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When Michael Shelley opened his eyes, it was cold. Dreadfully so.
He could see snow falling from the endless sky above him, melting on his cheeks and intensifying the sting that settled there from the terrible cold. He was on the pavement. Pavement he hadn't seen in years.
He hadn't seen anything in years. Not the sky, not the sun, not the snow on the London concrete right outside of the Magnus institute. He used to know a girl named Rosie. She slipped on that pavement, once. He distantly wondered if she was still alive.
Indulging in a bit of selfishness, he shoved that thought aside, instead noting that he was alive. He, Michael Shelley, was alive. It had been dark for so fucking long.
He had next to no awareness when- when that thing was inside of his skin. He couldn't tell you the date nor the time, and he couldn't begin to imagine what was being seen through the eyes of his body. He knew that it had been dark. And when the thing spat him out, he had been stuck somewhere in between for a very long time. It wasn't in his skin, then, but he wasn't in it, either. He was in between. For hours? For months? For years? He had no idea.
Cramming his arms under him and wincing at the sting of ice beneath his palms— warm palms, living palms, palms attached to wrists that thrummed with the pulse of a striking heart— he slowly pushed himself up to look at his surroundings.
He was back in London. That was a surprise. He hadn't died in London. He died in Sannikov, didn't he? Why was he in London?
(The beating of his heart told him otherwise. That he hadn't died, but sitting in a void with no awareness? No ability to control your body? That was death to him. As far as he knew, he had died back there.)
Whatever. He wasn't going to scorn his blessings.
He was wearing his scarf. That was good. Actually, he was wearing everything he had died in. Curse the fact that he had been sweating bullets before he entered the door that took him. Curse the fact that he took off his coat under the pretense that he'd return to get it back. Curse that fact, because now, in the crisp wind, he was without it.
He clambered to his shaking feet, examining the world around him. There was a cafe in front of him, an ice cream parlor next to it. Should he look down the road, he'd see a convenience store that he knew was there. He didn't know London very well any more, but he knew where he was. He had walked right onto this sidewalk every evening just like this one. That meant that if he turned around-
The Magnus Institute loomed before him. He had never been so simultaneously glad and upset to see a building before, he noted as he turned to face it. Gertrude. Gertrude worked here. He had worked here. He didn't want to see Gertrude. Not after everything.
It was shameful to admit, but if he was to be honest, it took him a moment or two to remember how to walk. He felt like a baby deer, stuck on spindly, trembling legs that he didn't know how to use.
Once he regained his bearings and his ability to function, though, he entered the building and set for the reception desk. It was just as cold in here as outside. He remembered that the air con was broken a lot. Maybe that never got fixed.
"Hello? Can I help you?" The young girl at the front desk asked. He tilted his head at her before realizing that he actually had to open his mouth to speak.
"Hi, uhm, sorry to be a bother, but do you have some money I can use for the payphone?" There was a payphone down the street, he remembered. He also somehow remembered a phone number. A number he had spent time mulling over in his personal section of the void, alongside the face of who it belonged to. The girl looked at him for a moment, but when a quiet "please," pushed its way past his lips, her gaze softened and she slipped him 60p.
He practically bolted down the street to the phone booth. His numb fingers fumbled against the dial as he tried to put in the number, but with the limited movement from the cold, it took almost a solid minute just to get the number in. When he did, though, he held the phone to his ear and bit his tongue against the slow ring.
Damnit, Gerry, pick up the phone.
"Hello? Who is this?"
Oh, Michael could have wept with relief at the sound of his voice. He missed him. God, how he missed him.
"It-it's Michael. Where do you live? I forgot."
He heard a short huff of air from the other end.
"This isn't fuckin' funny. Get off on playing tricks on people? Callin' them as their dead friends? Fuck off-"
"Gerry, please. I swear. It's Michael. Please." Oh yeah. He had forgotten that Gerry thought he was dead.
"…Who the hell are you?"
"I told you. Michael. Please, Gerry, it's cold out here. I'll tell you everything when I get over there. Just tell me where you live."
He heard a quiet grumble from the other end of the line. "I dunno what to believe. The apartments down on Miller. Apartment C. If you're not Michael, I swear to God, I will get my largest kitchen knife-"
"Alright. See you in a while." It almost pained him to hang up. He didn't want to stop hearing Gerry's voice. But, alas, he couldn't walk alongside a payphone.
His legs carried him back to the Magnus Institute before he even realized what he was doing.
"Hey, how do I get to Miller Street?" He asked the girl at the front desk, who blinked at him again. It took her a moment of silence before she responded with some directions. Directions he recounted over and over again in his head, hoping he wouldn't forget them.
"Alright, thank you." He muttered before zipping out of the double doors and right back into the biting air.
It nipped at his face and grabbed at his arms even through the sleeves of his shirt, and he wandered around, vaguely following what he could remember. Though, he seemed to have a terrible memory, as he ended up in nearly a hundred dead ends and a hundred more roads he almost stumbled into.
He just needed to get to Gerry's place, he thought as the snow began to pick up a bit. He'd be alright there. Even as he kept getting lost and the snow began to melt on his shoulders and his hair. Even as the cold held his hand and his fingers began to lose the very little feeling they had left. When he scrunched up his nose against the bite of the wind, he could feel his numb face take a second or two to return to its normal position.
That thing that lived in his body must have taken all sense of direction from him, too. He didn't think he could figure out right from left right now. He didn't know where he was going. Everything was a blur of cold and wind and a pale blonde as his hair whipped around his face.
Gerry had loved his hair. They used to sit on the couch, watching some kind of TV show, and Gerry would braid his hair over and over, until he would fall asleep, head against the cushion, a blonde curl still wrapped around his finger. He had looked peaceful, then. When he was asleep.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. No, no, he needed to stop thinking about that, now. He needed to get to Gerry's place.
He just wanted to shut his eyes, though, as afternoon dawned into evening and the sky began to grow a dull orange.
No, no, no. Don't do that. That's how people die. Do you want to die again?
No, he supposed he didn't. He didn't want to die again. So, he kept walking. Circle upon circle upon dead end upon dead end, he felt like he was going insane. More insane than he had felt in the darkness.
His shirt was soaking wet by the time he figured out where he was. His hair, too, as snow kept melting onto every part of his not-so-warm body. His teeth kept clashing against one another in a violent shiver. But, when he saw the iron gate to the complex, he nearly wept with relief. The evening had sunken into a shade of purple, now. He was tired. He had been walking for God knows how long, and he was oh so tired, but he was here.
He stumbled to the building he remembered. He knew this. He knew this door. He remembered it. He remembered leaning against it, waiting for Gerry to open up to his ceaseless knocking. Just as he did now.
This time, though, it was a different kind of leaning as he weakly let his fist fall against the door. This time, he was cold. So cold that he could hardly stand, could hardly open his eyes back up from every blink.
So cold that when Gerry opened the door, he nearly collapsed into his arms.
Gerry grabbed him. Of course he did. Held him tightly by the frozen forearms and dragged him inside. He was quick to slump against the entryway wall when the door was shut behind him. Wide brown eyes and messy black hair sank with him.
"Michael, Mich- Oh my God, Michael, it's- it's you. You're fucking alive." Hands, warm hands cupped the sides of his face and pulled him forwards until his forehead met Gerry's. He couldn't bring himself to pull away if he wanted to. Which, for the record, he didn't. Gerry's hands were warm. He was probably leaning into the touch.
"Hmm. I am." He hummed quietly.
"Where the hell were you? What happened-"
"I died. It wasn't fun."
Gerry frowned for a moment and cocked his head, but just as he did so, he seemed to realize how cold the skin was beneath his touch. He frowned even deeper and pulled Michael closer, closer, closer until he was grappling at the back of his shirt for a hold on the man and yanking him into his chest, chin nestled on top of his head.
"Christ, you're so cold. Oh my God. Come here."
"Yeah. Feels cold." Michael muttered into his shoulder. They remained like that for a moment. Silent as statues, and still as such, too, before Gerry broke the silence.
"Shit, we need to get you out of those clothes. You're soaking. Come here, up. I still have some of your old clothes." Yet again, his forearms were clutched in those warm, warm hands as he was hoisted up. One of his arms was thrown over a shoulder a decent bit below it.
"Why- why do you still ha-have my clothes?" He murmured. Gerry looked at him like he was crazy.
"You fucking died, Michael. You said it yourself. I kept everything of yours I could find."
"O-oh. Okay."
"Now, c'mon, sit down. Let's get you out of that, yeah?"
Wait, what? The world was moving too quickly, Michael couldn't keep up. He was in Gerry's bedroom, now. When the hell did they get here?
"Uh, Michael, you have to actually move your legs to sit down."
"Oh. Yeah." His knees buckled, and he crumpled unceremoniously onto the bed. Gerry turned around to rifle through his dresser.
"Okay, I found your pants. I'm not sure if they'll fit as well as they used to. You seem… taller." Dark brown irises flickered to him for a fraction of a second, flicking away as soon as they caught his gaze. Michael just hummed.
"I do?"
"Yeah."
The silence was stiff. Gerry returned with a pair of pants Michael vaguely recognized and a shirt he didn't in the slightest.
"Arms up. Jesus, you're soaked. Did you walk through a fuckin' tsunami…?"
"Snow. There was a lot of it. My arms feel like jelly." Michael swayed his arms around in the air a little bit, though the movement quickly fell still at the shock of the cold air against his skin as Gerry began to peel off his soaking shirt. "Ah-! Warning next time!"
"Sorry, blondie. Anyways, can't find your shirt, so you're wearing one of mine."
Michael just nodded and let Gerry pry off his shirt the rest of the way. The chill of the apartment beating against his still-damp skin was nearly too much to bear. Though, Gerry was quick to slide the new shirt over his head, and the discomfort dissapated quite a bit.
He could see Gerry's eyes linger on his torso, a scorning look in his glare. Insecurity leaked its way into each of his bones, and he felt the urge to curl in on himself and hide from the metaphorical heat of the gaze.
"Did you eat at all? When you were, y'know, dead?"
Michael slowly shook his head. "No. I don't really know what happened. Why?"
"You're…" Gerry trailed off, instead reaching forwards to splay a hand over Michael's stomach. It took everything in him not to recoil. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted Gerry to touch him. He didn't. He needed the warmth of his fingertips. Every graze burnt like something he had never felt before, and he didn't know what he wanted.
"Michael. I'm way smaller than you. My shirts shouldn't be big on you. You- your stomach is practically concave. What the hell?"
"Oh. Sorry." He whispered, a bit unsure of how to respond. He didn't feel hungry. He didn't really remember what hunger felt like. How could he remember Gerry's phone number and not what hunger felt like?
Gerry just sighed. "It's okay. I'm not asking you to apologize. I'm just worried."
"Oh. Okay."
"Now, c'mon, help me out. Can't get you out of these pants all by myself."
_______
Gerry was right. Michael had grown. The sweatpants rode up on his calves. Not uncomfortably so, but still.
"You wanna tell me what you mean when you say you died, now? You haven't elaborated on that, yet."
Michael froze. Oh, yeah. That was there. The idea. The idea that he had died. He didn't know where to start. Or stop. 'My name is Michael Shelley, and I was eaten by some weird spiral in Sannikov Land and it killed me for an indeterminable amount of time before reviving me and spitting me out in London' ?
"Michael. You can say no. You know that, right? You don't have to tell me."
"No, no, it's okay, I want to, I just- I don't know where to start. It's a lot."
"Well, how about we go sit on the couch, and you can start from the beginning."
"Hm. Okay. That sounds okay."
________
"Are you- are you cool? With… y'know, touch right now?" Gerry murmured, hands hovering over Michael's arm, quietly asking permission. Though shameful to admit, yet again, Michael had to remind himself that he had to move to nod.
Yep. That's it. Do what normal people do. Yep. Nod. That's what normal people do.
Without a second of hesitation, instead of landing his hands on Michael's arm like expected, Gerry flung himself over his lap and blinked up at him with those big, mildly unsettling brown eyes. Michael threaded his fingers through his hair and absentmindedly scratched at his scalp.
He missed this.
"I don't know where to start." He whispered. Gerry just poked him in the stomach.
"Would it help if I asked?"
He hummed contemplatively. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
So, with a sharp inhale, Gerry asked the question the both of them were dreading.
"What happened when Gertrude took you to Sannikov?"
The words came tumbling out faster than Michael could spare them a thought. It was like he had just been waiting to say them. Everything, from the boat trip there, to the bright yellow door, to the indescribable pain, to the darkness. To the way that when he tried to turn around, to flee, Gertrude's hand landed on the small of his back. Gertrude's hand pushed him towards the door. Gertrude's hand blocked the way. Gertrude. Gertrude gave him to the thing that lived in his skin, and he swore he could still feel it. A faint buzzing beneath his muscles.
He didn't know if he'd ever escape it. Something crawled into his skin and kicked him out of it, and it left him in the dark for so god damn long. Maybe it had left some remnants of itself in the flesh he wore now. He had been discarded for the meat on his bones, and when the spiral and the madness and the garish yellow door were done using his body like a puppet, he was thrust back into it and dumped on the streets of London.
It had hurt. Not worse than the darkness. The darkness was painful in a way other than pain. But when all of the colors and the shapes grabbed hold of him and held him tight, he swears by everything he holds dear that he had unraveled. Not metaphorically. Physically. Every tendon and muscle and inch of skin, skin, skin had slowly peeled itself off of his bones, and it had hurt. When his who was ripped from his what in a mass of blood and fear and so much fear-
"-chael. Michael. Michael, look at me, and take a deep breath. Look at me. Breathe." Nails on his cheek. For a second, it felt like the stabbing of all of the shapes with points, all entering his skin at once, but his eyes focused again, and he could see. He could see Gerry, tapping gently on his cheek. In all of his faded tattoos and the green splotches in his hair where the dye never came out quite right and the crooked bump of his nose and those big, unsettling, beautiful brown eyes. Maybe that was the one thing he hadn't forgotten. Maybe that was the one thing that reminded him that he didn't go mad.
So, with the immense fervor of a man who hasn't breathed in all of the time since he died in 2010, Michael gasped. A desperate, greedy inhale, like if he didn't steal all of the air he could now, it was going to be taken from him like everything else had been. Gerry just watched.
And Michael tried to think about it. He did. People are supposed to think before they do things. But his brain couldn't actually hold a thought for more that 3 seconds. It was all just a flurry of yellow doors and crooked noses and all that was big and scary and beautiful, so without sparing it another moment of his time, Michael lunged.
He clawed at the back of Gerry's shirt, gasping and heaving, taking handfuls of fabric between his fingers and squeezing until he was sure he was going to break a bone. Gerry did not push him away. Just held him tightly, one hand tangled in his hair, the other feeling its way down his spine.
"You're okay. You're okay, and I'm right here. You're right here. Nowhere else. You're not going anywhere else. You're okay." Gerry whispered into his ear. Michael thought he began to cry at this, but he wasn't very sure. Just buried his face into the crook of Gerry's neck and made some sort of pathetic, pitiful noise, and he was not judged for it. If he wasn't already crying before, he definately was, now. Weeping mercilessly into the arms that he had wished would hold him for all of the time he was dead.
"It- it hurt. It hurt so badly. And- and it was dark, and it was cold, and I- I was so fucking scared. Please don't leave me. I'm scared." Michael murmured as soon as he managed to stop sobbing for long enough to form a single word.
"I know, blondie. I know. I'm not going anywhere. I love you. And I know it hurt, and I'm so sorry, but you're here, now. You're here and you're alive and I'm not letting go. I promise."
To his own shock, Michael laughed.
The tears carved lines down his cheeks, but he was laughing. A sour euphoria that grew and grew until he craned his head back and his entire body shook with the force of his bitter humor. Gerry pulled back a bit. Not enough to fully deprive Michael of his touch, no. Just enough to hold him at arm's length.
"Michael? You alright? What's going on?"
"Oh- Oh my God." He said between bouts of terrible laughter. One hand came up to clutch at his hair. His fingers came away a bit damp when he pulled his hand out to adjust his grip, but his palm disappeared against his scalp again in a moment. When had his hair dried? Gerry's hand followed and closed around his wrist. Not pulling it away, but making sure his grip on his hair didn't grow too tight. He could feel a thumb slowly cascade back and forth over his pulse point. "I'm- I'm alive. I can't- Oh my God! I'm fucking alive, aren't I? I'm alive!"
He really was, wasn't he? It just hit him. He was alive, and he was breathing, and even if some remnant of the spiral was still inside of him, somehow, he was still alive. He wasn't dead. It wasn't dark. He could see. He could see Gerry and he could see the wall and he could see wisps of frizzy blonde hair fluttering around his face every time he exhaled in that manic laughter. He was here. He thought he never would be.
When he could feel his grip begin to tighten on his hair— a subconscious, sensory seeking motion— Gerry began to lightly tug at his wrist.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're alive. Come back to me real quick. Eyes on me, blondie."
The wall, the hands, Gerry's Mechanics shirt, the wall, the ceiling, his eyes. His eyes. Hands on his, eyes on his. Gerry was here. That was what he was alive for.
With a content sigh, he slumped forward into Gerry's startled embrace, nestling his face in the space between shoulder and jaw.
"I can't believe I'm alive." Breathless and euphoric. He couldn't believe it. He made it out.
"You are. Thank God you are." He could feel lips press against the top of his head, and while he'd love to look up and see the lovestruck expression surely plastered across Gerry's features, that would involve extracting himself from the spot he found in the crook of his neck. Michael was not at all interested in doing that.
________
"Gerry?"
"Yeah?" Gerry looked away from the door for a moment, gaze flicking to him. Michael didn't know why he was staring at the door; just that he was.
"How long was I dead?"
Gerry's nose scrunched up at that. His mouth curved into something like a grimace.
"That- it doesn't matter, right now. You're here, aren't you?"
The general euphoria from his ooh-i'm-alive revelation slowly morphed into something more akin to worry.
"Gerry. I want to know. Tell me what year it is."
"I-" A long, discontented sigh- "You're gonna have to promise not to freak out."
That made him worried.
"Okay. Okay, I swear."
Gerry leaned forward and took Michael's face in his hands, pulling him forward until their foreheads met. The worry festering in Michael's gut only grew.
"Gerry, how-"
"Seven. It's January 25, 2018. October 14th would mark eight."
Seven. Seven. It had been seven years. No fucking way. He couldn't have- he had heard the distortion when he had been ripped from it. That was how loud it had screamed. It had been June. Something told him it was June. Had he been in between for seven months? Had he really been dead for seven years? That- he- he missed so much of his life. Seven years, and his who was being torn from his what all over again-
But Gerry's hands were on his face, tapping on his temple. Talking. Gerry was talking to him.
"Michael. Blondie. Eyes on me. Look at me."
"I- Gerry. It's been-"
"Yes. Trust me, I know. But look at me. Stop looking at the ceiling. Me. Eyes on me. No spacing out."
It took a moment, to pry his gaze from whatever he was looking at. What was he looking at? He couldn't see very well. There was a pale haze over everything.
"Michael."
His eyes snapped away from the wall. That's what he was looking at. Oh. Away from the wall, on Gerry. On those eyes, the ones he had thought about for all of those seven years.
"Seven. Tell me- tell me you're lying. Tell me I didn't miss seven years of my life."
"I'm not going to lie to you. Not when I said it, and not now. But— hey, nope, eyes on me. Keep looking at me. Not the ceiling- there we go. It doesn't matter. I mean, it does, but not yet. It doesn't matter yet. You're here. You're here with me, and you're alive, okay? You're here now. That's what matters."
"Seven." He whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Seven. Please, Gerry, I- I don't know. I don't want-"
"I know, blondie. I know. I'm sorry. I- God fuck, Michael, eyes off the wall. Look at me. Look." One hand gently guided his chin back to let his eyes meet Gerry's (when had the hands left from the sides of his face?), and the other brushed his hair out of his face.
"I wanna- I wanna think. I wanna stare at the wall and think. Let me go." Michael Shelley had a very bad habit of not knowing what he wanted. He didn't want Gerry to let go, not really. He just wanted space. He wanted to be held. He wanted to think. He wanted to shut off his brain and never again be burdened with the task of forming a thought. He didn't know.
"Nope. You're not wallowing in realization, because then you're going to have another panic attack."
Gerry had a point. It didn't mean Michael couldn't pout about it.
His eyes slowly made their way down, along Gerry's face, trying to ignore the thoughts in the back of his mind. He didn't want to cry again. He wanted to pretend he was still 27 and that he had never felt fear like he had in the last 7 years of his life.
So, to ignore every racing thought that tried to take control over his sanity, he scanned Gerry’s face and noted each feature in turn. He looked different. His nose was more crooked— he must have broken it again in the time that Michael was gone. Dark circles more akin to bruises than anything else made their homes right beneath his sunken eyes, and the crisp angle of his jaw was more pronounced. He had grown. Not by height, but in other ways.
“You look… different.” He muttered quietly. Gerry hummed, evidently pleased that Michael wasn’t stuck ruminating over what could have been and never was.
“I do?”
“Mhm. Here,” He skimmed his index finger along the bridge of Gerry’s nose. “And here,” A thumb along his jawline, “here, too,” fingers barely hovering over those lavender circles.
Gerry sucked in a breath. His face grew slightly pink under Michael’s touch. Michael couldn’t help but pride himself on the flush— it had always been terribly difficult to get Gerry flustered. Michael, on the other hand? Gerry had always teased him about turning bright red whenever the former so much as breathed in his direction.
Who could blame him?
“You- you’re different, too.” Gerry mumbled. The words stumbled over his lips on the way out.
“I do?” He cocked his head. “Where?”
“Hm. You’re taller.” Gerry took his hand, pressing a kiss to each of his knuckles in turn. Now, it was Michael’s turn to grow flustered. He looked away, but only for a moment. He couldn’t help but bring his gaze back to burn holes into the back of Gerry’s head. The light reflected off of his hair, and God, did he look beautiful like this. Head bowed to press featherlight kisses to each of Michael’s joints.
Michael decided that he would be okay with dying all over again if it meant he could relive this moment for all of those before his demise.
“Your fingers are longer.” Gerry finally murmured, lips moving against the back of Michael’s hand.
Huh. What a strange thing to change. Gerry sat up straight.
“You’re thinner, too. Way thinner.” Just like earlier, a pale hand splayed across his stomach. There was a tattoo of an eye over the back of his hand. Huh. He remembered them across his joints and just over his heart, but his hand? He didn’t remember that.
He just hummed, pushing himself into the touch of Gerry’s hand. Gerry had always had cold hands. Why were they warm now?
Speaking of it, he couldn’t really feel the cold anymore. It seemed insane that just an hour or two ago, he had been trembling in Gerry’s bed, watching his boyfriend search in his drawers for the clothes he had kept that didn’t belong to him.
“Do you… you’re… human, now, right? Like, you need to, like, do human things to survive? Eating and sleeping and all that?” Gerry raised a brow.
Michael bit his cheek. “I think? I don’t know. I know I’m sleepy, so that probably means I need to sleep?”
“It’s late. We can sleep, if you’d like.” Gerry blinked at him.
“If you’re not, it’s fine, I’m—”
“That’s not what I said. Hm. C’mon, we’re going to bed.”
With that, Gerry stood, offering a hand to Michael to help him up.
Michael took it.
Gerry flicked off the light on the way out of the living room, and the entire room fell into darkness. Michael’s couldn’t suppress the shudder that came over his shoulders, then. He didn’t think he would be okay with the dark for a very long time.
Gerry was okay with that, though, as they made their way into the bedroom and both crumpled onto the bed. When Gerry reached over to turn off the lamp perched on the beside table, Michael grabbed at his arm with a grip much stronger than he meant to.
“Don’t. Please. Can- can we leave it on?”
“Oh. Yeah, I should have guessed. Yeah. No worries.”
“Hm. Thank you, Gerry.”
“No worries.”
There was silence, for a moment, as both of them knew what they wanted to do but were, for some reason, too shy to actually do it.
Gerry moved first, scooting closer until he was just a matter of inches away from Michael. The latter was the one who made himself a home right against his chest, head thrown over a bony shoulder with his cheek pressed against the soft fabric of a worn band tee.
One hand ran along his spine, tracing over each bump. Michael could feel it lingering in places where the bone poked out more than it should. The other carded through his hair and tangled deft fingers in between knots. It would be a pain to brush out in the morning.
There would be a morning. He would wake up here, in Gerry’s bed, hopefully still in his arms. He would wake up. He was not dead anymore, and for the love of God, he wasn’t alone.
As if reading his mind, Gerry murmured sleepily into his hair, “Christ, I love you. Please, never die again.”
“I won’t. Not if I can help it. I love you, too.”