[ID: a digital illustration of Jon, Martin, and Gerry from the Magnus Archives. Jon is on the left, holding martin's hand and looking off to the side. He's a syrian man with greying hair and brown skin, which is peppered with pink scars. He's wearing grey slacks and a green sweater vest over a grey button up shirt. He is wearing black loafers and green socks with an eye pattern. Martin is in the center, holding hands with both Jon and Gerry. He is a fat man with tan skin and short wavy chestnut hair. There are freckles on his face, and he's wearing a soft light blue sweater and greyish blue tights. He's wearing blue sneakers and socks with a heart pattern and looking at Jon fondly. Gerry is on the right, leaning over to the left, smiling. He is a pale man with long dyed black hair, a long dark grey trenchcoat, black jeans, a grey t-shirt, and jong black boots with lots of buckles. He has eye tattoos on the joints of his hands and on the corner of his jaw, and he's holding a rose in the hand that isn't holding Martin's. There is a pattern of pink and yellow eyed behind them. /End ID]
transparent version + a surprise under the cut!
[ID: Two versions of the same drawing, the one on the left has no background. The one on the right has michael the distortion doodled over it, leaning over Gerry on the right and grinning at the viewer. /End ID]
Characters: Michael Distortion, Gerry Keay, Martin Blackwood, Jon Sims
Relationships: poly Michael/Gerry/Martin/Jon
Summary: Michael holds tension in its hands, and Gerry might be the first person to try to massage it out.
The door had been a part of their flat for a few weeks now, the curling fractal swirl of the woodgrain becoming dizzying if too closely inspected.
Michael didn't always choose to come through the door, sometimes appearing hovering behind Martin as he cooked or long fingers pulling away Jon's papers from behind him without the telltale squeal and creak that usually heralded its arrival.
The door stood like a guardian when Gerry stumbled in at 4:45 am on a Thursday night, pressing a wadded up woolen sock into a gash that bled from his side.
Gerry didn't think he saw the door open, but Michael was there, gauze and bandages cut and alcohol applied to a small cotton ball. Michael understood more than Jon or Martin the unease that filled Gerry's gut when hospitals or doctors were involved. It simply helped clean the wound and cover it without the scoldings Jon seemed eternally happy to provide or the tuts that ran from Martin's mouth like streams down a hill.
"Another preventable fight?" Michael asked when the wound was clean and bandaged, pressing a kiss to the part of Gerry's hair, its hands draped over Gerry's chest like some jointed blanket.
Gerry huffed, turning his head to look at Michael. "I didn't start it this time," came the defense, but there was no real energy to it, eyes closed as he relaxed back into the couch and Michael hummed softly, pressing its hands down gently as if to ground Gerry in the moment, to instill in him some connection to the now.
Gerry lifted a tattooed hand to Michael's, resting it over a patch of grisled muscle and tendon. Pressing carefully, he tried to un-knot the stress that seemed to make its nest in Michael's palm, his thumb making circles on the leathery skin. Michael sighed softly behind him and Gerry shifted slightly to see.
It had sunk down to its knees behind the couch, and a scarlet blush covered its cheeks, nose, and ears. Its hands twitched slightly when Gerry paused his rubbing.
"That's good…" Michael's voice faded out slightly, sounding more echo than true vocalization.
Gerry shifted his hand slightly, running his knuckles over the tendons on the back of Michael's hand. "You've got a lot of stress pent up in these muscles, you know. We might have to do this massage thing more often."
Michael opened its eyes to blink lazily, happily, up from its place on the floor. "Good plan," it sighed.
Somewhere off behind them, socked footsteps paused at the door to the living room. Martin looked blearily at them, Jon peeking up behind him. "Gerry…" Martin began. "You're home!"
"... You're hurt," Jon narrowed his eyes and shuffled over, pushing Michael's fingers gently away so he could see the wound on Gerry's chest.
Gerry covered up the wince when Jon brushed his fingers over the bandages. "I'm fine, Michael patched me up."
Jon's eyes searched Gerry's face, looking for pain or a lie or worry. Finding none, he got up from the kneel he had taken and nodded. "Bed. Now."
It didn't seem to matter that the sky's grey had begun to lighten, when the four of them piled into bed, Martin hugging Gerry close and Jon snuggling back into Michael's chest, Gerry's hair pulled up into a bun to keep in from being pulled and Michael's hands draped over them like caring heated blankets.
