Jonathan Sims

Michael's laugh is an ice pick to the frontal lobe, the cloying, metal taste of a nosebleed. He lifts his free hand to his nose, and there isn't any of the blood he feels like there should be. He is afraid to move the hand that Michael touches, afraid that the sharp fingers will find a way into his skin again.

"You could," he says. He can still feel blood on his face, the way it would fill his mouth, stick along the crease of his lips. He looks up to catch Michael's eyes (and thinks sea glass). "You could lie to me, but… but I don't think you would."

Which seemed a foolish thing to say. absolutely was a foolish thing to say. Of course Michael would, could, and probably had lied to him. But, Jon hadn't been sleeping much, and not well when he has managed a few hours. He wakes remembering the squirming, cold bodies of larvae on his skin, the sharp bites and wriggling wrongness of the insects forcing their way into his skin.

He couldn't close his eyes for too long, even in the shower, for fear of there having been one missed. His own hair brushing against his neck has sent him into a panic attack.

There were other people he could have gone to about this. Tim would… understand, maybe. Even Elias may have been able to help. But…

Jon didn't want to discuss this with either of them. Relations were strained when it was almost assured that someone in the institute had killed Gertrude.

"In Sasha's account," which, he reminded himself, was still missing, "you didn't seem to be such a fan of the… flesh-hive?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

If Michael's laugh was a lobotomy, that brief eye contact with the Archivist was a press to the lips before pushing the pick in. His eyes are sharp, green and cold, like a knife's edge carved from jade. They're not quite the silver bullets Gertrude used to level against unwitting souls, he was still too soft for that. But, baby rattlesnakes were often more dangerous than their mothers –unable to control their venom properly.

It hides its sharp discomfort by slowly tracing a spiraling shape on Jon's hand, touching so light it feels like the scurrying feet of loyal insects. A tickling caress it must cease when the Archivist speaks as his words genuinely surprise it.

It isn't often surprised.

It certainly likes something as unexpected as that.

Being Surprised.

The Archivist trusted it would not lie. His voice is desperate, the foundation cracked through with sleepless nights, each acting as another hammer blow to his clearly fragile psyche.

(It momentarily grows lost, thinking fondly of the idea of standing over the smaller man's sleeping form. Curled up and fragile, like a babe in womb, it would lean closer and closer. Till their faces would barely touch. And maybe that close, Michael would be able to taste the sweet wicked dreams that keep Jon tired. Learn their wicked ways so it too can worm its way in)

Jon was expecting it to lie, expecting it to do as monsters did, that much it could guess.

And what would twist and twirl and curl his mind and alter it in ways he could not understand is that the creature spoke the one thing that was not expected.

Oh, how terrible would it be for him if the creature were to tell the truth. To become a foundation of trust in the midst of the maddening paranoia.

Its fingerpad runs over one of the newest scars on Jon's hand, over and over, like a worry stone.

It speaks carefully.

“It is true,,, it does not like creatures that interfere with its own,,, wants. Goals. Thus the rivalry it had. Perhaps if the Flesh Hive had picked better prey, , , it would not have earned such ire.” A sharp grin with teeth too big and gums too wet, it looks more carnivorous than anything else.

Michael tracing patterns on his skin raises goosebumps, some ancient instinct from when humans had more fur, to fluff up and look larger than he is. His grandmother used to trace patterns along his forehead if he were struggling to sleep; that was soothing, this wasn't. His eyes go from Michael's to the hand on his, to the finger tracing along his skin, eyebrows pinched in worry and unease. Jon wanted to pull his hand away (really, he wanted to jerk his hand away and perhaps leave), but he doesn't. He doesn't want to risk that, in whatever game they are playing, giving in to his own discomfort would make Michael not help him.

His fingers twitch when Michael brushes over one of the marks left by the worms. The marks on his hands and forearms have scarred worse than the others. They're too within-reach, too easy to pick at when he isn't paying attention.

He's taken to wearing long sleeves in the Archives; he'd always brought a jacket before, because it could be chilly down there, but now he's wearing sweaters and long-sleeved button-downs to hide the scars. To try to thwart his own attempts to pick and scratch at them.

"Your goals?" It's with a sudden, sharp curiosity that he asks, eyes flitting back to Michael's, and then to his teeth. Jon has always been curious, wanting to know everything he can. Now, though, after everything, it feels like that curiosity is life or death. The need to know versus the fear of knowing. He makes the same choice every time; he'd rather know than not. "What are your goals?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

Whatever game it is, it seems both are playing separate games. In a checkmate, Michael watches the flesh goose skin and then twitch, fingers pulsing and coiling away from its touch, its cheeks push painfully upwards, a widening of its smile the only indicator of its amusements.

Its finger had faltered, but now resumes its steady, endless, unknowable patterns. Loops and loops and loops again, like dna spilling over itself. Jon is wearing a sweater, a cloying wool thing, no doubt warm and sweltering when combined with Michael's warm touch. Its hands, despite their long, unnaturally blue appearance, like icicles, are hot, burning almost. The archivist would have believed its hands were scorching, if not for the lack of burn mark left behind.

It's an ugly brown wool, itchy. Itchy and hot and irritating. Irritating. Hiding thin, darling little limbs, it knows are marred with marks that are not its own. Irritating. Irritating at best. It wonders if his bones are as hollow and changeable as Michael Shelley's little bird limbed form once was.

The Archivist asks it a question and usually the prickling of being known would accompany it. There is a dull bee sting of human curiosity with the half fed fledgling of Something Else. Not enough to compel it to speak the truth, of course. Nor enough to properly sting.

It is disappointed.

It always prefers its prey biting back.

How irritating.

When it looks at Jon again, its maw looks almost as sharp as a spider's. That runny egg pupil seems to whirl, moving with the vague swaying of its body, sickly left liquid.

“Its goals are to amuse it,,, ,

And to feed happy.”

It giggles all static and improperly wound tape.

“Thus, it is lucky, that you are so amusing,,, Jonathan.” The words end in a wild birds coo and the scars on Jon's hand burn. It drops its attention to the book again, nail tracing similar indiscernible patterns on the book cover.

“Have you read any of it⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？ Curious little thing, ,, hungry little thing,,,”

There is a phenomenon wherein a temperature is so extreme in one direction that it feels like the other; something so hot suddenly feels cold, something so cold feeling hot. A temperature so extreme that the body's neurons have no idea how to interpret it--hot or cold, cold or hot?

Michael wears winter clothes, therefore it must be cold. Michael's tracing finger feels like he's taking a hot blade to Jon's skin, therefore it must be hot. There are not marks, when Jon looks to his hand. It both hurts and doesn't.

Between the patterns and the hotcold pain-not-pain, Jon gets lost in the looping movements of Michael's hand on his. The searing pain is what finally breaks the spell, making him finally (finally!) jerk his hand away and out from under Michael's.

When he pulls back, when he tears his eyes from Michael's fingers and up to its face, he notices how empty the shop has become. He couldn't have been staring at its hand on his for longer than a minute, maybe two, but… would he know? It makes his heart rate. The entire point of a cafe had been to have people around (not that that seemed to matter). It felt dangerous now. He couldn't even see a batista.

Jon pulls his eyes back to the monster in front of him. He's holding his hand to his chest, rubbing his fingers over it to try to get rid of the feeling of Michael's fingers.

"No," he says. "I'm not an idiot. Do you want it or not?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

It seems something about Michael had finally struck a nerve in Jon. Not a literal one, of course, otherwise it would have dedicated hours to playing with the little thing, watching how it would make the flesh around it crawl and which sharp tug would make Jonathan's fingers curl shut. Tendons and nerves and muscles acting as an intricate violin,,

What lovely music he might make.

Either way, the Archivist is snatching his hand away. And Michael almost mourns the loss of contact–of soft, warm skin, promising warmer and warmer beneath.

It occupies itself in the moments of Jon's panic with its tea cup, taking three too big sips. The liquid burns, stinging the inside of its tongue and throat, heat distracting it from biting. It was certainly a challenge, not biting when such a lovely little snack was present.

The shops emptying, the ridding of human babble, it makes Michael's natural buzzing noise more prominent. Like a record left on for dead air, it hums, steady and unending. When Jon stares too close at it, the light seems to catch on snowflakes, stuck in its hair, and caught half falling in the air. Michael watches Jon’s hands, his clever steady fingers, and it occupies another few agonising moments while obnoxiously sipping its tea. Several loud, purposeful gulps later, the tea cup is set down, porcelain clattering loudly in the mostly empty shop.

“Very well,, Jonathan, , , yes, , , it will take your book. And in exchange, , , it will look and see , , , what could be crawling around inside you.” It giggles, as if it had said something so utterly charming, tucking a hair behind its ear.

Jon nearly deflates with the relief of knowing that Michael would help him. It felt better that it wasn't helping him for nothing. If it had been, that would feel too much like debt and owing favours, and Jon wouldn't be able to stop the suspicious thoughts from ruining any chance of accepting the help. This way, he got what he wanted, and it got something it wanted.

If only it would stop phrasing it as things crawling, squirming, living in his skin. The imagery brings back too many memories of the worms wriggling over, into, his skin.

Still, at least he had something.

Hopefully, he would find out that there was nothing wrong, and it could be one thing he wouldn't have to worry about. One less from his pile of so many concerns.

"Thank you," he says, a bit belatedly, following the movement of its hand with his eyes. Hot hands and snowflakes, he thinks. It's pieces to a puzzle that he has no reference picture of.

He rubs his eyes as if that would do anything at all to help. "The book is yours. Can you just… tell? If there is something… there?" In him, he doesn't say.

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

The book would make a lovely gift, it decides. Perhaps it would leave it somewhere far, hard to reach, to give that sweet bookburner something to do, or perhaps, it would scrawl sweet nonsense on the inside and leave it for its lightning strike to find. It runs a thumb over the cover, again and again, amused by the way the patterns on it warp and shift under its touch. Wriggling and squirming about.

“There is a traditional technique for catching earth worms. Worm charming, it is called,,, where one would insert a stick into the earth and twist it. The vibrations mimic rain,,, and the worms are called. They stretch and squirm and slink to the surface,,, only to be met with eager fleshy hands. Picking them away.” It giggles, all nitrous oxide and nails on chalkboard. The Distortion turns its attention back on Jon, meeting his eyes. His gaze is sharp, emeralds and jade, cold and cool stone, sharp and sharp and–It drops its eyes, swooping to focus on his hands again. Unable to admit defeat to those eyes.

“There is no longer anything squirming in you,,,” Its long index finger trails down the book's spine, nail dragging on the table wood, till it hovers just above the Archivist’s skin once again. “There are no worms,,, but I am afraid you are still,,,hmmm,,,,charming.” Michael titters at the choice of words, stuck in compliments made of threats and threats sewn of sweet compliments. “So charming,,, it worries creatures with sharper teeth than worms will bite.” An angering thought. An irritating one.

#fibonaccifractals #i got too excited

When he was little, he'd been told not to look directly at the sun because it would damage his eyes. He had recently read a book about mithridatism; about how taking in little bits of poison could, over time, make someone more resistant to that poison. Being a child, he had thought that if he looked at the sun, directly, just a little each day, over time, it would become easier to do so. It hadn't.

Looking at Michael is like looking directly at the sun, leaving his eyes feeling achy, wanting to close, to look at something else. He looks away when Michael does, picking up his tea to take a long drink from it.

He has a moment of relief, knowing that there is nothing left of the worms in him. Nothing living, nothing he needs to worry about eating him from the inside. Then his brain catches up with Michael's words and grinds to a halt.

Jon is back to staring, a bit wide-eyed. Charming? It isn't a word he's had applied to himself before. Irritating, annoying, frustrating, know-it-all, bossy. But, charming? He has dated people who he's pretty sure still wouldn't have applied it to him.

"I, ah," he stammers, gives a short laugh. His face feels hot, and he hopes it doesn’t show. "I'm... definitely not charming."

Michael's laugh is an ice pick to the frontal lobe, the cloying, metal taste of a nosebleed. He lifts his free hand to his nose, and there isn't any of the blood he feels like there should be. He is afraid to move the hand that Michael touches, afraid that the sharp fingers will find a way into his skin again.

"You could," he says. He can still feel blood on his face, the way it would fill his mouth, stick along the crease of his lips. He looks up to catch Michael's eyes (and thinks sea glass). "You could lie to me, but… but I don't think you would."

Which seemed a foolish thing to say. absolutely was a foolish thing to say. Of course Michael would, could, and probably had lied to him. But, Jon hadn't been sleeping much, and not well when he has managed a few hours. He wakes remembering the squirming, cold bodies of larvae on his skin, the sharp bites and wriggling wrongness of the insects forcing their way into his skin.

He couldn't close his eyes for too long, even in the shower, for fear of there having been one missed. His own hair brushing against his neck has sent him into a panic attack.

There were other people he could have gone to about this. Tim would… understand, maybe. Even Elias may have been able to help. But…

Jon didn't want to discuss this with either of them. Relations were strained when it was almost assured that someone in the institute had killed Gertrude.

"In Sasha's account," which, he reminded himself, was still missing, "you didn't seem to be such a fan of the… flesh-hive?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

If Michael's laugh was a lobotomy, that brief eye contact with the Archivist was a press to the lips before pushing the pick in. His eyes are sharp, green and cold, like a knife's edge carved from jade. They're not quite the silver bullets Gertrude used to level against unwitting souls, he was still too soft for that. But, baby rattlesnakes were often more dangerous than their mothers –unable to control their venom properly.

It hides its sharp discomfort by slowly tracing a spiraling shape on Jon's hand, touching so light it feels like the scurrying feet of loyal insects. A tickling caress it must cease when the Archivist speaks as his words genuinely surprise it.

It isn't often surprised.

It certainly likes something as unexpected as that.

Being Surprised.

The Archivist trusted it would not lie. His voice is desperate, the foundation cracked through with sleepless nights, each acting as another hammer blow to his clearly fragile psyche.

(It momentarily grows lost, thinking fondly of the idea of standing over the smaller man's sleeping form. Curled up and fragile, like a babe in womb, it would lean closer and closer. Till their faces would barely touch. And maybe that close, Michael would be able to taste the sweet wicked dreams that keep Jon tired. Learn their wicked ways so it too can worm its way in)

Jon was expecting it to lie, expecting it to do as monsters did, that much it could guess.

And what would twist and twirl and curl his mind and alter it in ways he could not understand is that the creature spoke the one thing that was not expected.

Oh, how terrible would it be for him if the creature were to tell the truth. To become a foundation of trust in the midst of the maddening paranoia.

Its fingerpad runs over one of the newest scars on Jon's hand, over and over, like a worry stone.

It speaks carefully.

“It is true,,, it does not like creatures that interfere with its own,,, wants. Goals. Thus the rivalry it had. Perhaps if the Flesh Hive had picked better prey, , , it would not have earned such ire.” A sharp grin with teeth too big and gums too wet, it looks more carnivorous than anything else.

Michael tracing patterns on his skin raises goosebumps, some ancient instinct from when humans had more fur, to fluff up and look larger than he is. His grandmother used to trace patterns along his forehead if he were struggling to sleep; that was soothing, this wasn't. His eyes go from Michael's to the hand on his, to the finger tracing along his skin, eyebrows pinched in worry and unease. Jon wanted to pull his hand away (really, he wanted to jerk his hand away and perhaps leave), but he doesn't. He doesn't want to risk that, in whatever game they are playing, giving in to his own discomfort would make Michael not help him.

His fingers twitch when Michael brushes over one of the marks left by the worms. The marks on his hands and forearms have scarred worse than the others. They're too within-reach, too easy to pick at when he isn't paying attention.

He's taken to wearing long sleeves in the Archives; he'd always brought a jacket before, because it could be chilly down there, but now he's wearing sweaters and long-sleeved button-downs to hide the scars. To try to thwart his own attempts to pick and scratch at them.

"Your goals?" It's with a sudden, sharp curiosity that he asks, eyes flitting back to Michael's, and then to his teeth. Jon has always been curious, wanting to know everything he can. Now, though, after everything, it feels like that curiosity is life or death. The need to know versus the fear of knowing. He makes the same choice every time; he'd rather know than not. "What are your goals?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

Whatever game it is, it seems both are playing separate games. In a checkmate, Michael watches the flesh goose skin and then twitch, fingers pulsing and coiling away from its touch, its cheeks push painfully upwards, a widening of its smile the only indicator of its amusements.

Its finger had faltered, but now resumes its steady, endless, unknowable patterns. Loops and loops and loops again, like dna spilling over itself. Jon is wearing a sweater, a cloying wool thing, no doubt warm and sweltering when combined with Michael's warm touch. Its hands, despite their long, unnaturally blue appearance, like icicles, are hot, burning almost. The archivist would have believed its hands were scorching, if not for the lack of burn mark left behind.

It's an ugly brown wool, itchy. Itchy and hot and irritating. Irritating. Hiding thin, darling little limbs, it knows are marred with marks that are not its own. Irritating. Irritating at best. It wonders if his bones are as hollow and changeable as Michael Shelley's little bird limbed form once was.

The Archivist asks it a question and usually the prickling of being known would accompany it. There is a dull bee sting of human curiosity with the half fed fledgling of Something Else. Not enough to compel it to speak the truth, of course. Nor enough to properly sting.

It is disappointed.

It always prefers its prey biting back.

How irritating.

When it looks at Jon again, its maw looks almost as sharp as a spider's. That runny egg pupil seems to whirl, moving with the vague swaying of its body, sickly left liquid.

“Its goals are to amuse it,,, ,

And to feed happy.”

It giggles all static and improperly wound tape.

“Thus, it is lucky, that you are so amusing,,, Jonathan.” The words end in a wild birds coo and the scars on Jon's hand burn. It drops its attention to the book again, nail tracing similar indiscernible patterns on the book cover.

“Have you read any of it⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？ Curious little thing, ,, hungry little thing,,,”

There is a phenomenon wherein a temperature is so extreme in one direction that it feels like the other; something so hot suddenly feels cold, something so cold feeling hot. A temperature so extreme that the body's neurons have no idea how to interpret it--hot or cold, cold or hot?

Michael wears winter clothes, therefore it must be cold. Michael's tracing finger feels like he's taking a hot blade to Jon's skin, therefore it must be hot. There are not marks, when Jon looks to his hand. It both hurts and doesn't.

Between the patterns and the hotcold pain-not-pain, Jon gets lost in the looping movements of Michael's hand on his. The searing pain is what finally breaks the spell, making him finally (finally!) jerk his hand away and out from under Michael's.

When he pulls back, when he tears his eyes from Michael's fingers and up to its face, he notices how empty the shop has become. He couldn't have been staring at its hand on his for longer than a minute, maybe two, but… would he know? It makes his heart rate. The entire point of a cafe had been to have people around (not that that seemed to matter). It felt dangerous now. He couldn't even see a batista.

Jon pulls his eyes back to the monster in front of him. He's holding his hand to his chest, rubbing his fingers over it to try to get rid of the feeling of Michael's fingers.

"No," he says. "I'm not an idiot. Do you want it or not?"

$fibonacci-fractals blog's avatar$

It seems something about Michael had finally struck a nerve in Jon. Not a literal one, of course, otherwise it would have dedicated hours to playing with the little thing, watching how it would make the flesh around it crawl and which sharp tug would make Jonathan's fingers curl shut. Tendons and nerves and muscles acting as an intricate violin,,

What lovely music he might make.

Either way, the Archivist is snatching his hand away. And Michael almost mourns the loss of contact–of soft, warm skin, promising warmer and warmer beneath.

It occupies itself in the moments of Jon's panic with its tea cup, taking three too big sips. The liquid burns, stinging the inside of its tongue and throat, heat distracting it from biting. It was certainly a challenge, not biting when such a lovely little snack was present.

The shops emptying, the ridding of human babble, it makes Michael's natural buzzing noise more prominent. Like a record left on for dead air, it hums, steady and unending. When Jon stares too close at it, the light seems to catch on snowflakes, stuck in its hair, and caught half falling in the air. Michael watches Jon’s hands, his clever steady fingers, and it occupies another few agonising moments while obnoxiously sipping its tea. Several loud, purposeful gulps later, the tea cup is set down, porcelain clattering loudly in the mostly empty shop.

“Very well,, Jonathan, , , yes, , , it will take your book. And in exchange, , , it will look and see , , , what could be crawling around inside you.” It giggles, as if it had said something so utterly charming, tucking a hair behind its ear.

Jon nearly deflates with the relief of knowing that Michael would help him. It felt better that it wasn't helping him for nothing. If it had been, that would feel too much like debt and owing favours, and Jon wouldn't be able to stop the suspicious thoughts from ruining any chance of accepting the help. This way, he got what he wanted, and it got something it wanted.

If only it would stop phrasing it as things crawling, squirming, living in his skin. The imagery brings back too many memories of the worms wriggling over, into, his skin.

Still, at least he had something.

Hopefully, he would find out that there was nothing wrong, and it could be one thing he wouldn't have to worry about. One less from his pile of so many concerns.

"Thank you," he says, a bit belatedly, following the movement of its hand with his eyes. Hot hands and snowflakes, he thinks. It's pieces to a puzzle that he has no reference picture of.

He rubs his eyes as if that would do anything at all to help. "The book is yours. Can you just… tell? If there is something… there?" In him, he doesn't say.

#fibonaccifractals

oh oh oh what's this?? who's this? you seem veRyry botherable.

- @always-ending

You wouldn't be the first to apparently think that. Does it even help if I promise I'm not very botherable at all?

Let's consider that maybe one day I will understand them, then. At the very least, I am currently looking into the death of Gertrude Robinson, and having records of her conversations with others has the potential to be useful.

i ddon't want you 2 have it, archivist

Then you aren't getting it, either, Priz.

UgHHHHHHHHH fine i hate u. lemme in and i will share the files w u

Fine. How do I do this?

it's really easy just click here.

Right. Okay. That's it?

run the file that downloads.

Okay. Doing it now.

#alwaysending

oh oh oh what's this?? who's this? you seem veRyry botherable.

- @always-ending

You wouldn't be the first to apparently think that. Does it even help if I promise I'm not very botherable at all?

Let's consider that maybe one day I will understand them, then. At the very least, I am currently looking into the death of Gertrude Robinson, and having records of her conversations with others has the potential to be useful.

i ddon't want you 2 have it, archivist

Then you aren't getting it, either, Priz.

UgHHHHHHHHH fine i hate u. lemme in and i will share the files w u

Fine. How do I do this?

it's really easy just click here.