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A contract was held in front of him. A job. Not for the prison, for which he’d already rejected. No. A job as an Archivist . For Jonah’s “Institute”, which still mostly consisted of the attachment to his home. He’d scoffed when Jonah first showed it to him, coming through his door so soon after Jonathan had told him to never write to him again. He’d been cheerful, commenting on the weather, telling him there were no bad feelings about Millbank, he’d found another doctor. But he had another job offer for him, one he thought he’d be suited for. Jonathan had been angry, slapping the paper away.
“I’m a doctor, Jonah.” He said now, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.
“And a doctor knows many things.” Jonah said lightly, unbothered. He took off his coat, hanging it on the hook by the doorway. His hat followed suit, and the contract was put under his arm as he relieved himself of his gloves, pushing them into the hanging jacket’s pocket. Jonathan found himself annoyed at the clear intention of staying a while. “It would hardly be a full-time affair. More of a...formality.”
He held it out, then, and Jonathan looked at him incredulously for a moment. And then he turned around, walking away. He heard Jonah’s footsteps follow. “Go away, Jonah.”
“You’d be paid, Jonathan. As much as I could give you.”
Jonathan snorted, disgusted. “I don’t want your money. I want you to leave and never return.”
“But, Jonathan. What of all the things I’ve left here? What of the room you let me decorate?” Jonah said, chasing close after the man. The room. An accompanying set that would have been for a wife, if Jonathan had ever been the sort to get one. But his paranoia of losing what he already had kept him from pursuing that end, and Jonah had been allowed the freedom he would have reserved for a lifelong partner. Jonah meant to capitalize on that freedom, it seemed.
“You really can’t expect me to let everything end over some accusation-”
Jonathan paused, glaring at him. Waiting. Daring him to twist Jonathan’s experiences against him. Daring him to lie. Jonah clicked his tongue, took just a moment too long to respond, expression smooth and blank in the way it was when he was hiding a winning hand of cards.
“- I didn’t know it would kill him. If your letter had reached me in time, I would have sent the books back.”
Jonathan doubted that very much, but he didn’t have the energy to argue with this man.
He sank down into his armchair, staring into the fire. Resolute to ignore Jonah and his...devilry. What could he possibly want with this?
A contract with no seeming purpose. A title he didn’t want, an association to Jonah. Despite what he knew. He may as well hand over his soul to the man, wrapped in a little bow. Maybe Jonah would consume it, push it between his lips until Jonathan felt no more.
Jonah stepped in front of the fire, features darkened for a moment as Jonathan’s eyes adjusted. He could still see the glint of his eyes, and they narrowed in mirth as the rest of his face became clearer.
“Surely you don’t believe in such things. A soul , Jonathan. Really.” Jonah’s lips quirked, as if he’d just told a joke. Maybe once Jonathan would have laughed. Especially at Jonah’s little parlor trick. He was very good at following the thoughts of his companions, almost to an eerie degree. Albrecht had been convinced Jonah could read their minds. He’d made jokes, back when he was well, had Jonah guessing numbers, thoughts, feelings-
His stomach turned as images of a dissection table sprung to his mind, blood across his hands, a singular eye rolling slightly in his palm.
Jonathan had never believed in anything beyond his two hands, no matter the proof Jonah had tried to give him. ...But now that he’d held that fear Jonah had spoken of, now that he nursed it close to his heart, seeing the eyes in his dreams, he believed him.
He believed the dreams that haunted him, eyes blinking to life from lines in his hands, the juncture in his elbow, the crease under his tongue. Feeling them roll from Albrecht’s body and infect him, poison him so deeply he feared every bout of nausea that overtook him. He didn’t want any excuse to examine anything from his body.
He hoped there was a soul to every man. For his own sake, as he tried to scrub clean the influence of the man across from him. For the sake of his friends, who he felt also had that Jonah shaped blight upon their very being. Perhaps Albrecht would find peace if he had a soul, perhaps he’d finally be able to close his eyes and sleep.
Jonathan stared Jonah down until that smile faltered, slid away from playful altogether. Jonah leaned forwards, hand outstretched, and Jonathan leaned back, until his head was against the chair behind him. Jonah’s hand cupped his cheek.
The contact burned, as if a brand of his weakness. That he’d show tolerance despite his own letter. Despite Jonah ignoring his request to cut ties.
“I will have this one thing from you.” Jonah said solemnly. “Just this one thing.”
“You will not.”
Tearing away from the hand was painful, and he half expected to see his own seared flesh across the palm. Instead, the quickest glance granted him fingers curling into a tight fist before lowering away.
“...Please?” The voice was soft now, pleading, and it terrified him.
“That you’re asking is enough reason for me to refuse.”
Returning to Jonah’s face, he saw his expression change, catastrophic anger bubbling. He was getting closer, enough that he could feel his breath across his face. Jonathan made to stand, but it was too late for that. Jonah climbed into his lap, fingers curling behind his head while his other hand gripped just under his jaw, across his throat.
Jonathan felt his head tip back of its own accord, legs shifting to make way for Jonah’s weight, and he was angry with how practiced it was. How easily their bodies slotted together even now, how Jonah knew just where to hover those soft lips to make Jonathan want to sink his teeth into them.
He exerted a frankly embarrassing effort to keep his hands to himself, resting them limply by his side. Jonah eyed him as he did. Perhaps deciding whether to tighten his grip or loosen it. His free hand slid from behind his head to pull off Jonathan’s glasses, balancing them precariously on the arm of the chair. His own followed, and he released Jonathan’s throat. Hands changing position to cradle Jonathan’s head between them.
Jonathan closed his eyes, anticipating what was to come next. Steeling himself. Jonah pressed his lips to his. Jonathan didn’t move.
A pause, and his lips lifted to his forehead instead, a light, gentle kiss. If Jonathan kept his eyes closed he could imagine it was from someone gentle, as another kiss was placed to his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Perhaps the wife he could have never had, or another lover that actually cared for him-
“I love you.”
Jonathan felt his hand connect with Jonah’s cheek before his brain caught up with him. The slap echoed in the quiet room, the crackle of the fireplace the only sound remaining after. Jonah looked shocked by it, a hand lifting to his cheek.
And then eyes blazed with an undeserved anger, a sort of righteous indignation, as if Jonathan had been the one to overstep. Jonathan felt nothing but satisfied by his actions. Jonathan had every right to that slap, his boundaries violated, his friend killed. And now his heart had been put under siege by this man. Battering with those previously unused three words that would have ruined Jonathan just months ago, before he learned just how deep Jonah’s sins went.
The two stared at each other, one set of eyes furious, the other appeased. Jonah opened his mouth, at last. Jonathan pulled Jonah down to a kiss before he could say anything worse, tugging at his lips until the other man gasped and shifted above him.
The fall was one of pleasure, out of the chair, across the floor. Jonathan knew Jonah would be bruised from it, but he didn’t care. Hands curled into his hair, pulling him in deeper, deeper. He was so weak, even if he was the physically stronger one between them. His soul trembled, even if his hand was steady as he slid it into Jonah’s trousers. He felt like two different men. The strong, stern one that had stood his ground and shunned this man. And the trembling one that drew him closer now, pressing his lips to his skin, touching him as if nothing had passed between them.
If Jonathan did have a soul, Jonah had it on a leash, tightly enough that he could pull that latter version of himself away from Jonathan. Use it for himself. Keep him close to him.
When Jonathan came up for air, Albrecht’s face swam in his memory, and his chest felt tight. The next images were bound to follow, as they had every time he was reminded of the man, eyes in every crevice while the skin of his body was pulled open. The skin blinked at him, and Jonathan retched, burying his head into the curve of Jonah’s neck. Jonah didn’t let him go, fingers gently carding through his hair as he pulled it loose. Jonathan felt it flutter around his face, falling against Jonah’s skin, and he was grateful for the hiding place it provided him.
“What do you think I’m full of, Jonathan?” Jonah prompted, the first words since Jonathan had shut him up. Jonathan knew what he wanted him to say, and his hand almost flinched away from Jonah in return. Acknowledge what had fallen out between them. Voice his theory that he suffered just the same as Albrecht. His hand on Jonah’s lower back tightened, half expecting the bulge of spheres beneath the skin. But there was nothing but that deceiving softness, so Jonathan dragged his teeth across Jonah’s shoulder.
“Delusions of grandeur. A dangerous regard for yourself over anyone else.”
Jonah laughed, pressing his cheek against Jonathan’s.
“What else.” He demanded, hips shifting into Jonathan’s hand. Clearly he wanted him to answer ‘my fingers’ , but Jonathan wasn’t in an obliging mood. He twisted his fingers out of Jonah, digging the nail of his thumb into the soft skin above his clit. Jonah hissed, then keened as Jonathan’s thumb rubbed over the spot and then over the little mound, momentarily brought out of his own interrogation.
“...Secrets.”
Jonah breathed out, then lips pressed behind Jonathan’s ear. “Mm. And...how many of yours do you think I have?”
Bitterly, “too many.” He could ruin him, he knew. He knew where he lived, where he’d come from. Who he’d been before he’d become Jonathan. Jonah could whisper enough things to the Royal Society of Surgeons that Jonathan would lose all he’d climbed to.
A bold hand slid between them, pressing lightly over the curve Jonathan’s chest, earning a shiver of discomfort, before pressing down over his heart. Possessive. “And how many of mine did you gain for those?”
“I don’t see what that-”
Fingernails digging into skin. “How. Many.”
Jonathan flinched, dread rising in his throat. How many secrets of Jonah’s did he have? “...Enough, I suppose. Enough to trap us here. Enough for you to infect me with your company. Invading my life, my space, my bed-”
“Your chair, to be technical. And then your floor, dear me. ...Am I to be afforded the luxury of your bed?”
Jonathan’s jaw set. He pulled Jonah’s head away from his own, fingers knotting tightly into his curls. He shifted his hips, rocking them in time with his fingers.
And that kept Jonah’s mouth shut for a few blessed minutes, even if the damage had already been done, Jonathan’s thoughts swirling with possibility.
“What would I gain from signing this for you?” He asked at last, both of them stretched on the floor, Jonah’s cheek pressed against his chest.
“Oh, Jonathan.” Breathed out, reverent. “I’d give you everything.”
Everything. Somehow, words that from anyone else would be loving and kind emerging from Jonah’s mouth sent chills down Jonathan’s spine. He dreaded discovering what everything meant to Jonah Magnus.
But Jonah wouldn’t leave him alone, determined to show Jonathan. He followed him like a lost puppy, and on more than one occasion Jonathan had to bodily remove him from his home so he could get a moment's respite.
The respite came in the form of fevered dreams, of course. They only seemed to get more vivid as time went by, not fade to obscurity as they should with memory. He found remembering Albrecht’s exact features difficult to remember, but he remembered his flayed body as it stared.
Jonah would be there when he woke, parchment in hand, smile on his face. Jonathan knew he was using the room left for him, and no amount of hiding the keys kept Jonah out of his house. Day after day, week after week, Jonah was there. Sometimes Jonathan dragged him to bed with him, mostly to get him to stop talking . Asking. Jonah seemed to believe Jonathan would give in one day, and Jonathan tired of his whittling.
“Shall I host another party?” Jonah asked him one day. Jonathan fixed him with a stare, then lowered it back to the paperwork he was attempting to use as a shield from the man. It wasn’t dreadfully important, but he needed some separation from Jonah’s antics.
“I will not attend,” he said after a minute or two, keeping his voice distracted, showing Jonah the nuisance he was being.
“Whyever not?” A long pause.
Because we are no longer friends, and I no longer carry any love for you . Jonathan wished to say. But he had let this devil back into his space and bed, and he didn’t feel like arguing with him. He violently scratched his pen instead as if to say. I’m busy. Leave me alone. Jonah, ignoring that and unable to let silence hang for any period of time, resumed. “Some have been asking to visit, I’m sure you haven’t seen them for a few years now.”
“I never did care for your companions from London.” Jonathan murmured. Smirke, Rayner, Lukas, Kempthorne, the lot of them.
“...No.” Jonah replied, amused. “You’d have much rather it stay the three of us. You do get so attached to your friends ...” He lingered slowly over the word, mouth curled as he drew it out. Jonathan scratched out another word, violently. “...Is that why there are so few of us? You never really replaced Barna-”
“Don’t.” Jonathan interrupted softly, pausing at the memory of the young man that completed their Edinburgh trio, so many years ago. Perhaps Jonah was right. Jonathan had trouble making friends, and those he had became so deeply intimate that their loss ached for years afterwards. “...Don’t destroy his memory with your words. He is the one thing left that you haven’t taken from me.”
A pause, heavy with restrained words. No doubt Jonah was trying to hold himself back from a sardonic comment, delivered upon the shared pain of their disappeared companion. Jonathan was grateful that he said nothing.
Until he did, sliding the form over Jonathan’s paperwork, voice quiet again. “Sign it, Jonathan.”
“No.”
--
His visits became less frequent after that. Jonathan was thankful, and perhaps a bit triumphant. He felt he’d somehow pulled one over on the man, or exhibited enough firmness to waver Jonah’s resolve. Jonathan turned to his work, considered signing on with the military, leaving Edinburgh behind. But this was his home, even if it was tainted by Jonah’s presence within it, and he found more and more as the years went by that he didn’t wish to leave it.
So he endured visits from Jonah, once a week. Then, for a few blessed years, once a season. He’d come once in the spring, autumn, and once in the summer, small gifts, and that dreadful contract. But he only stayed over the New Year. At the end of every year, Jonah returned to Jonathan’s home, a bottle of wine in one hand, and the worn contract in the other. Jonathan didn’t know why he still let him in. They would sit in silence over it, and then he would retire, leaving Jonah alone in his sitting room. He wouldn’t stay alone, waking up to a mess of curls under his chin, but he found he minded less and less. The years had begun to wear on them both, and neither Jonathan nor Jonah had much patience for argument. The visits picked up again, once a month, but Jonah left the contract with Jonathan. Jonathan let the contract sit in his study, unable to throw it away, but unwilling to give the man what he wanted. Jonah no longer brought it up at every visit. He was simply a deranged old scholar who wanted Jonathan’s company. Jonathan scolded him that these trips back and forth from London, at his age, would kill him. Jonah fussed over how much of a recluse Jonathan had become, how little he left his house.
“I could come at any hour of any day, and I suspect I’d either find you here, or in that dreadful little garden of yours.”
“It’s not dreadful.”
“You’re missing my point.”
“ You should retire.”
He could never nail down why he still felt concern for Jonah. Why he cared when his visits stopped suddenly.
At last, he heard of the catastrophe at Millbank prison. Of Jonah’s death. He was finally free from him. He didn’t know why that made him feel so miserable.
Most of what Jonah had left behind was given to a young man Jonathan had never once met. He wondered about it, wondered who on earth this boy could be to Jonah, but decided this was his chance to lay this plague of his life to rest. Jonah Magnus was dead. He could live out his days of retirement in peace.
--
And he did, for a while. Until he came down with something.
It was a funny way for him to go, he thought. He’d spent so many years around sick patients, but he’d never had something serious enough to require medical attention. Attention he now refused. He didn’t trust any of the doctors in this city to keep his secrets. The ones he had were either long retired or gone. The last thing he wanted was a scandal surrounding his death.
He’d been in bed for about three days, drifting in and out of delirium of his fever, when he realized he had company. Something was put into his shaking hand, familiar eyes staring at him from the unfamiliar face as fingers curled around his hand. Desperate.
He tried to look down, but he didn’t have to see to know what it was. “Sign it.” The new voice answered. Deeper than Jonah’s, but the same cadence. The same demanding tone, now tinged with desperation.
“Jonathan, sign it. Please.”
There was pain there, whatever Jonah had done to become this… creature of flesh, he realized he would be leaving something behind. Him? Was Jonathan really so important to him, after all this time?
He felt the final rally of his commitment, and Jonathan loosened his hand, letting the quill slip. Jonah put it carefully back, leaning up, smoothing that alien hand over his forehead. “Jonathan,” he said softly. “I can take care of you. You can come with me.”
“We can see together, we can learn together.”
Jonathan’s lip curled back, and Jonah shook his head. “You don’t have to love me. I don’t even ask for you to like me. Please. Just don’t leave me.”
Jonah took a deep breath. “...This is the last chance. The fever. You won’t be coherent again. I won’t be able to-”
Jonathan’s hand tightened on the pen, eyes struggling to focus on the paper in front of him. He already knew what the words said. It didn’t matter that they were a muddled mess of ink and blurs. Or...he did know. He knew at some point. Now, it hardly seemed to matter. His soul was already tugged, brought to heel for this miserable, horrid, man.
...Here was where he was meant to sign, the ink filled tip hovering over the paper, shaking in place.
It got too close to the paper. It blotted as Jonathan’s hand fell. Jonah tilted his hand over, dragging the blot into a jagged line.
“Here.”
“Here.” Jonathan echoed, staring at the ink as it spread into the fibers of the paper. His hand shook again, and his eyes began to close as he swerved into the beginning loop of his name. He felt a gentle hand guiding it the rest of the way, then cool lips pressed to his damp forehead.
Wrong lips. Unfamiliar, and he bristled under their touch even as that hand let go. But he was so tired. It wasn’t worth the fight. At least he could let this go. He could finally let this all go.
He drifted off.
--
He dreamed. Hands and eyes everywhere, exploding out of him. A pressure behind his eyes, finally relieved.
--
When he next opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. His eyes ached deeply, crusted around the edges as he blinked them. As he lifted up his hands to wipe them, he paused, and he stared. He thought perhaps he was mistaken, his glasses likely on a table somewhere. He squinted, bringing them closer.
The hands were wrong. A different shade, unmarred by wrinkles or spots of age. The hands of a much younger man. He turned them over, and the palms weren’t his. They were large with longer fingers. Like a pianist.
“Jonathan, you’re awake.” It was that voice again. The voice that wasn’t Jonah, but was. His blurred shape walked over to him, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“What did you do?” Jonathan’s voice cracked, panicked, rougher than he was used to. His hands pressed up to his face, close to his eyes, down across his cheekbones, his nose. There was stubble across his face. The nose had been broken at some point. This wasn’t his. He dug his fingernails in harshly, enough that he felt pain blossom beneath them. “What did you do??”
“I’m fulfilling my promise.” Jonah said calmly, hands wrapping around Jonathan’s wrists and tugging them away from his face. He leaned forwards, kissing the stinging spots one by one. “My Jonathan. My Archivist. I’m giving you everything .”