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This is the space you managed to carve out for yourself. Not quite what you spent your childhood dreaming of, but it's yours, and it's real.
It's the tea collection Martin left in the lounge, scented pouches filled with promises of warmth and comfort. If you closed your eyes, ignored the stains and cracks in the old mugs you all used and the generic supermarket labels on the boxes, moments spent by the kettle felt like the closest thing to heaven you'd ever get.
It's the playlists Tim would shuffle whenever someone caved in and let him have the office aux. Mostly made of songs you'd never heard, some of which you wished to never hear again, and others you felt like holding close to your heart as a way of remembering his stupid, lopsided smile. Every time you asked for the name of one so you could save it too, his brown eyes would light up to be almost gold.
What you'd give to remember that forever.
Jon's piles upon piles of statements. Unused tapes and emptied pens litter his desk, plastic lids scratched from being chewed when he was lost in deep thought. The smell of old books and stale coffee. It's Sasha's seat, too. Once draped with cardigans and jumpers she'd forget to take home and wash, smelling faintly of wildflowers and vanilla, now permanently vacant, a lonely beige recliner nobody dared to touch. She may be gone, but her photos will forever decorate the walls, reminding you of the friend you once had. Tears burn your eyes as you look at one of the entire team, her holding your hand tightly amidst all the chaos.
This space includes Elias, too. His omnipotence, the fear his name strikes into the hearts of you and your friends. As much as you all wish to be free of him, to know where he goes when he's not in the offices with you, this is part of your life now.
Your perfect lacuna, comprised of all the things you'd want, just arranged in ways you'd never expect to see them.
Is it still perfect now? As the carcasses of the worms are ground into dust under your feet, becoming one with the tread of your shoes, being crushed into the cracks in the tiles. If you had gold paint, you could call it kintsugi, claim it's a reinvention of the world you've come to love. But lacquer wouldn't fix the pain you feel now.
A new coat of paint for the walls isn't enough to cleanse the grief you feel. Nor will it ever erase the scars on everyone's skin. The dust of the worms is a curse now, marring your life, making every single thought feel heavy. No matter how many times the Archives could be repainted, you feel as if the pain of the corkscrew will still be as fresh in your mind on your deathbed as it is now.
Tim's hands, once so steady as he removed the worms from your skin, so gentle against your scalp as he soothed you through the pain of it all, tremor at the thought of coming back. And Martin seems lost now, not sure what to do with himself. Even the whistling of the kettle puts him on edge, makes him feel as if he's losing control.
It's just you here, and sometimes Jon, staring at the mountains of work his past self had wanted to get done. The pen in his hand never touches the paper.
When he's around, you sit by him, looking over the paperwork, finding yourself overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of the task. At least it serves as a distraction from the pain. At least it's impossible for you to cry when your mind grows numb from reading all the fake statements, a habit he's began to notice.
"You're thinking about everything that happened, aren't you?" he asks, only to be met with the familiar silence of life at the Institute now. Nobody seems to talk anymore. Jon wouldn't usually mind, but seeing you so sad makes him feel oddly... pained.
"Come here."
Never one to refuse an order, you peeled your eyes from the statement you were reading, shuffling your chair over to where he sat. He looked at you for a moment, before placing his hands on your shoulders. "You've been told to go on leave. Why won't you get some rest?" The answer is painfully simple, and he sees it in your tired eyes. The Magnus Institute, no matter how tattered and decrepit the space is, is yours now. To leave it would hurt you.
His face comes so close to yours, as if he's studying you. Then, he closes his eyes, pressing his lips to yours. It's hasty, uncertain, as if he's going to regret doing this tomorrow, but it's also nice. Today, he smells like dark chocolate, as well as well-worn paper. Being near him feels like you're holding onto your favourite book, turning each page for the hundredth time. Wonderfully familiar, but exciting and new in a way that transcends words. Your fear is only ephemeral as he pulls back, looking at you again.
"You really are too stubborn. If you'd like to stay, at least try and get some rest." Your eyes fall shut, and you lean on his shoulder, earning you a little hum. "You can't run on tea forever, you know that."
And, as if that moment between you never happened, he's back to reading his statements. Only now he intermittently squeezes your hand, a silent reminder that not all you you have in life is lost.