyperventilate, Jon pulls him into a hug, resting their faces against each other’s. “I was on my own. I was all on my own.”
“I’m sorry,” he wants to say. “I’m sorry I have to do this. I’m sorry I have to leave you alone again.”
Instead he gives Martin his best smile, puts on a good show, for someone he doesn’t mind is watching. “Come on, let’s go home.”
“How?”
“You know the way, just think,”
Martin closes his eyes, then nods, disentangling himself from the hug and offering Jon his hand. His eyes are red from crying, Jon hopes he doesn’t grieve too much.
“Don’t look back,” Jon whispers. They’re close, they’re almost out. If Martin listens he can leave, be free, gouge out his eyes and live the rest of his life in peace. Martin, Basira and Daisy if they’re still alive, Melanie and Georgie. The only thing standing between them and a life free of fear and full of joy is Jon and the end he brings. “Whatever you do, don’t look back.”
He lets go of Martin’s hand, and lets the fog take him for its own.