The first day after the letter was received, nothing happened. Nor the second, or the third, but Joey could not shake the feeling of being watched. His hands were constantly trembling, and even Buddy noted the shaky quality of his storyboarding. He could hardly eat, barely slept, and his bees swirled around him in an attempt to comfort him and protect him, though they were but small insects. And yet, despite the safety of the city, the elusiveness of his residence, the confidence in his own power, he still worried. There was no way to avoid the terror within his own thoughts, and it consumed his strength and sapped his sanity.
Bertrum commented on it, and stormed his apartment, a small heated argument between them as he packed up a suitcase of Johan’s things, shoving it against the tall young man’s chest, demanding he go to Grant’s over the Sabbath. Joey protested, reluctant to put the accountant and his family in danger, a danger Lacie waved off, explaining that there was no way the Flynn Syndicate would go near that section of town to look for “Joey Drew”. Then he was pushed out the door of his studio.
And so, there he was with his hair combed back, sitting at the table as the candles burned on the stand. Grant and Carl returned from synagogue. He listened to the quiet songs of greeting Grant and his wife Sori sang, their great nephew Carl doing a small solo of Lecha Dodi for them. Johan vibrated in tune, and his hands were stopped from clapping, Grant shaking his head at him with twinkling eyes. Sori pulled a book from the shelf, showing Johan where it was shown that clapping was not allowed on Shabbat.
“So how do you applaud on Shabbat, then?” Joey asked, perplexed. “Do you just… cheer or something?”
“Clap on the back of your hand,” Carl intoned, his voice melodious. “Like an evil villain.”
“Carl!” Sori scolded, but with a gentle smile. “Though yes, this is the way.”
After the zemirot, Grant blessed Carl, then got up to say kiddush.
“Hineh e-l yeshuati….”
Johan listened closely.
He could partially understand the ancient words said, knowing them from the bygone days of reconstructing them.
A cup of grape juice was passed to him, and he sipped before thanking them.
They washed for challah, and then the real meal began.
Unlike his usual self, he helped himself to chicken and other non vegetarian foods, taking in the flavor and aroma.
The conversation and laughter flowed with complete and total ease.
Joey felt… so safe.
He watched the candles sink into wax, dipping lower and lower. Sori excused herself on account of her invalidity, and bid them a good night. Grant leaned back in a chair, instructing Carl on his leining. Johan curled up on the couch to intrude on the lesson.
After setting aside the book, Grant teasingly questioned Carl and Johan about their dating lives. The two younger’s eyes met, and they broke out in soft nervous laughter.
“Johan if you’re with my nephew I’m going to have to ask you to leave this house this instant,” Grant joked with a straight face. Joey paled and began to stutter out that he never even met Carl before that day, and Grant rolled his eyes and laughed. “I’m only joking, Joey.”
“O-oh! Oh….” Joey smiled sheepishly. “S-sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Carl chuckled. “You haven’t done any harm.”
“R-right,” Joey agreed after a moment, exhaling slowly. “Right.”
“You tired, Mr. Drew?” Carl asked, looking to his great uncle. “I can show you to the guest room, if you are.”
“W-well, somewhat,” he admitted. “But no m-matter, I, I’ll go to bed at the same time as you both.”
“Mhm….” Grant patted his hand. “Whatever you’d like, dear Joey.”
“I’ll wait,” he promised, yawning slightly. “Though my head is muddled, so… I can’t think too st-straight.”
“That’s alright,” Grant said. He gently tapped Carl’s shoulder. “Why, I forgot to mention this - Carl is also going into the entertainment industry. He and a friend are going to make a puppet show.”
“Really now?” Johan perked up, smiling lopsidedly. “That sounds fantastic.”
“It is!” Grant answered, bristling with pride. “He carves all of them.”
“Astounding,” Joey murmured, looking at Carl with admiration. “I think that being able to use your hands in your craft is absolutely a n-necessity. Aside from mathematical fields, of c-course. For those you need a good-d head!”
“Joey, now you’re just soft soaping,” Grant rumbled, rolling his eyes. Joey caught Carl’s gaze and winked at him. “But you’re not wrong, that’s a fact.”
“Feter, I’m feeling drowsy,” Carl yawned, his austrian accent slipping into his words. “It’s late. I think that I will go to bed.”
“Fine with me,” Grant nodded, standing, proffering a hand to Joey to help him up, which the lanky lad gratefully took. “Carl will show you to your room.”
“Thank you,” Joey nodded, holding onto Carl’s shoulder to steady himself on his weak legs. “Have a good night, Mr. Cohen.”
“You as well, Joey, Carl,” he yawned. “Shacharit is at eight tomorrow, so don’t oversleep, young one.”
“I won’t, feter,” Carl responded dutifully, smiling with a small nod to the older man. “Gute nacht.”
Joey and Carl entered the room they both were staying in, and Carl lead Joey to the secondary guest bed.
Johan whispered a quiet thanks, and Carl hummed in reply.
A bit of candle light flickered on Carl’s nightstand, he flicking through the pages of a novel or medrish, the segmental sounds lulling Joey to a deep calm, his red eyes drifting shut in the orange light. Just before he was about to drop off into sleep, a sharp tap on the window ruined his slowing heartbeat, jump starting it. He grew very still, very afraid, but Carl merely glanced at him, as though checking that he was still sleeping, and crept to the window, slipping it open. A tan face greeted his olive one, and they fell into a low conversation, keeping themselves quiet so as to not disturb Joey.
Tan hands met pale ones, and their foreheads touched, even as their lips still murmured little words. Carl smiled, and the other man kissed his cheek.
“Soon, soon,” he said, and grinned. “Just a little bit longer, and I will have the cash for the building. I got this. Trust me.”
“Always, Buddy,” Carl whispered back. “I’m so excited. I’ll see you at shacharit tomorrow. We can talk more after then. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” the so called Buddy responded, giving his hands a little squeeze. “You keep healing up. I’ll see you soon.”
And then he slipped away, Carl waving him off and closing the window.
A little urge to tease sprang up in Joey’s chest. The words slipped out before he could check himself.
“Ooh, someone’s just had a rendezvous,” he sing songed in a quiet tone. Carl turned around quickly and blushed, shushing Joey by putting a hand on his mouth. When he took it away, Joey smiled at him, squinting and curling up in his blankets. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
Henry hated seeing Joey like that. Hollow eyed, jittery, harsh breathing. Still, it was a reality that had to be faced, every now and then. The way that Joey would spill his tea in shaky hands, the way his eyes welled with blazing tears. Henry wished he could just hug him and will it all away, but he could not, so there he sat in front of Joey, his thumb rubbing the back of the younger man’s hand. Joey stared directly in front of them, not looking at their hands or at Henry, rather at a black stain on the table. Henry hated that it was his fault Joey was acting like this, restless and nervous. ‘Something’s wrong in the world, I can feel it,’ Joey had told him over and over. ‘Something is very wrong.’
Joey could not sleep when something was wrong. Henry always joked that of all the members of the studio, Joey should have been the one who slept the best, but it was never so, unfortunately for the lanky chicano. Too much kept him up; stress, memories, worries, inventions, family problems, money issues, so much, too much. Henry was one of those worries, but everyone Joey met became one of his worries. He worried for those he never even met, at that. A sweetheart with the biggest soul Henry had ever met, scattered in the stars and spread through whispers and will o’ wisps, a hushed secret of immeasurable power, the most gentle giant ever.
Anyone could see it, and yet, he still, somehow, had enemies, those sworn against him by blood. Even his own step father fell into their number. But Johan had a new family now.
Bertrum joined them in the pub room, chatting with Allison. They poured themselves coffee and sat beside the doctor, making idle conversation. Joey had not slept enough to understand the words flowing from their lips with such ease, such grace. His own words were marred by an ugly stutter that chased after his tongue, tripping his syllables and bashing his own melody of noises. So he often preferred to stay silent, though words burned at his throat, shrieking to be let out. Most of the time his will lost against his desire.
He hated the sound of his voice coming from his mouth, and would much rather hear it played back through a recording instead of himself. Not that his voice was bad, no, it was… wrong. Something about it just seemed so very wrong. He, at one point, had attempted to correct it with cigarettes and coffee. The first time he had a cigarette he was very young, what, five or six? Atabulus had offered it to him, and the young boy had taken it out of curiosity, and found he despised it. Atabulus had laughed softly, patting his head, telling him that he might like it one day. And no, he never did get used to it, nor did he ever like it, but he would rather pay twenty five cents for fifty staved off meals than two full days of work for one meal. Yet the same thing that saved him was a vice, his body craving the nicotine within the folds of tobacco, demanding it, forcing him to keep buying until he locked himself in his office for two weeks until the cravings dropped, and by then he was so hungry and sun sick that Henry had to drag him up to his garden where he absentmindedly ate nana as he lay in the heat of day until Henry brought him real food.
And so he sat there in front of his friends and family in complete and utter silence, merely staring at the table as he wished he had a cigarette between his fingers. He flinched, and took a draught of his overly sweetened tea, the honey within bringing him back to the present. He forced himself to calm, then. It was okay, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Nothing. At. All.
Keep telling yourself that, buddy.
Johan jolted, looking over his shoulder to see if he could catch a glimpse of… whatever that was. Henry gave him a Look, and Joey shrank back in his seat. Bad look. Questioning look. Questions were bad. They meant something was wrong.
No, no, no, calm down there. It’s fine. Just a little nerve wracked. Just a little bit.
There was a rumbling in his chest, an ache in his hands. He had to build.
It was an insatiable urge, he had to build it. But Henry! Henry forbid him!
At the thought of Henry’s order, the rumbling in his chest turned into a shocking pain lacing through his lungs.
He calmly realized he could not breathe.
How very interesting.
His free hand rose to his lips, under his nose, as if to check if he really was not breathing. How odd! No flow passed through them, and his eyes watered slightly. The rancid taste of bile clung to the back of his throat, and he rose, and quietly left to the bathroom, and prompt expelled the contents of his mouth and stomach into the toilet.
Ink.
Huh.
Joey’s head felt very light.
What was happening? Why was he on his knees? Did that come out of him?
Seemed like it.
He shook, but only a little, and rested his head against the rim of the toilet, lest he feel the urge to vomit again. When the need fell still, he got up again, spruced himself up in the cloudy mirror (he would remind one of the Franks to clean it), and made his way back to the conversing others. He sat heavily, Henry’s hand and his meeting silently in the middle. Henry’s expression was nearly unreadable, but Joey could see concern. Then Susie spoke up (when had she gotten there? Probably while he was in the restroom), her voice a tranquil melody. So different to Joey’s, he wondered how she even beard to pretend to date him. And Henry as well, how could he stand to hear his record scratch tones while his lovely baritone ran deep and true?
“We need an organist, Mr. Drew, Dr. Stein,” she told them, something Joey knew very well, something he knew would be addressed eventually, but he had always dreaded the moment when the topic would arise. Henry pondered it for a moment, and then spoke, “What about Johnathan Derekson agai-”
“NO!” Joey did not know when he got to his feet, eyes wide and wild, teeth bared, shoulders arched forward in defense. Those around stared at him, and he felt his neck burn with warmth as he sat back down slowly. “S-sorry. No. Not… him. Never.”
Bertrum’s rusty gold eyes pierced Johan’s skin, digging into him, silent questions asked a million times with the mere raise of a thick, dark eyebrow. Johan closed his eyes, breathed in, counted to five, and let the air out. Best not to think of him. Best to remember that… the incident never occurred. It was in the, in a past life. Not this one. Here, now, he could start fresh. No fear in his veins at the thought of going to the music department. For there was no Johnathan Derekson there to prey on him.
‘I do not mean to interrupt,’ Jameson signed to them after tapping Henry’s shoulder for all of their attention. ‘I know this one young lad, he works at a church as an organist, and he is looking for a better job. His name is Doe. Johnny Doe. An orphan. Good natured. Gentle. Not mute like me, but very quiet. Know how to sign very well. We enjoy each other’s company.’
So, Johnny Doe was called in for an interview, and he played beautifully. Joey was smitten by his stunning melodies and he and Henry hired him on the spot, to which they received a little bow and a grin from JJ.
Nothing happened for a week, though there was an icy bridge between himself and Henry. They bumped into each other in the hall, and Joey nodded, about to head upstairs, but Henry’s hand caught Joey’s, pulling him into a different room.
“Why didn’t you want to hire Derekson?” he asked, puzzled. Joey felt bile rise in his throat, and his hands trembled. He shook his head. “Jo, you gotta answer me. We’re a team, right? And teams talk things out, together. What’s buggin’ you?”
“N-nothin’,” Joey lied through his teeth. Henry frowned at him, teal eyes roving over him sharply, so scrutinizing, Joey felt completely bare before the angel before him. His eyes were wide as Henry examined him. Be honest, Henry’s eyes chided him. Come on. Be honest. “D-Derekson… he….”
At the gentle but confused look in Henry’s eye, Joey felt a dam in his heart shatter.
Words spilled out of him faster than he could think.
Johnny first locking him in one of the art rooms, the fear that hung around him since that encounter, the meeting before that day, the day Joey broke. The last straw being Johnny on top of him, and he fighting.
Henry listened to Joey’s spill of emotions and sounds and record scratched stories, soaking up every word without a single sound of disgust or hatred for Johan.
Joey stared at his hands as the tirade ended, looking at the scars criss crossing them. He instinctively put a hand to his belt, confirming it were there. He shuddered as he felt Henry’s hand join his on the belt. But it was flat and warming, not gripping and chill. A hand came to the underside of Joey’s face, not quite his cheek, not quite his jaw. Henry guided him to meet his eyes, those gorgeous spheres of earthly glory.
“I’m so sorry,” Henry somberly apologized, and Joey could see the regret in his eyes. “I never should have hired him in the first place without asking you. And you paid the price. He… he tried to… God, I’m so sorry, Joey.”
Henry could not bring himself to finish the sentence, and he shivered. Joey shivered right after him, but not a full body shiver, but a shudder that ran from where Henry’s hands rested on his body and foghorned outwards.
“Honeybee,” Henry crooned, leaning to rest his forehead against Joey’s. “You work yourself far too hard, darling. Why don’t we take some time to ourselves, yeah?”
“Too much t-to do,” Joey protested, but his body betrayed him, arms wrapping around Henry’s shoulders. Henry smirked, and Joey blushed. “In all seriousness, doc, there really is a lot to do. Paperwork f-for Johnny, storyboards for the next episode, and bills to s-sort thro-ooh, oh, ah, Hen, c-cut that o-out.”
“Cut what out?” Henry asked innocuously with a smile pressed against Joey’s neck, where he placed little nipping kisses. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You v-very well are doing something!” Joey snapped back, then a hand flew to his mouth to keep himself quiet. As low as he could manage, he hissed into Henry’s ear. “S-stop that or else!”
“Or else what?” Henry questioned, his hands roaming all over Joey’s sensitive arms, making the dark man stiffen. “You’ve got an empty threat there, Jo.”
“I will suspend you in the e-elevator shaft,” Joey seethed, red and squirming. Henry only laughed, and continued. “For three hours!”
“Better make it six,” Henry’s voice so close to his jugular sent shockwaves through him. “So that I’ll get out when work ends. Mmm, that would be pleasant, and then I’d spend the whole night getting some sweet, delicious revenge.”
“You’re a perverted bastard,” Joey grumbled, wiggling in Henry’s tight hold. Henry chuckled again, “That may be so, but you’re my muse, my sybaritic muse.”
The door burst open, and Jack and Wally ran in.
“What is it now?” Henry asked with annoyance. “If you broke something, don’t care.”
“No, it’s, uh,” Jack seemed at a loss, turning to Wally, who gravely said, “It’s Sammy. He’s sick.”
