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To be on Laszlo's doorstep twice in one night feels like the cruel addendum to an overly tired joke.
The mocking brand of laughter that John so often carries with him everywhere--clinging to the hem of his coat, always trailing several steps behind him--it's still ringing clear out into the night when the world sees fit to echo his torment with one final refrain of the punchline.
It comes louder and with significantly more feeling this time around, for the dwindling number of gentlemen at the back of the room who might not yet be aware of all his failures. Come tomorrow they'll know for sure, as failure will be written across every inch of John’s body, in a rainbow of different colours. Weakness on stark display for all to see and laugh at.
It's not that John wants to be here, rather that there's nowhere else he can go. Returning home in the state he currently finds himself in, unable to turn a key--had he still been in the possession of his to make that action even possible--would mean having to knock on his own front door and beg for someone to come rescue him. Either his frail grandmother or her doting help being rudely dragged from their beds in the dampened dead of night; the very thought of it wounds John worse than he already is.
What John needs in times like these, as he always has, is a stabilising hold on his person. A grip tighter than some might expect, to forcibly drag him over the threshold of his own misgivings. Lest the cruel laughter that follows him like stalking footsteps in the night finally catches up, and he has little choice but to let the miasma envelop him, devour him whole, until he feels there's nothing left, until he collapses to his knees right where he stands.
It's a kind of fortified strength John doubts either party back home can provide for him.
Begging Laszlo, on the other hand--
Well, Laszlo has always found a way to be the tallest person in any given room. A massive feat for a man who also measures up against him several inches shorter. Which is to say, appearing morally and intellectually small next to Laszlo is hardly a new feeling at all.
For Laszlo to see him shivering without his jacket, it bothers John very little. The mud and dirt streaked up John's back might give him pause for just a moment, but expectation rarely reaches the dazzling heights of reality. Creating a fiction around what must have happened, then choosing to keep it to himself, where John can neither argue or deny it, is simply not in Laszlo's nature. Whatever Laszlo is thinking, he'll be sure to let John know, as curiosity for the truth will always win out in the end.
Knowing this, there's no doubt in John's mind that Laszlo will bring him inside, with a grip that borders on being too tight, in order to ask all the questions that John is willing to answer. When it comes to the rest of the questions, John will answer those too, inevitably. But dismantling and deciphering why that is, is something John deems necessary these days, in order to fully understand himself in a way he's never wanted to before.
So far he's discovered that putting himself at the mercy of Laszlo's curiosity is the lesser of a whole world full of evils.
And for all of John's tattered pride, at a time of such wounded vulnerability, he's quite willing to admit that he just wants to see the man. To be in his presence for a short while, until the shock of the night he's had subsides.
It's actually a choice to end up back on his doorstep for the second time in one night, a choice that John believes he makes of sound mind and broken body.
The street remains eerily empty around him at such a late hour, with an atmosphere that hangs like a heavy weight. An earlier rain has left behind a shine on the dull cobblestone bricks, highlighting the grime that edges every step braved through this overcrowded city. Across the way, the park is poorly lit, making it look as though the path leads into total darkness. Any unsuspecting victims going for a stroll would be swallowed up by a gaping maw with teeth the size of trees.
It's nothing more than the paranoia taking shape but, at times, it sure does feel like the city is a living, breathing thing that's surrounding him. Just waiting for its moment to strike him down. Try as it might, it didn't quite manage to do away with him tonight, but that doesn't mean that it won't try again in the near future.
Standing with his back to it all, John thumps on Laszlo's door with the flat of his left palm and listens for signs of movement on the other side.
All the while, John has been holding his right arm gingerly across his stomach where he refuses to look down at it. In truth, he's looked at his right hand only once since it all happened, recognising next to nothing in the crooked slant of his fingers. From just that one look, he saw all that he needed to.
Blood obscured the worst of the damage, and with the way the numb feeling had crept ever higher up his wrist, it was far too easy to tell himself that the hand didn't even belong to him. That the strange new angles of bone and tendons, refusing to move when he asked them to, were wired up to a completely different arm.
This theory fell apart somewhat when John could clearly see his class ring turned up towards the sky. It was an odd glint of silver peeking out from a section of deathly pale skin around his little finger. Largely unmarked due to the covering, like a small metal shield held tight against vulnerable flesh. By now, the swelling of ruptured blood vessels will have eclipsed the ring entirely. An innate pressure only he can feel being the only evidence that John is a man with an education, and not actually an unfortunate vagrant trying his luck door to door.
John's devolving line of thought is thankfully cut short when he hears the sound of tumblers being quietly unlocked. The door then creaks open to reveal Laszlo still fully dressed. The immediate relief it gives John to see him loosens a knot deep in his chest, a reaction that has less to do with the dire situation the more John allows himself to linger on it.
"I thought I'd sent you home already," says Laszlo, his mood undetectable.
John musters up a laugh, no more forceful than a weakened sigh. "Against my better wishes, my friend, I was waylaid before I could get there."
The lit street lamp behind him must be doing a job of throwing John into complete shadow, as Laszlo continues to squint past him, looking for a brief moment like John's arrival had awakened him from a deep sleep, despite the evidence offered by his state of dress. John sways on the top step, fully understanding the feeling of operating in a daze. It's how he made it here, after all. Motions like muscle memory guiding him along. He drops back his aching shoulders in fatigue and allows his spine to curve. This causes the backlight to spill over him from a different vantage; bruises, cuts and gutter stains revealing themselves inch by inch, like the cast from the rising sun at dawn, over his shoulder horizon.
Laszlo takes in this new information with narrowed eyes. "I had also thought that drunken brawls were a habit of your past."
It stings a little to be so thoroughly stripped to the bone in a single breath. Laszlo has dutifully explained to him the meaning behind Occam's razor before, and so he can't begrudge the man for his most obvious first conclusion. At least he voiced it, whereas his grandmother would have only shaken her head and sighed.
"Yes, well, while that is still the case, it seems gratuitous fights for my life have come back into fashion. May I come in, please, Laszlo? I fear it's about to rain."
Just as John offers the possibility, a growl of thunder answers him. Too far away in the distance to have been preceded by a visible flash of lightning, but the threat of rain hanging in the air grows heavier and more likely by the second with the rise of the crushing humidity. And though a cleansing shower appeals to John in the moment, he runs the risk of coming out the other side too comically pathetic. He feels a beaten dog dripping on the man's doorstep is one step too far for his already threadbare pride.
"My apologies," says Laszlo at once, stepping delicately to the side.
He reaches for John's upper arm as he passes, where there's only a thin dress shirt separating them, and acts as a crutch to guide John over the threshold. If he wasn't in so much pain, John would smile at this fact. Instead, he stumbles, catching the toe of his boot on something that has never tripped him here before.
"How bad is the nausea?" Laszlo asks, readjusting his grip to John's elbow. There's a hard edge to his voice now, having mistaken clumsiness for inebriation, which means another strike marked against John's favour. "Should I be wary of standing so close?"
"Hand on heart, Laszlo, I assure you I am sober. A little concussed, I suspect, but painfully and abhorrently without drink."
Wrapped up as he is in the sincerity of his words, John starts to offer the full and solemn gesture along with them, remembering the mangled state of his hand a fraction too late. Even the barest touch of his flayed skin against his waistcoat draws a hiss from his throat, with the stinging pain lingering long after he manages to curb the sound.
It draws Laszlo's attention down to his hand immediately, and John is somewhat surprised to hear him offer a similar hiss in sympathy. In the meagre light refracted through the glass panels in the door, Laszlo inspects the bloodied mess, urging John to turn it this way and that with light fingers pressing into his forearm. It doesn't take him long to notice something John missed while refusing to look directly at it.
"These look like tread marks to me, John. Just what exactly have you been up to in the mere hours you've been gone?"
There's a surrogate fury in the expression Laszlo then levels on him; a man who has always been hyper sensitive to the plight of a targeted victim. He sees himself in every one, which is a noble yet agonising way to live. Funny how that most often translates into making Laszlo appear a bully himself, something he's admittedly been working hard to fix lately, running parallel to John and his quest for sobriety.
Quite a pair they must make from an outside perspective, like a foot race hindered by their choosing to run it in bare feet.
John scrapes up the courage to be able to look down and, sure enough, now that it's been pointed out to him, he can clearly see the impressions of boot heels printed into the skin on the back of his hand. In mud and swiftly purpling bruises. On the bend of his wrist and across the broad span of his swollen knuckles. Numerous downward strokes, all cruelly focused on a single spot of anatomy.
"Hmm," John notes, preferring to look away. Anywhere, even, but at the hunk of tenderised meat attached to the end of his arm. "You would be correct in thinking so."
He must smell like a man dragged out of the gutter, like booze upended in the street, but it's all just a wrapping, a cloak that was tied around his neck against his will. Not for the first time either, although at least the truth and a relatively clean conscience are firmly on John's side for this occasion. Laszlo thankfully sees behind the disguise as quickly as he solves any puzzle, and with the last clue pointing him in a direction that spells deliberate violence, his whole demeanour then changes in an instant.
"You'll need ice on that hand right away to try and mitigate some of the swelling," he says with authority. Then, with a slight wrinkling of his nose, "The cuts and bruises will have to wait. But judging by the stench of you, there's no telling the diseases that are already festering in them."
Before he's even finished talking Laszlo begins pulling him in the direction of the sitting room, moving them together through the dark entryway with the ease of a well earned familiarity. Nary the repeat of a stubbed toe in sight. Laszlo leaves him standing in the middle of the room to go and approach the fireplace. There, he builds up a fire with the intention of having it burn bright and long, before he whirls back around to face John.
"Sit," Laszlo tells him.
And so John sits. On the plum coloured chaise longue positioned perpendicular to the flames.
Afterwards, John wonders if he should have put up a token protest. He's indescribably filthy, from head to toe. Has been dragged through a disgusting alleyway flat on his back, and pressed unforgiving into the murk and mire that flows there. Laszlo's fine furniture deserves better than him, but by the time John has found his voice to say so, Laszlo has already left the room.
With nothing better to do but keep his hands awkwardly in the air, high above any rich and delicate fabrics, John waits in tentative silence.
Laszlo returns a short while later with folded linens in his arms and a ceramic dish painted with an elaborate floral pattern balanced on top. Hanging off one arm, he has a leather satchel with his initials faintly etched alongside the clasp. Not neatly engraved, mind you, but gouged out with a knife.
"You'll have to forgive me, John,” Laszlo says in a rush. “I'm far less equipped for this situation than I realised." He places the bowl next to John on the seat, showing how the shallow amount of water inside is being displaced by a very generous helping of ice. When he goes on, Laszlo directs the words down towards its rocky surface, avoiding John's direct gaze. "Finding myself alone as I am now, it makes everything once useful so much harder to locate. It's as though someone has come through and rearranged all the furniture overnight. Strangely maddening to recognise everything and nothing, both at the same time."
It's a heavy statement to come freely from a man like Laszlo. Conjures up the image of a small figure overwhelmed by a much larger house. John knows Laszlo sees sowing the remainder of his household out into the world as a kindness, just like when his brother once told him it was cruel to keep the butterfly he had caught shut up inside a jam jar for the rest of its natural life. But John also knows that they all thought of themselves as a disjointed family here, no matter their poorer origins, and the act of isolating himself is a punishment only Laszlo thinks he deserves.
For him to admit to feeling like a stranger in his own home, it's a rare gesture of vulnerability. One that John feels compelled to volley back.
As Laszlo sets down the linens and not the satchel, still hovering close to where John is sitting--only curled in on himself like the flickering shadows stretching for the ceiling are a physical weight pushing down, generations of guilt using him as a stepping stone for greater reach--John clears his throat and starts talking.
"If you must know,” he explains, “I ran into an acquaintance on the way home who insisted on having a drink."
At once, Laszlo blinks at him, seemingly surprised not to have had his moment of weakness pulled at like a hanging thread. Realising he's instead being handed more pieces of the larger puzzle, Laszlo uncoils to the point where he feels comfortable reaching for John's shirt cuff. He begins to unbutton it one handed, rolling back the sleeve, making it very clear with his smoothed over body language that he is listening intently.
Laszlo’s taller than him like this, John thinks vapidly, with the way his head is being forced to tilt back in order to be able to run his eyes over Laszlo's face--which, of course he is, John is sitting down. He shakes the dull-witted thought away from his preoccupied mind and continues on with his story.
"When I informed him I no longer drank, he only laughed. He continued to laugh right up to the moment I asked for a glass of water, and by that point my desire to see him put in his place had me already inside of the establishment. I couldn’t very well turn him down from there."
Here, John offers a self-effacing shrug. Sobriety he's handling surprisingly well, it's the rest of John's less than desirable traits that are getting harder to suppress in turn. Such as the pushing of boundaries he knows are there for a reason. A bleed over, he supposes, from the company he recently keeps. His languid shrug is abruptly cut short when Laszlo takes up his battered hand and unceremoniously submerges it into the icy water.
Story forgotten--words as an entire concept completely shunted from his brain--John's immediate instinct is to pull away from the burning cold that's now stabbing needles into his hand. To be confronted with such extreme sensation, after so long feeling nothing, the urge to twist and writhe travels through his body like a shudder. If not for Laszlo's iron grip around his wrist, John would surely have punched the bowl across the room just to be rid of it.
"Dear God, Laszlo," John forces out through gritted teeth, it's the only way he can see to stop his speech from rattling. "Warn a man next time."
"I fail to see how a drink with someone you barely know leads to you fighting for your life."
Any previous sluggish feelings are miraculously gone from John's mind. He is as present in the room as if he'd just received a wild slap in the face. Laszlo's calm persistence is a grounding track to latch onto. Continuous forward momentum, connecting one station of thought to the other.
"The trouble came after I had finished my glass of water." The quick reminder has John attempting to flex his freezing fingers, but the resulting pain only succeeds in momentarily blinding him. When he blinks back into focus, Laszlo is now crouched at John's feet, rummaging through the leather satchel he had brought in with him. Nothing strange there, best to keep moving on, but not before John hastily casts his wide eyes up to the ceiling, a peculiar kind of heat prickling at his temples. "We soon parted ways and when I paused outside to smoke, I was attacked from behind. I couldn't say what he hit me with, most likely a brick or a rock, but it brought me right to the ground."
John hears a rustle of movement. At some point since he arrived, the promised heavy rain had started, with sheets of it now slamming against the windows in surging waves. There's been no sign of the thunder or lightning, just the torrential sound of a different beast prowling around outside. John assumes the noise and the rustle are one in the same, leaving him wholly unprepared for Laszlo's probing hand in his hair.
Leaning over him, fingers threaded through the sweat damp hair at the back of John's head, Laszlo says airily, "My best guess would be something wide and flat. There's no laceration, but a pretty sizable bump. A wooden board perhaps, providing he swung it like a bat. Did you black out for any period?"
John involuntarily gulps, his face inches from Laszlo's collarbone. "No, unfortunately not."
Instead of being satisfied with that feeble answer, Laszlo takes a small step back. He directs John’s face towards the fire with a hand on his cheek and then draws in close to peer into his eyes. Laszlo's eyes are closer to brown than green and they track any movement with a sharp intelligence; John can only gaze back. Laszlo brings up his hand to block the light, removing it again to check the reaction in John's pupils. He does this for both eyes until he's finally satisfied. Patting John's cheek once in parting, he returns to pawing through the leather satchel at their feet.
"Both eyes are reacting normally," he assures with a lilt that steadily rises into faint amusement. Already on edge, John finds himself holding his breath. "I think it's safe to rule out any serious brain damage. Small mercies of having an extraordinarily hard head."
John exhales all of his frustration into the empty space that's been afforded to him. "Do you know how to compliment, Laszlo, or is it only ever done by accident?"
"I don't know what you mean. That was entirely on purpose."
Laszlo makes a noise of triumph then, pulling from the bag a small amber coloured bottle. John recognizes iodine at a glance and tenses once again, already preparing himself for the coming pain. "Now," Laszlo adds, still on his knees, shuffling closer, "tell me what happened next."
Oh, right, of course. The story--
"The first thing I became aware of was a pressure at the back of my neck. He was attempting to drag me further into the alleyway using just the collar of my jacket. Forgoing any grace at all, I was able to slip out of it, but when I tried to climb to my feet, that was the moment when he brought down his boot heel for the first time." John is snapped out of the terrible memory, bones echoing a fractured sound he's not likely to ever forget, by Laszlo making a telegraphed motion for his hand. He nods for John to keep going and the words come, albeit more halting, as Laszlo carefully draws his hand out of the water. "If I lost any time it was then. He was a man in a frenzy. Whatever I'd done to upset him, it poured out of him with every stomp."
Freed from the bracing clutch of ice, John's hand buzzes with a feeling of electricity. It passes up and down each finger in a spasm, his nerves being shocked back to life after coming into contact with the rising temperature of the room. Laszlo holds him firmly by the wrist, but has to let go in order to inspect the worst of the breaks with the same hand. Not unlike a stray arc of lightning briefly connecting sky to ground, John's brain connects the thought that he's not the only one here operating with one hand strung behind his back.
Where John has weeks or months of convalescence in his future, Laszlo has had a lifetime, with no end in sight. Suddenly Laszlo's gentle care takes on a sadder meaning. There's seeing himself in a nameless victim, downtrodden by the world, and then there's being confronted by a close friend seemingly singled out by a violent bully. Choosing to fix what he can in a circumstance that must ring in his head like a traumatic memory. Is this the kind of loving treatment Laszlo longed for as a child but never got? With that in mind, John can already guess what Laszlo's next question is going to be.
"He was fixated on your hand?"
"Oh, no," John is quick to reply. "He kicked me all over. The hand was only to stop me fighting back." It's true John won't be picking up a pencil any time soon, but it was very clear to him that the man wasn't seeking to destroy John's livelihood by crippling his only means to work. There's too much precision implied there, which was entirely missing from the man's unfettered attacks. "I can't say for certain, of course, but I don't think his end goal was to have one less illustrator in the world."
Laszlo accepts this conclusion with a doubtful sound. When he reaches for the linen, he tears off a piece with more force than strictly necessary. Perhaps just to showcase to John that, even with one deformed arm, people can be surprising in their capabilities. He plugs the bottle of iodine with the scrap of material and turns it over several times to soak it. Then, without bothering to warn John of the obvious pain, he presses it to the uneven landscape of his knuckles and holds it there.
Tears spring to John's eyes and he's helpless in stopping the flow of them. Swiping at the wetness with his other hand would only draw attention.
"Had you seen this man before?" Laszlo asks, focusing on his task. "Would you recognise him again?"
Ignoring the nasal quality of his own voice, John explains, "That's the thing, he was in the bar. I specifically remember as he was sitting under a light, drinking for as long as we were. Every time I would glance up my eyes were naturally drawn to the brightness, and by virtue the man directly under it."
"He took offence at being noticed," says Laszlo, nodding to himself in understanding. Folding the stained side over and dousing the scrap again, he moves along the row of John's fingers, each ministration stinging more than the last. "The obvious makings of a man who has done wrong in the past and believes everyone else can read it plainly on his face."
It's certainly an angle to consider, but some small part of John had been hoping that it wasn't the case. During his laboured journey here, John had turned a multitude of reasons over in his mind why someone would go to such extremes against an innocent, for seemingly no reason at all. To view what is his home--the place that he grew up in, where his grandmother currently resides--as a city that runs on aimless cruelty; the misery that brought him had drained John, leaving him vacant and dazed by the time he reached Laszlo's door.
While John sinks deeper into that same malaise, Laszlo takes up John's class ring between his thumb and finger, poised in an attempt to try and remove it. John stops him--not intentionally--with a broken sounding whine in the form of a question.
"Just what in God's name have we unleashed upon this city, Laszlo?"
Laszlo stills. Then, with deliberate care, he lowers John's hand back into the chilling embrace of the ice. Not bothering with the blood stained scrap, he instead pours the iodine tincture directly into the bowl, turning the pinkish water into a muddy medicinal concoction. He's hoping, this way, it will soak into the splits in John's skin and sterilise where gentle dabbing cannot reach. Minimising the need to cause him more untoward pain, when whatever he's about to say in answer might be enough in its place.
The shock of the returning cold barely registers. It's the studious look which Laszlo trains on him that fully captures John's attention. If Laszlo, in turn, notices the sheen of tears in John's eyes, he doesn't appear to judge him for it.
"I can see how you might think this way, John, but evil people have existed long before you or I chose to seek them out." Shifting to a more comfortable position on his knees, Laszlo's hand comes to settle high around John's calf for balance, miraculously avoiding the spots where the fabric must be soaked through with filth. The intensity of his gaze is hypnotic, helped along greatly by what John knows to be his teaching tone of voice. "I once read of a theory colloquially known as the frequency illusion. It posits that once we become aware of a thing, the more likely we are to notice it going forward, creating the illusion that it is increasing in frequency. Though that is simply not the case." The pressure around John's calf tightens in punctuation. Whether that's meant as a comfort, John can hardly say, not when Laszlo combines it with a soft imploring smile. "Evil has always been there, John, merely out of sight. However, just because you've experienced the horrors that this city and its people are capable of, does not mean that they are waiting for you on every street corner."
Allowing his eyes to flutter shut at the plainly offered words, John thinks back over his recent bout of paranoia. The echoes of laughter that seem to follow each one of his footsteps; fear of the dark and what horrors might be lurking there, in the rain and down paths he dare not tread; his instant dislike of a man he's known for years cordially offering to buy him a drink; the eyes of a stranger meeting his across a room, brightly lit. They all trace back to a presumed evil growing ever larger in the corner of his vision.
Not unlike the room John finds himself in now. Dark at the edges, hiding unknown things behind furniture that has been chaotically rearranged. The only spot of brightness being the man kneeling at his feet, one with a tight grip on reality he appears more than willing to share with him.
While it's impossible for John to unsee the things he's seen, with a little help maybe he can learn to look directly at them. To see the shapes in the shadows for what they really are, instead of creating more monsters out of nothing, where they should not be given the chance to thrive. True, it will be tough not to latch onto darkness when it does indeed arise. Tougher, still, with a sober mind at his disposal.
But, with a little help and a spot of brightness--
It's during this reflective moment that John first notices the fire warmed air touching its shy fingertips to the very base of his neck. A quick check with his working hand confirms his petty worry, causing John to let out a sigh with the weight of a worldly ennui. "Not just content to take my dignity and my sane reasoning, that monster also took my tie pin."
Laszlo clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, lightly chiding. "Chin up, John. Remember, he didn't take your life."
Less of an endearment, more of a request, it turns out, as Laszlo's fingers then move up to peel John's hand away and begin working at his neck, dipping under his collar occasionally to gather enough give on his tie to further loosen the material.
Laszlo’s hands are unbearably warm, as John's always known them to be. From the perfunctory passing of a book on a near daily occasion, to the one time impatience trumped propriety and Laszlo's thieving hands stole the watch right from his waistcoat pocket. He had stolen the breath from John's lungs along with it, at the sheer audacity of the act at the time. Recalling the heat of his fingers, even through both layers of silk lining and shirt, came later. Then later again, and again.
The recollection still springs up at the oddest of times, idle wonderings about the differences in their hands. Not just John's tendency to run cold, but the differing lengths of their fingers and the rare way Laszlo's hand feels in his. Strangely more common back when they were acquaintances, more friends through other people. The kind who would shake hands at every greeting--John recalling Laszlo's name with ease, and rarely the reverse ever holding true.
Well, just look at how far they’ve come.
"Can I make a simple observation?" Laszlo asks, an incongruous series of words to come out of his mouth, if John has ever heard them. "You came here instead of going to the authorities."
With the tie finally loosened and slipped free from his waistcoat, Laszlo begins to pull on the longer end. John is forced to duck his head as the choking sensation circles around his neck. It's the furthest thing from the memory of overlapping hands forcing his head down, fresh tenderness scraping against the rough ocean of the cobblestone floor. Why John’s breath quickens at this touch, it’s not for that horrible reason, that he at least knows for sure.
"What use would they be?" John barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. "Even if we weren't privy to the fact that corruption runs through them like the many branches of a tree, I would be unable to draw the man's likeness with my hand in this dismal state. I fear it will be a long time before I can ever draw again."
Laszlo folds his removed tie neatly into quarters and then places it carefully aside. He makes no move to divest John of any more of his clothing.
“There are other ways. A statement would have sufficed.”
"To tell the truth, Laszlo, this blow to the head has shaken loose more than just my paranoia. I remember bits and pieces, not enough to make up a whole. It may sound foolish to admit, but I can't actually recall what the man looked like. Only that I was sure I had seen him inside."
Laszlo sits back on his heels and watches him for a moment, head at an owlish tilt. "You've been in this room many times before, John. Describe it to me."
Used to non-sequiturs at the very worst times they could be said, John simply looks around. "It's dark," he says, to the high ceiling corners where light has never reached. "Warm and far too quiet." When Laszlo fails to react at all, he adds an idle thought that has been bothering him for a while now. "Everything in the room points towards the piano, even though you no longer play. You must either miss it a great deal, or something happened recently to remind you why you don't."
John’s candour earns him a stuttered blink, a half aborted head turn to confirm the truth, all before Laszlo dips his head in acknowledgement, then allows himself a small smile. "Very good, John. Now, I would ask that you close your eyes."
Laszlo waits for no answer. He straightens up from his knees and comes to sit beside him. He places his weaker hand on the back of John's bare neck, turning him away from the room, while the other Laszlo cups over his eyes, thumb resting lightly curled across the bridge of John's nose.
The ethereal dark of the room becomes a complete and stifling darkness. John can feel his eyelashes brushing against Laszlo's palm every time that he blinks, until the intimacy forces him to squeeze them tightly shut as requested.
"This time,” Laszlo instructs, “I want you to picture the room in your mind. Recall the times you've been here and reconstruct the space from memory."
Almost immediately, John grasps the point of the exercise. Despite Laszlo's closeness and the insane amount of heat emanating from his body, the room forms easily in his mind. It helps to match their breathing, slow intakes through his nose and out through his mouth, as the moment they sync up, the basic dimensions of the room go from amorphous shapes to the straight and measured lines worthy of a blueprint. Colours John would be hard pressed to assign names to--if he was stuck working inside the constraints of a hand drawn portrait--readily flood the walls and floor. The fireplace roars to life, the imagined smell of wood smoke filling his senses far stronger than those actually present in the room.
Life returns to a place where there hasn't been any for months. Light reaching the high corners that were presumed to be lost to the shadows.
Close as he is, and not wanting to jolt John from his thinking, Laszlo's voice dips into the low register of a whisper as he explains, "We internalise so much more information than we ever truly realise. It's when we close off one sense that our brains unlock doors to others we thought were previously locked up tight."
Laszlo's warm hands eventually drift away from their hold on his face and neck, but John keeps his eyes shut in his absence, his awareness of the man still razor sharp through the barrage of swirling colours. He knows seconds before it happens that Laszlo is going to lean around him, to lift his broken hand once again from the bowl of ice.
John feels the pressure amass on his little finger. Can feel Laszlo twisting the band of metal around in place, testing the range of motion against the lessened swelling of his hand. But when Laszlo finally does work the ring down and off his finger, there's very little pain to be found in the bright and imagined room he is sitting in. Before John even knows it, Laszlo is closer than ever, slipping the ring into the pocket of John’s waistcoat, the expected propriety held at arm's length between men be damned. Laszlo’s daring touch is instead curiously hot and probing, deftly brushing the silk lining and shirt that thinly covers the skin of John's stomach.
Then the hand is gone.
"Try picturing the man now," Laszlo says in a hushed and measured tone. “First, his face bathed in light, and then again waiting for you in the shadows.”
Under the sound of the rain beating against the window, John hears Laszlo tearing the linen into strips, ready to be used as bandages, to bind his hand up tight.
And to begin with, in the dark, John sees nothing but the alleyway in his mind. Its walls stretch beyond comprehension, angles narrowing so severely in the distance that any hopeful light from the street is being eclipsed almost completely by overlapping bricks. Then, from out of the ink, shines a man. Backlit at first, like the haloing glare of a streetlight, but moving further from the source with every step. Until, at last, John can make out his face. Is able and willing to look directly at it.
Brown lank hair, a rounded face, could have been mistaken for a boy if it wasn't for the neatly trimmed beard he wore. Under that, a kittenish mouth, so at odds with the rictus snarl it was frozen in. Something off about the two working arms that he used to beat John in the pavement.
Oh.
Weirdly enough, the man had greatly resembled Laszlo. A face under a light John would undoubtedly have returned to, again and again, over the course of a single drink.
The man who Laszlo assumed was afraid of being read so easily had, in fact, been reading John easily in return.
Not the face of indescribable evil, at all, but a man, and only that.