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"My holes- er- spots are- are moving. Constantly."
That much is obvious.
He chuckles to himself, "Yes, quite the astute observation from- from, uh- E- Ein... Einstohnn over here, ehah..."
Pause.
"Does that work? Mm, doesn't matter."
Spot stands in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror with his hands resting on the cold sink turned warm under his palms as he leans against it.
He's not exactly accustomed to his face yet - he's not sure if he'll ever be - but thats a problem for another time!
"My holes are moving, yes. I can move them myself as well, both off my body, and if I try hard enough, on my body," he rambles to himself, starting to pace around the small area of the bathroom, "and they like to combine together sometimes. Like vitiligo, but also nothing like vitiligo because that's not how it works, really. Ugh, irrelevant."
After a few more steps to align with the mirror again, he stops.
"So!" He claps his hands together.
"If my holes are constantly in motion, and I'm able to manipulate them off my body... and if they have a habit to- er- uh- congeal... is that the right word- whatever. Point is," he looks back to the mirror, staring at the void that is his face, "I can reasonably assume that I'd be able to manipulate them on my body, and have them all turn into one big hole! Or, make it look like one big hole, at least. How would that even work..."
His mind wanders for a second before he comes back to the "experiment" at hand.
There's a moment of stillness, a terribly tiny whisp of doubt grazing the deep chasms of his brain, wondering if this will even work, all before he simply... does.
It feels like he's flexing a muscle. Pushing out something that shouldn't be in his body. Spot's entire form tenses.
"Hhhrrrrrrrnnnggg, come oooonnnn, come on come on come on," he repeats this mantra, encouraging himself to keep going.
Really, in this moment, he should be looking in the mirror, watching what's happening to his body as he attempts to move his holes, but... another whisp tells him not to look. He listens this time, deciding that if he can do it once, then he can do it again, and then he'll watch himself... or maybe filming it would be a better option?
"Focus!" He tells himself, already feeling his progress slip away with his train of thought. His voice strains as he continues to tense his body. He feels something happening, though he's not sure if anything is actually happening or if he's simply... imagining himself getting colder. Hm.
He keeps going, trying his best to centralise all his holes into one big spot on his chest. Or- wait, would that be too weird? Maybe somewhere else would be-
Ugh, no! Focus! Come on, man, you can do this!
Pushing, pushing, pushing (if that's the right verb to use here, he's not entirely certain what he's doing), Spot keeps soldiering on, muttering words of encouragement under strained noises in the middle of the room.
Like he's taking a shit. He's not taking a shit though.
Quacks like a duck, waddles like a duck, sheds water like a duck, but dear god let it not be a duck, lest someone believe he missed the toilet so bad he needs to be put away.
Eventually, the chill he's feeling against his skin gets too much, and in this chill, he thinks about wearing clothes. His thinking about clothes reminds him that he actually has some fitted clothes now! And there goes his train of thought again, so with that, plus the chill, he decides that that's enough trying for today. He opens his eyes and-
"HOly fUCKing-" he startles at what he sees in the mirror for the split second before he jumps back and falls on the ground.
His place on the tiles doesn't grant him solace from what he saw in his reflection, however, as when he looks down at his body, he's met with... skin. His skin. And hair, and moles, and, and, and-
His heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
"This can't be-... I- I'm not... I'm not awake. This has to be a dream! This has to be a dream. There is no possible," he sits up on the floor,
"conceivable," he stands up with his head down to look at his body,
"believable way..."
His voice trails off as he makes eye contact with a man he hasn't seen in about two whole years, looking back at him in the bathroom mirror.
Dr. Johnathon Ohnn. The man he was before the man he is today.
... The man that he now is once more.
"I- I- it's- this is-" he stutters, getting terribly weirded out at seeing himself speak again. With a mouth. A tongue and teeth. Darting eyes.
For the first time in a while, he's rendered speechless.
...
He's missed this.
Has he missed this?
Oh god, fuck, yes, he's missed this, are you stupid?
...
Does he want to miss this. Now of all times? Because in doing so, he'd be admitting to himself that he could do this from the very start and wasn't fucking smart enough to have done it yet.
God, stop being mean. Look at yourself.
... Just as he was before the explosion.
Shaven face.
Short hair.
Moles.
Lips.
Ears.
Nose.
Eyes... Very tired eyes.
And, oh, he's naked. His eyes widen at that, but he's not particularly surprised. He wasn't wearing clothes before, why would he be now?
Hm. Well there's that hole in his chest! For a second, he forgot that the reason for doing this in the first place was to make one big hole...
Mission success, he supposes.
It's hard to look at himself. But he can't stop looking.
He could rejoin society, if he wanted. It'd be a complicated process, but it could be done.
Or, he could continue being The Spot for the rest of his life, being a social outcast and ruining any chance he has at a normal life.
Hm. No. That feels wrong.
Okay, so, return to being Johnathon Ohnn, forget anything ever happened, and pretend he's not completely traumatised from being so disgustingly ostracised for two whole years, and become more palatable for society at large... no, that feels wrong too.
But still. It all reeks of the feeling of missing out. Disgustingly so. He could have done this little experiment ages ago, and he'd have been able to think through what's best without as much consequences. Jesus christ, he could still have his life - survive the explosion in the most intangible meaning of the word.
He should have done this from the very fucking beginning.
He could have skipped out on all the anguish of losing his identity, losing his job, losing his passion, and losing his own fucking family if he had just been A BIT FUCKING SMARTER.
...
He's here now. Hunched over the sink, breathing heavily in seething rage at himself.
...
The mirror, the shower, the bath, the towels, the the bathroom mat.
The sink, the tiles, the hair on his skin, his toes rubbing against each other.
The cars outside, the pigeons chirping, uh... his own breathing.
He... can't really smell anything.
Nor taste anything...
...
He sighs.
It's okay, John. You didn't know. Now you do. Whatever comes next is entirely up to you, now. How you want to handle this. If you want to reintegrate into society or not.
There's a pit in his stomach.
A distinct sour taste in his mouth as he looks into his own eyes, uncomfortable as it is.
There comes another realisation.
He's still human. So unbearably, terrifyingly human. Not some invincible multidimensional superbeing made of portals and empty matter.
He's still John.
He's not sure how he can come to terms with that after everything.
Ugh. Okay, maybe if he could just stop thinking everything at once and just, like, ignore everything, he'd be okay. He's really not in the mood to be questioning his entire existence naked in front of the bathroom mirror.
Whatever impulsive thought might have come next gets interrupted by the sound of the front door opening - a sound barely muffled by the distance and the closed bathroom door.
"Shit," he curses to himself under his breath.
The one thing he forgot to think about.
You.
You, who had known him long before the incident.
You, who had missed him so dearly when he was missing for a few days proceeding the incident.
You, who had taken him in with open arms after everything that happened.
You, who had decided to love him despite it all.
"Spotty, I'm home!" He hears you chirp, presuming that you're just setting your bag down as you speak.
When he doesn't respond, he hears your sweet, unknowing voice sing out again.
"Spot? Are you home? You better have left a note if you aren't!"
"I'm- I'm home," he calls out weakly, already cursing himself for playing his part of this emotional game of "Marco, Polo."
"Oh, you're in the bathroom! Sorry," you giggle, "thought you went somewhere without telling me. I- okay, I know you wouldn't, that'd be stupid, but. I dunno, maybe it was gonna be some sort of surprise? Agh, don't- it's fine, you're good, hun."
You slide off your shoes and take off your jacket, your moves slowing down when your beloved partner doesn't respond. You try not to think too much of it, though - maybe he's just lost in thought. Usually, he'd be talking to himself, at least, but... hey, maybe he's at least planning a surprise? Or, better yet, you could stop hoping for a surprise altogether, you presumptuous optimist.
Deciding to give him some time and space before digging further, you go to your bedroom to change, putting on something way comfier than the sensory nightmare that is whatever your job forces you to put on during the day. You swear, that shirt feels like paper against your skin, in like, the worst way possible.
Hm. Well, after all that and putting the kettle on for the both of you, he's still unnaturally silent.
"J- er- Spot? You doing alright in there?" You ask gently, slowly making your way to the closed door of the bathroom.
"Guh- uhh, shit- uhm, yes! Yeah- yes, I'm- uh, yep, I'm doing just fine! Dandy, even! Just- absolutely marvelous, ahah!"
Which is totally and completely convincing to you. For suuuuure.
"That doesn't...? I'm coming in," you say definitively, not wanting to take any risks.
"NononononononoNO-" he tries to stop you, holding his hands out, but it's too late.
Time stands still.
You can't even begin to comprehend what you're seeing.
Before you know what to do with yourself, you've already slammed the door closed and stepped away from it.
"What the FUCK, John- Spot- shit," you sputter out, your voice trembling with some strange mixture of fear, confusion, and disbelief, "who- who even are you?!"
That came out wrong. So wrong. You meant it as "which name do I use for you now," but you are far too stunned by the whole thing that correcting yourself doesn't seem like the most important thing at the moment.
Beyond the door, John is shaking too, feeling himself about to crumble from the devastatingly visceral reaction from his dear partner.
"I... I don't know," he responds weakly, reminiscent of a kicked puppy.
You immediately regret everything you've done up to this point. Clearly, this is new to him too, and you need to be there for him now.
It's gonna be hard. You're gonna be seeing the man you mourned the loss of for the past couple of years. You won't be seeing the spotted canvas of a man that you've become used to living with.
But this is affecting him the most. Your feelings come later, if they do at all.
You open the door about as quickly as you had closed it, your head looking up to his face, only to be met with the ceiling.
Eyes moving a little too frantically, you look down to see him on his knees and crying. Actually crying.
You instantly go to your knees to meet him at his level, cupping his cheeks and looking at the face you've missed looking at.
"John- I- Sspot? I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting... I shouldn't have reacted like that, I'm sorry," you speak quietly, rubbing your thumbs against his face and looking into his eyes as best as you can. He doesn't look at you.
"No, no, it's... it's fine. It's a- a valid reaction, really," he tries to defend you, his love, from yourself, "I would have done the same, I think."
Your heart breaks.
Your heart breaks because, no, he wouldn't.
He would have reacted with intrigue, passion, and care. Not fear.
"No, hun, it's not fine. It hurt you. You weren't crying before I said that."
He only replies with a short hum, eyes still glued to the floor.
There's a few minutes of silence between the two of you; him letting his tears fall freely down his cheeks, and you wiping them away as soon as they near your thumbs.
You can't catch the words that fall out of your mouth.
"I've missed you."
That's when he looks up at you, finally. His big brown eyes are just as you recall.
"What... what does that mean, are you- did you miss me today at work, or... or did you miss..." he trails off, eyes flickering over your face.
You take a second to respond.
"I don't know."
Another second.
"I mean, I have missed this face."
He breaks eye contact for a second, an unreadable expression on his face.
"I know."
You can't help but feel you're saying all the wrong things and majorly fucking this up. Don't say you miss his face, you idiot, he's going to think that you don't like his face as The Spot, and that every honest compliment you made was a complete and total lie to make him feel better.
Or that's what your overthinking brain is telling you, at least.
Instead of saying anything more to dig yourself further into that proverbial hole you've been working on this entire interaction, you simply hold his face for a bit longer.
That slowly turns into you wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him.
Which quickly devolves into him crying into your shoulder and holding onto you for dear life, then into you sharing in those tears.
This continues for a while. Crying on the bathroom floor together, taking turns in controlling the comforting gestures and caresses.
Eventually, you both run out of tears to be shed, simply breathing and existing in each other's embrace.
Yes, you have definitely missed his soft and calloused hands.
And his face.
And his hair.
His moles.
His lips.
His ears.
His nose.
And his eyes... his very tired eyes.
You're the first to break the silence.
"You hungry?"
He nods into your neck.
"Wanna order take-out?"
He nods again.
"Sweet. We'll get your favourite."
You feel him smile against your skin.
Neither of you moves, and silence falls on the both of you again. It's much stiller now, more calm than before.
"Seriously, hun, I'm sorry about how I reacted. And about accidentally implying that I don't like your portal-face - which I still do, by the way! Both are good; very good."
"You," you hear him chuckle as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck, "you what? When did you imply that? I didn't catch it."
"When I said I missed your face."
"Oh. Oh! Oh, it's okay! I didn't even- no, you're- you're good, don't worry about that. I didn't take it like that."
Relief sweeps over you. Yup, just your brain working overtime.
"And I forgive you for reacting the way you did. You more than made it up to me."
"Wuuhh... I did?"
He nods cheerfully, his smile and wrinkled eyes making your stomach tie into knots. A sight for sore eyes. You need to get used to that again.
"Mhm! By getting my favourite take-out," he chirps humorously.
You laugh breathlessly, rolling your eyes.
"Well, wait until I've ordered it to forgive me, then! Geez, you are too forgiving, Johnathon Ohnn."
The name slipped out, and there's a moment where you freeze, expecting to be corrected.
There's hesitance on his face too.
"I... Okay," he says, his smile settling back on his face as he embraces the use of his name, "I'll wait until then."
He looks at you for a second, his smile fading once again, and now the concern is directed towards you, with those kind, stupid eyes that you haven't seen in far too long.
"Are you... uh. Are you okay?"
You take a moment to process the question. You're not entirely sure. Frankly, it's hard to believe that the face of the John you fell in love with is back in front of you after being gone. It's also hard to believe that it hasn't been there the entire time, and that the past few years just don't exist.
"I will be."
There's gonna be a big conversation after all this, talking about where to go from here. An important, necessary conversation.
But for now, all you can think about is kissing those lips that you've been dying to kiss for two fucking years.