Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gerry wanted to go away. It wasn’t a new wish but one that had followed him through most of his life. He was sixteen and it had only gotten more persistent when his left eye had turned black three years earlier and his mother’s grip on his life had tightened. It was ironic, really. The idea of Antari, of those magicians who could use blood magic and with it move between worlds without using the doors that were heavily guarded, had appealed to him before. 

He had never wished to be one, but he thought that if he were, he could finally escape from this place, their house in the middle of nowhere - just far enough from London that Gerry had a difficult time sneaking away to it without it being noticed - and his mother’s strange lessons. He didn’t know what she wanted to achieve with her research, but Gerry didn’t want anything to do with it. 

Of all elements - earth, fire, water, air and bone - Gerry had only ever had any affinity for fire. His mother didn’t seem satisfied with that and despite it being well-known that magic couldn’t be forced, that it chose the host and not vice versa, she seemed determined to make Gerry master everything else. An experiment. Gerry was fairly sure that what she really wanted was to gain power over the elements herself. Mary, as far as Gerry was aware, seemed to have no skill for any of them. Gerry assumed she was hoping to find a way to change that using him. Or starting with him. Gerry could only guess her plans. He had long learned that asking too many questions resulted in pain, so he had stopped.

And then his eye had turned black, and he had felt the power humming in his blood. He knew he had the ability to leave . He didn’t know how, not right at the beginning. The words had come with time as he tried to exercise his powers. Or rather, as his mother made him do so, pushed him until he was dizzy with blood loss. 

But the words had come to him, more often when he was alone and decided to try something out himself rather than wait for the next time his mother decided to make him part of one of her tests. Sometimes it wasn’t even blood magic he was playing around with. The Antari mark came with the ability to use all elements on top of blood magic. While his mother hadn’t focused on that much, Gerry found it fun to explore his new powers. He would sometimes be blowing up leaves with some air and suddenly, he’d feel the knowledge of a new command, the words that made his blood magic.

Even when Gerry had learned the words that could take him away, he didn’t have anything that could bring him from one world to another. He had the blood, the command. But he didn’t have an item, nothing that was from any of those strange places he learned about in his mother’s books. 

They were rare, from what he knew. He had seen shops with such items when Mary brought him into the city - a rare occasion - but he had also been warned from getting caught anywhere near them. She was well known in those circles, and Gerry found out the hard way that even if he dared trying to get close, she would hear of it. And she would make him regret it.

In general, Mary kept an even closer eye on him after his eye turned black. Antari weren’t necessarily rare , but still valuable and she clearly did not want anyone to find out Gerry was one. She made sure Gerry wouldn’t want to be found out, either, taking every opportunity to tell him horrifying stories of people who would take his eye or kidnap him to bleed him dry. At least she finally let him grow his hair out. It was easier to hide the eye that way. 

If anything, the Antari powers brought him even less freedom, really. He barely tried to get to the city anymore. Mary kept warning him about all the scum that lurked in alleys and dark corners, ready to take him. Instead, Gerry opted for escaping to the woods in front of the house. He had learned to conceal his powers, but there was still anxiety in going to the city now. He didn’t want to feel anxious. He wanted to feel free, to pretend that he wasn’t trapped. So the woods it was.

Sometimes he considered not stopping to walk, to run away for good and never turn back. How long could he make it? How far before he was found out and people would try to catch him? Gerry had an okay grasp on his powers by now, and he knew that, in theory, he should be stronger than anyone who might try, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could take them on. He had little practice in actually using any of his magic in combat. And even if he’d had, he probably still wouldn’t try to run. 

Something about Mary always brought him back to her door sooner or later. Especially now. Since his eye turned black, she occasionally actually looked at him. Maybe even smiled her strangely twisted, proud smile. Gerry knew it wasn’t for him , but he couldn’t help the eagerness he felt at making her look at him like that again. So he came back and helped her with her work when she requested, even if it often ended up with him having to draw far too much blood. It was fine. He had quickly found out that the rumours about Antari healing powers were true. They healed quickly.

*

Sometimes, Mary had people over. Collectors, she called them. Gerry usually was sent to his room - where he rarely stayed - or he wasn’t at home for the meeting in the first place. He did still try to not be at home too much. He only had so much blood and when his mother got her mind set on something, she tended to push him until his vision grew hazy. It wasn’t pleasant. It was still worth it, for her proud smile, maybe a stray word of encouragement. But Gerry still tried to avoid doing that too much. 

It was one of those Collector’s Gerry stole from. It had been easy, Mary barely looking at him as she waved for him to leave, the man already talking business with her. The hallway was narrow and the fact that Gerry nearly brushed against him - and his fingers, for that matter, did - wasn’t a set-up. Gerry simply used the opportunity. He never saw what those people brought with them, his mother kept her things very secure and out of his reach. Gerry had stopped attempting to get into that room after a particularly bad beating and two days without food.

But he never stopped being curious about it. His questions, of course, were never answered, but he could guess, from context, that the things these people ‘collected’ weren’t strictly legal. Gerry’s hand closed around the item now in his own pocket as he made his way up to his room, then out the window and into the woods. It was cool, whatever it was - he didn’t dare look so close to his house - and it felt foreign . It was smooth and hard as Gerry kept turning it between his fingers. A rock, maybe? He couldn’t discern any specific shape just from feeling it. But it felt different . 

Gerry finally came to a stop when he felt like he was far enough from the house. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and took in the flat, white object in the palm of his hand. It did look like a rock, nearly a perfect circle. Gerry ran his thumb over it. Its surface felt strange. Unlike anything Gerry had touched before. Like it wasn’t from here .

He had suspected, of course, that the items in question might come from the other Londons. It wasn’t illegal to transport things between the worlds, as far as Gerry understood, as long as you did so in a very specific way. Gerry assumed this man had probably not done that. But he didn’t care, because if this was what he thought it was, Gerry could go .

Mary hadn’t allowed him to carry anything sharp after the eye turned black - if he was going to spill any blood and do magic with it, it should be for her - but Gerry had had over two years now to find ways to break skin with what he could find in the woods. Sometimes it was enough to find a tree with rough enough bark. Gerry knew where to look by now, and he didn’t even flinch as he pressed his hand further into the rough wood. From what he had read, he didn’t need much. Just blood at all, the right words, an item from where he wanted to go. Gerry just wanted to go away . 

He took the smooth stone into his now bloody palm and pressed it against the side of the tree. He wondered if there’d be trees on the other side. Gerry knew he could only move between the exact same point in between the worlds. He had seen maps of them, but it had been too long for him to remember any details. And of course, he didn’t know which London the stone would lead him to. And he didn’t care. He whispered the words nearly reverently. As Travars . He had mumbled them before, tried to get a feeling for them. But for the first time since his eye had turned black, Gerry felt actual magic behind them, felt a warm tingling in his blood. 

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

The first thing Gerry noticed was the chill. He took a moment to steady himself. The surface against which he was leaning wasn’t wood anymore. It was stone. Cold stone. Gerry’s eyes widened. He looked around and he wasn't in the woods anymore. He was in a city. A foreign city.

Gerry didn’t dare to blink as he looked around, started walking. The buildings looked different, a lot more muted than they did at home. Strangely pale. The architecture was foreign, the smells, the sounds, the very air felt different and Gerry felt a kind of excitement he could only vaguely recall from childhood when his mother would bring him down to London, his London, and Gerry would be in awe at all the people on the bustling streets.

There weren’t as many people here, but maybe that was because it was late. Gerry could still feel people, could feel eyes on him as he walked through the dark alleys. He had wandered somewhere where the streets were narrower, dirtier, and he did his best to take everything in, giddy with excitement.

He wasn't being very inconspicuous and even with his magic well concealed it didn't take long for some people he passed to notice him. Gerry was too busy trying to see everything, brushing the foreign stone of the buildings with his fingers, trying to get a peek into some of the lit windows, to really notice when they started to follow. That was until he found himself cornered, three men blocking the entrance out of the alley Gerry had wandered into, not knowing it was a dead end.

Gerry could easily escape if he’d use his magic, any of it. But that might also blow his cover. By now, he was fairly sure he had wandered into White London, where magic didn’t come as easily as it did at home, from what he had read. It would probably be highly suspicious if he used it so readily here. But Gerry didn’t know what else to do . He could feel the panic rising as he pressed himself further into the wall. If he could draw some blood inconspicuously, maybe he could escap--

There was a loud clattering noise from somewhere behind the men, and Gerry saw his chance in the momentary distraction and shoved his way through them, and ran . He heard their steps and shouts and didn’t dare to turn around. And then there was a hand around his arm and before Gerry could do as much as just yelp in surprise, another covering his mouth as he was pulled into a dimly lit hallway. 

He nearly lashed out with magic in his panic, but Gerry quickly realised he wasn’t actually restrained , so he whipped around, twisting out of the stranger’s grip so quickly it nearly threw him off-balance. The stranger did fall, a dull thump sounding through the hallway. 

Gerry had expected something like the men in the alley, big and clearly out for trouble. Instead, the figure getting up from the floor was lanky, a shock of blond curls half-covering a face that looked a little younger than Gerry, even, and Gerry’s panic turned into something more akin to anger.

“What the fuck was that-”

The stranger put his finger to his lips. “Shhh!”

Gerry did stop, but mostly because he heard steps outside the door, voices - the same from the alley - close. He froze, held his breath. They sounded like they had come to a stop right in front of the door. Gerry wanted them far away. 

The blond, now on his feet - gods he was tall - motioned to the stairs. Gerry gave him a distrustful look, but the voices seemed closer and he relented, quickly moving up the narrow staircase. His heart picked up speed as he heard steps - the blond - right behind him.

He stopped upstairs and turned around. The blond pointed at one of the doors, open, but Gerry shook his head. It would be foolish to put any more barriers between himself and escape.

He sighed. "Well, I'll have to go in to hear when they give up."

He walked past Gerry and into the room and Gerry watched him, still suspicious but also curious. He guessed that the room should be above the door. He stepped closer, but didn't dare to cross the threshold into the dark room. The apartment behind that threshold was tiny, as far as Gerry could make out in the dark. The blond seemed to have settled next to the window. Gerry could make out the voices, muffled, but still too close.

They waited in tense silence, heard them grow more distant, then disappear fully after a couple minutes.

“You’re not from here, are you?” The blond asked after some moments passed in silence. They were gone.

Gerry furrowed his brows. “That obvious?”

The blond moved, lit a candle. The room was small. A bed, a closet and a small fireplace and little else. It already looked cramped.

"A bit." He said, smiled at Gerry. "I'm Michael."

"Gerry." He wondered if he maybe shouldn't have given his name so easily. But he was far from home, in another world. It wasn't even his real name. Gerry relaxed.

"What brought you to these parts of town after nightfall?"

"I got lost. The streets are...confusing." It wasn’t a lie. 

Michael was still smiling. It looked strangely bright in the dim room, the washed-out world outside. "Not from the city?

Gerry shook his head.

"Visiting?"

He guessed he was, in a way. "Sort of." 

Silence. They kept looking at each other, unmoving. Curious.

“Oh, can I offer you something to drink?” Michael asked after a moment, remembering how to be a host. Even if Gerry decided to stay by the door, Michael had still been the one to bring him inside. 

Gerry hesitated, then shook his head. “I think...I should go.”

A nod. “Hm...I guess so.”

“Thank you, by the way. I...for saving me, I mean.” It came out a little awkward. Gerry didn’t get to speak the words thank you a lot, at least not genuinely. Mary insisted sometimes, but Gerry rarely meant it.

Michael’s smile grew wider. “You’re welcome.” He held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

Gerry looked at that hand for a moment,  then shook it with a tentative smile. "Maybe...we'll meet again?"

"Try to come earlier, you won't get mugged as much before nightfall." Michael winked and Gerry couldn't help but giggle. It felt strange. He wasn't sure if he had ever made such a noise before.

"I...will keep that in mind."

He gave Michael a nod before turning around and leaving.

Gerry had trouble finding his way back to vaguely where he had arrived and made a mental note to pay better attention next time. And maybe leave a recognisable symbol on the wall. Would that be too obvious? It wasn’t like all the walls were perfectly clean around him, he was sure something like a small bloody x wouldn’t be noticed. 

He frowned at the alley he had just walked into. It looked vaguely familiar, and Gerry simply hoped he was at least close to where he had arrived. The original cut on his hand was already closing, but Gerry pressed his nail into it, pressing his lips together at the slight pain. It was too dark to see, but Gerry could feel fresh blood welling up in his palm. He took off one of his rings and pressed it against the wall with his bloody hand, whispered the same command for the second time that night, felt the magic warm his blood again. And was gone.

He wasn’t at the exact same tree he had left, but Gerry was in the woods by the house. The scent was familiar, and so were the paths that weren’t really paths, but simply trails Gerry’s restless steps had shaped into something akin to a pathway over the years. 

He found his way home with a weak flame he summoned to his palm to guide him and climbed back into his room through the window. The house was quiet by now, but Gerry’s blood was rushing in his ears and his heart was pounding as he laid down in his bed, eyes wide into the darkness of the room. 

He had left . He was back now but he had left, had been to one of the places he used to dream of going to. Gerry had been away and everything had been different and he bit his own tongue to stifle a laughter he could feel in his throat. The stone was in his hand - he had washed the blood off both it and his hand - and he traced its strange surface again and again as he thought of all the things he had seen and felt and smelled today. The fact that he had, if only shortly, talked to somebody that wasn’t Mary. 

Gerry would go back, would try to find him again. Michael had been friendly, hadn’t sounded opposed to the idea. Maybe he could answer some of Gerry’s questions. Maybe they could just talk some more.

Gerry squeezed the stone between his hand and hid it under his mattress before rolling on to his side and closing his eyes. The exhaustion of it all started to settle in and eventually the excitement keeping Gerry awake also mellowed into sleepiness. An hour or so later, he was fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Michael rose with the sun - or its washed-out suggestion behind grey skies - and got ready for work. The room was starting to not be uncomfortably cold in the morning and Michael smiled as he got dressed without feeling the urge to start a fire to make it more bearable.

He made his way to work, mind still lingering on the stranger from the previous night. Something had been odd about him, something underlying but impossible to miss. A sweet scent in the air. An energy, colour . Michael couldn't quite pinpoint it, but the memory resurfaced throughout the day as he served customers. They seemed particularly dull today, against the memory of Gerry. The overall anxiety Michael had long stopped noticing in the air, the dread looming over everyone buying bread from him, seemed much starker, more noticeable. 

Michael wondered if Gerry would be back.

The day passed like any other and Michael eventually started cleaning up to close. He tended to be left alone to do so regularly now, had earned enough of his coworker's trust to leave him to it. Michael left the leftover bread at the door as he locked it for the night, partly because he knew what going hungry on the streets felt like and partly because he knew that if he didn't leave something they'd return to a broken lock or shattered windows in the morning. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He made sure the door was properly locked before making his way through the steadily darkening streets home, the bread he had gotten for his own dinner clutched securely in his hand. Walking the empty, faded streets brought his thoughts back to Gerry. He had felt out of place in a way Michael couldn't quite comprehend. As Michael arrived at his flat and locked the door, he wondered where Gerry had come from. Michael had a limited understanding of anything outside London. He couldn't picture a place where Gerry would fit right in with his deep black hair and sweet scent about him. 

Michael’s dreams that night were coloured and vivid in a way they hadn't been in a long time.

*

Gerry wanted to return immediately. And he probably would have despite how suspicious it would have been had Mary not called him right after breakfast. He was too excited to linger on being careful. He had been gone . He had to try again.

Mary’s plans had him occupied for the whole day and by the time he stumbled back out of the basement where she usually did her experiments. There were black spots in his vision from blood loss and he knew he was too weak to summon a gust of wind, much less manage to step into another world. He probably wouldn't even make it to the tree he had marked. 

Gerry dragged himself up the stairs to his room and collapsed onto his bed.

*

Nearly a full week passed and Michael still kept an eye out for Gerry. He had little hope of him actually showing up again - the city had welcomed it as it did with most strangers and Michael wouldn’t judge him for staying away from it - but it had been him that suggested it. The tentative question had that excitement to it Michael recognised well, the excitement of someone who didn’t get out much, probably didn’t have anyone to really talk to. 

And Michael, of course, simply wanted to see him again just so he could figure out if his memory was even accurate, if Gerry had really seemed so very strange , what exactly it had been that had made Michael think so. Maybe it had been the night. Michael had been quite tired by the time he had gotten Gerry into safety. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of that night. He was excited, eager to see Gerry again, not miss him should he really show up again.

Michael was on his way home in the late afternoon when he caught sight of a familiar, deep-black coat, black hair falling in gentle waves over one eye, steps uncertain, like someone unfamiliar with the city’s streets. Michael grinned.

“Gerry!”

His head whipped around, and the visible eye lit up in recognition after a brief moment of panic. “Michael.”

Michael nodded for him to join him on his way and Gerry fell in step beside him as he started walking again. 

“Lost again?”

Gerry hesitated. “I mean...I think these houses look vaguely familiar…”

“Where were you headed?” Michael asked, curious.

“To yours.”

Michael smiled, pleasantly surprised that Gerry seemed to have taken his comment as an invitation. It was rare for anyone to trust a direct invitation around these parts, but Michael hadn’t known whether the vague implication of one would be any better. But Gerry didn’t seem distrustful, only a little cautious, which Michael guessed was understandable.

“Then you were, indeed, close. Come on.”

Gerry, again, gave him a hesitant glance, as if weighing how much trust he should really put into Michael. But he nodded, and followed.

They went up the stairs to Michael’s flat and Gerry was surprised he had managed to get this close by himself. The city was just as strange as it had been a week before, and it looked even stranger in daylight. Not as washed out and pale, but not horribly saturated, either. 

There were more people out and about and Gerry tried very hard to blend in, tried to control the urge to look at everything, take in the off-white stone of the buildings and the dirty cobblestone below his boots. He wasn't sure how good of a job he had done - new smells and noises still kept drawing his eyes - but he had made it unbothered until Michael caught sight of him.

At the door, Michael turned towards him with a smile. "Are you coming inside this time?"

Gerry felt his cheeks warm. He gave a hesitant nod. Michael’s smile grew wider as he opened the door. "I only really have the bed to sit on, but make yourself comfortable. I'll make some tea?"

For a moment, Gerry stood in the door, unsure, and then Michael went through a door Gerry hadn't noticed that night. From what he could see through the open door it was a small kitchen, looking rather full with only Michael moving in it as he put a kettle filled with water on the stove and got some cups out of the cupboard. 

"I honestly wasn't sure you'd really come back."

"Why?" Gerry asked.

Michael looked at him through the door. "Well, you got quite the welcome to the city. I wouldn't have blamed you."

Gerry considered. The people cornering him were secondary to him being here in general, being away . Talking to someone that wasn't Mary. Gerry decided to simply shrug as an answer. He couldn't say those things, obviously, without sounding suspicious.

Michael waited for him to say anything. Gerry still looked tense, hovering awkwardly by the door. Michael thought maybe he'd say something, even if just to calm his own nerves. When he didn't, Michael tried to start up conversation again instead, "I can show you around, if you want. After tea. It should still be light out for a little while."

Gerry nodded after a short moment of hesitation. He had been thinking of how Michael talked about the city after dark a lot. His curiosity won out when Michael came back out of the kitchen and placed the cups on the small table by the bed before sitting down himself.

“Why do you live here?”

Michael blinked up at him in confusion.

“If it’s so dangerous, I mean,” Gerry clarified, suddenly unsure about whether the question wasn’t rude. But he couldn’t really take it back, now. He nervously picked at his sleeves as he mumbled, “I’ve just been wondering...why do you live here if it’s so bad?”

“Oh…” Michael took one of the cups and motioned for Gerry to get his if he wanted to. Gerry stayed where he was, but nodded. “It’s what I can afford.” Michael shrugged. “And I guess I’ve always lived around these parts...once you get used to it and know what to avoid it’s really not that bad.”

Gerry frowned. “What is there to avoid?”

Michael looked up from taking a sip from his cup with a smile. “Oh, well, some spots - I can show you if we do go out - but also just some general things, like don’t walk too close to any walls and such things.”

“Like?” Gerry grabbed the remaining cup and took a sip, eyeing Michael with open interest, curiosity, wariness not quite forgotten but clearly fading.

Michael considered for a moment, before trying to describe things he hadn't consciously thought about since childhood. Gerry listened with great interest, took note on how a lot of it was the same his mother had warned him about in the city. Maybe cities were all similarly dangerous. Though White London still felt a lot more like it than Red London ever had. After a little while of chatting Gerry did sit down on the bed, too, and by the time they finished their tea the conversation had moved on to all the places Michael could show him.

They went out still talking though Gerry had lost track of the topic. Conversation flowed easy, though he didn't have a whole lot to compare it to, so maybe this was just how it normally went when you talked to someone because you wanted to rather than because you had to. One way or another, he allowed himself to enjoy this easy chatter, kept his own answers short in fear of slipping up and saying something he shouldn't and also because Gerry simply wasn't sure what to say. But Michael seemed glad to do most of the talking as he showed Gerry around narrow streets and narrow buildings tightly packed next to one another.

By the time they made their way back it was dark and Gerry matched Michael’s quickening steps as he followed him. It would make more sense to excuse himself and duck into the next alley to make his way home, but Gerry didn’t want to give up Michael’s company quite yet. 

“Why is the city like that at night?” he asked as they approached the flat.

Michael shrugged, "Aren't they all? I know this is the...bad parts, I guess. But I'm pretty sure the rest isn't necessarily safe to walk through at night."

"Hm...I don't know. I don't live in a city,” Gerry cursed himself. He hadn’t meant to volunteer that information. “Just...close to one,” he tried to save, heart pounding.

Michael unlocked the door and looked at him, curious. "Where do you live?"

That question was to be expected after Gerrys slip-up, he guessed. He tried to stay calm, but did not meet Michaels eye. "It's...far."

"Hm…" Michael shrugged, and walked in, waving for Gerry to follow. "Can I offer you another tea? Some bread?"

Gerry stayed where he was, shook his head. "No, thank you. I should get going."

Michael turned towards them. "Should I go with you-"

Gerry shook his head, surprised at the offer. "No, no, it's fine. It worked out well last time." Michael looked uncertain. "But thank you," Gerry added with a smile, hoping it'd be reassuring. 

“Take care.”

Gerry nodded. “I will. Thank you. Uh, for the tea and showing me around I mean...and...yeah.” He fought the urge to nervously run a hand through his hair, not wanting to upset the bit covering his eye. It was dark, but he wasn't going to risk it. “See you again? Maybe?” He sounded way too hopeful.

Michael nodded, smiling. “You're always welcome.”

“Thank you…” He sounded as flustered as he felt by Michaels genuine tone, so he gave a short wave before walking back down the stairs.

He found the wall he had marked pretty quickly this time - and went unnoticed, trying to heed Michaels instructions and warnings as he walked towards it. He reopened the healing cut from earlier, and was off.

Chapter Text

Gerry did come back, this time a bit more quickly. Michael, once again, looked positively surprised at seeing him. They fell into careful conversation more easily as Michael made them tea, Gerry still saying little but enjoying listening. They went out again, this time earlier, and Michael showed him more of the city. He navigated it casually, seemed to know exactly how to step through more crowded places, took turns thoughtlessly. Gerry marvelled at it. White London was huge, the streets narrow and dark with the shadow of the buildings and Gerry knew he’d be hopelessly overwhelmed trying to find his way on his own. 

It wasn't only the way he moved through the city, but also the way he seemed so unfazed by what, for Gerry, seemed strange. Michael never mentioned anything about the fact that something about the city and its people seemed strangely washed out or the fact that some people stared at them with open hostility as they passed. 

When Gerry tentatively asked about it Michael simply shrugged, “That’s just how it is,” and Gerry nodded, trying to hide his bafflement. Then again, maybe Michael was right. Maybe Red London wasn’t too different from this but Gerry simply didn’t know from his few short visits. He made a mental note to pay more attention if Mary brought him there again at some point.

Once again, Gerry walked with him back to his flat. They said their goodbyes much like last time, and Gerry once again declined Michael’s offer to accompany him. They parted in hopes to see each other again and Gerry went home.

Gerry returned as regularly as he dared. He didn’t want his mother to get suspicious, so he tried to space out his visits, would sometimes let weeks pass - or would be unable to go for weeks because Mary kept him busy - and would often only stay a couple hours, afraid that she might be searching for him even though that had never happened before. 

But even those shorter visits were worth it. On the rare occasion Michael was busy, Gerry wandered the streets - now a lot better at being inconspicuous - and revelled in the feeling of freedom being so far from home gave him. Far from Mary. Dangers here were a lot more impersonal and he sometimes felt like he could forget about her if he walked long enough, could forget the tight grip she had on him, the power. 

Well, not quite. Gerry guessed that if he’d actually managed to forget he wouldn’t end up going back every night. He didn’t like to dwell on it.

The evenings where Michael was free were still his favourite though. Gerry enjoyed his company, found it easy to talk with him over tea or as they walked around the city. Maybe too easy - more than once Gerry slipped up, ended up voicing one comment or another that made Michael give him a confused look because what he was describing was apparently so far in concept from what Michael knew it made him wonder about the place Gerry called home.

“You smell really sweet. Lately especially,” Michael once mumbled from where he was half-lying on the bed behind Gerry.

Gerry looked up from the sketch he was working on - the view through the window on a rainy day - and absentmindedly sniffed himself. “Probably flowers. From home,” he mumbled, without thinking. 

Then he froze. It wasn’t the first time Gerry had said something that didn’t add up with his original story, but he still cursed himself for having gotten so comfortable he kept slipping up. Michael never asked about it, but Gerry felt bad for lying to him so obviously.

“You must come from very far. I haven’t seen a flower in years…” Michael sighed, wistful. Again, he didn’t push about any details and Gerry went back to sketching, heart still beating quickly. They fell into the previous comfortable silence, the sound of rain coming in through the open window.

*

“I got you something,” said Gerry two weeks later when he finally managed to return. 

Michael looked up from where he was cutting up some bread, curious not so much at the words but at the nervous, nearly shy tone Gerry had spoken them in. 

“Oh?” He put the bread on a plate and brought it into the main room, setting it on the small table before sitting down next to Gerry and turning towards him.

Doubt crossed Gerry’s features, but he eventually reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a couple of slightly crushed wildflowers. Gerry had pondered long whether he should really do this - it was such an obvious admittance to his lie - but he couldn’t quite forget the melancholy in Michael’s voice when he said he hadn’t seen any flowers in years. The longing. 

And now he watched as Michael’s eyes lit up, his whole face going from surprise, to shock to absolute delight, joy making grey eyes shine as his lips pulled into a wide smile. He gently brushed one of the petals with his fingers, careful, as if it might crumble under the touch.

“Thank you,” he said, giving him a beaming smile. “Gerry, thank you.”

Gerry, overwhelmed, tried his best to return the smile, unsure what to say, what he could possibly say that wouldn’t potentially make Michael’s joy wane. Michael took the flowers, gently placed them on the table before turning back to Gerry. “Can I hug you?”

Gerry nodded. This, at least, was familiar ground. Sometimes Michael asked to hug him. Very occasionally, Gerry’s tongue loosened enough to ask, too. He liked when Michael hugged him.

Michael wrapped his arms around Gerry and squeezed him close, mumbling another thank you into his shoulder. He sounded awed. Gerry wondered how something so small, just a handful of wild flowers, could make him sound like that. Gerry felt awed as he returned the hug.

Michael looked up, “Gerry? Can I kiss your cheek?” He said it in the same grateful tone he had thanked him and Gerry nodded again.

He held still as Michael pressed his smiling lips to his cheek, gently, barely a touch. Still, it left Gerry feeling light, like he was floating, and he barely heard the last thank you over his own heartbeat. Michael squeezed him one last time before pulling away and getting up, excitement in his voice as he said he’d have to get some water to put the flowers in. 

Michael returned with a glass of water, carefully picked up the flowers, one by one, turning them between his fingers as if to appreciate each side in the light, and gently put them into the glass. Gerry watched him, urging to thank him without knowing exactly what for.

Gerry would bring him the occasional wild flower or leaf after that. Michael never asked where from, and Gerry didn’t tell him. He simply enjoyed watching the delight so clear in Michael’s face even after months of Gerry doing so. It was a lovely sight. Gerry had never considered how warm he could feel just from knowing he had made someone happy.

Chapter Text

“Gerry?” Michael steadied him, not for the first time tonight. 

They were back in his flat now and Gerry was grateful for being able to sit down. He should have waited a bit longer before coming back. Mary had been quite insistent about some new theory lately and Gerry could barely remember the last time he hadn’t felt faint with blood loss. 

But he had also missed being here . The more time he was forced to spend with Mary, the more acute his need to be away became. The more he missed Michael’s gentle voice and pretty smile, the way he’d touch him, the warm hugs that had become their hellos and goodbyes now, the casual leaning into him when they were both sitting on the bed in silence. That one time he had removed an eyelash from Gerry’s cheek with such care only to hold it in front of his lips so he could make a wish. The way he always asked if any of what he was doing was okay, like Gerry’s opinion and comfort mattered. 

It was all so different from home, from Mary, and nothing made him crave this more than spending his time bleeding for her.

“Sorry…” Gerry mumbled after finally sitting down. He closed his eyes, but he knew Michael was giving him that concerned look that was always on his face whenever Gerry seemed just a little off. 

“Can I help you somehow? Do you need something?”

Gerry smiled. “Just stay here. I’m...fine.”

Michael sighed, but Gerry felt him sit down next to him. He opened his eyes to give Michael a reassuring smile. But the frown on Michael’s face stayed.

“I...don’t want to press you about it but...you’re dizzy a lot. Not always but...sometimes? It seems pretty bad.” Michael hesitated, but clearly he had been wanting to ask for a while. “Are you ill?”

The concern took Gerry aback. Michael sounded distressingly worried, fear in his eyes. How long had he been wondering? Gerry had tried his best to not be too noticeably out of it on such occasions.

“No!” Gerry sat up straighter, wavering as the room seemed to tilt for a moment. “No, sorry, I’m...I’m fine. I promise! I just…” He considered. Mary always reminded him to never mention what she did to him to anyone. But Michael was a world away and she didn’t even know Gerry was here, didn’t know Michael existed. So maybe it would be okay? Gerry did sometimes wish he could tell someone, if only to maybe make the nightmares less. “It’s just my mother, she...pushes me too far sometimes.” He couldn’t mention the blood, but what he said wasn’t necessarily a lie.

Michael frowned. “Pushes you too far? What-” His eyes went wide, his voice dropping into a whisper when he spoke again, “Does...does she hurt you?”

Gerry considered for a moment. She did, didn’t she? Just - usually - in more unconventional ways than what Michael was probably thinking about. Still, Gerry nodded. “Yes.”

Michael was quiet for a long moment. His voice was still quiet when he did speak up again, “Do you want a hug?”

Gerry shrugged, but then nodded. Michael moved to pull him into his arms, seemingly even more carefully than usual. Something about the situation - the tenderness of the motion, Gerry’s admission, the actual words leaving his lips - words he had thought, but never spoken before - made him suddenly feel like crying. He pressed his face into Michael’s shoulder, throat tight and eyes burning and he was confused. 

He hadn't said anything he hadn't been well aware about for most of his life. What was making him so emotional about it all of a sudden? Gerry had learned quickly that tears never did anything but make things worse if his mother saw them. He hadn't dared pity himself. And yet now he couldn't stop the tears from flowing as Michael held him close, rubbed his back gently. 

"I'm sorry…" Michael whispered, squeezing Gerry closer.

Gerry frowned. "What for?" His voice was muffled by Michael’s shoulder.

Michael considered a moment. "I'm sorry she hurts you. And...I'm sorry I made you talk about it."

Gerry shook his head, looked up. "You didn't make me. And...it's not your fault."

Michael looked at him. "I know but...I'm still sorry for you. I...I don't know how else to say it." He sighed, squeezed Gerry's shoulder. "I wish she were kind to you. You deserve being treated kindly. You shouldn't be hurt."

Gerry blinked the tears stuck to his eyelashes away, feeling his heart clench at those words. Maybe he had started doubting that this was what he deserved. It was good to hear those words from someone else. Or at all. Fresh tears pricked his eyes and he pressed his face back into Michael’s now moist shoulder. 

"Thank you," he whispered, voice feeling strangely fragile.

Michael rubbed his lower back gently, fighting the urge to touch Gerry’s hair reassuringly. He didn't like that. "I'm just telling the truth, Gerry. I...If you ever want to get away and need somewhere to stay…" he squeezed him close. "You can come here."

Gerry took a moment to process those words, then froze, unsure if he had understood. He looked up, wiping the tears away with his sleeve - careful to not upset the hair covering his eye. "What?"

Michael looked into his eye. "Should you ever need somewhere to stay that isn't your mother's place...you're welcome here. Always."

Gerry still wasn't sure he understood, but fresh tears sprang into his eyes and he hid his face back in Michael’s shoulder. Michael couldn’t be serious. There was no escape from Mary, there had never been any other options. That’s why Gerry couldn’t run away, right? That’s why he still returned home each night. It’s what he’d do tonight, too, he could feel it.

Michael sounded so honest. Genuine enough that Gerry felt tempted to imagine staying. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t . Even just thinking of it made him afraid. Of what? He didn't know. He didn't know what kept making him return no matter what, he just knew that that's how it was. That's how it would always be.

“I don’t...I can’t …”

Michael nodded, rubbed his back. “I’m sorry, I hope this...it’s not meant to be a...demand or something! Just. I want you to know the offer stands if you ever feel like you can. And if not that’s okay, too, I...I’m here." He squeezed his shoulder again, smiled, "If you want to visit or stay, you’re welcome here whenever, okay?”

Gerry nodded after a moment, looked up to dry his tears. The offer still seemed strange to him, but Michael sounded too honest to doubt it. So Gerry simply gave a tentative nod. “O...okay. Than...thank you.”

Michael nodded. “How about I make us another tea? Do you want something to eat?"

Gerry should be going soon. "I...tea is fine."

"Alright." Michael got up and handed him a tissue before going to the kitchen.

*

Gerry was nervous about things changing after his admittance, but it quickly became clear that it was unfounded. Michael didn’t treat him any differently - didn’t look at him with pity, or ask about Mary rather than indulging their usual chatter, he didn’t push. He simply was there and on days Gerry felt the remnants of dizziness, or just overwhelmed with how much she had pushed him that week, Michael would hold him wordlessly and let him cry if he needed to.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The question was gentle, worry but no pressure behind it.

Gerry usually denied - he couldn’t describe things without mentioning his magic - but sometimes he did mumble some vague approximation of what happened because Michael made him feel like he could. Because Mary had always told him to never speak of it. He felt safe here from her, safe enough to cry and allow himself to be comforted, things he had never considered possible at home.

“Thank you,” Gerry mumbled usually when he was calm and tired from crying. 

Sometimes in those moments, he could imagine staying here, in Michael’s arms in his small flat in a different, colder world. He never did. He’d always grow restless with the thought of Mary finding him gone. So he’d return. White London seemed colder with every visit, but Michael’s smile was warm as he welcomed him in his arms.

Chapter Text

The first thing Gerry noticed after Michael ushered him inside was that the chill in the air stayed. Michael himself seemed to move with hunched shoulders, the occasional shiver running through him. That, at least, wasn't new. Michael seemed to get cold easily and the temperature had been steadily dropping - even in Red London. While Gerry barely noticed it at home, the cold in White London was a biting one, the kind that seemed to find any cracks to slip beneath and chill skin and rooms alike. 

Gerry had considered more than once to try and bring a cloak or blanket through with him for Michael. He just wasn't sure how to do so unnoticed and whether it would even work. So what he tended to do was offer him his coat, which Michael usually declined. But today he seemed cold enough to accept the offer. Even Gerry couldn't deny the chill. 

"It's gotten cold since I left." He could see his breath as he spoke. He had been gone for less than a month, how had it gotten this cold?

Michael nodded from the kitchen. "It'll only get worse from now on." He turned toward Gerry, suddenly alert. "Do you want me to start a fire?"

Gerry looked at his red nose and cheeks, the slight trembling of his shoulders. He frowned. “Why don’t you have one going? You’re freezing.”

Michael brought the cups into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. “I need to be careful with the firewood, it’s...rare. And expensive.”

Gerry frowned, took off his coat and draped it over Michael’s shoulders. He opened his mouth to protest, but what escaped instead was a relieved sigh. Gerry sat down next to him.

“Then why are you offering to burn some for me?” 

Michael shrugged, gave him a small smile. “I’m used to the cold. Doesn’t mean I’ll let my guest go cold.”

Gerry looked stunned for a moment. It sometimes still surprised him how casually Michael said things like this. Gerry wasn’t used to his needs being considered, much less put above anyone else’s. He wasn’t sure he liked it, especially not in this case.

“How...what do you usually do? In winter.”

Michael shrugged, cradled his hot cup of tea. “What do you mean? I just save the firewood for particularly bad days towards the end and otherwise just...try to make it through with lots of sweaters.” 

He frowned. "That sounds horrible. I…do you want me to...I can make a fire, if you want. And...then you can keep the wood for when I'm not here and it's cold."

Michael blinked. "What do you mean?"

Gerry ran a hand through his hair - careful to not uncover his eye. He had already said too much to back out now, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like he’d be sharing his secret. Just admitting to having some elemental magic. As far as he knew, that should be common enough in White London, too. 

He held out his hand and focused, summoned a small flame into his palm. 

Michael jumped back with a small yelp, his eyes wide, locked on the flame in Gerry’s hand, flickering gently in the cool room. It took a long moment before he dared to pull his eyes away from it, raising them instead to look at Gerry’s face. There was awe in his expression, disbelief. 

"You...you're a fire magician?"

Gerry nodded carefully. It wasn't a lie. Michael’s expression turned to delight. "That's wonderful! How….how does it feel?" Michael drew closer to the small flame, eyes darting from it to Gerry as if to make sure the two were indeed connected. 

Gerry cracked a grin, allowed the flame to grow just a little. Michael took a step back and Gerry let the flame jump from his hand and into the empty fireplace. It didn’t take - there was nothing for it to burn - but it didn’t go out either. Instead, Gerry made it grow until it was big enough to offer warmth. Michael watched all of it in awe, eyes unable to decide whether to focus on the flames or Gerry’s hand or his face, clearly trying to see it all at once.

"That's amazing!"

Gerry chuckled, nodded towards the fireplace. "Come on, you're still shaking."

Michael looked surprised for a moment, looked down at himself. His hands were indeed still trembling with the chill. He felt his cheeks warm as he moved towards the fireplace. Gerry sat down next to him, motioned for him to sit, too. Michael nodded and did so, still staring at the fire.

"Do...how does it work? How do you...how does it feel?"

Gerry pulled up his knees and hugged them, expression thoughtful as he watched the fire. "I...it's hard to explain." Gerry looked at Michael, took in his delighted face. "You...don't have any magic?"

Michael shook his head, huddled closer, hugging his own knees. "I don't think I ever met anyone...or maybe they just never showed me, I guess. It...can be dangerous. Especially on the streets."

Gerry nodded. "I guess that makes sense…" he looked back at the fire. "It just...it feels...natural? Right. It's...nice."

Michael nodded despite not really understanding what that meant. He watched Gerry’s face. He looked...relaxed.

"Does...can I lean against you? Or will that...break your focus or something?"

Gerry smiled, put one arm around Michael's shoulder. "No, come here."

Michael smiled and leaned against his side with a sigh, allowing himself to finally focus on the warmth. It had gotten so rare that he felt warm that sometimes he forgot how differently he held himself when he was cold. He felt himself stretch out slowly as he grew warm by the fire, a sigh escaping him as all the tension in his hunched shoulders slowly bled away.

Gerry’s head came to rest against his with a sigh. He tried to find a better way to explain magic, one that might make Michael understand the warm feeling in his blood. In the end, he didn't think he succeeded, but Michael still seemed to be happy to listen as the evening passed and his body grew warm beside Gerry’s.

*

They were sitting in front of the fire again. White London was always cold, but Gerry felt like the past couple times he had come it had been freezing. He looked, worried, at the little firewood piled up next to the fireplace. If he could, he’d start coming more often to keep the fire going with magic. But Mary would for sure notice if he pushed it, and he didn’t want her to take this away from him, too. 

Gerry was...happy here. White London was cold and colourless but it was far away from Mary and the prison she called their home. Michael was here, kind and beautiful, smile warm no matter the state of the world outside, and Gerry sometimes found it so very difficult to leave again. 

His world might be lush with colour and warmth but Mary’s attention, the little he got, made Gerry’s blood run cold. It was something to be avoided at all cost and Gerry missed Michael keenly every time he had to leave again.

“Gerry?” 

Michael’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and Gerry looked up at him, sat next to Gerry, close enough to touch and bathed in the soft orange light of the fire. It could nearly trick Gerry into thinking Michael had gained some colour in his cheeks, but Gerry knew Michael looked as pale and faded as the city around him. The sight made Gerry ache. 

He wanted to help, somehow, but he didn’t know what was wrong. Nobody did. Mary had told him to leave the last time someone from the city stopped by and there had been anxious whispering coming from the kitchen. White London wasn’t a place you could walk around and eavesdrop without getting into serious trouble. 

Michael had simply smiled, assured him everything was alright when Gerry had asked about how the colour seemed to be draining from both White London and its inhabitants. Gerry was still uneasy about it.

Gerry pushed his worry away for now, “Hm?”

Michael held his gaze for a moment then looked at his feet. He spoke very quietly once he did, “You’re...not from this London, are you?”

Gerry froze. He knew, of course, that he had gotten a little careless around Michael. His excuses had never been very solid, but Gerry had stopped trying, really. He didn’t want to keep himself a secret from Michael. And if Michael angled his head towards the gentle breeze Gerry made on a rare warm day, closed his eyes and smiled, pale lashes lovely, smile lovely, all of him, always, lovely , Gerry couldn’t very well stop. He didn’t want to. And maybe he had gotten a little sloppy in keeping his magic hidden, or even subtle, around Michael. So it shouldn’t be too much of a shock. But it was . This could very well mean the end of Gerry’s little haven.

“No,” he whispered, forcibly calm, clearly on edge.

The silence that settled was tense. Michael still didn’t look at him.

“You don’t use the portals.” It was a statement, not a question; his voice still quiet, but surer, now.

Gerry watched him for a moment, but Michael was looking at the flames. Gerry took a breath. “I…I don’t.”

“You’re Antari.” Again, a statement, though there was something like awe creeping into his voice, excitement in his eyes when he finally met Gerry’s again.

Gerry swallowed, then nodded, “Yes…”

Michael turned around so he could face him properly, met his eyes with a surprisingly serious expression. “I won’t tell anyone! Don’t...don’t worry." He hesitated before adding, "I just had to tell you that I...suspected it. It felt strange to keep that from you.”

Gerry waited, but Michael didn’t add anything. No request or threat, no accusation for being lied to all this time. Just genuine hope at reassurance. 

“Thank you," Gerry breathed, a bit overwhelmed.

Michael nodded, smiled. And then they both were silent again. Neither looked away this time, and Michael was once again struck by how looking at Gerry, even in the eye, had gotten so easy. It was comfortable, and the one eye not covered by hair was a pretty dark brown. A vague memory of tree bark always came to Michael’s mind, probably from his early childhood. The trees had started to turn to stone a good while ago. But Gerry’s eye was still beautiful, now even softer in the fire light, so incredibly warm . 

The other, if rumour was right, should be black. Fully and completely, from one edge to the other. It should be magic .

Michael’s eyes focused on it, on the spot where he expected Gerry’s other eye to be. The fact that he kept it covered had been one of the details that had finally given Michael the confidence to voice his theory. He had been burning with curiosity ever since the thought had occurred to him. Or probably even before, when he had simply wondered why Gerry kept his hair like that. It seemed inconvenient. But it did make sense, now.

“Can...can I see?” Michael asked, hesitant, but too curious to stop himself from doing so.

Gerry considered for a short moment, then nodded and turned his face towards Michael. Michael waited, but Gerry only gave him an encouraging smile. 

“Oh…” Michael mumbled, a little flustered as he tentatively reached out to Gerry’s face. He gave Gerry a questioning look before his fingers reached his hair. He still remembered Gerry denying his requests to touch it. Michael had assumed he didn’t like his hair being touched. But maybe that wasn’t true. “May I?”

Gerry nodded and held still as Michael gently brushed the hair out of his face. Gerry’s hair was soft against his fingers, and Michael gently tucked it behind Gerry’s ear, fingers lingering just a little. Gerry also seemed to lean into the touch slightly, head tilting towards Michael’s fingers, eyelids fluttering over dark brown and, indeed, solid black. 

Michael had thought he had caught a glimpse of it before, but seeing it for real still made his breath catch in his throat. It looked beautiful. He had heard of the Antari mark before, of course, but it had sometimes sounded like a lie, a fairytale. In a world with as little magic as Michael’s it was impossible to imagine something filled with it, impossible to think it could be concentrated so strongly in a single place. 

But Michael was looking at it now, at the glossy, solid black of Gerry’s right eye, and he knew . He could feel it, even from just looking at it, the power, the magic . It was the same sense of awe he was left with when Gerry would conjure flames from nowhere, something equally exciting and terrifying. It was beautiful . The black deep and saturated, nearly swallowing the light hitting it, Gerry’s eyelashes a couple shades lighter, long and thick, framing the solid black of the eye in something that looked so very soft in the flamelight, so pretty, delicate, even, in comparison. 

Suddenly Michael was struck by the fact that this was the first time he could see Gerry’s whole face. He was beautiful. Had always been, but now there was a whole new half of his face Michael could take in, a mole on his cheek, another by his brow, the black of his eye. Michael was lost in all of it, and didn’t realise his finger was moving, tracing the curve of Gerry’s cheek just below his eye, enraptured. He did snap out of it when Gerry’s eyes widened, quickly pulled his hand away.

“I-I’m sorry. I got...carried away.” He looked away, cheeks flushed with shame.

“No, I...it’s okay. It just- I wasn’t...expecting it?” Gerry gently touched his shoulder. “You don’t...mind?”

Michael looked at him, confused. “Your eye?”

“I lied to you.”

Michael shrugged. “I understand why.” Silence. “It’s pretty. The eye, I mean.”

“Pretty?” Gerry frowned.

Michael nodded, reached out again. He waited for Gerry to nod, before putting his hand against Gerry’s cheek again, thumb tracing the line of his cheek gently until it reached his jaw. Michael followed the trail with his eyes, mumbled a quiet, “ You’re pretty,” as he did and then didn’t dare to meet Gerry’s eyes again, feeling his own face burning with the admission.

Gerry stared, shocked. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Having Michael call him pretty made no sense. Michael was pretty. Michael was the prettiest person Gerry had ever seen. 

"Not as pretty as you," he blurted out, and this wasn’t at all where Gerry thought the conversation would go. 

His anxiety suddenly had little to do with him being found out, and all to do with how fragile this exchange felt. They had built something comfortable, a friendship, Gerry guessed, though it wasn’t like he had anything to compare it to. All he knew was that he didn’t want to lose whatever this was, and the direction their conversation was taking felt like it might change things, maybe make things crumble. Maybe not. 

Michael looked up at him, surprised, and Gerry loved seeing the bit of colour in his cheeks, found it a breathtaking sight in contrast to all the colourlessness. Michael was pretty, was beautiful, and the question was over Gerry’s lips of its own accord, “Michael, do you want to kiss?”

Michael’s eyes went to his lips, before he looked back at Gerry’s eyes. The nod was tentative, and he sounded apologetic when he said, “I’ve never...kissed anyone before, though.”

Gerry shrugged. “Me neither. But I...I really want to kiss you, I think.” He felt too warm, cheeks burning. “If you want to, that is.”

“I...I do.”

They looked at each other for a moment, surprised and a little nervous, before Gerry decided to lean in. Michael considered meeting him halfway, but instead held still until Gerry’s face was a little closer. They shared a last glance, just to make sure, before both leaned in to close the last gap. The kiss was a tentative one, barely a brush of lips, before they pulled away. They looked at each other, unsure.

A quiet agreement passed between them, and they closed in again. This time, Michael’s hands cupped Gerry’s face. The kiss went for a little longer, was a little sloppy, halting as their noses bumped together whenever they tried shifting angle. Neither of them minded. 

This was new, and they were both giddy with it, hearts fluttering in their chests as Gerry’s hands found their way to Michael’s hair, as Michael shuffled closer while trying to not break the kiss. It didn’t work and both giggled, breathy, and eventually Michael was sitting in Gerry’s lap, arms around Gerry’s neck, and they were kissing again, both aware that they were probably not doing it quite right, but it felt good, and they were happy with that.

*

They did a lot less city exploring in the following months. The biting cold made going outside not very inviting and with Gerry keeping a fire going from seemingly nothing, the flat was cozy and they'd spend evenings huddled together in front of the fireplace or in bed, kissing, tracing each other's faces, bodies, hands careful but curious to find spots that made the other sigh or hum, breath hitching. They'd find new places to kiss, too, lips brushing throats and shoulders, fingers mapping out backs, making each other shudder pleasantly.

The world might have been cold and uninviting outside, but they were warm curled up together in Michael’s tiny flat, fingers idly twisting and unwitting strands of hair, teeth playfully scraping lips. The streets outside forgotten for now in favour of fingertips finding their way across faces, following dips and curves, feeling soft hairs beneath and leaning in to kiss them. It was good.

Michael gently brushed the hair out of Gerry’s face, watching the flamelight catch in the glossy black of Gerry’s right eye. He still kept it covered most of the time - Michael couldn’t fault him, it would probably not go well if he’d forget to cover it before they headed out - but Michael simply enjoyed looking at it when he could. It was the answer to the mystery that Gerry had been, to all the questions every cut-off sentence he had shared about his home, himself. 

It had been a secret, and now Gerry blinked slowly up from where his head was nestled in Michael’s lap, a lazy smile on his lips, one eye so dark it looked like a mirror image of the fire they were sitting by. It was gorgeous. It was strange. Michael thought he could feel its power, somehow, as his fingertips traced the skin below, bruised from lack of sleep.

“Gerry? How...does it work?”

“Hm?” 

“How does...your magic work? How do you…” Michael frowned, trying to put his curiosity into words, into simple questions to be answered. 

It was difficult. Michael had always felt drawn to the stories, the idea of magic but he had never been close to anyone who might have proper insight into it. But now an Antari from a different world was lying in his lap and Michael wanted to listen, wanted Gerry to tell him everything he might want to share, wanted to try and imagine what magic must feel like. “I...how do you get here, for example.”

Gerry gave him a smile, sat up. “Well, I need the right command - as travars - and some blood. And-” His hand disappeared in the pocket of the coat draped over Michael’s shoulder - Michael had started to feel a little less awkward about accepting the offer lately. Maybe it was because he wasn’t afraid of hiding how much he enjoyed cuddling up in it, breathing in its scent that was Gerry but also something else, something Michael could only assume was his home. The woods he spoke of, maybe. 

Michael used to be afraid Gerry would notice, and that it might be weird. If anything, Gerry looked genuinely delighted about it, like Michael’s happiness was reason to be happy himself. It made Michael feel less bad about accepting the coat when offered. At least occasionally.

Gerry pulled something out of the pocket, turned his fist around and opened it. It looked to be some sort of small rock, or a part of one, nearly a perfect flat circle of greyish white in Gerry’s palm. Michael brushed it curiously with his finger, but it felt as any stone surface smoothed by age would. 

He frowned, trying to remember the little he had picked up on the streets about blood magic. There was little detail, the gift growing rarer and rarer. The specificities were guarded like secrets by some, probably for protection. Antari didn’t have an easy life in White London and Michael couldn’t blame them for not sharing their knowledge. It was easier to stay safe if you weren’t understood, when you let rumours and old stories fan the fear that was often all that kept one person or another from putting a knife through your throat. 

Michael looked up at Gerry. “I don’t understand.”

“Antari magic is not well known here?”

Michael shook his head. “Well...at least not in the streets. It’s mostly...vague. Warnings to stay out of their way, mostly. But little about...how it actually works.” Michael suddenly felt a little bashful for being so inquisitive. “Ah...you don’t have to tell me anything! If you don’t want to.”

Gerry chuckled. “No, that’s not it. I don’t think this kind of magic is particularly well understood at home either. I find it interesting that our worlds seem to share that.” Gerry turned the small stone over in his palm. “Anyway, to make a door you need something - an item, anything should work as far as I know - from where you want to go. Or who you want to find. A little bit of blood. The right command-”

“As...travers?” It tasted foreign on Michael’s tongue as he carefully tried to replicate the sounds he had heard Gerry make when using the door in his room. Michael had eventually insisted he’d make a shortcut to the door to Red London so he wouldn’t have to walk every time. 

Gerry still walked often - he enjoyed it - but even he thought it convenient to have a shortcut for those visits when he got too cozy to get ready early enough to walk the whole way and not be home suspiciously late. Or when he came after a too-long break and couldn’t wait to see Michael again. 

Moving between places within the same world was more difficult - he didn’t need an object, but the symbols he’d draw in blood to use as the doors had to be identical and it was simply a difficult spell to do - but it was worth it. He did want to make the most of the limited time he had with Michael.

Michael had heard Gerry whisper those words in something akin to reverence, like they were special. On Michael’s tongue, the words tasted foreign, but not any different from any other word. He was a little disappointed.

“Travars.” Gerry smiled. “Close. But yeah, with those three things you can go.”

“So that stone...is your key? Kind of?” Michael nodded to it, suddenly feeling nervous about how it lay there in Gerry’s open palm. It was a lot more important than Michael would have imagined. “It’s...so small.”

Gerry nodded. “Sometimes I’m afraid of losing it...but if I take much more than just...something like this.” He held the stone between his fingers. “I feel like it would be noticed, it’d be...conspicuous. So I haven’t tried anything like that even though...it’s tempting.” He sighed.

Michael considered him for a moment. He understood Gerry’s worry, but he also felt like there had to be something that might not be too obvious. A spare key, just in case.

“You can...get to people like that, too?”

Gerry nodded. “As Enose. To find. Basically the same concept, some blood, an item of the person...and yeah.”

Michael considered. His eyes fell on Gerry’s wrist, the two thin elastic bands around it - one of them had been holding his hair up in a ponytail when Gerry had arrived, but Gerry had taken it out in favour of Michael’s fingernails having an easier time running through his hair that way. Michael’s hair was still up, the elastic not too different from the ones around Gerry’s wrist. 

Michael moved to work the elastic out of his hair, smiling at the slightly confused expression Gerry was giving him at that. It took a couple moments, but eventually Michael had finally detangled it from his curls and held it out to Gerry.

“Here. This should be inconspicuous enough, no?” He smiled, sheepish. “And if you find no use for it as a spare key, maybe it’ll come in handy if you ever need me quickly. When I’m not home or something…”

Gerry opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t really find much reason to do so. He didn’t want to protest. Having something else he could use - just in case that tiny stone was lost somehow, or he’d forget it, or Mary found it and took it away - had been on his mind for a very long time. And Michael’s idea wasn’t bad. Gerry doubted the elastic would look much different among his own on his wrist. And having something that might provide a shortcut to find Michael in this dangerous city...it was perfect. It was brilliant.

“Thank you…” Gerry whispered, accepting the hair tie with a strange sense of reverence. 

It was something of Michael’s, still warm where it had laid against his head. And Gerry was allowed to keep it. He put it around his wrist, marvelling at how it looked near-identical to his own. It felt different, though. Probably because Gerry knew . Probably because it was special to him .

Michael grinned. “Looks perfect.”

Gerry looked up at him, hair dishevelled from his struggle with the elastic, cheeks tinted just slightly from how close to the fire they ended up sitting. Gerry chuckled, reached out to ruffle his hair with both of his hands. “ You look perfect.”

Michael groaned, but there was fondness in his eyes. Gerry buried his fingers in his hair and pulled him in for a kiss. It lasted a long time, left them both breathless once they pulled away for air again. A giggle escaped Michael’s lips - still close enough for Gerry to feel his warm breath against his lips. 

“I should make it a habit to ask about your magic, I think.” Michael pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, mirth twinkling in his eyes.

Gerry breathed a laugh, but Michael’s lips were on his again before he could say anything. He didn’t mind. Michael’s curls were warm and dry between his fingers, his mouth soft against his own and Gerry didn’t know how they had gotten here, but maybe they should talk about magic more.

Chapter Text

White London was starting to thaw. It had never really frozen in the same way Gerry had woken up to snow once or twice in the past months at home. There was no snow in White London, just the cold, biting wind seemingly cutting into skin. Gerry sometimes half-expected to find blood on his hand when he’d touch his cold-stiff face after the short walk from his door to Michael’s flat. It never happened, but that didn’t change the fact that the cold was brutal, distinctly worse than the usual chill.

And so when it started to fade again, even Gerry was able to notice. He might only know White London in the late afternoon and evenings, but when Michael started opening the window and neither of them flinched with the sudden icy cold, Gerry knew spring was coming. 

Or whatever it was White London had. As far as he could tell, not much seemed to change but the cold became less brutal and the sun stayed out longer in the murky grey sky. Still, Michael was ecstatic about it, spent more and more time by the window, face angled towards the dying sickly sunlight, his smile close to the one he gave Gerry whenever he brought him some more flowers.

The window was open today and Michael was warm enough to not be too bothered by the fact that the blanket he had wrapped around himself had nearly fully slipped off of his shoulders. Gerry didn’t know when he had started sketching him, but he found himself now leaning forward from where he was sitting on Michael’s bed, squinting to see the pale freckles down Michael’s back, half-covered in the mess of curls that had looked a lot neater before Gerry had kissed Michael into the mattress earlier. They were beautiful. 

Michael was beautiful, stunning in the orange-red half-light haloing him, catching in the twisting and curling blond strands, the frizzy thin ones that never lay flat at the sides and the top of his head. The light made the near-invisible freckles that had faded over winter stand out against Michael’s pale skin and Gerry wondered if Michael had any idea about them. If he knew how pretty he was, if he knew about the fact that the freckles of his face and shoulders continued down his back. It felt like something he should know. 

Gerry finished the sketch after catching himself staring, cheeks turning red despite Michael still looking out the window. He put the rough sketch down. He knew it wouldn't get much truer to life even if he cleaned up the messiness a little. It was fine. Michael was right there.

Gerry slipped out of bed and joined Michael at the window, gently wrapping one arm around him from behind, his free hand tracing the exposed skin of his back lightly. Michael smiled, relaxed into the embrace. 

Gerry pressed his face into his shoulder, "Do you know you have freckles on your back, too?" His lips brushed Michael’s soft skin as he spoke and Michael giggled.

"Well, I guess it doesn't surprise me."

Gerry looked up at Michael’s face. "They're stunning."

Michael met his eyes with a grin. "You say that about all of them, Ger."

"Because it's true. You're lovely all over." Gerry pressed a kiss to Michael’s jaw.

Michael sighed appreciatively. "Coming from you ."

Gerry hummed, planting another kiss against his shoulder. And another. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed.

*

Michael’s fingers idly threaded through Gerry’s hair as he talked. Nearly a whole month had passed since he had last visited, and apparently spring had fully come at home. Gerry was trying his best to describe it, twirling a twig he had brought between his fingers. He hadn’t looked well when he arrived at Michael’s door, but he clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Michael was just glad he had convinced him to lay down for a little bit. And he was really enjoying trying to picture what Gerry was describing. It sounded incredible.

"So the trees are changing...again?" Michael asked, still remembering the changes Gerry had described to him a couple months prior, when it had started to turn cold. Except for the temperature, Michael was hard-pressed to find anything about his home city particularly different then or now.

Gerry shifted in his lap to look up at him. "They're changing...back, I guess. New leaves, green again...all that."

"The whole forest?" Michael asked, thoughtful. Gerry nodded. Michael frowned, mumbling, "I think to an extent ours do that too...or...they used to."

Gerry perked up at that. "You have woods? I wasn't aware…"

Michael looked at him with a near-apologetic smile. "It's not...like what you describe. But I can show you, if you want?” He brushed Gerry’s pale cheek. “If...you can."

Gerry sat up, slowly, brushing his hair back. Michael watched his eyes close for just a moment too long before he blinked them open again, warm brown and deep black brilliant in the dim light. Gerry smiled at him, though it was forced. "It's not that bad. I'm just a little dizzy." 

Michael sighed. "I wish she'd just stop…"

Gerry shrugged, combing his hair into his face to cover his eye. "I don't think there would be much reason to keep me around then."

"You could live here." Michael spoke a little too quickly, excitement slipping into his voice. He stopped himself, lowering his gaze. Michael didn’t want to sound pushy. No matter how much he had to admit to himself that he would love having Gerry around more, no matter how little sense it made to him for Gerry to stay with a mother who was cruel, he didn’t want to seem pushy. It was, in the end, for Gerry to decide. And Michael would respect that. "Sorry...I mean, the offer still stands but-"

Gerry squeezed his knee, smiling. Nodded. "I know. Thank you.” He sighed, getting up. “I...yeah, thanks."

The silence that followed was a strangely heavy one for them. Michael eventually got up from the bed himself after it was clear that Gerry had nothing to add. Not that he needed to. Michael simply felt like he might want to, his expression looking troubled as he looked out the window.

"Then...shall we?” Michael asked tentatively. “It's a bit of a stretch but it's still early enough for us to make it, I think."

Gerry nodded, a smile back on his lips as he turned to look at Michael. Michael returned the smile and handed him his coat. 

“Have you ever seen the palace?” Michael asked after a while of walking. Their idle conversation had quieted down a bit ago, Gerry focused on taking in the foreign surroundings. They’d definitely never come to this part of the city. 

“Hm?”

“The palace. Well...it’s more of a fortress, I guess. Have you ever seen it?”

Gerry blinked. He had never really thought of the palace - or fortress - of White London. Sure, he was vaguely aware of it existing, but it seemed so far, so irrelevant to Michael’s small flat Gerry had never thought much about the White London monarch or their palace. It wasn’t too different from at home, he guessed. The Red Palace was impossible to miss, obviously, but even that one Gerry had only seen once or twice. His mother’s interest tended to lie in the narrow alleys far from it.

“I...no, I haven’t, actually,” Gerry said.

“Do you want to?”

Gerry frowned. “Are we close?”

Michael shook his head. “You don’t get close to the palace. But you can see it from the roofs here.” He nodded towards a nearby building, “If you want.”

Gerry craned his neck to look up at the top of the building. “And how do we get up there?”

Michael gave him a mischievous smile and held out his hand. Gerry raised an eyebrow, but accepted the hand. Michael pulled him into the alley of the house they were looking at. They stopped at the back. 

It was a dead end, but Michael only pointed up. Gerry squinted into the darkness. Barely any of the dim light from the streets reached this far but after a second Gerry finally saw what Michael was pointing at. A ladder. Out of their reach, but Michael was already moving to climb the stone wall, finding cracks and crevices to hold onto so quickly Gerry was sure he wasn't doing this for the first time. His graceful movements had Gerry stare a little longer than necessary before he finally snapped out of it and followed suit. 

It was a short climb to the ladder and soon enough Michael helped him off the top of it and onto the flat roof. Michael smiled, pulled him to the other side of the roof and pointed ahead.

Gerry didn't know what he had expected but it wasn't this. The building was massive, which Gerry had expected because the Red Palace, too, was of imposing size, but the shape of the White Palace was a far cry from the what Gerry knew as a Palace. Where the Red Palace was open, nearly inviting with its warm colours and the tall but rounded roofs, what Gerry was looking at right now was all sharp angles, harsh spires cutting through the air, high walls and spiked fences obscuring the view of a lot of the lower part of it. It didn't look like a Palace, not something to live in. It looked, indeed, like a fortress. A place to conquer from. A warning, a threat. A chill went through Gerry, and he was unsure how much to blame it on the night air.

"It's intimidating, isn't it?" Michael whispered beside him.

Gerry nodded. "Not very...welcoming."

Michael shook his head. "You're not allowed to get close. I feel like it conveys that message pretty well."

Gerry looked at him. "Then what’s the point?”

Michael shrugged. "Of the palace? The king? To rule, I guess. I don’t really know...I think the king’s men try harder in the better parts of the city. We’re mostly ignored.”

Gerry nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t seem right, but he knew little of how such things were supposed to work. He had seen the dark corners of Red London. Maybe it was simply inevitable that some spots would go overlooked by those in charge. It didn’t seem right , but Gerry’s eyes were already wandering from the imposing building. Something looked odd about the landscape further off to the left. The houses and narrow streets seemed to grow sparse until suddenly all there were pillars. No. Trees . Gerry’s eyes widened.

“That-”

“That’s where we’re going.” Michael nodded.

The thin, dark structures seemed to stretch on forever, tightly packed in some spots, looser in others. They all seemed to have similarly narrow shapes, the tree crowns and foliage looking strangely even. And still. More like statues.

"We should get going or it'll be dark before we even get there." Gerry needed a moment before he could tear his eyes away from the strange sight. 

The utter lack of plant life throughout the city had always been a little strange to Gerry. He had simply assumed it somehow didn't exist here - not anymore, from how Michael spoke of it. Seeing so much of it right there, even if it looked wrong, felt surreal.

He finally followed Michael back to the ladder and climbed down. While Michael had climbed the distance from the ladder to the ground, Gerry simply jumped. He softened his fall with a gust of wind and landed lightly on his feet. Michael was staring at him with big eyes and Gerry winked before taking his hand again. Squeezing it seemed to pull Michael out of his awe and he grinned in excitement before walking back out of the alley, Gerry’s hand still in his.

They walked on for some time, though the trees still appeared before them earlier than Gerry would have expected. They looked both more and less like trees from up close. Despite the colours being washed out, the trees weren't as grey as they had looked from afar. The browns and whites of the tree bark were pale, the green of the leaves closer to the colour of ash but still green. 

At the same time, they felt more wrong as Michael led the way between the trees. It took Gerry a moment of looking around, trying to take everything in, before he could pinpoint what was putting him off. It was too quiet. The trees were too still. No rustling leaves, no bids crying. Even their steps seemed too quiet, the ground hard, grey leaves not so much crunching but quietly dissolving under their feet. It was eerie. Gerry felt his own breathing was too loud in this quiet forest.

"I haven't been here in a while…" Michael whispered beside him, free hand brushing a tree trunk that did, in fact, look nearly completely grey at the bottom. Like stone. Like the hard ground on which it stood. 

Gerry followed Michael’s gaze up and saw that there was still some brown towards the crown, new leaves sprouting sparsely, a milky green colour. Gerry frowned but let himself be led further by the hand. No matter where he looked, it was all the same. This was wrong.

The slush of water was nearly deafening when it grew closer, despite Gerry recognising the slow rush as the city’s prime River. Michael had taken him on walks by its bank a couple times. It barely moved, the surface looking like it was frozen sometimes. It was a far cry from the river of Red London with its lively red colour and strong current. Full of magic. Full of life. 

They sat down on an overturned, white tree trunk. It felt like stone beneath Gerry’s hand, cold and smooth. The river trickled in front of them. It looked too wide to be making so little noise. Gerry thought he could see some spots of ice slowly moving downstream. It was all too quiet. 

A long moment passed in silence. Gerry looked from the quiet river to Michael’s wistful expression to the hard ground below his feet.

“Why?” he tried not to whisper, but his voice still came out hushed, like it was afraid to break the eerie silence around them.

Michael blinked a couple times, trying to find his way back from his reverie. “Hm?”

“You said you haven’t been here in a while...why?”

Michael looked at him for a moment, before looking back at the river, leaning back on his hands. “It used to be more like what you describe your woods to be. Not...never as much, I guess. There used to be more birds.” He trailed off, as if listening for any. Then sighed. “In the city, it’s...well, you can’t ignore it, but there’s always noise. Life. It’s easier to not...think. About...this. About how the world is dying.” Michael looked up at the pale leaves above their heads. “It started to be difficult to be here. So I stopped coming.”

Gerry didn’t know what to say to that. It was impossible to assume Michael was completely unaffected by his surroundings, that he wouldn’t know or even feel that something in this city was simply wrong . Still, Michael had never shown to be very affected by it. Sure, there was something like yearning in his eyes when Gerry described the trees and city at home. His voice would sometimes drop close to grief when telling Gerry about how the city had changed, or how it was now. 

But it was always fleeting. Michael smiled at the washed out sun and spoke of the pale colours of his world like there was beauty to find in it still. It was a fact that things were as they were and Michael had always seemed to have accepted them and found a way to find new joy in the fading world. That wasn’t the case right now. Michael just looked...sad. And tired. 

And what could Gerry possibly say to make it better? Michael was right. The state of the world was inescapable here, in the too-still woods where the trees seemed to be turning to stone and the river was freezing over slowly.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to stay here…” Michael suddenly mumbled, quietly. He was still looking into the middle distance, the bare trees on the other side of the river. “The world is dying. Sometimes I wish I could go away.”

Gerry took a moment to process the words, confused by the sudden change of topic. Or the topic was the same, but the focus had changed. 

“That’s not it,” Gerry said into the quiet that settled over them once more. “It’s not...this doesn’t put me off enough to not want to be with you, Michael.”

“Then what is it?” Michael looked at him with that same solemn expression. Frustration slipped into his voice as he clarified, “I mean, again, I...it’s your decision. This is just an offer, but...I just….I wonder sometimes, okay? Because you make it sound like you’d want to...but also not. I just-” He sighed. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer. I shouldn’t have brought it up, I...I don’t mind. I don’t . I love you, no matter what. I cherish the time we have and I don’t- well, I try not to think about it too much. It’s good like this. I just sometimes...can’t help but wonder, I guess. Sorry.”

Gerry frowned. This was something he himself thought about a lot - enough that he should have a straightforward answer by now. But he didn’t have one. He barely could make sense of it himself, couldn’t find the right words to explain something he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He looked at Michael. He looked ashamed and Gerry wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to. It was only natural that he’d wonder about it. 

But that wouldn’t give Michael any answers, so Gerry instead tried to word what he knew so far, “It’s nothing here . Not you, not the city, not…not this.” Gerry motioned at the woods around them. He was confident in very little, but he was sure about this. White London was not what was keeping him from taking Michael’s offer, no matter its state. “The...it’s true. I sometimes think about staying. And I want to. Part of me wants to so much .” Gerry shook his head, trying to get the tremor in his voice under control. 

Why did he get so emotional immediately whenever he tried to sort through his thoughts on this? The ache was a physical one by now. His chest hurt with how much he wanted to stay, with speaking that desire so plainly. He took a breath before continuing, “But...it’s not the staying that holds me back, it...it’s the leaving.”

Michael nodded in understanding. “It’s your home. It’s alive-”

“No, I...it’s not that.” Gerry tried to bury his nails in the bark beneath him, but whatever hard surface the tree was made of didn’t give way. It only added to his frustration. Why was this so difficult to make sense of and speak about? “Not really. It’s…” He frowned at the river. He didn’t want to admit it, and his voice went very quiet when the words finally left his lips. “It’s Mary.”

“Mary?” Michael sounded a little surprised. And why wouldn’t he? It made little sense to Gerry, too.

"I can't go . I can't leave. I just...I don't know." His shoulders slumped and Gerry ran his hands through his hair, mumbling, "I've considered it, you know. Even before. To just. Get away. But I...the idea of leaving her feels...impossible. Wrong." Gerry hated how weak he sounded admitting to it. The power she had over him. But he pushed on. "She says it sometimes. That I'd be fucked without her. And...I don't think she's wrong . I don't... know how to live without her. Away from her and...it scares me.” There was something freeing about saying it out loud. In a way, this convoluted mess suddenly seemed a lot less confusing. 

It still didn’t make sense, but it felt good to hear it being spoken. “Because part of me...doesn't want to. I just...I don't know . I just know I can't leave ." Gerry sighed, both frustrated and exhausted. He gave Michael a wry smile. "Sorry, that sounds silly, I-"

"No! No, it’s not, it...I’m sorry I asked.” Michael opened his arms, meeting Gerry’s eyes with a question, a gentle invitation in his own. Gerry didn’t hesitate before leaning into Michael, sighed when Michael wrapped one arm around him and pressed him close. “You really didn’t have to explain,” Michael mumbled, pressing a kiss to Gerry’s head. “But thank you for still doing so.”

Gerry gave a dry chuckle. “That was barely an explanation. I don’t...it’s something I’ve been struggling to understand for years and I just- I don’t know.” He sighed.

Michael rubbed his arm quietly for a moment, let Gerry hide his conflicted expression in Michael’s neck and waited for Gerry’s breathing to calm down. He thought about his words, the way his voice shook when he spoke them. Michael still felt guilty for asking, but maybe Gerry had needed to talk about this. The sigh he sighed against Michael’s neck sounded at least a little relieved.

“You love her,” Michael whispered after a while, fingers gently running through Gerry’s hair.

Gerry tensed again immediately, raised his head to be understood when he said, defensive, “I know she’s not good-”

“It’s okay, I’m not judging you.” Michael put a hand against his cheek, gently, looked into his eyes, “I just...think that’s it. Maybe not only, but...well, she is your mother.”

Gerry frowned at that. Something about this turn of the conversation was alarming him. “That shouldn’t matter . I know she’s not treating me like one, I know-”

“I don’t doubt that you know but that doesn’t change that you love her.”

Gerry opened his mouth to disagree, but closed it again. He was too eager to push back about this. And he knew why. It just wasn’t something he wanted to admit, not like this. Not without making sure Michael understood that he knew his affection was misplaced.

“I should hate her. And I do, but…” Gerry hesitated, eyes searching for anything but Michael’s eyes to focus on. His voice was more quiet when he said, “Not enough to make going easy.”

“It’s okay-”’

Gerry shook his head, took the hand Michael had resting on his face and squeezed it between both of his. This was frustrating. Gerry wanted him to know . “No, it’s not . I...I appreciate the offer, Michael. Really. I think about it a lot and I wish I could take you up on it, but-”

Michael shook his head firmly. “Hush. Gerry, I’ve told you before but the offer will continue to stand, no matter what. There is no pressure or hurry and if you decide to never take it that’s fine, too. I was being honest. Things are good as they are now, too.” He wrapped Gerry’s hands in his own and squeezed them gently, looking into his eyes, insistent, “And if you really want to...I don’t know, find a way to work through what’s holding you back. Or even just sort through all of what you just told me...if you think I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay?” He brought Gerry’s hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. “I want you to be happy. I want you to feel good . If I can help you in any way towards that - no matter how it may look - I’d love to. I love you, Gerry. No matter what you decide to do, that won’t change.”

Gerry was at a loss for words. He still didn’t know if he felt satisfied with his own explanation, but Michael made it seem irrelevant. What did it matter how accurately he had put his doubts when Michael seemed ready to support him no matter what path he decided to take? When he looked at him like nothing he had said changed anything, because Michael cared about him and he very clearly wanted to do his best to help Gerry with whatever it was he wanted to work through.

Gerry felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he chuckled, bringing his hands - and Michael’s, still holding them - up to press his forehead against them. “You’re too good to me.”

Michael smiled, let go of his hands to instead wrap Gerry in a hug. “No such thing, darling.”

Gerry wrapped his arms around his middle and buried his face in Michael’s chest with another chuckle, feeling a little lighter and a whole lot warmer. He hadn’t even realised how this had been weighing on him. He hadn’t realised how intimidating all of his tangled feelings had seemed, how much of it had been holding him back. And he knew that none of it was solved, that his emotions were still a mess and he was still torn by really wanting to stay while feeling unable to leave, but at least Michael knew now. Knew and didn’t mind, but offered to help. That alone made Gerry feel just a little better.

They sat for a little while longer, Gerry slowly unravelling himself into a more comfortable position leaning against Michael and enjoying the scrape of his fingernails against his scalp as Michael kept running his hand through his hair, traced his temple, his hairline, the spot behind his ear gently. Michael’s free hand was in Gerry’s lap, and Gerry gingerly traced the dry skin around his nails, followed the trails of his veins, the lines in the palm of his hand. He knew it well by now and yet it still felt him with a sense of reverence to be allowed to touch his hand like this. Michael hummed one of his soft tunes beside him and Gerry closed his eyes and forgot about the deadly quiet of the woods.

But it had already been late when they made their way to the woods and neither of them was eager to walk back in the dark. So soon enough they forced themselves to stand again, stretching to shake off the drowsiness comfort had brought with it. Michael held out his hand and Gerry took it, allowing himself to be led through the trees once again.

“Michael?” Gerry mumbled after a moment, eager to break the oppressive silence around them. It was difficult to ignore when he wasn’t lost in Michael’s gentle affection.

“Hm?” Michael seemed a little lost in thought again, expression uncharacteristically somber.

“Do you really believe the world is dying?” Gerry couldn’t forget Michael’s tone earlier, the expression on his face. It had been strange to see him like that, so...hopeless.

They walked in silence for a moment, before Michael nodded ahead at yet another grey tree. “Well...it sure looks like it.”

Gerry couldn’t deny it. He had gotten used to White London’s fading colours and dead air, but the fact that something was wrong with the city was undeniable. Michael’s choice of words did seem accurate. The world seemed to be dying around its people. The people themselves were looking more faded each day. What could Gerry possibly say? Michael was the one that could say everything would be fine with enough confidence that Gerry found it difficult to not believe him. But Gerry was not the kind of person to be able to do that. 

“I’m sorry," he said instead, feeling like that was not nearly enough to express the aching he felt in his heart at the sadness in Michael’s eyes. 

“It’s not your fault," he gave Gerry a smile, honest and sincere. He looked nearly like himself again.

Gerry squeezed his hand. “You deserve better.” Michael smiled at him, but Gerry shook his head and stopped, still holding onto Michael. "No, I'm honest, Michael, you deserve...so much more. I wish...I just-"

"It's fine, Gerry. I appreciate the sentiment." He pulled Gerry close. "There's no point in dwelling on this too much. Neither of us can do much about this...nobody knows what the problem even is." 

"Still-"

"Kiss me." 

Gerry blinked in confusion. "Wha-"

Michael grinned, tilted back Gerry’s head. "It's a better use of our time than worrying about this." Michael pressed his forehead to Gerry’s, mumbling, "If you want to, of course."

Gerry hesitated only a second before closing the space and pressing their lips together. This, at least, was something he could do. And the way Michael melted into the kiss, the way his arms wrapped around Gerry, hands pressing into his back as he pulled him closer, kissed him back deeply, made it feel like it might just be enough. 

Gerry wasn't able to fix whatever was wrong with Michael’s world, but he could kiss him and feel him smile against his lips and could feel Michael lean into his touch when Gerry wrapped his arms around him, fingers dancing along Michael’s spine. Michael sighed into the kiss, a sound close to a hum, and Gerry thought that it would be fine. Things would work out somehow. He didn’t know how, but Michael made it seem possible.

Chapter Text

“Gerard! Wake up!” 

Gerry startled awake, and it was hot. He was hot. His room didn’t look quite right. Mary’s face remained the same - hard, dark eyes, mouth a thin line - hovering above him.

“Come, get out of bed. Dress. And then help with the fire. Hurry up.”

Too many words. Gerry’s head was pounding and he seemed unable to focus on words or the room that was bathed in a strange light. Gerry felt unbalanced. He tried to sit up carefully, but Mary wasn’t having it. Her bony hand clasped his wrist and she yanked him out of bed to his feet. Gerry would’ve toppled over if her grip hadn’t tightened.

“We have no time for this. The house is on fire. It needs to be burnt in a couple minutes. Get yourself together and hurry .”

Gerry knew that tone well, and knew there was no option but following her orders, even if they made no sense to his aching head. He moved in a trance, stumbled into the clothes he had worn the day before and not put away. Mary barely gave him enough time, grabbed his wrist before he could finish buttoning his coat and dragged him outside through the heat that still felt as if it was inside Gerry’s head as much as it was making his skin uncomfortably warm from the outside. Fire? She had said something about a fire?

It was only outside, with the night air cooling his skin and head - though the strange sense of dizziness didn’t pass - that Gerry realised what was happening. His sleepy eyes went wide when Mary stopped just a couple steps in front of the house and turned him around. It was on fire. The flames were mostly on one side - Mary’s study - but spreading quickly, eating through furniture and walls and Gerry’s mouth hung open. What had happened?

“Stop gaping! Burn it!”

“Wha-”

“The carriage will be here shortly and nothing of the house will be salvageable, you understand?”

Gerry didn’t, but her nails were boring painfully into his wrist and the threat in her voice was icy enough to clear the haze from his mind a little. Enough for him to nod mechanically, and make the flames grow, summon new ones to burn through those parts of the house still undamaged. 

It was...difficult. Gerry didn’t know if he was too tired for it, but he was struggling more than usual to keep his control over the fire. Something felt distinctly wrong . He felt unsteady. Had Mary not been holding his arm painfully, he would have had to sit down. As it was he simply stood, dizzy, and watched the flames follow his command to consume the house he had called home for all of his life. Gerry felt numb. 

*

Mary ushered him into the carriage with a look that made it clear he should keep quiet. She wouldn’t have to bother. Gerry was barely keeping himself on his feet, felt more drained than he ever had calling to any of the elements. The world spun around him and he barely took notice of the plush interior of the carriage, of the whispered conversation between Mary and the woman sitting in front of them. 

“So it’s really fallen? The doors are closed?”

“It was for the best. We don’t know yet what’ll happen to the Antari, but he’ll be safe at the palace.”

“Of course.”

Gerry only caught snippets, words too loud and too far away at the same time. He stared at his lap, trying to focus on his hands, hoping that would make the world stop spinning. It didn’t, and he felt like throwing up when he noticed his naked wrist. The alarm at the view was sharp enough to briefly puncture the haze.

“Where is it? Where’s the hair tie?” he mumbled, though there was a panicked edge in his voice at the end.

Mary frowned, clearly displeased with him talking. “You should rest.” Shut up .

Gerry looked at her for one second, two. Remembered her grip on his wrist. “You took it. Where is it? Where?”

He grabbed her arm, and Mary looked surprised, expression slipping just for a moment, before she caught herself, yanked her arm back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You mean that tattered thing you’ve been wearing around your arm? Burnt.” She held his gaze at that last word, a threat. “We’ll buy you a new one.”

It couldn’t be. Gerry refused to believe that. He needed it. “No! No, give it back, I- I need it. I need it, I-”

Mary’s lips were a thin line. “Gerard-”

The woman sitting across from them suddenly spoke up, “It’s been an...eventful night. He’s probably in shock-”

Gerry didn’t care. “Let me out . Bring me back . I’ll find it, I-”

“Gerard, stop it.” Mary would have sounded calm had Gerry now known her well. 

It was a threat, and Gerry would have followed her order in any other circumstance but the world looked lopsided and Gerry felt hot and the sight of his naked wrist made his heart clench in his chest. 

His voice sounded shrill when he cried out again, “Let me out! Let me go back, let me-”

“I will do no such thing and you will behave.” Mary yanked him back to her side when Gerry tried to throw himself at the carriage door, the pain of her grip making him yelp. She gave him a stern look. “It’s a long way to the palace. You’ll get new hair ties there.”

That wasn’t the point and Gerry barely cut himself off before saying so. He couldn’t tell her what it meant, couldn't mention Michael. So he bit his tongue and blinked away the tears. Tried to breathe. 

It’d be fine. He still had the stone. Gerry stuffed his hands in his pockets and there it was, smooth to the touch, cool. He was too groggy to feel the foreign magic on it, but it was still a comfort in his fingers. He couldn’t pull it out with Mary right beside him of course, and the other woman was looking at him intently, too. It would be fine. He’d find Michael always as long as he could make it to White London.

He clutched the stone in his hand and watched the darkness outside the window until the dizziness became too much to bear and his eyes fell closed. Vaguely, he was aware of the two women whispering again, but sleep pulled him under before he could catch any words.

It would be hours before Gerry found himself alone again. Guards had escorted him wordlessly to a room, too big, and Gerry collapsed onto silk sheets the moment he managed to stumble towards the bed, breathing heavily. The headache seemed to be getting worse. He felt hot. Vaguely, he heard a lock click, but Gerry didn’t have the energy to even call out, ask what was going on. Nobody had answered when he asked once he had been woken and ushered out of the carriage and into what he gathered must be the palace.

Gerry pulled his knees closer and finally dared to finally pull his hands out of his pocket. He was alone, out of anyone’s sight - Mary had disappeared with that other woman somewhere - and in desperate need of something that made sense in his feverish state, the strange surroundings. His hand opened with some effort, and Gerry smiled at the hazy sight of the flat stone in his palm. Things would be fine. If he wouldn’t be so weak, he’d go now, but Gerry could barely keep his eyes open. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d wake up from this nightmare and go and find Michael once more as soon as he was out of everyone’s sight. 

He passed out with that plan in mind minutes later.

Gerry woke with the sun - he hadn’t even noticed the heavy curtains the night before, so he hadn’t drawn them to cover the windows - and felt utterly disoriented and a little ill. He blinked his eyes open to a too-bright, too-big room, the sheets underneath him strangely slippery. He rolled onto his back. The movement made him nauseous, the room going out of focus for a moment. When it settled again, the ceiling was too far away. Rich tapestries covered its expanse and Gerry lay for a moment and stared, feeling incredibly out of it. His body felt too heavy and his mind too light.

Where was he?

The memories of the night before - the fire, the carriage - came back slowly and it was difficult to string them all together with his head still pulsing. Gerry rolled onto his side again - carefully - and looked at his hand. He had fallen asleep holding the White London stone and at some point his fingers had clenched around it again. He smiled faintly. It didn’t matter where he was, he’d be gone soon enough.

With some effort he opened his hand in the morning light. The rock didn’t look quite right, but nothing did, so Gerry waited for his vision to clear, to focus. It didn’t. He frowned, pulled himself into a sitting position with some difficulty. He brought the rock closer to his face. It was grey. He brushed it with his thumb, and it felt normal, slightly rough. It wasn’t his stone.

Gerry could feel the panic approaching, but still felt strangely removed from himself. He searched with his hands in his coat pockets again, checked the bed. Nothing. His heart was beating too loudly. The rock was gone. Just like the hair tie Mary had taken. Mary .

Gerry scrambled out of bed, too quickly, and lost his balance, only saving himself from hitting the floor by holding on to the bedpost. He didn’t give himself enough time to recover, pushed himself off the post and towards the door. He fell into it, and his sweaty hand kept slipping off the doorknob, so he knocked.

“Open the door! Let me out!” He cringed, his own voice too loud, making his headache spike.

He heard a key turn and then the door was pulled open and he stumbled into the guard that had opened it. With obvious confusion, he steadied Gerry, one of the other guards coming to help. 

Gerry couldn’t care less. The hallway was too bright and spinning. “Where is she? Mary. Bring...get me to my mother.” Why was he so out of breath?

He didn’t register the guards’ answer, but they started moving, which was good enough for him, if difficult. It was a long walk, and nothing looked right about Gerry’s surroundings, and when they stopped in front of a dark door he felt utterly exhausted. The guards were dragging him along by that point.

Mary’s face appeared at the other side of the door, and the sight was enough to give Gerry enough energy to push himself off the guard and at her. “Where is it? Where did you put it ?”

The room tilted again with the too-quick movement, but Gerry managed to grab a fistful of Mary’s shirt. He held himself upright, glaring down at her. The momentary surprise in her face faded quickly as she rolled her eyes and waved for the guards to leave. They didn’t hesitate long before walking away.

Mary held Gerry’s feverish gaze while the steps grew farther and farther away. She spoke only when they were inaudible. “Let go.”

It took Gerry a moment to understand, but he quickly let go of her shirt, nearly stumbled back in his hurry. He hadn’t realised he was still holding onto her. She sounded unamused by it.

“You look awful,” Gerry wondered if he was hallucinating the interest in her tone. She turned away and walked back into the room before he could decide, waving for him to follow. “Come in.”

Gerry followed her unsteadily. He wanted to repeat his question but his mouth felt dry. He swallowed, followed Mary to a desk at the end of the room. She sat down behind it. Gerry considered sitting in the chair in front of it, but instead decided to brace himself on the desk. His blood was too loud in his ears. Mary seemed to have duplicated. Gerry squeezed his eyes shut, tried to catch his breath.

“How are you feeling?” Definitely interest. It was the same tone Mary would use when she’d be trying out some new theory.

Gerry wasn’t having it, not now. “Where. the fuck . did you put my rock?” He forced his eyes open despite it bringing a new wave of dizziness. He wasn’t even sure if he was looking into Mary’s eyes. The room seemed to be moving.

Mary sighed, propped her elbows on the desk and folded her hands. She rested her chin on them and took him in for a moment. Then, she shook her head. “How stupid do you think I am?” Gerry blinked slowly, trying to make sense of her words, trying to comprehend how they fit in any way into the situation. He opened his mouth to ask, but Mary cut him off, “Do you really think I would let you keep your key after bringing you all the way here, Gerard? I’ve allowed it for way too long already- oh, don’t look at me like that.” 

Gerry barely heard the last words. He could only stare, frozen. His hands were shaking. She couldn’t be telling the truth. She couldn’t be calling it a key . She couldn’t .

Mary sighed, giving him a cruel smile, “Did you think you were being subtle? Did you really believe I was unaware of what you were doing? Of what was going on under my own roof?” Her eyes were hard when they met his. “I’ve known about your little excursions for a long time now. And they would have come to a stop sooner or later, I assure you.”

Gerry shook his head, stepped back, nearly fell. “N...no. You can’t. You’re lying .” He squeezed his eyes shut, steadied himself on the back of the chair he had nearly walked into. This made no sense. Mary couldn’t know, couldn’t have known. She would have never let him go. She had to be lying. Gerry opened his eyes. They were moist. “Why...why would you not stop me? You would have never-”

“Stop raising your voice. If the guards come back, this conversation will end. And I doubt I will be in the mood to repeat myself after, so listen.” She leaned forward and Gerry decided to sit down before he could lose his balance again. He shouldn’t have moved so much so quickly. What was wrong with him? 

“Stopping you was unnecessary. I knew you’d always come back.” She shrugged. “And I knew what to do if I ever felt like it needed to come to an end. There would have been no trying to stop you, Gerard. I know you.” She held his gaze for a long moment. Gerry felt ashamed when he had to look away, more tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “And I think I proved now that it was rather easy to end your escapes.”

Gerry let that sink in. It was a lot. It was a lot to hear her say so confidently that he’d come back and now she was right. Gerry had never had a chance of properly escaping. And if he had held any hopes of doing so still, they were thoroughly crushed now. She did know him. Apparently better than he thought, better than he knew himself. All this time Gerry had believed to be free from her when he escaped, had thought he could, for a couple hours, enjoy the feeling of being outside of her power’s reach. It had all been a lie.

The acute panic - the pain - at finding the rock in his pocket to be wrong felt like an afterthought now. Gerry felt defeated. He felt numb. He didn’t know when he had started to cry, but he had stopped by now. What point was there to it? It was probably exactly what Mary expected.

They sat in silence for a long while. Gerry avoided looking at her, but he could feel her gaze on him. He was too tired to fight. Escaping to White London had always felt like something of a fight, a triumph, even, but it had all been illusion. He closed his eyes. He was still so fucking dizzy. His chest hurt now, too, felt heavy with loss. Not just of his keys to White London, but for how he’d remember them differently now. 

Gerry wanted to go home. He didn’t have one. The closest he had was a world away and he had been left with nothing to get to it. He felt fresh tears well up in his eyes and brushed them away with his sleeve.

“You’re a mess,” she sounded annoyed. “Clean yourself up, the king will call for you soon.”

Gerry didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to disappear.

Mary rose from her chair. “You’ll come back here after you’re done. I found some interesting books in the palace library…” Her hand brushed the spines of the pile of books on her desk. She eyed Gerry with disgust, “Maybe we can do something about your sorry state.” 

The tone was familiar enough, the kind she would use before punishing him for things he did - or didn’t - do. It was enough to make Gerry pull himself to his feet, swaying. He didn’t have the head for this right now, so he made for the door, slowly.

“Oh, and Gerard.” Gerry froze, hand halfway to the door handle. Mary didn’t continue, so he carefully turned his head to look at her. Her piercing gaze made him straighten up a little, a cold chill running through him. There was something dangerous in her eyes as she finally spoke, “Not a word of this conversation or your little excursions to anyone, understood? If I find out somebody in the palace knows - and trust me, I will find out - I will not only make sure you regret it but also make sure such a... slip-up can never happen again.” 

Gerry didn’t want to think about what those words implied, but he was confident she meant them. He nodded slowly. She narrowed her eyes, “Do you understand?”

Gerry understood enough. “Yes.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Then get out of my sight. You look pathetic.”

He nodded again, and finally opened the door to leave.

Chapter Text

The night Black London crumbled, Michael fell ill. He had found it impossible to fall asleep, the anxiety and dread that had been a steady companion for years - his as much as anyone else’s in the city - suddenly growing unbearable, tight, like something about to snap. Michael went to bed feeling unwell, feverish and like something was wrong . 

It only got worse as the night progressed. He didn't hear the noise - the shouting outside in the early morning hours lost to the pounding of his own head as his room spun in front of his bleary eyes, unfocused. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t move, could barely think straight. 

Was he even conscious? It was difficult to tell, but his head felt like it might burst any moment. Keeping his eyes open meant nausea and yet he didn’t feel like they were closing, either. Something was loud and hot - his blood rushing in his ears, screaming - from the outside? Michael wasn’t sure. 

His body was on fire.

Michael knew something was wrong when, after a week - maybe more? He couldn't be sure - of burning up, the fever broke and the world settled around him again. Slowly, his room started looking right again - in focus and no longer tilting and spinning around him. His hands must have been cramped around fistfulls of his sheets for a long time, for it took Michael multiple attempts to get his fingers to relax. It hurt. 

His whole body ached, but Michael was barely taking notice of it. Something about his surroundings felt wrong, the very world around him - the air his dry throat gulped down as if it were water, as if Michael had just broken surface after drowning - felt off . 

Something was wrong. The world felt unbalanced. Or no. Michael felt unbalanced. Like he didn't fit in with the dry, starving air around him. Like he was too much, like his blood was too warm in the cold of the room. He hazily put one hand against his forehead - struggling to control it, movement feeling different, like his body wasn’t quite one with his mind yet. He didn’t feel feverish anymore. He felt…full. Like he had what the world around him lacked, desperately wanted and he could feel it pulling at him. Something wasn’t right.

Michael sucked in a breath. He scrambled into a sitting position too quickly, suddenly, and his vision swam, went black, and he collapsed back into the sheets. Something was wrong . Something was pulsing in his veins. He carefully brought a hand to his left eye, where the source of that pulsing he was feeling seemed to be. It felt unlike the headache that had knocked him out, but still so similar to it Michael couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. His eye didn’t feel swollen but something didn't feel right with it. Something didn't feel right with him . 

He felt too dense. Michael frowned, unsure if any of that made sense. The room had started to settle around him again, and he felt like dense was the right word. He felt too there , too present compared to White London’s wispy air and washed-out light leaking in through the window.

Michael tried again to rise, more carefully this time, and his legs trembled when he set his feet on the cold floor, but carried him when he carefully pushed himself off the bed. He swayed, room tilting around him for a moment and Michael suddenly felt hot again. It passed as he steadied himself, but his throat was still parched and he felt the familiar pinch of hunger in his stomach. He knew that wasn't what was making him feel wrong . Michael knew hunger, knew thirst, old companions of his early years. Neither made him feel like this . 

He made for the bathroom, hand on the wall for support, veins filled with cold dread in all their heat. 

Movement was difficult. Michael reached the mirror out of breath and with his stomach in knots. The view that greeted him was a horrible one, his hair a matted mess, stuck to part of his forehead with sweat, sticking out into all directions in odd places. He looked ghostly pale, lips colourless but for the spots Michael had bit and worried again and again in delirious fever, some blood dried on there, brownish-red.

Still, the paleness was different . Not really colourless, not like he used to be. Not like the sky above the city. Even his hair, limp as it was, looked nearly too bright in the mirror. Michael felt dizzy at the view of his reflection. It didn’t look like him .

And then there were his eyes. Michael’s breath got stuck in his throat as he caught his own eyes in the mirror. His right was a clear grey, a colour he vaguely remembered from childhood, the milky, faded quality it had taken on in the past years gone. 

His left was the deepest black from one edge of the eye to the other. Michael’s mouth fell open and when the room tilted this time, Michael couldn’t catch himself and went down, vision going black again.

Chapter Text

A year had passed since Michael came to with the Antari mark in his eye, and many months since he had to flee the flat he had been calling home for years by that point. He had been careful, he had , but eventually hunger had grown stronger than fear and he had to leave to get supplies. 

Michael, while having spent most of his time hiding inside, had heard the riots, the shouting, the whispering at night about regicide and talismans to bind the magic that seemed to be leaving, draining out of the city rapidly. Black London had fallen, that much Michael had gathered from the snippets he’d heard through his window, and it had apparently very nearly taken White London with it. The doors between the worlds had all been sealed, shut by Red London to protect itself.

It had left the white city fending for itself as the magic that had been slowly but steadily disappearing for years suddenly seemed to be sucked out all at once. Dying, was what many had been describing the city as for a long time, but that night, and the weeks and months following, it seemed to be getting dangerously close to being dead. 

There had been uproars before, especially around the poorer parts of the city. But nothing like what Michael heard in the days and weeks right after his fever broke. He cowered in bed at the noise, and the scent of blood seemed to make it inside even when his window was closed, making him nauseous. Magic was singing in his veins. And clearly those starved of it were getting desperate about binding the little left to themselves. 

Michael was terrified, a bone-deep kind of terror he could only compare to his early memories on the street, where each day had felt like it might be his last, if not because of hunger than because of those around him stronger and more capable than himself. 

Still, somehow, this felt worse.

Michael swallowed, too aware of the blackness in his eye, the magic in his veins. He hadn’t dared to try it out much, afraid of attracting unwanted attention to himself. He didn’t know if it could be sensed, if, if he tried to light his candle with magic he would accidentally set the flat on fire. 

There were also the words. Strange words Michael didn’t know the meaning of but felt that they were the other magic, the one only Antari possessed. He recognised some from Gerry. They were the words that would turn his blood into spells - to move between different points, heightened speed, healing, to move between worlds. Like Gerry had been doing before all of this happened.

Gerry was a painful thought. Michael had waited for him, in fear, in excitement, in hope . He never came. The doors were closed, and Michael, even after he knew the right words, had nothing that could bring him into Red London. 

He worried. This was the longest Gerry had gone without visiting. Had something happened to him? Did Black London falling make it impossible? No. Michael could feel that he could travel if he had what he needed. 

Had Gerry grown tired of him? There had been no signs, as far as Michael could remember, but he couldn’t be sure, of course. A painful, but preferred explanation. He didn’t want Gerry to be hurt, or whatever would have to happen to him to render him unable to travel the worlds. 

He wished he could go to him and see. Gerry had never given him anything of his, it hadn’t seemed necessary. Any flowers or leaves had long crumbled and been disposed of. They never made it long in White London. 

And now Michael was stuck in his flat with the ability to leave, but missing anything that could bring away at all, much less to Gerry to check on him. He tried not to think about it, but his eyes often lingered on the faded blood on the wall, and his heart would still beat quicker with hope at the sight. 

As time passed, it started leaving a sad, then bitter taste in his mouth.

*

He ran out of food eventually, and Michael had been dreading the day ever since he had slowly pieced together what had happened. More or less. Antari had been a rarity even before the magic started to properly leave the city. Giving him such powers at a time where the very air around him seemed starved and eager to take them from him felt like a cruel joke. 

He knew it wasn’t. As much as the questions of why - why him, why now - kept creeping into Michael’s head, he knew they were all baseless. Magic chose at random, with no pattern, no rhyme or reason to the who or when. Gerry had once told him his eye had turned relatively early, but that he had heard equally of Antari getting the mark as small children or way into adulthood, sometimes even towards old age.

Michael was simply unlucky.

It had never been particularly safe outside, but Michael had been magicless for all his life, making him an unattractive target at least for those that focused on saving their own powers, maybe acquiring magic by spilling blood rich with it, drinking it, bathing in it, making amulets and talismans to go with the bindings some carved directly into their skin. 

Michael had never heard of any of it having the desired effects, but that hadn’t stopped it from occasionally happening even before Black London’s fall. Now? From the coppery smell coming in through his window it had gotten a lot more common. There was probably more general bloodshed too, considering resources had already been scarce before. Michael could only imagine that it had gotten worse. 

But he was hungry. He had to leave.

He took precautions. Obviously, if anyone saw his eye he'd be dead. Things had gotten heated again in the past couple days - another king dead, but nobody had claimed the throne properly. Regicide had been a common occurrence even before. Usually, whoever killed them would take over. But it wasn't uncommon for the killer to be found dead a day or two after the deed. The throne would be empty again, but never for long, even if the reign itself was often cut short. 

Michael hoped that all of that would leave people with little attention to spare for just another filthy boy walking through the narrow alleys at night. Night-time wasn't ideal, but Michael didn't trust his hair to provide enough coverage. The eye was too black. He was afraid it'd be seen between the fair strands. And trying to cover it with anything as obvious as cloth would invite scrutiny.

Michael walked with hurried steps, shoulders slumped, head lowered. He had spent the better part of his childhood moving through the streets like this. It was a common enough sight. 

Nothing happened that night and Michael returned to his flat with a racing heart, and enough food to keep him going for a little while if he was careful. Money was a different case. He'd run out soon enough. He had passed by the bakery on his way. Not much was left of it. Neither of the flat above where he had paid his rent. It looked like he wouldn't have to worry about that at least. 

Still, he knew that he couldn't keep going like this for very long. Michael pushed the thought away and allowed himself a small piece of stale bread.

Chapter Text

It probably took longer than expected before he was found out. It happened at home in the early morning. He had barely made it to the kitchen - there was no water anymore, but Michael had picked up some bottles on his last nerve-wracking trip outside and poured himself a glass now. Then the banging at the door started. Michael froze. 

It wasn't knocking, nobody was expecting the door to open. It sounded more like someone was repeatedly throwing their full-body weight against it. Michael heard the wood split and he didn't know what to do. The only other escape was the window in the main room. If he'd survive that fall, he'd be lucky. 

Michael hesitated for too long and by the time he started bolting towards it, the door gave way under weight with a loud crack. Michael tried not to pay much mind to the voices and steps getting too close, pushed himself towards the window. 

He was yanked back by his hair before he could reach it, the pain in his scalp making him yelp as he struggled to not lose his balance. Even if Michael had remembered the eye in that moment, there was no way to get out of the deathgrip forcing his head back. This is where I die . It was a dreadful end after somehow making it through the first couple years on the streets of White London. To die in his own home after finally managing to have a place he could call that, to die full of magic unexplored, choked with fear. Michael could feel the sting of tears in his eyes.

The grip on his hair loosened so suddenly Michael nearly toppled over. He caught himself, stared up in shock. The person previously holding onto his hair had stumbled a step back, was gaping at him with a disbelieving expression. “Antari,” they hissed, voice laced with something like fear, but also awe. 

Michael fought the urge to adjust his hair to hide the eye, there was no point to it. He cursed himself for his carelessness, and snapped out of his frozen state. The expression on the burglar’s face had morphed into malice and greed, and Michael didn’t hesitate as he jumped out of the window, feeling hands narrowly missing him as they shouted for him to stop. 

Michael readied himself for the impact, screwed his eyes shut. It never came. He landed softly on his feet, stumbled a step, but came to a stop, wind ruffling his clothes and hair. Wind that had previously not been there. His wind. Michael had called it. He gaped at his hands as if they were a stranger’s. 

More shouting. He pushed his awe away and ran.

Michael had lost track of time by this point, but that must have been months ago. He hadn’t known peace since. Getting away with his life had felt like luck at first, but the rumours of an Antari within the city spread like wildfire. And then the active searches began. 

Those dreaming of power, the throne, magic; all of them wanted to catch the Antari for one thing or another. Michael shuddered at the stories he had heard throughout the years, the ones Gerry had told him of people stealing Antari eyes in the hopes of gaining some of their power. Michael didn’t want to find out what those searching for him wanted from him, whether it was his blood, his eye or something else. 

He lay low, expecting someone to come for him. And they did. And he escaped. He still didn’t dare to use his magic much - he had nowhere to hide now except for the occasional burnt out flat or rubble left from collapsed buildings - but he sometimes simply did . A gust of wind to put distance between him and whoever was hunting him this time, fire on his fingertips to pry a hand away from his wrist. 

It was barely an active decision, which scared him. Once, when cornered, he had manipulated the rocks around him in a panic. His pursuer had ended up buried under a pile of them, and Michael heard a crack and thought he had killed them. He hadn’t dared to approach at first to check, had stayed pressed against the wall breathing heavily, panic and nausea rising in his throat as he stared at the motionless face sticking out from the pile of white rocks and dirt he had made. 

On shaking legs he eventually forced himself to approach. They were breathing. The relief nearly brought Michael to his knees. He took a couple of deep, desperate breaths, blinked the tears that had gathered in his eyes away. It was fine. They were alive. Michael would just have to unbury them and they'd probably be fine. They weren't dead. Michael hadn't killed them. 

The sob escaping his throat was one of relief as he went to work to remove at least most of the rubble manually, not daring to use magic again. By the time he was done his fingers were bleeding but his pursuer seemed to breathe more easily, even if they hadn't opened their eyes again. Michael ran.

Michael was never not running. One way or another, sooner or later, someone would find him, would figure out what he was and would try to catch him, and Michael, afraid to fight, to accidentally seriously harm anyone, ran. And ran. And they kept coming. Again. And again. 

*

Michael was exhausted. Hungry. Theft had never been his strong suit, and hunger and thirst only made him clumsy, delirious. Michael was tired . Still, he ran, the steps behind him sounding closer with each heartbeat. The streets were going blurry around him, and his lungs burned. He needed somewhere to hide, catch his breath, orient himself. He needed water. 

Michael stumbled, hit the ground painfully, hands scraping against cobblestone. He scrambled to get up, but the quick movement only sent a wave of dizziness through him, his body screaming for a break, for food. Michael gulped for air, willing his vision to stop swimming. He didn't have time for this. He had to-

"Ah-" The cry escaped as more of a gasp, Michael’s voice breaking as his head was violently hauled back so quickly by the hair, Michael would have probably been sick had his stomach not been empty. Michael felt tears pricking in his eyes, making the world look even more out of focus. His hands, still burning from scraping the cobblestone, probably bleeding, wrapped around the wrist pulling at his hair. The grip was weak and Michael’s hands shook as he tried to get the fingers to loosen.

"I thought you'd put up more of a fight. All that power and all you do is run." Michael saw, vaguely, a blade, too close to his eye for comfort. Flinching only made the grip in his hair tighten, making his tears overflow. 

It hit him then that this would be his end. The terror at the realisation seemed far away. Michael was too tired. He'd come close to death countless times in the past months and if this would finally be it, then it at least would be over. 

He was still afraid. His pursuer’s - murderer’s - words still stung. They were the truth. Michael was useless. He held the power to set things right, probably, but didn't know how and so he hid and ran, too afraid of his own powers and those that hunted him for them. It was pathetic and he knew it, which did nothing to make the words hurt any less. At least the feeling of humiliation would be over soon, too.

Michael pressed his cracked lips together and braced himself for the impact, for pain. For the end. It felt somewhat surreal. He had escaped it so many times. Maybe he was simply too out of it for the reality of the situation to properly hit. 

One way or another, he wondered, as he often found himself doing in such situations, about Gerry. If he'd ever know what happened to him. If he'd care. Michael managed to keep himself from lingering on Gerry fairly well most of the time but in what felt like his last moments that face always resurfaced, warm brown eye and jet black hair and a voice like a hug. Sometimes Michael wondered if this was what it would feel like if someone would ever stab him in the heart and twist the blade for good measure. 

He had closed his eyes without realising, and maybe held his breath, but the pain never came.

"Let him go." It was neither a request nor quite an order, but Michael felt the vice grip in his hair loosen anyway, slowly. 

It didn't feel quite natural, movements choppy, and Michael’s eyes opened just in time to watch the knife seemingly unwillingly disappear from where it had been hovering over his eye. Michael slumped over once the hand had fully let go of him. He hurried to turn around, knowing full well that keeping his back to someone that had just been holding a knife ready to stab his eye out was a bad idea. 

First he thought he was seeing double. Then he remembered the voice he'd heard, that calm let him go as if there was no doubt that the words would be followed. Two figures were standing in the mouth of the alley Michael had ducked into before falling. Neither of them seemed to be paying him attention, eyes trained on each other. The new one looked to be a bit shorter and significantly less dirty than Michael’s pursuer, than anyone in these parts of the city. Michael tried to blink the picture in front of him into focus. He wondered when the rain had started.

The one holding the knife suddenly turned their back to Michael and walked away. Slowly, steps hesitant, but undoubtedly away . Michael’s head hurt from trying to understand what was happening. He hadn’t heard any more words being spoken. They had simply looked at each other, and then one of them walked away. 

The scene had been hazy at best, and Michael’s confusion made him miss his opportunity to escape unnoticed. The remaining figure turned to look at him. Michael scrambled to his feet, swayed, reached out for the wall only to collapse against it as the world turned around him with his too-quick movements. So Michael found himself on the cobblestone again, back pressed against the wall that was keeping him somewhat upright. The rain was starting to turn into a downpour, but the approaching steps were still clearly audible. Michael wouldn’t get away from this.

To his surprise, the steps came to a stop farther away than Michael had anticipated. He tensed, expecting an attack. Instead, she crouched down so they were at eye level, still at a distance. Close enough for Michael to see that her eyes were blue and devoid of the usual greed people looked at him with. Maybe it was Michael’s headache, or the rain playing a trick, but he thought she looked concerned.

“You’re hungry.” It wasn’t a question and Michael pushed himself further into the wall when her hands disappeared in the folds of her coat. It looked new. 

Instead of a weapon, like Michael expected, she pulled out bread. Michael couldn't help himself. He stared longingly at the loaf, leaned towards it just a little. She gave him a gentle smile, broke off a piece and ate it before holding out the rest of the bread to him. 

Michael was familiar with the gesture - proof that the food or drink offered wasn’t poisoned. He wasn’t sure if even that could’ve held him back from reaching for it. He half-expected her to pull the loaf away from him, but she let go once Michael’s fingers closed around it. He pressed himself back into the wall before biting into the bread. It had been so long since Michael had eaten anything, longer still since he had eaten any bread that wasn’t stale or moldy. He was glad the rain hid his tears as he tried to force himself to eat slower, knowing full well he’d be sick otherwise.

“What’s your name?”

Michael startled, cheeks colouring at the realisation that he had, for a moment, forgotten about her. She hadn’t moved from her spot, still crouched at a little distance from him, looking at him with clear blue eyes. The rain was turning her blond hair darker, but she seemed unbothered by it.

Michael swallowed the bread he had been chewing before answering, “Michael.” It felt strange to introduce himself, to be talking to somebody. His voice sounded weak with disuse and he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Michael, how long have you been out here?” there was a little sadness in her voice and Michael wanted to reassure her that it wasn’t that bad. Except, of course, that he was still shaking, a miserable lump of tattered clothes that hung from his too-thin body. There was no point in lying.

He considered for a moment, hesitated when he said, “I’m not sure...I-” His voice broke and he licked his lips, “I don’t think...it’s been a year?”

She took him in for a long moment. “Do you want to get away?”

“Away…?” Michael frowned, unsure if he had heard right.

She nodded. “I came to ask you for help.”

Michael’s eyes went wide in disbelief. Help? He could barely help himself. “I- I don’t...understand?”

“We’re holding the throne right now, but it’s...difficult.” She sighed. “You could help. Help put an end to this chaos, the bloodshed-”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t- I can’t control -”

She smiled, understanding. “It’s a matter of practice, Michael. And it’s obvious that you had no opportunity to hone your skills out here.” She waved vaguely at where the pursuer had stood before. “Besides, it’s not your magic. Well, not only.” She considered him for a moment. “Have you never given a thought to how your existence alone could bring hope and comfort to people? Magic clearly hasn’t fully abandoned us. You bear its mark and you’re one of us.” 

Michael tried to follow, his head still feeling achy from exertion. He had never considered that. Nobody who had found him had seemed particularly comforted by him alive. “I’m...not sure. People-”

“Want it for themselves, I know. And that won’t change if you come with me,” it sounded like an apology, but she went on swiftly, something like excitement in her voice. “But we can protect you in the palace. You can practice your powers. The White London Antari won’t be a rumour to most, but will be real . Proof that we’re not forsaken.” She smiled broadly. “It will be so much easier to bring an end to all of this with you, Michael. Just with you being there , you understand?”

Michael wasn’t sure he did, but she sounded so sure of it, her excitement contagious. He had agonised for many hours about how he could help, how he could put the power he possessed to use to finally bring some peace to this city. Michael felt the magic in his veins and looked around at those desperately grasping for every bit of it, and he felt like there had to be a way to help . It had even occurred to him to make his way to the palace before, but he was too starved and afraid to ever hope to make it. And he wouldn’t know what to actually do once there, anyway.

But she seemed to know. She spoke with a certainty that was indisputable. 

“Come with me. You’ll have shelter, food, and time to practice. In the meantime, the fact that we have the Antari’s support alone should calm some of the population’s agitation…” Her voice went a little softer, “You’ve grown up with the stories. Antari were always well-respected, and they still are. The people have grown desperate, but with you there , for them to see...the bloodshed will stop. We’ll reorganise, adapt to the situation. The magic is weak, but still here. There’s still hope. You’re living proof.”

Michael looked at her for a long time, turning the words over in his tired head. Food and shelter, and the opportunity to help. Michael couldn’t wish for more. He gave a hesitant nod and she smiled, moved to her feet. She offered him her hand, and he took it with a mumbled apology, painfully aware at how grimey he was. He wondered if he could have a bath in the palace, too.

Michael swayed as he stood up, and she took his elbow to steady him. “I have a horse closeby,” she said, letting go of his hand to brush the wet strands of hair out of her face. “Come.”

Michael let her lead him, mind still spinning with the whole situation. He had never been on a horse, shied away once it came into view, but she reassured him it would be fine. She helped him up and followed with remarkable grace.

“Hold onto me and you’ll be fine, don’t worry.” She turned her head to give him a reassuring smile and Michael nodded, tentatively wrapped his arms around her. “You really are just bones…” she mumbled, before kicking the horse into a trott. 

Michael only tightened his grip, eyes wide in terror. And still, an old memory resurfaced, Gerry wrapped tightly in his arms on a cold evening, fire low in the tiny room. Gerry. Michael still hoped he’d come back some day. He’d never find Michael in the palace, but Michael had no way of leaving a message, of letting him know where he was. 

He bit his lip. It was all wishful thinking, Michael knew. Gerry hadn’t been back in over a year now and Michael needed to stop waiting. He blinked the tears out of his eyes. He hoped Gerry was fine at home. Michael needed to focus on what lay before him.

Michael had caught glimpses of the palace from afar. A fortress, the walls around it white and impenetrable. The vaulted citadel within was an imposing sight even from afar, but the closer they got the smaller Michael felt. It was massive, the biggest building he had ever seen, and Michael couldn’t help but crane his neck to try and take it in fully as they rode through the courtyard between the outer wall and the palace building. 

She seemed to sense his awe, looked over her shoulder to give him a grin. “Your new home.”

Michael stared at her in disbelief.

The horse came to a stop by the stairs and she dismounted as swiftly as she had gotten into the saddle earlier. Michael marvelled at it, and took the offered hand to get down himself. It felt strange to be on his aching legs again, but Michael felt at least a little steadier than he had before. She touched his back with a smile and nodded at the stairs.

Michael looked up at them. The entrance door was huge and pristine white. Michael felt horribly out of place. He swallowed, threw her an uncertain look. She nodded, a reassuring smile on her lips, before walking up the stairs. Michael hesitated for a moment before following.

*

Michael couldn't get the blood off his hands. The sun was rising pale in the window and Michael kept scrubbing. His eyes stung but he had no more tears left. He was tired. He didn't dare to even think of sleeping, their faces too clear, the terror in their eyes as Michael-

He forced himself to look up from his red hands and into the mirror. Michael hadn't seen himself in a mirror in over a year before tonight and the shock still snapped him out of it. He was unrecognisable, all sharp angles and ashen skin, a haunted expression in dull-grey eye. 

He felt exposed without his hair, the deep black of his right eye too visible . The cuts still stung where the knife, dull with his own blood, had scraped his scalp. An inescapable reminder of tonight. This wasn’t a nightmare Michael would wake up from. 

He took a shaky breath and went back to scrubbing at his nails, hands shaking so bad he could barely hold the rough brush. There was too much blood underneath. He couldn’t get it out .

Chapter Text

Gerry couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow was the day he'd been working towards and waiting for for years, and he couldn't sleep. He was used to the guards by now, that hadn't been a problem in a while, but tonight he seemed hyper aware of them again. He was back to his first weeks and months in the palace. Being under constant supervision alone had driven him up the walls, but the fact that he was in a foreign environment and not allowed to explore it did little to make him not hate the palace in the beginning. 

He didn’t love it now. Gerry had gotten somewhat used to the sense of eyes trained on him at any moment, knew exactly that if he listened he’d hear his guards breathing right now where they stood in front of the door. Inside his room, Gerry had only known the luxury of guards standing outside of his door on his very first night. He hadn’t been in the right state of mind to enjoy it then, and by now the very idea seemed foreign. 

He turned onto his other side with a sigh, knowing full well that with how much he’d been moving it was probably obvious that he wasn’t asleep. He was attuned to how much one could tell from different kinds of silences by now, and the realisation that even by staying silent he could never really keep much to himself had probably been one of his least favourite ones. 

He missed his life before all this, missed the woods in front of the house he’d burned, missed Mary’s inattentiveness as he disappeared for hours on end among the trees only to reappear in the faded grey streets of Michael’s London. He missed Michael . 

Gerry threw one arm over his eyes, as if anyone could see them getting misty in the dark of his room. He wouldn’t put it beyond them, to be honest, and Gerry had long since tried to keep his tears to himself. Nobody cared for them anyway, and if anything, it might be seen as a sign of him being too unstable to go tomorrow. 

And he desperately wanted to go tomorrow. He hadn’t been outside the palace in years, at least not in any contexts that didn’t involve him feeling like some kind of curiosity, a prized possession, a symbol of power, shown off to masses that were still restless after Black London’s fall, uneasy about the new king. Enough of the eyes gawking at him were filled with distrust and fear to make Gerry less than eager to return to the city everyone around him insisted he refer to as his . He didn’t feel like part of it.

But he wouldn’t go to Red London tomorrow. Gerry would go to White London. For the first time in years and, as far as most were concerned, the first time ever. Gerry hadn’t shared his secret and Mary, as far as he could tell, hadn’t either. He guessed she might want to avoid having to explain how Gerry came by anything from White London in their house. Mary knowing was more than enough. It gave her more leverage on him than Gerry would like to admit.

He wondered how the city had changed. Red London had changed considerably right after the fall. Even though Gerry had not been allowed to go near it in his first year in the palace, he could see it, heard the whispers. There had been riots, and despite the city having recovered by now, Gerry also knew - Gertrude made sure he did - that it was all superficial. There was no approval for a king that had taken the crown after everyone before him in line seemed to have conveniently disappeared. 

Elias wasn’t cruel, and the city was in order and relatively peaceful by now, but just because most decided to not show their distrust openly anymore that didn’t mean it was gone. Gerry knew, probably even without Gertrude repeating it excessively. And he was fairly sure that Elias did, too. Tomorrow wasn’t set up as such a show for nothing. Most of the court would be present to see him off and welcome him back and Gerry felt exhausted from the thought of it alone. 

Even though he was well aware that he was never alone in the palace, he still much preferred his guards’ quiet presence, or even Gertrude’s stern one, to the chattering bunch that took each and every opportunity to get into the king’s good graces. Gerry had even seen some try to do so with the king’s advisors. Neither Gertrude nor Mary had been impressed, though they had both taken the opportunity to keep such individuals close that seemed useful to them. 

Gerry shuddered at the memory. Mary’s and Gertrude’s similarities was not something he liked to dwell on. He pressed his face into his pillow. Tomorrow, he’d leave this suffocating place, even if it was only for a couple of hours. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he had the time to look for Michael. Gerry hoped he was okay.

*

Gerry sat still while the maid fussed with his hair. Or not quite. It was difficult to sit still in these clothes, and he kept tugging or trying to adjust the cuffs or the collar, loosening the knot of his cravat. It was all too much. The waistcoat, the rich, royal red Gerry had always hated seeing on himself, was heavily embroidered in gold thread, the fabric of his white shirt felt too soft against his skin, and Gerry could feel the hairs on his arms stand up at the sensation of it. The royal brooch on his necktie caught the light, precious gems glittering red and gold. 

Gerry knew that all of this was a show of wealth, of power. The city might be restless, but the Royal House prevailed. And Gerry was the main asset, the symbol of that power, and, at least on official business, he had to dress the part. It had taken a lot of bargaining to be allowed to dress as he pleased otherwise. But after it became clear that he did all in his power to stay out of people's glances, at least that had been permitted.

Gerry finally waved the maid away, who was desperately trying to cover the tiny eye tattoos by his ears while also obviously not wanting to look at them. Gerry couldn’t deny the small rush of satisfaction he felt at that. Most of his guards had gotten too used to the eyes decorating his every joint by now, the desired discomfort Gerry had relished after getting them fading with time. It was nice to see someone have the intended reaction towards them. If he had to bear with constantly being stared at, the least he could do was make the feeling a mutually uncomfortable one.

The girl hurried out of the room and Gerry ruffled his bangs up again, let them fall into his face a little. He wasn't allowed to cover his eye on official business, but it was reassuring to know they were long enough to kind of do so by now. Gerry got up from his chair, buttoned the cuffs of his shirt - even those unnecessarily flashy, catching the light in their intricate gold and red. He grabbed his coat - his coat, the black one, one of the few items he had kept from his old life - and put it on. It was a comforting weight on his shoulders, it's scent familiar. 

He stole a glance at his reflection, now a little more bearable with the familiar black. His fingers urged to button it up, wanting to cover the stupid golden buttons and fancy fabric with the simple worn-down silver buttons and the black leather starting to show its age. He turned his back to his reflection and put his hands in his coat pockets before walking out of his chamber.

Gerry had years of practice in how much open disdain for the public show he could allow on his face without being made to regret it later. He barely listened to the speech that preceded him being handed the token that’d bring him to the other London. It was a coin, even smaller than the rock Gerry had been using all those years ago. Still, he thought something about it felt similar, and he couldn’t have listened to the rest of the speech if he had wanted to with how loudly his heart was beating. It was cool, felt foreign in his hand. Foreign in a vaguely familiar way, a hazy memory.

It was more difficult to sit through the rest of the ceremony after he was handed the coin, but it thankfully didn’t go much longer. He was dismissed, and tried his best to keep his steps even as he finally had somewhere to put his restless energy. His guards followed him closely, but Gerry barely took notice of them, too busy feeling the coin between his fingers.

Gerry had made a shortcut to where he'd have to pass after studying the maps to estimate where the White Palace would be. But today, he was not meant to use it. That'd mean leaving Gerry on his own for too long and that wasn’t a risk the crown would take on this important day. Instead, a carriage awaited him, and Gerry sat through the whole ride in a trance, rubbing the coin between his fingers.

"You have three hours."

Gerry nodded at the guard that had spoken. They compared timepieces before Gerry turned to the nearest wall - the one already bearing a bloody symbol from when he made the shortcut from the palace a week or so ago. If this went smoothly, maybe he’d be allowed to use it soon. For now, it was for emergencies. 

The dagger was gorgeous, the hilt jewelled but not enough to get in the way. He still remembered the surge of excitement running through him when he had been handed the knife a year ago. It didn’t hold very long. The knife might be his, but if he dared to wield it in any way that disagreed with the crown’s opinion, he’d be stopped. And fighting back only made the punishment worse.

Gerry sighed, bringing the blade to his hand now as he had many a time in the past year of his training. He cut just enough to draw blood, enough to stain the coin in his palm and the wall against which he pressed it. 

The words had been burning on his tongue for a long time now, urging to be spoken again. It had been long, and reciting them without the magic behind them did little to fix the restlessness Gerry felt. He whispered them now, “As Travars,” the words meant for his magic and not the guards standing too close as always. The anxious knot that had been tightening since Gerry had been told of this day unravelled when he felt the world fall away. The command still worked, even if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

Chapter Text

The sudden cold made the breath Gerry had been holding escape in a gasp. He looked around, disoriented. He had never strayed too far from the streets close to Michael’s apartment, but that wasn't it. White London had been a fading city when Gerry used to visit it - visit Michael - years ago, but from what he saw now, from how it felt , it seemed more appropriate to call it a faded one. The air itself seemed thin, washed out like the streets and partly-crumbled buildings in the distance. 

Still, it all looked familiar, painfully reminded him of the evenings spent hurrying through streets that had looked just like these with Michael, giggling even as they tried to get inside before nightfall. 

Gerry pushed the memory to the side, already feeling the urge to forget about his actual task and go straight into a search for Michael, his flat. It'd have to wait. It was a tight schedule and the looming fortress that was the palace was difficult to ignore. He glanced towards the narrower streets he could barely make out from where he stood and pulled his coat closer before walking towards the cathedral-like building that, while imposing, looked just as faded as the rest of the city. 

The streets seemed vacant, but Gerry felt eyes on him. Hungry eyes. He held his head high, his black eye a warning, and hurried along while trying to find a balance to satisfy the starving air pulling viciously at his magic. This was new. He used to do his best to conceal his powers whenever he had been here, but that would clearly not do now. 

Something didn't seem quite right with the guard that guided him inside once Gerry gave a short summary of who he was, but he had little choice but to follow. It could've just been the city’s overall strangeness getting to him. Even when he had come here semi-regularly, Gerry had never gotten used to the foreign atmosphere of this place. Sometimes it felt like the ground itself was hostile and walking through the vaulted corridors of the palace made Gerry acutely aware of how he didn't belong here, didn't want to be here. 

Compared to the Red Palace, this one was empty. There were guards every couple steps, but they stood eerily still, eyes following Gerry as he passed them, but not really looking like they were seeing him. It sent a shiver down his spine.

The throne room was impressive, ceiling high, partly glass, letting in the sickly grey light of White London's skies. The circular room was sparse and massive. Something about the white pillars and long, narrow windows - some stained glass - making Gerry expect an altar, something to worship, on the elevated platform towards the back of the room rather than the thrones his eyes ended up falling on. 

He rapidly lowered his gaze, bowed. "Your majesties."

“Rise,” one said, voice smooth. Gerry did as told, feeling just slightly uneasy at the way she was smiling at him. Friendly enough, but with something calculating in piercing brown eyes. He guessed it made sense, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the urge to get out of her sight. “We hear you come from afar.”

Gerry nodded. “Red London sends greetings.” He nodded towards the letter the guard had already passed to the other queen, who seemed to be tracing the royal seal on the front of it.

That one raised a pale brow. “Greetings? That is all? After cutting us off to deal with Black London on our own?”

Gerry had been prepared for this, but still had to suppress a shrug as he answered, “I am merely the one bringing the letter. I do not know its contents.”

That earned him a sharp grin, one that reminded him more of a show of teeth. He frowned, but the other queen spoke up again. “What’s your name, Antari?”

Gerry felt the urge to let his hair fall in front of his eye at the interest that laced her voice when she said that word. He kept still, ignoring the other queen cracking open the seal. “Gerard Keay.”

Michael very nearly gasped audibly at the sound of that name. He had been called to the throne room to watch, hidden in the shadows to the side. Something about a special guest. One from far away, considering how confident their steps had sounded as they approached the throne room. Michael had frowned, wondering who would dare to walk towards the White Thrones with no fear.

And then the doors had opened and it had been Gerry stepping through them and Michael wished desperately to be wrong, knowing full well that he was not. He looked older, a shadow of exhaustion in his face that hadn’t been there all those years ago. The eye tattoos partly obscured by his hair were new, and while the rings in his ear had been there before, the one in his brow was new, too. His clothes were also far from what Michael remembered him wearing, the waistcoat red with embroidered gold flowers, his neck covered with what looked to be white silk. He used to refuse even just a scarf, and Michael could tell from how he was holding himself that he wasn’t particularly comfortable.

But Michael knew Gerry, knew the pleasant sound of his voice - the memory had started to fade a little, but Michael recognised it immediately - knew the way he’d run a hand through his hair when nervous - there seemed to be eyes on each knuckle there now - knew how impatience made it close to impossible for him to stand still and the sight of it all - the sound of his name, even if it wasn’t the one he had first given Michael - in the circular throne room made Michael’s heart clench painfully, nearly made him choke. 

No. Gerry couldn’t be here. Michael had made peace with never seeing him again. He certainly didn’t want to see him here , didn’t want to watch Annabelle’s appraising glance as she kept questioning him. Panic was making his throat feel tight and Michael wanted nothing more but for this to not be happening. He wanted Gerry gone - his heart ached at the thought, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from him, but he wanted him gone . Safe. 

He had been safe far away from here; it had been Michael’s only hope, only comfort as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he had abandoned Michael. And now he was back, was in these halls where nothing but pain awaited and Michael was thankful for his order to stay in place because he was unsure if he could’ve kept himself from running to Gerry otherwise. To drag him out of here. To slap him. To kiss him. 

Michael’s hands balled into fists at his side, and then he froze, a familiar, cold prickling of his skin forcing his eyes to finally look away from Gerry. Emma was watching him. The letter was still in her hand, and it probably looked like she was still reading it from any other angle, but Michael saw her eyes trained on him, curious, questioning, even. 

Michael schooled his face into a neutral expression, eyes vacant. He tried to calm his racing heart, breathe normally, forced his shoulders to relax, his fingers to loosen again, slowly. He had gotten good at this over the years, had learned to not let emotions slip onto his face, kept his body language neutral when Annabelle would give him another horrific order, when Emma would find him, knife in hand. He cursed himself for slipping now, did his best to return to the neutral demeanour he had adopted a long while ago, knowing that showing emotions was a weakness they’d have him pay for. 

But Michael had not expected Gerry . There had been no way to brace himself for this , for seeing the face that still haunted his dreams, hearing his voice again. Michael hoped the darkness in the corner he stood in at least hid the mistiness in his eyes a little as he willed it to dry. Emma’s gaze lingered on him for a little longer, and Michael couldn’t help the dread filling him, running down his spine like a shiver. 

He didn’t show it, though. Despite the fact that those cold blue eyes often still sent him into a panic, he knew how to not show it by now. It was more difficult in this case. Michael wasn’t worried about himself, but about Gerry . The look in Emma’s lingering gaze meant no good and Michael had to force himself to keep breathing as a new wave of panic surged through him. She finally looked away again, but there was little relief in that for Michael. She clearly had seen him slip up. It was too late.

Emma passed the letter to Annabelle before looking at Gerry, eyes lingering just long enough to make Michael tense before she spoke. “You must understand that we might need some...time to respond to this.”

Annabelle hummed in agreement, turning the page over in her hand.

Gerry nodded, the motion making Michael’s eyes lock on him again. “We can decide on a date and I will come back to pick up the letter.”

At that Annabelle looked up with a conspiratorial smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“No?” Gerry looked visibly confused and Michael tried to calm himself, knowing he'd probably have to step out of the hidden corner soon, face Gerry. His heart raced at the very idea of having Gerry look at him again.

Emma waved Michael over. "We have an Antari in our service. He can deliver the letter."

Michael stepped into the light, carefully keeping his expression neutral even as his heart threatened to jump out of his chest. He could feel Emma’s eyes on him, expectant. 

Surprise was clear on Gerry’s face, shock even, when he looked at Michael, saw his black eye. Michael looked - with equal amounts of dread and longing - for a flicker of recognition in his eyes. There was nothing. 

Gerry inclined his head in greeting after he snapped out of his shock, and Michael thought he could’ve as well twisted a knife in his heart. It made sense, of course. Michael had changed . It wasn’t just his hair - it was chin length by now and the nights Michael woke from the memory of the still-bloody knife - his blood - sawing through the matted mess his hair had been by that point, unable to move, his body refusing to try and get away no matter how much Michael wanted to, were becoming less frequent. He knew he looked a lot more colourless, skin somewhat grey, eyes as empty as he managed to keep them, though he always found something haunting in them when he accidentally glimpsed his reflection. 

The sight made him flinch every time. Even though he never went hungry here - they needed him at his best, or the closest they’d dare, at least - there was something drawn out about him. Faded. He barely recognised himself , how was Gerry supposed to look at him and know who he was? Sometimes Michael didn’t even know how much of him was still left. 

Of course Gerry didn’t recognise him. The Michael he knew was practically dead. 

This is a good thing , Michael reminded himself. It was a good thing Gerry didn’t realise who he was. It would only make trouble, especially if either Annabelle or Emma saw. 

And Michael wasn’t even sure he wanted Gerry to recognise him. He didn’t want him to know, didn’t want to stain his memories with the blood Michael still tried to scrub off his hands each night. This was better. This was safer. 

It still stung . It hurt so much deeper than Michael would have anticipated and he struggled to keep his face passive, to hold back tears. He could feel both Emma’s and Annabelle’s eyes on him. It was taking him too long to return the greeting, his body too tense. He forced himself to relax, just a little, and returned Gerry’s greeting. He thought Gerry’s eyes lingered just a little, curiosity so familiar it physically pained Michael to look at it in them. Michael was glad when Annabelle spoke up again, forcing them to turn their attention towards her.

*

It took a while before they had cleared up any open questions and settled on an agreement - a date, a time - on which the answer was to be delivered. If it didn’t arrive at the Red Palace until that day, Gerry was sure he’d be sent back here again. He took care not to phrase it like that.

“I will be back to inquire about the letter should it not arrive in time,” he said, not threatening, but trusting the implication would probably carry anyways. 

Elias had been quite clear about how picking up communication again wasn’t necessarily something the White Throne had a choice on. Though the longer Gerry stood in that room under the queens’ calculating gazes, the more he wondered if Elias would be able to get his way. They didn’t particularly strike Gerry as ones easily made to do anything they didn’t want to do. 

If anything, some of the questions and the expression in their eyes were making him feel like a pawn being analysed before being added to the game. He suppressed the shiver at the blond queen’s - Emma, she had introduced herself as - smile, too sweet, too sharp, directed with a little too much intent at him.

And then there was the Antari. Gerry could barely look away while at the same time the sight chilled him. As far as he knew, he was the last Antari in Red London. And somehow, he had simply assumed he was the last in general , so the sight of the jet black eye had shaken him quite a bit. An Antari in White London was not something Gerry would’ve imagined possible. 

The magic of the city had already been ill when he used to come before Black London fell. And walking the faded streets up to the palace hours earlier had not given him the idea that an Antari could be here , in this magic-starved world. 

To be fair, he didn’t look well. Much like the city itself, he looked faded, skin somewhat sickly, hair a washed out blond that looked nearly grey in the current light. He hadn’t moved since that strange moment where his eyes had locked on Gerry’s for just a little too long, hadn’t said anything, his face passive throughout the conversation happening around him, eyes trained ahead. He didn’t even look like he was looking at something, the grey of his eye somewhat milky, unfocused, his gaze faraway. 

Something about him made the small hairs at the back of Gerry’s neck stand up. Gerry couldn’t tell if it was still the lingering shock of seeing an eye like his - the black much more striking amidst all the faded colours and the stiff white clothes that clad him - or if it was something else. Because while looking at him made Gerry feel eerie, his eyes kept being drawn to the tall, willowy figure. He couldn’t tell why. Something looked...familiar, except familiar was not the right word. 

Gerry probably would not have forgotten another Antari, but nonetheless, there was an urge in the back of his mind, an itch, to look at him, take in the stiff way he stood that reminded Gerry a lot of how his guards stood in their armour. The Antari was not wearing armour, as far as Gerry could tell, but he carried himself like he might as well be, and the white coat was cut in a similar manner to what one might expect from protective garments, the high collar looking less like a fashion statement and more like a precaution. 

Gerry nearly felt a little jealous about the more practical approach to his clothes, unadorned except for simple silver buttons and a silver brooch at his chest with what Gerry assumed to be the royal emblem - he had seen the same symbol hanging by the entrance doors. It looked to be a spider web with a spider in the middle.

Even the queens were similarly dressed, the white strikingly crisp among the faded surroundings, but otherwise only decorated with some silver details at the hems. Power had never lain in wealth in White London, that much Gerry had learned in the Red Palace library, and he could see it being true. Power lay in magic, and with an Antari at their side there was little doubt in them having it. 

Gerry guessed that the thin, deep black of veins tracing the little skin visible - their faces mostly, above their stiff collars, Emma’s ungloved hands - probably was a sign of them possessing magic of their own, even though he had never seen anything like it in Red London. But it was the same black of his eye, and magic lay in blood, and the web of black veins visible under their skins made it at least a valid guess. 

Finally, silence fell again and Gerry struggled to hide his relief when the queens dismissed him. His skin prickled from standing under their piercing gazes for so long. Or maybe from standing in the same room with that other, strange Antari that might have as well been a statue with how little he moved, emoted. 

Gerry tried to keep his steps even as he followed the guard outside, but he wanted to get out. Despite the high ceilings and vaulted corridors Gerry felt like he couldn’t breathe inside the palace. The feeling was eerily similar to how Gerry used to feel in the Red Palace, but more oppressive . He wanted out.

Chapter Text

Gerry was still on schedule by the time Red London materialised around him, but barely. The queens had kept him some time with their questions, and Gerry, while hurrying out of the palace, had not necessarily hurried back to the wall he'd used for crossing worlds. He had forced his steps to slow, to breathe the flat air of the city, to really enjoy, marvel at the lack of guards at his heel. 

They all greeted him with thinly-veiled astonishment. Gerry couldn't blame them. It was one thing to hear about Antari magic. It was another to witness it. 

"We must hurry," came a voice and Gerry, the faint disoriented feeling from crossing worlds fading, realised that a carriage was already waiting. 

Like clockwork. He sighed - shuddered as it felt like some of White London's chill was still clinging to him - and moved towards the carriage, guards never far. Gerry hadn’t appreciated the lack of quiet steps matching his own enough while he was gone.

His return was public, as had his going been. The same nobles - at least Gerry assumed it was probably the same group, he hadn’t paid much attention - were waiting in the throne room, their curious glances just a little wider, with awe or fear Gerry couldn’t tell and didn't care. He walked through the whispering bunch to the throne that had sent him off only hours before. It felt strange to be back even after such a short amount of time. The palace felt hot, nearly stifling after the cold of White London, alive compared to the empty halls and quiet guards. 

Gerry bowed before the throne. "It was a success," he said, loud enough to be heard across the room.

"The coin."

Gerry pressed his lips together but pulled the cool coin from his coat pocket, holding it out. He heard Elias get up himself to pluck it from Gerry’s hand. Gerry had to control himself from closing his fist over the token protectively. His key away from this place, now gone again. 

Elias faced the excited crowd, but Gerry was already being led away. He would probably have to join the celebrations later, but Elias had been clear that he wanted him to report immediately.

Gerry had just finished washing the blood off his hands in the basin in the corner when the door opened again. Elias dismissed the guards, then seated himself on the chair - another throne, really - in the middle of the room, eyes trained on Gerry as he dried off his hands.

"Gertrude? Mary?" Gerry asked, noting their absence. It was an intentional one on Gertrude’s part, but Mary usually wouldn't miss hearing this.

Elias shrugged. "They are busy. You will have better luck finding them where they usually are after this." He leaned forward, and Gerry straightened up as he always did under those intense, green eyes. "For now, report to me. Is there a letter?"

Gerry shook his head. "The queens requested time to answer, as Gertrude had suggested they would."

"When will you go back to retrieve the letter, then?" 

"I won't. They're going to send their own Antari."

As expected, that made Elias' eyes widen just a little. "They have an Antari? There was no information on that being the case before the fall." 

Gerry shrugged. "I was surprised, too, but...he had the mark. And they seemed to have been working together for some time."

"Interesting…" he leaned back again, thoughtful. "Begin from the start. How was the city?"

Gerry took a breath. He had been considering how to report in the carriage, so the words came easy. "Unwell." 

The word choice piqued Elias' interest, and Gerry went on with little to no interruption from the king. He answered Elias' questions as best as he could - and as Gertrude had instructed - and by the time they were done Gerry’s throat felt dry from talking so much at once. He rarely did. Elias seemed to be deep in thought, considering what he'd just heard. 

"Very well. Thank you, Gerard. Take the rest of the night off to do as you please."

Gerry perked up at that. "The celebration?"

Elias made a dismissive waving motion. "They saw enough of you today if you do not wish to attend."

"Thank you." Gerry said with a bow, the relief and gratitude in his voice painfully obvious and genuine. 

He was used to keeping his guard up around the king but this small mercy had been unexpected, had taken him by surprise. Gerry was exhausted. White London had pulled at him - his magic - more than he had realised. Red London's magic was nearly smothering him right now. He wanted nothing more than to head straight to bed after reporting to the others.

Elias dismissed him and Gerry thanked him again before leaving the room. His guards fell in step behind him as he ascended the stairs. He considered for a moment where to go first. Mary would probably take less time, even though she made him a lot more uncomfortable. He headed towards the library. She had specifically requested for her quarters and office to be situated close to the vast collection of books. Gerry knew why. She had never stopped her research.

His guards didn't enter with him. They weren't allowed and Gerry could nearly feel their relief each time. He envied them. He didn't want to enter and be alone with Mary. He wasn't used to it anymore - wasn't used to being alone and had grown more distant from her with how busy Elias kept him. 

Mary had never been pleasant company but Gerry felt outright uncomfortable in her cramped office now. Her eyes met his and he struggled to not look away, skin crawling at the familiar gaze.

"I'm here to report," he mumbled.

"Then do. How was the city?"

And Gerry gave her the same rundown he had given Elias. Her questions were different - about the magic, mostly, the black veins of the royals. She was dissatisfied with Gerry’s vague answers and he was dismissed with instructions to do better next time. He thought he heard her mumble to herself about asking Elias to send a letter of her own as he left.

Gerry felt even more drained once outside - he always did after talking to Mary - and even his guards greeted him with pitying glances. He sighed, rubbed his face. One more stop and he could take a bath and sleep.

Gerry didn't need to psych himself up half as much before opening the door to Gertrude’s office after being invited in. He liked her, and her office was the closest he could get to being properly alone without being as on edge as Mary made him feel. Gertrude had been working for the Royal family long before Elias and therefore she had the right to tell his guards to wait outside. They seemed glad about it, not sharing Gerry’s fondness for the small, willowy woman with a permanent frown and hard eyes. 

"You're late," she greeted without looking up from the papers on her desk. 

Gerry sighed. "They both asked a lot of questions. Mary looked ready to keep me all night to see if she could squeeze anything else out of me…"

"What did she- no. Give me your report first, then we'll talk about the nature of their questions."

All business as usual. Gerry sat down in one of the comfortable chairs she had in front of her desk - it felt like a blessing to finally sit - and told her what he had told them, and more. He didn't need to watch his words with her. It had been her who had instructed him to do so with Elias.

Gertrude took notes while he spoke, occasionally interrupting to ask for clarifications here and there. Gerry did his best to give those, too, and watched her frown deepen, her expression growing more thoughtful, calculating. It looked a lot less disconcerting than it did when Elias looked at him like that.

"That's it, really." Gerry finished.

Gertrude took a moment to skim her notes. "What did Elias ask about?"

"Mostly the queens themselves and the state of the palace and the city...he didn't look too happy to hear about the Antari or the fact that they seemed to be holding the city just fine."

Gertrude’s frown deepened. "What about the queens? Did they let anything slip that would suggest something about the contents of the letter?"

Gerry shook his head. "Not really. Raised eyebrows, surprise...they didn't say anything but that they'd need time to answer."

Gertrude sighed. "This is not enough information. Elias seemed to have hopes for them to be in need of some sort of help...presumably to make it easier to get what he wants from them. But there is nothing here to suggest what that is."

Gerry sighed. "Sorry, that's all I have. I...maybe I could've tried to get more out of them, but...I was overwhelmed. The magic feels sick. It tired me out just being there. And the queens…"

"Yes, I recognise that your description of them might make it less than inviting of an idea to pry, but...Gerard, you should.” She met his eyes, insistent, “Or try the Antari. This is not enough. I do not want it to be too late when we understand what is going on."

"Me neither." Gerry leaned back, ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. "I...I'm not sure about the Antari. Maybe he doesn't speak. He didn't...seem well."

"Your mother's interest in him is cause enough for concern…" Gertrude mumbled, drumming the quill against the table. 

They sat in silence for a while. Gerry was trying to figure out if there was anything else he could mention, but his exhaustion was starting to manifest in a headache and he could barely think straight. He was so tired.

"Ah, I'm keeping you from the party," Gertrude suddenly said with a glance towards the clock by the door.

Gerry shook his head. "Elias said I didn't need to go."

Gertrude raised her eyebrows. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care. I'm just glad about it as I'm tired as fuck."

She didn't look happy, but Gertrude never did. "You should go. You might be able to find something out-"

"Nobody speaks to me, Gertrude. You have your own people that are better at that kind of stuff." Gerry got up from the chair with a sigh. "I'm going to bed."

Gertrude shook her head. "Fine. Rest well, then."

He gave her a grin. "You know you can just say ‘fuck you,’ it's fine."

She only glared and he left, the faint grin still on his lips. Gerry made a beeline for his quarters. Someone was waiting in front of his door among the guards that were to take over the shift of those following Gerry right now. A maid Gerry recognised immediately, one unfortunate enough to have been put in Mary’s service. Gerry cursed under his breath as she saw him approach and bowed.

"The lady heard you're not attending the festivities and has requested your presence," she said, under her breath and too quickly with nerves. 

Gerry didn't blame her. But that didn't mean he wasn't pissed. He ran a hand through his hair with a defeated sigh. He couldn't oppose her or he'd regret it later. She'd make sure of it. He was too tired and achy to try. 

"I'll be there in a moment," he mumbled, and the maid rose, nodded, and hurried away with one last wary glance at Gerry. 

Gerry waited until the guards were ready, rubbing at his eyes. He wondered if he could still change his mind and rather join whatever celebration was going on in the big hall. Mary would know, though. He sighed and started walking back the way he had come, feet dragging. 

“It will probably take a while…” He mumbled over his shoulder at the guards, one hand at the doorknob. 

Most of them probably knew, but Gerry could never be sure. He felt a little guilty about it, but he struggled with distinguishing his guards. The fact that they weren’t supposed to talk unless strictly necessary probably didn’t help.

He got some nods for an answer, and sighed before opening the door. 

Mary was behind her desk as she had been hours before. She rose when she saw him. “You should have told me you were free.”

Gerry cringed. He felt comically far away from free. “I’m sorry. I didn’t consider it relevant, I’m rather tired so...I don’t know how useful I’ll be.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need you awake to get your blood. Come.”

She walked towards the door to her right. It led into a small room that had quickly become one of Gerry’s least favourite places in the palace. If not the least favourite place. He followed wordlessly, rolling up his sleeves as he did.

Time always bled strangely when Gerry was stuck helping Mary with her experiments. They had changed. She had access to different tools, different books at the palace. Sometimes these sessions would still consist of her demanding him to do different spells repeatedly until he was dizzy with blood loss. 

But often she’d just take his blood, now, and try to do magic with it herself. It never worked. She’d get angry. Gerry would bleed more, because when he tried, it worked. Of course it worked. He was Antari. Magic was in his blood. 

But Mary wasn’t giving up. Gerry had long since stopped trying to talk sense into her. He closed his eyes against the spinning room as she cut into his arm again.

His guards half-followed, half-dragged him back to his room, and Gerry was barely conscious by the time he collapsed onto his bed. He knew, hazily, that he should change out of his clothes, should probably clean the wounds Mary had bandaged haphazardly. He passed out, too sore to move.

*

It was late when Michael finally returned to his rooms after finishing the odd jobs the queens had given him, after actively avoiding being anywhere near the palace while he tried to work through what had actually happened that day. He had seen Gerry again after so many years of yearning for little more than having him back. And Gerry had seen him and Michael’s heart had selfishly shattered at the lack of recognition on his face. There was no going back. Michael shouldn’t crave Gerry recognising him. It would be easier keeping him safe if he didn’t.

“Michael,” came Emma’s voice, and Michael froze for a moment. He had been in the process of working the two hair clips keeping his hair out of his face out of his hair. 

Freezing was no good, and neither was his heartbeat accelerating just from her calling his name. It wasn't uncommon for either of them to come find him no matter the hour, sometimes with orders, sometimes simply out of boredom. Considering the excitement from earlier, Michael doubted it was that, though. He forced his body back into motion, kept his voice nonchalant when he answered, “Yes?”

“Do you know him?”

Michael knew exactly who she meant. “Who?” he asked, looking towards her, face neutral even as his heartbeat picked up again. 

He had been dreading this. He should have never let his emotions slip earlier. This didn't bode well. It never did when either Emma or Annabelle picked up on him expressing anything but his usual indifference. Neither for him nor who- or whatever it was that had caught Michael off guard.

“The Antari," she said, sounding nearly bored as she took a step into the room, hand idly tracing the low cabinet - empty - that had stood right by the door when Michael had first arrived. Michael didn't miss her pointed look when she clarified, ”Gerard, I think the name was."

Michael wanted to flinch at hearing that name from Emma's lips, felt bubbling anger at how she dared to defile it with her icy voice. Gerry’s name was meant to feel warm, even after everything. Even after Gerry took his warmth with him and left Michael to freeze.

“No," he matched her cool, neutral tone, met her eyes with expressionless ones of his own. "I was...surprised. To see someone like me. Another Antari."

Emma’s icy blue eyes bore right into his and while Michael had lost the habit to flinch, knowing it would only make things worse, he still felt the urge to do so. He didn't, held her gaze and betrayed nothing in his eyes. Still, Emma found something in them. Michael noticed the corner of her mouth twitch up into a cruelly amused smile.

“We all were,” she finally said, before turning away and walking off again.

Michael kept his neutral expression as he felt the panic claw at his throat. But he knew it was too late.

Chapter Text

It took a couple days before Gerry was fully recovered. Antari healed fast, but it was more difficult with significant blood loss. His magic couldn’t heal him when it wasn’t in his veins anymore. And it wasn’t like Gerry was allowed downtime to recover. He still went through his tasks, his training, half-delirious and unable to think straight. 

White London was starting to feel like a dream and Gerry thought that was probably because his memories of his last visit were starting to mix with the old ones it brought back, those that Gerry couldn’t confidently distinguish from dreams anymore. This wasn’t good. He’d be of no use to anyone in this state.

But as usual, his thoughts did clear as his body recovered, and a week passed in a blur of sparring and magic training, of research and meetings and well-planned outings to accompany the spreading rumours in the city. Contact with the White Throne had been made. Something was happening . 

Gerry couldn’t tell if it was dread or excitement in the air, but he himself was feeling a decent amount of both as he tried to keep what Gertrude had discussed with him that morning straight while also trying to make sense of the little he had gathered on how Elias was planning to proceed without mixing anything up. He was tired, still a little lightheaded. Mary had asked for him later today and Gerry was still hoping for anything to happen to save him from it.

He was taking his time at fighting practice. He didn't want to; the world still spun dangerously if he moved too quickly, but he wasn't eager to be free and go to Mary again, so he kept asking for another round, hoping something might go wrong enough that he'd be too out of it to be sent to her. Maybe if he'd just take a little too long to move out of the way of the fists flying towards him and be knocked out... 

It wouldn't happen - Gerry was too well-trained by this point for it to not be instinct to avoid being hit - but he desperately wished it would. And if he pushed himself too much in his current state maybe he could manage. He was already getting tired. How many times had he prolonged this match already? He could barely remember if he was still up against the same opponent.

The door burst open suddenly, and Gerry froze, head snapping towards the noise, expecting one of Mary’s servants or even Mary herself. The guard he had been training with did not manage to stop his attack and now his fist did collide with Gerry’s jaw, hard enough to send him stumbling back a little. There was terror in the guard's eyes when Gerry brought his hand to the spot, a little dazed, but Gerry didn't pay any of that much mind. The servant standing in the door was one of Elias’, and the way he struggled to catch his breath to talk made Gerry assume he had run here. It must be urgent.

The man finally opened his mouth to speak. "The...the Antari. The White London Antari is here. Your presence is required, my Lord."

Gerry froze, hand falling from his face. The White London Antari. It had been real. Of course it had but now he was here , in Red London. The Queens’ answer. Gerry’s idling was probably over, then. They had all been waiting for this.

He looked down at himself. He knew by now that presentation was more important than necessarily being on time, and he knew that if he went like this - in his old training clothes, sweaty and disgusting - he’d never hear the end of it.

“I’ll be there in a moment. After a quick shower.”

The servant nodded and hurried away, Gerry following shortly after but going in the opposite direction, towards his rooms. He showered and got dressed as quickly as he could, tied up his wet hair, and hurried towards the main hall where he assumed their guest would be welcomed.

The amount of people crowding the entrance to the hall was sign enough for Gerry to know he was definitely late. There was no way Elias hadn’t let his court gawk at the stranger a little bit, let the fact that he had made this happen, that he had made contact with the other London sink in. 

Gerry elbowed his way through them, not caring to apologise and enjoying the occasional curse dying on one or another’s lips when they realised who they were looking at. There were some pros to being the king’s pet, he guessed.

The guards let him through the door - his own guards had to wait outside, and for once Gerry kind of wished they were with him. He never liked being alone with the king, but it was even worse when he was alone with the king and his advisors. The tension was unbearable, and trying to keep track of who might be scheming what between Elias, Gertrude, and Mary always made Gerry feel small. Like a pawn. Which was accurate, he guessed, but he did not like being reminded of it. Having his guards at least made him feel less small.

He bowed, threw Elias an apologetic glance that was only met with a dismissive wave. He was clearly not interested in Gerry and his tardiness. And once Gerry took his place to the side it became quite obvious why. The Antari was there, in front of the throne’s platform, looking deathly pale among the rich colours, the reds and the polished wood of the hall. And he was talking .

Gerry had clearly missed the beginning, introductions and such were over, but even though he couldn't quite tell what he was talking about he was transfixed by it. The Antari spoke quietly, courtly, and more than once Elias followed up with more questions, clearly dissatisfied with the little information the blond was volunteering. The Antari’s expression never changed, and neither did his tone, close to disinterest, somewhat empty .

Something about his voice pulled at Gerry. There was a hoarseness to it, something rough that sounded like he’d been talking for too long. Except he didn’t seem like the type to do so, and it seemed a lot more permanent, like an old injury, like he had screamed his throat permanently raw at some point. 

Gerry frowned, the idea making him shudder. It was probably something else. Gerry had once met a guard whose voice had been damaged in a fire. Maybe something like that. Except it was so very difficult to imagine a fire in a place as icy as White London.

The sense of being watched pulled Gerry out of his distracting thoughts. He was used to it by now, but occasionally it still got to him, the acute awareness of eyes trained on him. 

When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from the pale Antari - Gerry still didn’t understand how colourless he looked; like dust had gathered on him, on his skin, his hair, his clothes, his milky grey eye. He looked sick - he noticed Gertrude was staring at him. 

He knew her well enough - and knew she knew him well enough - to read her stern look as what it was: disapproval at him clearly not paying attention to anything that was being said. And she was right, Gerry had barely caught any of the words that had just been exchanged. Something about that voice was making it impossible to focus, stirring something within him that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The hoarseness was distracting, but so was the cadence of the quiet voice, flat and somehow colourless, much like the Antari himself. Much like White London. It felt all so wrong. Was that what was making focusing difficult? Gerry couldn’t even tell, but he looked away from Gertrude and tried to concentrate better.

“You will probably find the answers to those questions in the letter. I cannot tell you what I do not know, I am simply my queens’ messenger,” was what the Antari was currently saying, and Gerry thought that the words sounded like something you’d expect to be said with some kind of irritated edge. 

He spoke them flatly, and by the way Elias’ eyebrows were furrowing he wasn’t liking this. He reached out for the letter a servant was holding up to him and opened it.

A long moment of silence followed, and Gerry couldn’t help but stare at the motionless Antari. He looked like a statue. For a moment, Gerry wondered if he was even breathing or if it was only the occasional blinking that suggested that he was, in fact, alive.

The Antari was strange, both in the same way White London and its queens had been but also in a different way, something Gerry felt more than he could name it. He felt like he was missing something, something obvious and just out of reach.

The letter started more discussion - Elias clearly running out of patience with the lacklustre responses he was getting - “You will have to ask that in your next letter to my queens,” - and Mary starting to try and pry for answers that, as far as Gerry was aware, had nothing to do with what was being discussed. 

Gertrude watched, looking unhappy and undoubtedly taking note of everything that was happening. Gerry was still struggling to focus, and without knowing the contents of the letter the vague questions made even less sense to him. 

Soon, everybody was dismissed - the Antari left wordlessly, and Gerry was instructed to show him out along with the guards. Mary was still talking to Elias imploringly when the door closed behind them. Gerry accompanied - followed, really - the White London Antari to the palace entrance, but they didn’t speak and he wasn’t surprised when the blond didn’t even look back when Gerry wished him a safe journey home.

Chapter Text

The next week passed in a blur. That was the amount of time they had agreed on for a response to the letter - and Elias spent hours discussing presumably that with his advisors, though Gerry knew well he never let anything about the actual content, his actual plan , slip. 

He knew because Gertrude was grasping for straws on that account, kept replaying the same conversations and discussing them with Gerry in the hopes of one of them maybe coming up with an idea of what the content of those letters was. It was tempting to simply check - and Gerry suggested he do so, but Gertrude shut the idea down before he finished speaking it.

"Too risky. If you were caught, it would be treason. Do not doubt that Elias would punish you accordingly, especially now that he knows there is another Antari to carry on the exchange." She sighed. "No, we need to wait and see if something slips. If not from Elias himself, then from the queens."

Gerry scoffed.

"Or their Antari." Gertrude gave him an insistent look.

Gerry sighed, brushed his fingers through his hair. "You heard him. He doesn't know anything."

"Do you really believe him? You said they seemed close."

Gerry hesitated. Close didn't seem right. There was a certain familiarity to it, yes, but close didn't sound right. "I'm not sure I'd use that word. They seemed to be working in that...constellation for long enough, yes. But I don't know if they trust him any more than Elias trusts me."

"It is worth a try."

Gerry frowned. "He doesn't talk easily."

Her gaze did not falter. "Try harder."

Gerry threw his hands up in defeat and sighed. "Fine." He got up from his chair. "Now if you’ll excuse me, my mother has been trying to get my attention for nearly a week now and I don't think I can get away with avoiding her any longer."

Gertrude sighed. "I tried to distract her, but this new Antari - the possibility to learn about White London's magic, I reckon - seems to have really...captured her interest. I have no doubt she will have instructions along those lines for you."

"If it's only instructions I'll be grateful," Gerry grumbled, putting on his coat. Sometimes he thought he still felt dizzy from last time she had called him. 

Gertrude shook her head. "She will not weaken you too much so close to the date for the letter."

Gerry rolled his eyes and fixed his collar. "How reassuring." He waved at her. "See you around, Gertrude."

"Stay sharp."

He nodded before turning to leave.

Gertrude was right about Mary on both accounts. She asked him about the Antari - if his magic was different, and more details Gerry had no answer for, nor knew why she was asking about them, but she sounded more excited than Gerry ever remembered hearing her, and that worried him. He guessed it had to be expected she'd be interested in White London's magic - magic was all she had ever been interested in - but something in her tone was alarming. Gerry tried not to think about it.

By the time the actual day to deliver the letter came, Gerry was trying to keep track of three very different sets of instructions he couldn't risk mixing up or confusing. God, he wished he could write this down. It'd be too risky.

He brought the white London token to the blood on the wall after having made sure that his timepiece matched the guard's and spoke the command, felt the magic ripple through his veins. 

And then, once again, he was gone. And for the second time Gerry stepped into the cold alleys of White London and fought the urge to search for a small room somewhere at the edge of the city. Instead, he made straight for the imposing fortress across the river.

*

Michael barely listened to the conversation happening between Gerry and the queens. Seeing Gerry standing in the same room with him still threw Michael off. There had been a short moment last time where he thought Gerry had recognised him when he had to speak up before the king inside the richly decorated Red Palace. Out of the corner of his eyes, Michael had caught a brief confusion passing Gerry’s features. It had been gone in a second but it had been enough to leave Michael’s heart racing all the way back home.

Gerry hadn’t acted any differently when he arrived this time. Maybe his eyes had lingered, but they had been doing so since the first time he had shown up again. There was no need to panic. Gerry was safe. Or at least safer than he would be if either of the queens found out about Michael’s attachment to him.

The talking finally died down, and Gerry was frowning, looking torn between the urge to get away from this place and the urge to persist with whatever he had been arguing for. Michael was relieved when he lowered his gaze, resigned.

“Show him out,” came Emma’s voice, and Michael knew the order was for him, his body already moving to follow it before his distracted mind had fully registered the words.

It was a little strange. Last time, a guard had sufficed to see Gerry out and Michael had stayed back to discuss - or rather, be discussed at. And where was Annabelle? Michael vaguely remembered something, an excuse before she left the throne room right after reading the letter Gerry had delivered. Michael had spent enough time in this place to grow suspicious of such details. He didn’t like this.

Gerry’s steps echoed behind him as Michael quietly showed the way through the hallways. The sound was still too familiar and Michael’s heart ached. He didn’t turn around, and Gerry thankfully didn’t try to talk to him again after Michael ignored his first couple attempts. 

The doors were coming into view, and Michael’s nerves calmed just a little at the sight. He knew the whole city was under their control, but it was still most likely that whatever they had planned - if they, indeed, were up to something - would happen within the palace walls. And Gerry would be outside in a matter of a minute or two.

They made it through the doors into the courtyard, but Michael’s relief was short-lived. As they approached the gate leading back into the city, he noticed Annabelle was there. She looked to have just arrived, still on her horse while the reins had already been handed to the attendant she was speaking to. Michael didn't trust her being there to be a coincidence. He kept his steps steady, made for the gate next to her. 

She looked up, catching his eye, "Oh, Michael," she drew out his name, pronouncing every syllable, "Make sure to report to the throne room once you're done. I have a task for you tonight."

Michael didn't have time to answer, barely had time to start trying to figure out what those words really meant before a gasp interrupted from behind him.

" Michael ," Gerry choked out, "Michael Shelley."

It wasn't a question and Michael couldn’t help but freeze, his name in Gerry’s voice feeling like a punch to the gut. The certainty made Michael’s heart race. He didn’t sound surprised, or unsure, but like pieces he’d been puzzling over had now finally come together. 

He didn’t dare turn around and look at Gerry. Annabelle’s eyes were boring into his, one eyebrow raised pointedly, before she got off her horse and walked towards the palace. The panic rising in Michael’s throat was choking him, but the steps quickly approaching behind him made him walk again. Out of the gates, away from the palace and Annabelle’s feigned surprise, her knowing gaze.

“Michael? Michael, wait-” Gerry matched Michael’s quickened steps, trying to catch up with him. 

It was so obvious all of a sudden. That strange sense of not-quite-familiarity stirring in Gerry’s gut whenever he'd been in the same room as the Antari, the sense that he had heard that strangely hoarse voice before, its odd cadence. It was Michael. It was so obviously Michael and Gerry might have expected many a different reaction to him recognising him, but Michael walking off without even looking back would have never been one of them.

But nothing had really gone as expected for Gerry since he had walked the draughty streets of White London again. The city itself had changed, grown colder. There was still a sense of dread in the air as he walked the streets, but it felt frozen, like it had long been accepted as fate. Walking the city alone had never been a particularly pleasant experience, as far as Gerry remembered, but he found it difficult to not quicken his steps now, break into a sprint. 

He did not want to be here, felt the world around him pull at his magic, starved. Michael kept walking.

“Michael, please stop, I-” Michael seemed to only pick up his pace, but Gerry refused to give up, “Sorry I didn’t recognise you! Look, I...you changed. This place changed .”

Michael carried on without looking back and Gerry made a noise of frustration, stubbornly catching up until he was only a step behind. “ Talk to me. Please. Michael, you fucking knew who I was, why didn’t you say something? I’m sorry it took me so long, but please talk to me.” 

Gerry could see Michael's lips pressing together, and it was something . Michael’s face used to be an open book, always moving, always expressing something. Gerry hadn’t seen it so much as twitch since he’d been back to White London. Even if Michael looked displeased now, the sight still made him hopeful. The fact that it did made Gerry’s heart break. Nothing was as it was supposed to be.

“Michael, what happened?” it came out a lot quieter than planned, sounded closer to a plea than a question. 

To his surprise, Michael stopped. Gerry hadn’t even realised he had come to a stop himself. He didn’t dare to move, to breathe , as he watched Michael’s back. It still looked strangely bare without the curls tumbling down his shoulders. 

Gerry’s memory of it was so clear , so many moments spent watching Michael stand by the window, back to the room, hair a beautiful mess down his back, catching the weird sickly sunlight of White London. Gerry had sketched that very view again and again from the bed, and it had been one of the images that kept creeping into his head in the Red Palace even though his sketchbooks burnt all those years ago. 

Now the curls barely covered his neck and Gerry had just realised it was him . He wasn’t used to it yet.

“You abandoned me.”

Gerry startled at the ice in his voice. He had barely heard Michael speak and his voice still had the same melodic quality to it, except for that added hoarseness Gerry was sure hadn't been there before. But it wasn’t even its new roughness that surprised him, but the tone . Even when the details of Michael’s voice had gotten somewhat hazy with time, Gerry had never forgotten his gentle tone, the way he seemed to keep it no matter the situation. It couldn’t be further from gentle now, just shy of harsh. Hard. Cold.

“You abandoned me,” Michael took a trembling breath, the words bitter on his tongue. 

He wanted to believe he didn’t mean them. He knew Gerry had had no say in not returning. But Michael couldn’t deny feeling something like relief at the words leaving his lips. And maybe this was what he needed to keep Gerry at a distance, to keep him safe . 

He glanced over his shoulder, and Gerry’s struck expression nearly made him crumble. But Michael knew how to keep his expression neutral through most situations by now. 

“You left me and never came back and now you expect answers from me, Gerry?” It felt wrong to say his name like this, like an accusation. Michael had long lost the habit of whispering it to himself on particularly lonely nights, and hearing it again for the first time spoken so harshly was simply wrong . But necessary. 

Hurt and guilt made it onto Gerry’s face, “I had no choice , I-”

“You still abandoned me!” It was too easy to raise his voice, too much bottled-up frustration and grief itching to find a way out . Michael turned to face Gerry’s shocked expression, tried to forget the way he had flinched at his raised voice. He had to push him away. “Did I have a choice in being born here? Did I choose to be here when Black London fell, Gerry?” 

He knew he was being unfair and his heart ached for Gerry’s wide eyes, but he pressed on, trying to keep his voice even, an edge of anger without slipping into tears. “You were safe behind those doors. Things changed, you say? Your people closed the fucking doors and left us to rot . Do you think anyone here had a choice in that?” 

Michael balled his hands into fists to keep them from trembling, took a steadying breath. He was getting too worked up. He would cry and then Gerry would offer to comfort him and Michael didn’t know if he had it in himself to deny him. 

He had to get a grip. He fixed his eyes on Gerry’s before picking up again, tone cool, “I can’t even answer your question, Gerry, because no matter what I say you don’t know . You don’t know how it is to wake up to the scent of blood and go to bed with screams from outside. You don’t know how it feels to live somewhere that is draining around you, taking the little magic that was left with it. You don’t fucking know desperation , Gerry.”

Gerry took half a step back, feeling like he might lose his balance otherwise. This was all wrong. Michael didn’t talk like this, Gerry didn’t hurt from talking to him. There was a lump in Gerry’s throat and tears stinging his eyes and this was all wrong . “I- I’m sorry, I-” he managed to choke out, voice small and foreign.

“No,” Michael interrupted, and it felt like a blow, “I don’t want your apologies. Because among all of this , all of this shit I could forgive.” Michael cringed at his own word choice, before schooling his features back into a cold scowl and correcting, “Accept, rather.” He held Gerry’s gaze for a moment, tried to memorise the pain, the fear. Michael wouldn’t allow himself to forget this.

“But you left me . You left me and I was so fucking afraid and I hoped- I waited . I waited for you to come and...and I don’t know! Try to take me away. Help me figure this out.” He waved at his left eye, black as jet. “ Be there .” Michael’s voice broke, and he chided himself for it. Though it seemed to make Gerry crumble just a little more. 

Michael bit his lip, blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes and hoped it looked like he was gathering himself, rather than cursing himself for pushing on. “I waited...I waited so long , Gerry. And then-” He could feel a sob building in his throat, took a steadying breath and wiped at his eyes for good measure before meeting Gerry’s again. He looked so sad and Michael wanted to gather him in his arms. 

“I kept waiting. And you never came. And I don’t fucking need your apologies, they won’t change anything.” It was easier to speak those words with confidence. A lie didn’t bring him close to tears. He looked at Gerry, jaw set, “I want you to leave . Do your job, whatever it is the Red Throne wants from us now.” There was some truth to the venom in his voice, even if Michael wished it weren’t. But it was good. There were tears falling down Gerry’s cheeks and that was a good thing . Michael tightened his fists before he could do something stupid, like offer Gerry his hand. “Do what you’re told and leave me alone. You seemed to excel at both before.”

Michael turned around, forced himself to walk away even as he heard Gerry’s choked sobs behind him. He wanted to run. He wanted to turn back and cradle Gerry in his arms and whisper apologies into his hair until he felt calmer. Michael kept his pace swift, but his steps steady, expression an unreadable mask as his heart broke and a tear finally spilled over his cheek.

Chapter Text

Gerry didn’t move. He watched Michael retreat, frozen except for the sobs he had lost his fight with. He couldn't help it. This was a nightmare come true because Michael was right and this wasn't the first time Gerry had heard those accusations but it had always been in his own voice before. And part of him had always believed, reassured himself, that it wouldn't come to this. Because Michael was Michael . He'd understand. He'd forgive. It was difficult to even imagine him mad enough to say such things. 

But he had, just now. And while time had passed and Michael had changed, looked different now, it was still undoubtedly him. And he had all the right to say those things but it still hurt . Gerry had never heard his voice like that. Cold. Michael had never sounded cold.

Gerry took a shaky breath and checked the time. The queens had dismissed him earlier today and Gerry was grateful for it because he couldn't go home like this. He wiped at his eyes - a useless endeavour as tears kept spilling over - and started to walk. 

He wandered the streets, head lowered and barely conscious of his surroundings, of how heads were turning towards him, hungry, of how the city itself seemed to leech on his magic as he hurried through one alley after another trying to calm down despite the previous conversation playing over and over in his head. 

It hurt. He should have said something else. He shouldn't have said anything. Michael was right. He had no right to ask about what happened, no right to his attention, certainly not his affection, after leaving him here all those years ago. It didn't matter that Gerry had not had a choice. He should have tried harder to find his way back. He couldn't start sobbing again.

He was nearly late by the time he was back at the door - unharmed, if exhausted. He knew he probably still looked a mess, but at least he wasn't shaking anymore, wasn't crying anymore. He still felt very close to tears, but he didn't have time to cry. Michael told him to go back and leave him be and Gerry could, at the very least, try to respect his wishes. And he couldn't be late. And he certainly couldn't arrive crying. He shuddered imagining what might happen if he did. 

So he took one last steadying breath, gathered himself, combed a hand through his hair. He let the bangs fall into his eyes a little, hoping it would cover the redness from the tears, and made a new cut on his arm, just enough to draw some blood. He touched his finger to it and brought it to the wall, the Red London coin in the palm of his hand. He spoke the words - his voice was rough with crying and he wondered how he could cover that up - and walked though.

His guards did not comment on his state, though Gerry assumed they must have noticed. He was glad. He needed every moment to think about what he was going to report. He could barely remember what the queen had said to him. All he could remember was how steel-cold Michael’s eyes had looked when they locked on him. And Gerry couldn't think of that or he'd be breaking down again. 

He needed to focus. He needed to make it through the report and then maybe he could go to his room. God, he hoped there wasn't anything waiting for him today. He really didn't think he'd manage long without starting to sob. He couldn't stop hearing Michael's voice in that strange cold tone. Do what you’re told and leave me alone. You seemed to excel at both before.  

The words had cut deep and Gerry wanted to sob. He pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the carriage window and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He should probably consider some kind of cover story if anyone asked about his state. There is no way he would tell any of them about Michael. Not only because Michael had always been his secret, something they couldn't take from him, couldn't stain , but because Gerry knew that they'd see a chance. If not all three, he knew at least one of them would see the revelation as some kind of new card in their hand in this game. Gerry wouldn't do that to Michael. 

Gerry kept his head lowered as he entered the throne room. The novelty of his visits had clearly worn off; only a couple curious nobles were waiting on his way to the doors and none of them dared to bother him. 

"You're nearly late," Elias greeted, sounding neutral enough. Gerry had no doubt he was eager to hear possible reasons to explain it, though. "Did the queens keep you?"

"Only Emma. We actually were waiting to see if Annabelle might return in time from her...appointment. But I unfortunately had to leave before she did." He sounded unconvincing, voice too flat. And this was barely even a lie. Gerry needed to get a grip.

"Where had she gone?"

Gerry shrugged. "I'm afraid nobody specified that."

Elias frowned. "Fine. Then what was said?"

Gerry took a breath and then tried to retell the little conversation he remembered happening. It hadn't been particularly interesting, nothing new - that Gerry still remembered. Neither of the queens responded to his attempts at getting them to talk. By the time he was done and looked up through his bangs, Elias looked vaguely disappointed. Mary’s eyes, however, were boring into him. Gertrude was frowning at him. He'd probably not be left alone after this. But Gerry would for sure not tell either of them what had happened.

*

Michael didn’t rush back to the palace after Gerry had presumably gone home. Annabelle’s order made it impossible for him to indulge in the urge of getting lost in the busiest streets he could find, run, finally, finally allow himself to break down and cry from everything that had been happening in the past months. Years . It was so much and Michael had become good at bottling it all up, all the pain and frustration and anger that had long become constant companions. 

But Gerry was too much, seeing Gerry again had thrown everything off and having him see Michael again, look at him again with those eyes Michael had desperately missed for so long, was too much . Michael wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He kept his steps slow, but he couldn’t not go to the throne room after being ordered to do so. His body had ceased being his own long ago, and right now Michael wished for nothing more than that the queens would have taken his soul, too, because this hurt .

The words he had said were still bitter on his tongue, the hurt in Gerry’s face slicing right through his heart. It had been necessary. Annabelle knew now - and surely Emma did, too - and Michael didn’t know how else to protect Gerry from them, from himself, but to push him away as much as he could. If they thought he didn’t care, Gerry would probably be spared their games. Michael clung to that thought as he rubbed the escaped tear on his sleeve and entered the throne room.

Emma still sat frowning at the letter in her hand, but idle conversation was happening between her and Annabelle, making Michael think that, if anything, she was puzzling over something she had disliked reading the first time. Annabelle looked up at him first, and Michael struggled to not let any of the anger show on his face. Of course she had done it on purpose, let his name slip to test the truth of what Michael had told Emma. Michael should have expected something like that. He wasn’t even sure if the anger was directed at her or at himself for being surprised by it. 

Annabelle waited for Emma to look up, too - her eyebrows pinched in annoyance or maybe disappointment when her eyes fell on Michael’s - before she spoke. “You lied.”

It was a statement, delivered in Annabelle’s usual calm voice, and Michael tensed, expecting Emma to speak up, threaten with punishment. She didn’t. Anxiety bubbled in Michael’s stomach. If Emma was keeping quiet, it most probably meant punishment would be left to Annabelle, and Annabelle was a lot more difficult to brace for. 

While she was just as skilled with the knife, she tended to choose a lot more convoluted methods to make Michael regret his errors, methods he never managed to see through early enough. Methods that tended to get others hurt. Michael forced himself to look calm. It would only get worse if he gave any indication of the alarm he was feeling hearing this.

A moment of silence passed before Emma sighed, waved him closer. “Explain yourself.”

Michael recognised the opening left for him to lie again and knew it was purposeful. It wasn’t the first time they had done something like it. It wasn’t the first time Michael took the bait because he was terrified, because he hoped to buy time to find a way to avoid whatever they were planning. It never worked, but in a panic Michael always tried, part of him fully aware he was just postponing - and possibly worsening - whatever punishment awaited him.

“I didn’t consider it to matter.” It hurt to say it, even though Michael knew it was a lie. “We were children. He never came back one day.” Michael kept the waver out of his voice, but it didn’t hurt any less saying it again after what he had just told Gerry. “That...that was all.”

They both held his gaze for a long moment and Michael didn’t want to know what either of them was thinking. He did his usual and looked back, face neutral.

“The decision on whether it is relevant information isn't yours to make, Michael. This is only the second letter and it’s quite clear Red London wants something from us, and considering how carefully Elias is avoiding stating it outright it can’t be good. Do you understand?” It was Emma who spoke up this time, some irritation slipping into her usual cold tone. Michael nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he understood. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Annabelle said, her tone light and had Michael not been used to it he wouldn’t have read it for the threat it was. Nothing was settled. There would be consequences. “About the task I mentioned earlier…”

Chapter Text

To Michael’s surprise, relief, and disappointment, Gerry did as told. He didn’t try speaking to Michael again, barely looked at him, lowering his gaze whenever Michael showed him out. Gerry hid it well, but Michael could tell he was miserable. A relatable sentiment, but Michael didn’t dare attempt to do anything about it. This was what he had wanted, right? It would keep Gerry safe, even if it hurt watching his slumped shoulders and tired eyes that would occasionally, when he thought nobody was looking, betray that hurt Michael couldn’t forget seeing in his eyes. 

It was a struggle to keep himself from saying something, offering anything that might make Gerry feel just a little better. But Michael kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself. He had gotten decent at pretending to be cold and unfeeling.

Everything seemingly went back to how it had been before. Except Michael had not forgotten that there had still been no consequences for the lies he had told. It made him nervous. They never let any misstep go unpunished.

It was what was on his mind the day Gerry was dismissed on his own. Michael had never quite understood why they kept sending him to escort - he assumed it a cruel little joke, Michael had long stopped being delusional enough to think he could truly hide his emotions from them - but it happened regularly enough for him to expect the order by now. But that day, it didn’t come. Gerry didn’t seem to notice it, didn’t even look relieved when he turned to leave on his own, but Michael couldn’t help but take notice. 

Of course, Gerry knew the way by now. But he had for a long time. And Michael was too on edge not to notice the difference. The queens also waited too long, idly chatting, before dismissing Michael. They usually didn’t wait long before sending him away to discuss the letter.

So when they finally did send him away, Michael was on edge. It hadn’t been long enough for Gerry to have gotten very far. Michael followed - he knew the way, had been made to trail Gerry to the door he used before - and tried to keep his steps even, look as inconspicuous as he could while leaving the palace. 

He couldn’t find Gerry. Something was wrong. Even with Gerry’s brisk pace, he shouldn’t have gotten that far. Michael considered walking all the way to the wall and seeing if there was fresh blood on it, but he’d lose time if he did. And it simply didn’t make sense for Gerry to have made it home already. No, something told Michael he was still in White London. And in trouble.

He decided to check any narrow alleys on the way, trying to listen for signs of a fight - though such noises were not uncommon in the city, especially in the evening. 

Nothing. It was, in fact, eerily quiet along the street, which was doing little to calm Michael down. 

The sudden thud wasn’t particularly loud, but it still made Michael jump, head whipping towards the noise. The alley was nearly too dark to make out the crumpled form that had presumably been the source of the noise. Michael approached despite his apprehension. 

Sometimes in the beginning he would still find himself wishing Gerry would find him. He hadn’t dared to after coming to realise that that would end in Gerry being harmed. Like he clearly was now.

Steps approached and Gerry wasn’t moving. Michael’s step quickened, his heart racing. They hadn’t killed him, had they? The queens wouldn’t allow that. It would give Red London leverage. Why wasn’t he moving? Michael crouched down next to him only for a knife to scarcely miss his cheek as it flew into the wall. He looked up. The approaching steps had died down and the alley looked crowded. 

They looked like normal thugs, but more than would usually work together. Enough to surprise a foreign Antari that had always been too lax with caution walking White London’s streets. Michael shot to his feet with a gust of wind pushing the ones in the front back. They nearly stumbled into those standing behind them. Their eyes were vacant. They wouldn't stop until their bodies physically couldn't. 

Michael reached for his dagger and stepped forward, raising the alley floor around Gerry into a wall. Not enough to trap him if he got up, but enough to keep stray projectiles like the knife from hurting him. Michael had fought against the queen's puppets enough to know to be cautious. If their orders were to harm Gerry they would not stop before doing so. So Michael had to stop them. And he wouldn't risk one of them throwing another knife or worse at Gerry.

It was a short fight - without the element of surprise none of them had a chance against an Antari - and Michael had done his best to not kill any of them. That did mean he had to get Gerry away before any of them recovered. He let the low wall around Gerry collapse. With a surge of relief, he realised Gerry was sitting up.

"Gerry!" He crouched down beside him, wiping some blood from his cheek. "Gerry, are you hurt? Do you know where you are?"

Gerry blinked at him slowly, disoriented or surprised, Michael couldn’t tell. Maybe a bit of both. 

"Michael…" Gerry said, slowly.

Michael nodded, helping him lean against the wall, still trying to find any injury. He had clearly hit his head quite badly, but seemed otherwise fine. Gerry’s hand came away clean when he tentatively touched it to the throbbing place at the back of his head. 

"Does anything else hurt?" Michael asked urgently. "You need to go. They might wake up soon."

Gerry looked behind him at the pile of bodies. He hadn't had much time to really see the attackers, but he was surprised to find such a big group.

"What….who?"

Michael shook his head and pulled Gerry - carefully - to his feet. "Doesn't matter. You need to go. Can you walk?" 

Gerry nodded, looking up at him with a strange, faraway expression. Michael frowned, touched his cheek - he didn't know why, it was a selfish thing to do. "I'll bring you to the door."

Again, an absent nod. Michael stepped away again and both moved out of the alley. They walked in tense silence and Michael was well aware of the glances Gerry kept shooting him. 

He wondered what he saw. Michael hadn't been as neat as usual - it was difficult to care about such things when it was personal. When had he last truly cared about what he was fighting for rather than let their orders move him? His hands were shaking. When had that happened? He had gotten so good at playing unaffected. But there was blood on his nails and he hadn't moved at an order to get it there. The thought scared him. He walked quietly, keeping an eye on Gerry’s steadying steps. He seemed fine, if a bit shocked. Michael wished he could do more for him.

He watched Gerry cut into his own arm with practised precision, just deep enough to draw a little blood. The cut would heal quickly but something in Michael’s stomach still twisted. He worried. And he had known he did, of course, but today he had acted on it, had let it overtake again. It had been a mistake. 

And yet it felt strangely liberating. He felt just a little more like himself than usual. Gerry gave him a last look, the crease between his brows one of confusion, before bringing his bloodied fingers to the wall and whispering the words. And then he was gone. And Michael was alone again, distinctly aware that he had done something tonight that he would be made to regret.

*

Gerry knew he sounded distracted during his report, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care much. He had sounded a little distracted ever since finding out who the Antari was, and while they hadn’t quite given up on trying to make him tell them what had happened that time, all three clearly had other things to focus on while Gerry kept quiet. 

And so he did as usual, trying to concentrate on Elias’ questions and ignoring Gertrude and Mary looking at him as if they knew something was different. Gerry had a pounding headache and could not afford to worry about that now. All he knew was that, for now, he would keep the attack to himself.

Thankfully, Elias asked his advisors to stay when he dismissed Gerry. So neither of them could ask for him too soon. Gerry hurried to his chambers, eager to for once maybe actually be able to take a bath before being called again. The exhaustion that he felt was different than usual. He was getting used to the strain of being in the starving city that pulled on his magic. 

But he did get ambushed. He still couldn’t believe it. He had been given the White Crown’s protection early on and had noticed how curious people didn’t dare to come quite as close anymore when he walked through the streets. It had been foolish, he guessed, to assume he was safe. The attack wouldn’t have taken him by surprise had he been more cautious. Had he been less distracted. 

Michael. Gerry struggled to not think of him since their conversation. The fight, he guessed. Part of him wasn’t making any effort in stopping to think of it. There was something about the pain of remembering the acid words, the hard expression in Michaell’s face, that seemed right. Deserved. Because there had been so much hurt among the anger in Michael’s voice. And Gerry knew that he was right to feel that way, but he wished he could do something to soothe him, to fix this. But Michael had been very clear about not wanting him close. And Gerry had followed his wish, but it didn’t feel like enough. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget, either, even if the memory still made his chest tight. 

But it hadn’t been that conversation from weeks ago that had made it difficult to focus on his report today. Gerry finally reached his chambers and went straight to the bath that had been prepared for him. One of the maids always ran it for him despite him rarely being able to bathe as soon as he was back. Usually, he had to heat it up with magic whenever he finally got some time for himself. He registered vague excitement about the fact that for once he could simply enjoy it right away as he stripped. But it felt detached. Gerry couldn’t stop thinking about today. Not the attack, but Michael.

Gerry stepped into the hot water, submerged himself with a sigh as some of the tension in his body dissolved. He stayed underwater for a moment - an old habit from when the presence of the guard by the door had still been new and the discomfort from it unbearable - and replayed what he remembered of his way back from the White Palace in his mind. 

Nothing had seemed different. He hadn’t heard them approach - though again, Gerry admitted that he had been distracted by his own thoughts again. It was hard not to think about Michael when he was always there, in the throne room. Always in the shadow but so close. Gerry wanted to go to him every time, despite all. He didn’t, of course. And Michael seemed to not pay any mind to him, either, looking vaguely disgruntled whenever he was sent to show Gerry out. It was clear that he did not want to interact with Gerry any more than necessary.

But then what was that earlier? Gerry sat up again, brushing his now wet hair out of his face as he did. In theory, he could easily excuse Michael saving him for the White Crown’s protection, he guessed. 

Gerry began to wash his hair, trying to think of the incident that way. But something just didn’t add up. Not with how Michael had looked at him. Whenever Gerry had witnessed the queens giving Michael any kind of task, his expression had never strayed far from neutral. It wasn’t too different from what Gerry did when he was out in the name of the crown, really. 

That was not what Gerry had seen earlier. Michael’s eyes were wide with genuine concern, his whole face a mask of worry. Like it used to be, back when Michael had been an open book, every emotion reflected in his pretty face. It had been disorienting to see his face like that again, to feel his hand - rougher than Gerry remembered - press so gently against Gerry’s cheek. Like he used to do sometimes when they said their goodbyes and Michael would cradle his face and tell him to be careful with his eyes full of concern. 

It had looked so much like that. Michael had sounded so genuinely worried and Gerry simply didn't feel like all of that was a reaction to fulfilling his queens' order. It had felt too much like Michael. But Michael wasn't supposed to care about him anymore. None of this made sense.

Gerry had just finished rinsing his hair when the knock came. He sighed, not bothering to answer. The guard placed inside was already talking to whomever had knocked anyway. Gerry started combing through his hair with oil-slick fingers, trying to make the best of what was surely going to be his last couple moments by himself before a long evening of being questioned. Even with the oil he got caught in tangles more than once, hissing especially when he ended up pulling at some of the hair at the back of his head, where he had hit the wall. It was probably bruised. It would be gone by tomorrow or so, he assumed.

"Both Lady Mary and Lady Gertrude have requested your presence."

Gerry sighed, closed his eyes for a moment. He had hoped it would only be one of them. It would be a long night, even with his head feeling a little better after the bath. Gerry wanted to sleep. He thought he could still feel Michael’s hand on his cheek. It seemed so much more important than Mary’s schemes and Gertrude’s strategies. 

Gerry opened his eyes again. "Tell my mother I'll be there in a moment."

He might as well get the worst over with first. And the chances of not getting bled dry were always higher when Mary knew he had official business to attend to after. He got up and climbed out of the bathtub.

*

Michael yelped at the sudden pain in his head, blinked his eyes open against the dark, disoriented. Before he could attempt to make sense of his surroundings the pain came again as he was yanked off the bed - he must have managed to fall asleep eventually - by his hair, hitting the cold stone floor at an awkward angle with his shoulder. He gasped in pain, though it got stuck in his throat as he was pulled to his knees forcefully. Tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes and Michael tried to blink them away as his head was forced back so he had to look up at the person in front of him. Not that there was much to see. It was pitchblack in his room. Michael didn’t need to see to know who it was.

“Who told you to help the Antari, Michael? Whose orders were you fulfilling?” Emma’s voice was cold, nearly calm. Michael was familiar with that tone. She was furious.

“I just figured- he...he’s under protection of the cr-” He hissed as her grip tightened further in his hair.

“And did the crown instruct you to follow him?” 

“No,” Michael breathed, a tear escaping his eye.

Steps were sounding outside. Emma gave an irritated sigh, let go of his hair. Michael slumped back to the floor, hand coming to his sore head with a shaky sigh. He curled up on his side, trying to make himself smaller, waiting for her to do something. Emma usually brought him to the appropriate chamber to punish him, but this wouldn’t be the first time she’d hurt him in his room.

Voices in front of his room. A knock at the door. “I don’t have time for you right now. But I feel like you’ve been forgetting who you are, Michael.” She shook her head. “You didn’t even kill any of them. Pathetic.” She turned and walked to the door. “We’ll work on that. You’ll remember your place.”

Michael heard the door open and close. He didn’t move from the floor. She hadn’t told him to. Michael wondered when he had started to shake.

Chapter Text

Michael went up the half-crumbling stairs and felt himself relax as he did, the motion familiar and completely his . Emma and Annabelle had never had any reason to send him here, the part of town that had been bad even before the city descended into chaos, half-destroyed houses nearly fully abandoned by this point. It didn’t feel like home any longer - hadn’t felt like home in many years - but it was still a refuge for Michael. He was far from the palace here, far from the life he now led and closer to the simpler one he had been leading before Black London’s fall.

The hallway was barely recognisable, cracked and rotting in many places, some steps loose or slippery. Michael knew where to step without looking by now, and in no time he was standing in front of the door that he had excitedly referred to as his door for little more than three years before he had fled. 

The lock had been busted that very night and the door swung open with little pressure. It was as cold as on the streets outside - the window was long gone, a crack along the wall where it had been busted letting in even more chilly air - but Michael barely noticed anymore. It had been a very long time since he had felt warmth, and he wasn’t foolish enough to expect it here. He came for the quiet, for the solace of being in the last place he had been happy in, the solace of being alone and allowing the mask he wore in the palace to slip.

Except he wasn’t alone. Michael froze. Nobody came here - a combination of the stairs looking like they might crumble any moment and the rumours that the queens’ shadow haunted this place tended to keep people away. Michael’s fingers found their way to the hilt of his knife the moment he stepped inside. His eyes landed on the figure standing by the bed, hand tracing the thick layer of dust gathering on the frame. Michael froze. The coat was too black in the faded room, darker than the grey night sky outside. Michael would have recognised it anywhere.

“What are you doing here?” It came out a lot harsher than intended, but Michael was tired and this was the last place he had that was, in some way, his . The only place where he could pretend, for a little while, to escape the palace and all that surrounded it. Gerry was very much a reminder of what he was trying to forget and he shouldn’t be here.

Gerry jumped at his voice - Michael wished he’d be more attentive, he would get himself hurt like this - looked at Michael with wide, surprised eyes. He looked tired, Michael thought. More tired than Michael remembered seeing him ever since he showed up again. Michael would have playfully chided him for the deep circles under his eyes in a different lifetime, would have opened his arms and told him to rest in them. The very idea seemed foreign now, removed from Michael as he was. The disconnect hurt.

“Oh...it’s you.” Gerry looked away, voice barely audible as he mumbled, “I had been searching for this place. Never had enough time, but...today, I found it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged weakly. “I...I’m not sure.” Gerry stared at his dusty fingers. “I was happy here. I...wanted to see it again. Be here again and...yeah, I don’t know.” 

He shrugged again. He looked so tired. Weary. Michael doubted this was just because of him. It had never occurred to him to wonder about how Gerry’s life might be now. He wanted to ask. He wanted to hold him. 

Michael stayed by the door, unsure what to say, watching Gerry brush the dust from his fingers. He looked to be miles away. 

It was Gerry who broke the silence after a moment, voice quiet. He still wasn’t looking at Michael. “When did you...when did you leave?” 

Michael didn’t answer at first. This was exactly what he had meant to avoid - them talking like they used to, growing close enough to bring Gerry in danger. But Michael was tired. He didn’t have it in himself to push Gerry away again right now. He didn’t want to hurt him. And it wasn’t like the queens had much to doubt by now. 

Michael sighed, leaned against the doorframe. “About a year after you didn’t come-” Michael cleared his throat, corrected, “After Black London fell. Someone broke in, saw my eye...so I ran.” He was avoiding Gerry’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Silence. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Gerry nodded slowly, finally looked up. “I’ll go. But...I didn’t get to thank you for last time. Thank you for saving me, Michael.”

Michael couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn't bear the earnestness in Gerry’s voice, the hurt and sadness in his eyes. This was Gerry and Michael had once been ready to do anything to keep a smile on his face. Had once loved him. Still loved him, so much, and he couldn't do this anymore. 

Michael barely registered himself moving before his hands grabbed Gerry by the collar of his coat - the same fucking coat Gerry had draped over Michael’s shoulders again and again when he had been shivering - and pushed him against the wall, smashing their lips together.

Gerry stood frozen in shock. Michael had kept his distance, had been distant in every sense of the word and having him pressed this close suddenly was overwhelming. His lips were cracked with the cold, but they still felt so much like they used to. He still smelled the same, something earthy, grounding. Like home. It felt natural to kiss back, to bring one hand to gently touch Michael’s cheek, still soft, a little cold. Michael had always run cold and Gerry wanted to pull him closer desperately. But Michael suddenly pulled away, head whipping back all of a sudden. There were tears in his eyes.

"I can't do this," he whispered, grip tightening in Gerry’s coat. It did little to stop the trembling of his hands. “I can’t . Why did you have to come back, Gerry? Why? I mourned you. I had-” A sob ripped through his throat, gathered tears finally spilling over his pained expression. “I had made peace with never seeing you again. Or- or something like it! I learned to live with it.” Michael let go of him, brushed the tears away with his sleeves. He looked exhausted when he looked at Gerry again, weary and so very sad. “And now you're back and you're going to get yourself hurt . Killed. And I can't do it.” Gerry finally snapped out of his shock, raised his hands to...he didn’t know. He wanted to comfort Michael. 

It only made Michael take a step back, shaking his head. “Knowing you were safe had been my only comfort, Gerry, and now you're here and they will hurt you and I can't- I can't protect you. I can't do this. I can't stand by but they'll make me and I- I can't , Gerry.” He sniffed, his voice urgent when he continued. “You shouldn't be here. You should have never come back. I love you so much and now you'll get hurt and I...and I-" He took a shaky breath. Shook his head again, wrapping his arms around himself. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

“Michael, I-” Gerry closed his mouth again. He didn’t know what to say, not to all of this, not to Michael’s crying figure. What could he possibly say to make this better? “Please, I- I don’t… I want to help. I love you. Tell me how to help you,” he pleaded, taking a step forward.

Michael shook his head more forcefully. “Go. Please...please go, Gerry. Go home. Don’t come back.”

“It’s not my choice!”

Anger flickered in Michael’s eyes, but it was gone in a second. “Then just go .”

Gerry opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. What could he say? That he didn’t want to go? That he didn’t want to leave Michael like this? As if he hadn’t left him before. It hurt, but Gerry forced himself to nod and made for the door.

Chapter Text

Annabelle seemed even more passive than usual. Gerry was tempted to call her distracted but that was not a word that applied to someone who seemed to attentively follow everything around her at all times, waiting for just the right opportunity to say just the right thing to make things go her way. But she was quiet today as she read over the letter, asked him a question or two, always watching him. 

In a way it reminded him of how it felt to speak to Elias. Except there was something more sinister to Annabelle’s near-friendly eyes. Elias looked at Gerry as he answered like he was nothing but a pawn in a game. Annabelle looked at him like he was prey that might be fun to make dance to her tune before finishing it. She made Gerry intensely aware of his nerves, of the fact that he was alone in a hostile city inside a fortress with countless silent guards that moved only as the queens commanded. Gerry tried to suppress a chill.

Maybe what was really putting him off this badly today was how empty the throne room felt without both Emma and Michael. The throne next to Annabelle’s had been empty when he entered and it didn't take long for him to figure out that Michael was not hiding in the shadows the way he usually did. There weren't even guards inside. It seemed an unnecessary risk, but Annabelle was as calm as always. She was confident Gerry wouldn't attack. Or maybe even confident she could hold her own against him if he did? That couldn't be. But would she otherwise take such a risk? White London didn't seem the kind of city one could hold very long with this kind of carelessness. It didn't seem right to assume she was being careless. Which only unsettled Gerry more. He needed to stop overthinking and focus. Elias was getting impatient with the little information Gerry managed to gather.

"You're alone today," he noted once Annabelle had finished folding the letter again.

She looked up, smiled. "Observant, are we?" She considered him for a moment. "Do you feel inadequately received?"

Gerry stayed calm. "Not at all. Just an observation." He looked at the empty throne. "It's just the first time both a queen and the Antari are missing."

Annabelle raised an eyebrow. "Is that noteworthy? Do you not travel in your world? I hear the city flourishes, but I cannot imagine that means the king has the luxury of staying within it always."

Gerry was attuned to her turning every one of his attempts to get information around to get him to surrender information himself. He stayed calm. "There are envoys. I assume you lack the staff to have any?"

She laughed. "We lack nothing. It's better to personally take care of things if you want them to be done right."

Gerry shrugged. The fact that the queens had little trust in anyone but themselves was not new, but he still felt like he had probably gotten something interesting to keep the king off his back for a little while. He considered pushing further, but knew he was already on thin ice with his last question.

"I guess so. I hope she returns safely."

Annabelle grinned. It looked more like a show of teeth. "I'll make sure to let her know of your well wishes." She rose from her throne. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to my work. I trust you know your way by now? If not, ask a guard. Any of them will be glad to show you out."

Gerry bowed, a little surprised by the sudden dismissal. Had he gone too far with his question? Did she feel cornered? He frowned but made sure his expression was neutral when he looked up again. "Thank you, your majesty. I think I will manage."

She gave a nod and Gerry turned, leaving the throne room, still trying to make sense of this sudden turn. Had he offended her? Maybe it had been a personal dismissal; Gerry wasn't going to deny he hadn't chosen his words as politely as he ought to. But he was getting nowhere with the usual court language. Today he at least felt like he had gotten something .

A noise. One Gerry would have probably ignored had he not been used to the eerie silence inside the White Fortress by now. In the Red Palace a noise was easy to ignore - a guard, a maid, chattering nobility - but here it caught his attention. He made a step towards it without thinking, trying to listen for it. What had it been?

The noise came again. Metal? There seemed to be more to it, a strange kind of whimper. But it had been there, hadn’t it? Gerry frowned, moving towards the noise, up the winding staircase. It was still faint, but Gerry had no doubt he was hearing something down the narrow corridor. Metal shifting against itself, maybe chains. Gerry followed, an anxious feeling growing in his chest. Nobody stopped him - he passed some unblinking guards, though the hallway itself seemed to be empty of them.

There was no light the closer he got to the noise, so Gerry summoned a small flame to see by. The doors were all closed - the couple ones he tried locked - but the noise - that strange, choked breathing, too - sounded clearer now. In front of the last door he stopped, listened. The noises were coming from inside. His hand on the doorknob, Gerry realised, once again, that he shouldn’t be here. But that noise like pained breathing came once again from inside and Gerry tried the door. It opened.

Gerry smelled blood before he saw anything. A knife slid into his hands as he held out the flame, made it bigger. The room was bare, nothing but a cupboard on one side. A cupboard and the slumped figure towards the end of the room, held up by chains hanging from the ceiling, wrapped around his wrists. Blood pooled beneath him, dripping down from various deep gashes along his legs, arms, his chest . It was a bloody mess, making it difficult to tell how many cuts there were, but from the amount of blood still dripping, some clearly already drying in place, it had to be many. 

Gerry had frozen in place, breathed out. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. The figure had to be dead, there was too much blood on the floor. Gerry swallowed. But why? And what about the noises? 

He watched, in terror, as the figure moved . Barely, feebly, he seemed to be trying to pull himself up to stand. His hands seemed to struggle to find purchase on the chains, every weak twitch of his right accompanied by a quiet, pained sigh. The chains clinked against each other as he shifted, but his feet slipped on the blood and he slumped against the chains with a quiet, pained grunt more akin to a hoarse shout. His head moved, lolled to the side. Gerry realised that what he had assumed was dark hair was blood. The knife fell from his hand.

"Michael?" He gasped, stumbling forward. The figure didn't react but Gerry was close enough to recognise the face even with half of it swollen and bloody. "Michael!" 

He reached for Michael’s face, his fingers immediately slick with blood and sweat as he carefully tilted it up. Michael first didn't react, and Gerry felt panic claw at his throat. He had just been moving. He wasn't dead, he couldn't be. Gerry cradled his face, searched it desperately for any sort of movement. Was he breathing?

"Michael! Michael, please…" 

Finally, he flinched, the eye not swollen shut twitching open weakly. Something like a whimper escaped his lips and he pulled on the chains again, trying to get away. Gerry let go, a little too quickly for fear of his touch somehow hurting him. The chains made more noise as Michael tried to put distance between them, eye wide in terror. 

Gerry made the chains unravel, caught Michael before he could crash to the ground. His boot nearly slipped in the sticky blood and Gerry cringed, trying to manoeuvre them out of the puddle. It wasn’t easy; Michael had gone very still in his arms, unyielding, and Gerry gave up on getting too far and settled on lowering himself - with Michael - to the ground just a couple steps over. His knife flew into his waiting hand and Michael froze, then tried to shuffle away, face contorting in pain with every movement. 

Gerry cut into his palm, deeper, probably, than necessary, but his hands were shaking so badly - when had they started shaking? - and he needed to be sure there was blood. He pressed his palm to Michael’s clammy forehead, careful to avoid the cut splitting his right eyebrow. Michael flinched, and Gerry realised his lips were moving, trembling like all of him was, but definitely trying to make words, even if Gerry could hear no sound. He bent down closer, trying to catch anything.

“P...pl...please…”

He was begging. And he sounded terrified . 

Gerry’s eyes went wide, “Michael, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me. It’s Gerry. I just want to help.” He put the knife away and whispered the command, “As Hasari.” To heal. 

Gerry had never used it before - it didn’t work on minor wounds or himself - but he knew the words and he urged them to hurry, urged his magic to knit skin back together and righten bones and soothe bruises. He had read that the spell was one of the slower ones to take, but he wished it hurried anyway, wanted Michael’s pain to stop, wanted the terror in his eyes as he stared up at Gerry to disappear. He repeated the words once again, urgently, despite knowing well that it’d do nothing to speed up the process.

Michael fell silent, though his eyes still held only fear as he looked up, as if expecting hurt. Gerry pressed his lips together. “I’m not going to hurt you, Michael. Do you hear me? It’s Gerry, I’m not...I won’t harm you.” 

His words felt empty as Gerry tried to gently brush the curls stuck to Michael’s bloodied face away. He wished he had water to clean off at least some of the blood but Gerry had none and didn’t know where to get any. And he didn’t want to leave Michael alone. Gerry wasn’t going to hurt him but someone did. Someone powerful if they had been able to overpower an Antari. 

The chains didn’t seem to be the kind that dampened magic like the Red Palace liked to use in the dungeons. So how had anyone been able to put Michael in such a state? And why do so in the first place? Had they wanted him dead Gerry didn’t doubt he wouldn’t be breathing - wheezing, rather - right now. But what was the point to hurt him like this - to torture him dangerously close to death? Antari healed quickly - which made the wounds more concerning. Whoever did this knew how far they could push. But who would ?

The options were obviously limited considering they were still inside the White Fortress. But it didn’t make sense. Why do this to the Antari in your service - without doubt as important of an asset as it was in Red London? And surely this would drive the Antari away soon enough. Something wasn’t adding up and Gerry frowned as he watched Michael lie there as still as he could - out of fear or to avoid the pain that came with even smaller movements Gerry couldn’t guess. It was probably both. His eyes still seemed far away. 

“Who did this to you?” He wasn’t expecting an answer, just had to say something to feel less like he was doing nothing. How was Michael even conscious after losing this much blood? Gerry wondered how long he had been hanging there. Maybe he had been unconscious for a bit before healing enough to wake up. That’d mean he had probably looked worse at some point this evening. Gerry didn’t want to think about it. But it was undeniable that a lot of the blood was already dried.

He traced the cut already closing down Michael’s cheek. “Michael…” it came out a lot quieter than intended, a lot more choked, too. Gerry quickly blinked the sting of tears out of his eyes.

“...y.”

Gerry looked up again. Michael was looking at him - seeing him - eyes filled with panic instead of fear. He swallowed, clearly struggling in doing so, and tried again. “G...Ge...rry?”

Gerry nodded eagerly, took the hand that seemed to, for the most part, not be injured. “Yes! Yes, it’s me, it’s Gerry. Michael, what happened? Who...who did this?” 

“Gerr...y,” Michael breathed with some effort. He licked his lips, pulled a grimace at the fresh taste of blood then hissed when the movement pulled at the healing cuts on his face painfully. “Gerry,” he repeated, “You need...need to g...to go .”

Gerry was shaking his head before Michael struggled through the end of his sentence, voice so hoarse Gerry had to lean closer to make out the words. “No! I can’t leave you like...like this. I can’t leave you when whoever did this is still-”

“Go!” Michael squeezed his hand hard, nearly painfully. “I...I will explain…” He breathed out, strained, let go of Gerry’s hand again. “N...next time. Next time I’ll- I’ll explain.” He looked into Gerry’s eyes, pleading, “Please...pl...please go. Act l...act like this...like it didn’t...happen. Go home.”

Gerry opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. Michael should clearly not be talking, looked to be in pain and exhausted from the little bit he had just done. Gerry didn’t want to add to his misery. But he couldn’t just leave him here, either.

“Let me just help you out of here, let me-”

“No,” Michael tried to shake his head and flinched. “No, you...you go. I...I’m going to be fine.” He tried for a smile, “I’m fine. Tha...thank you. I- I’m...always f-fine.”

Gerry had to bite his tongue to keep himself from arguing. He was only making things worse by insisting. Would it even be safe to move Michael? It would probably do more harm than it would help. Gerry shook his head and got to his feet. 

He shrugged out of his coat, gently draped it over Michael’s shivering form. Michael looked like he was about to protest but Gerry shook his head. He pressed his hand to Michael’s forehead one last time and mumbled an apology - for what exactly he couldn’t even tell, there was too much - before turning around to leave. He did his best not to run out of the palace, but his steps kept getting quicker and quicker. He didn’t want to be in there. 

Or he did, but he wanted to be in there knowing who had hurt Michael like that. The anger that had been building from the moment he had stepped into that dark room was difficult to keep down now. He forced himself not to look back, letting the chill cool his head as he walked swiftly through the streets. 

Michael listened to Gerry’s steps growing fainter and fainter down the hall, his heart sinking just a little further with each thump. He felt sick. He had hoped his eyes were betraying him - it wouldn’t have been the first time recovering from one of his punishments ended in hallucinations - but Michael had never been particularly lucky. Of course it was Gerry. Of course Gerry would find him like this, would see him at his worst.

It was a nightmare come true. There had been pity in his face, shock, concern. Anger. Michael had never wanted him to know. He had never wanted anyone to know, to see , but especially not Gerry. Gerry still knew Michael from before, still had that image Michael had long lost but craved to return to. He hadn’t wanted to destroy that - had hoped that even his pushing away, the hurtful words would not fully make Gerry lose his idea of Michael. It was too late for that now. There was no way Gerry wouldn’t see this now, wouldn’t see him as he was.

Michael covered his mouth with his good hand, trying to stifle the sobs climbing up his throat. Shifting onto the side was painful enough to make the tears that had been gathering in his eyes for other reasons overflow, but he couldn’t move his arm as far as he needed to otherwise. The tears stung as they ran into half-healed wounds but Michael barely took notice of it with the overwhelming sense of shame and grief hitting him now that his mind was mostly clear again. 

He tried to make himself smaller, to roll up but the movement pulled at something tender at his side or his rib or his leg and it hurt . A sob did escape even through his shaking hand and Michael cringed. He had heard enough of himself today. Enough pitiful, pathetic noises of pain and barely-audible screams. 

You used to do better than this. Maybe I should cut your voice out of you if you’re just going to be so quiet about this. 

Michael still felt the sting of the already closed cut down his throat, the one that had him beging in white-hot terror despite him tasting blood from how raw he had screamed his throat. Michael rolled up tighter despite the pain, pressed his hand harder against his mouth. It made breathing more difficult and the scent of blood was making him nauseous, lightheaded as it mixed with the sweet scent clinging to the coat - Gerry’s coat. It still smelled like Gerry.

Chapter Text

“You lie.”

Gerry really didn’t want to deal with her right now. He could still feel the blood on his hands, was sure there was some on his trousers. He had done his best to clean up and get it together before coming back, but the longer they kept him from much-needed time to process what the fuck he had seen, the more difficult it became to keep his panic at bay.

“I told you what you wanted. Can I go now? Or do you have some new...hypothesis that needs testing?” He forced himself to meet Mary’s eyes. “I’m tired.”

Mary smiled, propping her head on her hand. “And I’m tired of your lies. Elias might not consider them worth his time, but I’m not him. Something happened today. You wouldn’t have left that coat behind in a scuffle .” Somehow, she sounded both amused and annoyed. Gerry frowned, opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted. “It’s the Antari, isn’t it?”

Gerry caught himself quickly - forced his lips to stay pressed into a thin line, his eyes to stay neutral, focused on not tensing his shoulders or jaw. But his heart was hammering in his chest and he knew Mary had seen something, the beginnings of surprise, of shock that had undoubtedly been on his face before he had reacted. She was grinning.

“I know you, Gerard. You wear your mask well but I know you and something is up with that boy. Did it not occur to you that someone would notice the ways you look at him? How it keeps changing?” She shook her head. “I don’t even think I’m the only one. You’re not as subtle as you believe. And you certainly can’t hide from me . I’m your mother, after all.”

Gerry forced himself to breathe normally, keep calm - he was so fucking tired of keeping calm. Was Michael still bleeding on that stone floor? Gerry was wasting his time. Still, he held her gaze, expressionless. “I’ve told you all I know about the Antari.”

Mary kept smiling. “I don’t believe you.”

Gerry frowned, crossed his arm. “I’ve told you all I know. Can I leave?”

She watched him for a long moment before leaning back. She’d figure it out no matter if he told her or not. “Go.”

Gerry moved to his chambers quickly, trying to avoid being called by anyone else because the conversation with Mary was already making him crumble. He had tried so hard not to think of Michael - to push the bloodied figure in the dark room out of his mind because Gerry was struggling to keep his eyes from filling with tears and his hands from shaking otherwise. He had tried his best to do as Michael had requested and act normal but it had cost him most of his focus to actively not think about it. 

And then Mary had to ask about him. She had always shown some interest in the other Antari for his powers and how they might potentially differ in a magic-starved world but that was not what she had asked about today. She hadn’t asked about the Antari, she had asked about Michael . Michael, who was probably still healing, who might still be lying in his own blood in that hollow fortress. Gerry shouldn’t have left him. He bit his lip hard, feeling his throat tighten, his eyes burning. He balled his hands into fists at his side. Empty. The token was, as always, gone. Gerry couldn’t go back.

Gerry stayed in the bath until the water was cold again. He barely took notice as a shiver ran through him. He was still thinking about Michael - had been unable not to now that he was finally as alone as he ever got. It still made no sense . Gerry had never seen Michael fight, but he had saved Gerry from that whole group last time. He clearly could hold his own and was, undoubtedly, a more powerful magician than either of the queens. Or whoever else had done that to him. 

But who but the queens would be in the White Fortress? And why would they let anyone put their Antari in such a state? Gerry keenly felt that he was missing something. Something vital to explain what he had seen today. Michael had promised to explain, but would he? And even then, it would still take two weeks before he could do so. Gerry’s frustration was already making him want to break something now . Was Michael okay now? It was difficult to guess how well the healing spell worked, how quickly. In combination with Antari’s quick healing, Michael might be back on his feet. But what if he wasn’t? What if whoever did that to him came back?

Gerry shivered, not from the cold. There was something he didn’t want to think about. More than anything else, Gerry didn’t want to linger on what Michael had said, his whole reaction to the situation. I’m always fine . He had barely gotten the words over his swollen lips, but he had spoken like it was a fact. The panic in his eyes had only been there when he realised Gerry was there, not before, not when he came to, beaten and bleeding, in that dark room. As if that was nothing new. I’m always fine . Gerry couldn’t think of that. He blinked the tears pricking his eyes away and finally moved out of the bath.

He collapsed into his bed, exhausted, but knew he wouldn’t find sleep. There was too much blood on the back of his eyelids, Michael’s broken body every time he dared to close his eyes for too long. The red sheets of his bed looked so much like the blood Gerry had desperately tried to clean off his shaking hands before going home that Gerry thought he could smell it again. That metallic scent, overwhelming in the bare, windowless room. So much blood. Michael would have been dead if it weren’t for him being Antari. Gerry pressed his face into his pillow hard, knowing by now that it did a decent enough job at swallowing his sobs.

*

If Gerry had been distracted before, he was barely mentally present the days that followed. He still struggled to make sense of it all. He still worried about Michael. Realistically, he knew he should be fine by now. But Gerry still cursed himself for leaving before making sure of it. Before, Michael had been on his mind - the hard expression in strong contrast to the soft smiles from Gerry’s memories - but Gerry had never worried for his safety. Now he did. He still didn’t understand - the most probable explanation still left too many questions unanswered - but the uncertainty only made it worse. Michael could be hurt at any point and Gerry too far away to help. Again. The realisation felt like a brick in his stomach, driving tears into his eyes at most random moments. Thankfully, he was good enough at pushing them back.

Still, it obviously didn’t go unnoticed. His mother tried a couple more times, but even Gertrude demanded to know what was going on. 

“Since when do you get hit during sparring practice?” She asked when he entered her office, moving slowly, still sore from being too distracted to dodge.

He plopped down on the chair with a sigh, tentatively touching his bruised ribs. “Not my day…” he mumbled, voice flat.

Gertrude raised an eyebrow. “From what I have heard and seen, not your week.”

Gerry shrugged, biting back a hiss. Something didn’t feel quite right with his shoulder. “Heard? Do my guards report to you, too, now?”

“What happened? You have been like this since you came back from White London. Why?”

Gerry ran his hands through his hair, let the bangs fall into his face. “I’ve told you everything relevant.”

She tried to hold his gaze but Gerry’s eyes were mostly hidden behind strands of hair. She sighed. “Did you think of what we discussed last time?”

Gerry frowned, trying to remember. Gertrude had requested his presence the day after his arrival. The memory was fuzzy - Gerry had not quite shaken off the shock of Michael’s state that morning. It had been too prominent in his dreams. “Something about Black London…” he mumbled. “Elias...you said there were rumours of him having some kind of fascination with it before the fall?”

Gertrude nodded. “There are not many left at court who knew him before.” She paused, watching him. Then sighed. “Which, in itself, is notably suspicious.” Gerry nodded absently. “However, from what I could gather of those that had been aware of him before, he seemed to have asked about it a lot, being most interested in the political relations with it.”

Gerry rubbed his face. He hadn’t thought about this information at all and it seemed scarcely relevant to him. “What about it? Black London is gone.”

Gertrude glared at him. “I have better things to do than waste my time on you like this. Get a grip before you come back. And come back with something more insightful than immediate dismissal.”

Gerry felt a little guilty as he rose, but even that didn’t really stick. He nodded goodbye and left.

Chapter Text

Gerry considered not attending when Michael’s turn came to bring the response to the last letter. Mary’s words hadn’t left his mind. Was he really that obvious? He knew he had been doing a poor job of acting as usual this week but had it been so obvious that him being a little distracted before had to do with Michael? If he had been obvious then, then how the fuck would he fare now?

And Gerry really didn’t want to give Mary anything to deepen her interest in Michael. Part of it was something old, a maybe childish stubbornness to keep Mary and Michael separate. For years, one had been the haven from the other and there was something in Gerry still clinging to that idea. Even with everything different, there still was a sense of freedom in Michael, of safety, comfort. No matter what, those associations didn't seem prone to fully die inside him. They were the opposite of the Red Palace, of Mary. He didn't want them to mix.

But mostly Gerry was afraid. He didn't like to admit it, but Mary scared him sometimes. The tone, the determined glint in her eyes when she had asked about Michael still made Gerry feel cold. He didn't know what she wanted - what she thought she could get from the foreign Antari - but Gerry felt an urge to not let it happen. To protect Michael from this, at least. Mary was his to deal with. Michael clearly had enough on his plate. 

If Mary started setting her eyes on someone else to help her with her work, her experiments, then what would happen with Gerry? It had been the only thing she needed him for, wanted him for. He cringed at the thought of her leaving him. It was what he should want , wasn't it? He'd always dreamed of getting away. And yet he had never taken the opportunity to do so all those years ago. He had never accepted Michael’s offer to stay. Somehow, no matter what, he had always found himself back at his mother’s doorstep. 

Gerry pushed the thought away. He was late, but he knew Michael would be just behind the doors. Gerry had to at least see if he was alright. Maybe knowing that Mary had an eye on him would make it easier to stay inconspicuous. He quietly stepped through the door.

Michael looked his usual, terribly pale among the rich colours all around, stiff posture, minimal movement. He didn’t even twitch when Gerry took his place, door falling closed behind him. Gerry admired his control, in a way, though he was terrified now of thinking where it might come from.

There was no blood on him - of course not, Gerry had known, but somehow it still startled him. He had been finding it difficult to not see Michael hanging from the ceiling of that dark room lately. Seeing him in pristine white, hair its usual washed-out blond, curling at the back of his neck, the front pulled back neatly with two clasps, felt surreal. He was standing on his own, both swelling and wounds gone, leaving skin that betrayed nothing of that night’s abuse. It made Gerry a little sick, the initial relief at seeing him well stifled by the strange feeling of wrongness. Gerry had known he’d be fine, yet seeing him like this was making him wonder, doubt, if he truly remembered right. He knew he did, but it was difficult to believe seeing Michael like this.

Then Gerry noticed the hand. Michael tended to stand like a statue during these meetings, hands hanging loose at his side. His left one wasn’t, though, the fingers just slightly more bent than the ones on his right hand. Not bent at strange angles like they had been when Gerry had found him, but simply just a little more awkward than his right hand. Gerry tried not to stare, his heartbeat suddenly picking up. So the bones hadn’t healed quite yet. Gerry guessed it made sense. As far as he knew, the bloodspell only made the body heal quicker and especially a broken hand was a slow process. He hoped it was just that.

Michael left not long after - he had, as usual, spoken as little as possible - and Gerry actively kept himself from watching him go. He wondered if he was imagining it or if Michael, too, was avoiding his eyes.

*

Gerry climbed the crumbling stairs cautiously, avoiding actually stepping on them as much as he could. He'd noticed that elemental magic at least seemed a bit more difficult to control in White London, but keeping his feet off the ground was an easy enough trick that seemed to work here, too. He pushed the door open - it seemed to barely be hanging in there - and stepped into that same room that had felt like a sanctuary for some years of his youth, now barren and crumbling. 

Michael was already there. Gerry had taken a detour, not wanting to be seen following the Antari too obviously. He didn't know why. Finding Michael in that state had left him perpetually anxious about him. He wanted to keep Michael safe. But to do that, he needed to understand what had even happened. It had cost him every ounce of self-control not to ask Michael on his last visit to Red London. But they were alone now - a feeling still foreign to Gerry - and Gerry approached him where he was standing by the hole that had once been the window.

"Michael…" he said, coming to a stop beside him.

“I’m sorry. About the kiss,” he mumbled quietly, eyes still trained on the city outside the window.

Gerry frowned in confusion. “Wha- oh.” The kiss. The last - and first - time they had been here. It seemed so long ago. Gerry hadn’t thought about the feeling of Michael’s lips on his in weeks. There was always blood - too much blood - when he thought of him now. But still, Gerry nodded. “Alright. I accept your apology.” He looked up at Michael’s profile. He still looked somewhat sick, even in the wan light of White London. What had happened to him?

“What...happened?” Gerry bit his lip. “Last time. Who...did that to you?”

Michael waited for a moment, then shook his head. “Promise me something, Gerry. Don’t run off to avenge me. In fact, I’d much rather you pretend you don’t know.”

Gerry stared at him. “I can’t promise you that! You don’t know how-” When had the tremor entered his voice? Gerry took a shaky breath, trying to not see Michael’s bleeding body on the floor. “How much blood...I can’t-”

“I know.” Michael’s voice was surprisingly soft, gentler than Gerry had heard him since they met again. It made not crying even harder. Michael still wasn’t looking at him as he continued, “I pick myself up, usually. I know it’s bad.” He sighed. “Still, I don’t want you to rush to do something stupid, okay? I will tell you. I promised...but I want you to listen. To listen and to promise to not act on your new knowledge.” He turned his head, tired eyes locking with Gerry’s. “Nothing good would come of it, Gerry. Just today another ambush had been prepared for you. They already have an eye on you. Don’t give them a reason to look more closely. Please.”

" Who ?" Michael eyed him imploringly. Gerry gave a defeated sigh. "I promise I won't do anything rash. Just...please. I don't understand . Who hurt you? Was...was it one of the queens?"

Michael nodded, looked away again. He looked ashamed. "It's usually Emma."

Silence stretched on as Gerry tried to make sense of this. The queens had been his best guess, but that still didn’t explain how it had happened. That didn’t explain Michael’s resigned tone, the way he spoke like this was an old problem with no solution. Usually . So Gerry’s fear of this being a regular occurrence was true. He shivered. Suddenly the cold felt a lot more prominent, his veins icy with the thought of all those times Michael had hung there without anyone to help him heal, without anyone to keep it from happening.

Gerry shook his head. He couldn’t focus on that right now. "But I don't understand...neither of them are Antari. You're stronger. How…?"

Michael watched his face for a long moment, then started to unbutton his coat. Gerry was too surprised by the unexpected movement to react at first, just watched, confused as Michael’s fingers - the broken ones, still not fully healed, seemed to still be a bit slower - worked. When Michael moved on to undo the buttons of his shirt, Gerry finally snapped out of his shock. "What...what are you doing?"

Michael wouldn’t meet his eyes, mumbling to himself as he struggled with the buttons, "I thought...I was sure you had seen…" 

Finally, he pulled aside the fabric covering his chest. Gerry half-expected the mess of gashes and blood from last time but the wounds had obviously healed. Even the scars should have been fading. And Gerry assumed they were - the pattern of raised white lines across Michael’s chest, meeting right over his heart, looked old. Old and deep. Gerry blinked, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Antari didn't scar easily - wounds had to be deep to leave a scar and even those tended to disappear rather quickly with Antari’s enhanced healing. 

How deep had those cuts been to still be there? How many times had they been repeated? They were deliberate, not at all the criss-cross mess Gerry had taken the wounds for when he had seen the bloody mess on Michael’s chest last time. This was a pattern - a spider's web, not unlike Michael’s brooch, the royal symbol. Its centre over Michael’s heart, it seemed to spread across most of his chest, though some of the edges were faded where the cuts hadn't been as deep or maybe had not been retraced quite as frequently. Gerry reached out despite himself, heart sinking. "Soul seal…"

Michael stepped out of his reach, buttoned up his shirt again. "You know, then."

Gerry pulled his hand back, gave him an apologetic look, then nodded. "I've heard of it...my mother had some notes on them."

Concern filled Michael’s eyes and it looked painfully like before. Michael had always looked like this when Gerry had talked about his mother on those quiet evenings huddled together in bed. It was the expression that had accompanied his offer to stay. Gerry half expected the worried inquiry about whether she'd been particularly bad lately, but instead Michael said, "Ah...it sounds like something she'd be interested in." The silence that followed was short but heavy. "But this is how. She doesn't need to do anything but order me to not fight back. I have the constant order to not hurt either of them anyways so...it's not difficult."

"But how did it get to this? And why? Why did- why do they-" Gerry shook his head. None of the questions whirring in his head right now mattered . What mattered was that it was so much worse than he had thought. And that he somehow had to help . He looked into Michael’s eyes, shock replaced by angry determination. "Fuck all of that, how do we break that seal?" 

Michael looked surprised at first. Then, he smiled sadly, voice gentle but resigned when he said, "You can't break it. That's the point of it. To bind someone to your will forever."

Gerry shook his head, stubborn or maybe desperate. "There has to be a way-"

He was sounding more and more agitated, like he was about to go off and do something stupid. Michael frowned. "Gerry. You promised."

"I can't just let them hurt you!"

Michael sighed. "You've been doing that for years. I don't see any reason to stop now." Gerry froze, as if struck. Michael bit his lip, averted his eyes. "Sorry…"

"No...you're...not wrong." Gerry balled his hands into fists. "I should be the one apologising."

Michael shook his head. "None of this is your fault."

Silence. 

Gerry sighed. "Still…I want to help.”

Michael looked at him. “You did. Last time.” He reached out before pulling his hand back again. “Thank you. But please...please just leave the palace as quickly as possible once they dismiss you. It’s not safe.”

“There has to be more I can do.” 

He looked desperate. Michael wanted to comfort him, but didn’t have anything comforting to say. He simply shook his head.

“I’ll try to find something...I...there has to be something on this kind of magic in the palace library- I just need to-”

“Gerry. There’s no point.” Michael sighed. “If it makes you feel better, sure. But don’t get yourself into trouble for me. It’s not worth it.”

“You are worth it! I’ll find something, I- Oh, fuck-” Gerry checked the time, suddenly remembering. “I need to hurry, I- I’m sorry. I’ll find something to help. I promise.” Gerry said so with such conviction Michael nearly wanted to believe him. But such hopes had long been cut or beaten out of him. He simply shook his head.

“I have a shortcut to a building only a couple minutes from where you need to go.” He nodded at the wall next to the fireplace. “Use it. It should save you some time.”

Gerry looked at the grimy wall. The circle of brownish red blood carefully drawn on it was barely visible in the dirt. He gave Michael a questioning look.

Michael shrugged. “I don’t use it much anymore. I used to be on...missions in those parts a lot. Not anymore.”

Gerry hesitated, but nodded. “Goodbye.”

Michael nodded and watched him retrace the circle with his own blood, fresh from the narrow cut along his arm that had not quite fully closed from his travelling to White London. Gerry was gone a moment later.

“Bye,” Michael mumbled, a familiar sense of dread settling over him.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t easy to try and find anything about the kind of magic binding Michael. Gerry didn’t have much free time, and obviously he was never alone, meaning that his guards would surely be reporting on his sudden interest in dark magic if he’d drag them along to the library. Another problem was the fact that the most likely place to find anything about this sort of magic was in Mary’s office. And Gerry did not want to be in Mary’s office, which was a well-known fact. So if he’d start going there voluntarily, it would raise suspicion.

But Gerry was determined to do something . His thoughts had not stopped spinning since he returned from White London and he was itching to do something to follow up on the promise he made. He needed to help. He had to. And he couldn’t rouse suspicion or he’d be dragging Michael further into the Red Crown’s plans, whatever they were. Gerry simply had a feeling that if anyone found out about Michael being bound, they’d see it as an opportunity. Gerry wasn’t going to let that happen.

He tried to spend more time in the library, but couldn’t find anything in the books he dared to look at while his guards watched. When Mary requested his presence toward the end of the week Gerry was desperate for anything . Gertrude had brushed off his tentative questions without giving it much thought and he couldn’t figure out how to look for something subtly when he needed it so much and when he was being watched at all damn time . Gerry couldn’t remember the last time that had bothered him this acutely. He would’ve laughed at that had he not been focused on trying to find anything that might help Michael.

He knew Mary well enough to not attempt asking her. Even if he tried to do so subtly, she would for sure pick up on him wanting to know something specific. Meaning that Gerry would need to look at her notes - or the books she kept in her office - which wasn’t an easy task. Mary had always been protective about her research and Gerry didn’t want to be caught. She’d know. She always knew.

He left Mary’s office hours later, light-headed and knowing exactly as much as he had before. It had been a struggle to hide his frustration, but Gerry had barely managed glimpses of notes that had nothing to do with what he needed. He needed to try harder. He had to do something .

Another week passed, unsuccessful, and Gerry was dreading his next visit to White London. He had promised help. He had nothing.

*

Gerry’s mind was spinning on his way out of the White Palace. Again, only Annabelle had been present. While he had thought it as out of ordinary last time, the fact that both Emma and Michael were missing had much more concerning implications to it now that Gerry knew. He was barely keeping the panic at bay, a lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe, his feet taking him down narrow hallway after narrow hallway. There were no noises this time - nothing but his own steps and increasingly heavy breathing, the blood rushing in his ears as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, guess where the room from last time was or where else Michael could be bleeding onto the floor right now. Gerry needed to find him, he needed to help-

The pain came suddenly, something sharp and hot against his wrists. Instinctively Gerry reached for his magic, a shout escaping him as the pain got worse. He had no time to react to it. A hand suddenly pressed against his mouth and something bitter touched his tongue, slid down his throat as he tried to breathe in, startled. Gerry struggled against the grip, but his wrists seemed to be secured tightly behind his back. His magic wasn't reacting. The pain of trying was nearly blinding - not that he could see the owner of the hand in the darkness anyway - and soon enough Gerry was out.

Chapter Text

Gerry came to with a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Ah, there you are…"

Gerry struggled to blink his eyes open, his eyelids strangely heavy. He hurt. For a moment, he thought the room might tilt with how badly his head ached at the sudden light. But the room wasn't tilting. He simply wasn't in the expected position that usually accompanied waking up. He was upright - not standing, but hanging by his wrists, his feet touching the ground just so when he tried standing. The chains keeping his wrists above his head were taunt, he could tell even with the weak pull he managed. 

He blinked rapidly, disoriented. Candles. That's what the light was. Why was he so cold? He tried to make flames but pain shot through his body instead, making him gasp, stumble as his vision went black again for a moment. The chains kept him from falling, though the metal chafed against skin uncomfortably. 

"I was hoping you'd try that." He recognised that voice. There was a soft chuckle, more distant. The queens. "It's good to know they hold for foreign magic, too."

Gerry’s eyes finally adjusted to the light. Emma stood in front of him, cool eyes trained on his own. There was a knife in her hand.

“It's still the same magic.” Annabelle. Gerry moved his head, still swimming. This wasn’t the throne room - the room was too small, windowless - but she still sat on something like a throne, just far enough to be mostly in the shadow. Gerry realised that most of the candles seemed to be placed close to himself. He shivered. Somebody had removed his clothes. That was why he was so cold.

“Wha...” Gerry frowned, wondering at how difficult it was to move his mouth.

Emma smiled. There was no warmth to the expression. “If you can speak then you can understand." She pressed the flat of the blade against his jaw, turning his face towards her. "You can still do magic. We haven't found a way to shut down Antari magic. However." She turned his face to the side and Gerry realised that Annabelle wasn't alone. Michael stood at her side, same stiff posture and unreadable expression. He didn't look hurt, but more tense than usual. "We're here to refresh his lessons, but this can go both ways. If you try anything…" Gerry didn't see Annabelle pull out the knife she moved to hold elegantly to Michael’s throat.

The sight cleared the haze from Gerry’s mind for a moment. "You wouldn't kill him."

Annabelle raised an eyebrow. "Not kill, no." She turned the knife in her hand and rammed it into Michael’s shoulder in one smooth motion, holding Gerry’s gaze all the while. Her expression didn’t change from her quiet analysing one even as Michael grunted in pain beside her. "I thought you knew we have little qualms about hurting him, though."

Gerry reached for his magic on instinct, strained against the chains. Nothing but pain. Emma chuckled, turned his head back to look at her, but Gerry’s eyes were still locked on Michael when Annabelle ripped the knife from his shoulder. Michael gasped, stumbled. Annabelle frowned. “Stand still.”

Michael froze, before his body pulled itself back up into his previous position. The movement was probably putting some strain on the wound. Even with his face back to his usual mask, Gerry thought he looked like he was in pain. Because of Gerry’s stupid comment. Gerry pressed his lips together, meeting Emma’s eyes. He didn’t bother hiding the anger in his face.

“You’re so intense…” she mumbled, then tapped his cheek with the knife, the smile back on her lips. “Anyway. I don’t think you’re prone to tell Red London about this but if you do get the itch...think about that.” She nodded towards Michael. Then grinned. “Part of me hopes you do it. After all, he’s the one who got you in this situation. It’d be only fair to pay him back, hm?” She huffed a laugh, took a step back. She took him in slowly, calculating, as she twirled the knife in her hand. “But that’s for another time. Now...where do we start, Michael?” She turned toward him, smile cruel. “Any wishes? Suggestions?”

Terror blazed in Michael’s eyes. He wanted to take Gerry away from here, just take a step forward, fall on his knees to beg. His body didn’t move. “Please...please don’t do it-”

“ It ? You have to be a bit more specific, Michael.” She stepped up to Gerry, knife idly coming to trace his collarbone. “I’m not going to make him like you. I’m sure you’d love company, but as things are he’ll probably be a lot more useful elsewhere. Sorry about that,” she sounded cheerful, not apologetic, and Michael only relaxed a little. 

He didn’t trust her. And even if she indeed didn’t intend to bind Gerry to her service, Michael knew too well how much pain Emma could inflict unrelated to soul seals. More than any of the thugs Michael had saved Gerry from. He shouldn't have done it. What had he thought? That the queens would be satisfied with repeating their initial punishment on Michael himself? They had never been the kind to give second chances.

“I have to say it’s rather tempting, obviously…” she mumbled, cutting into the skin just below his collarbone. She pressed the blade in, watched the blood well up with satisfaction. “Do you still remember when you looked like this, Michael?” 

She was looking Gerry in the face, but Michael knew what she meant. The scars across his chest ached dully as he watched the thin trickle of blood make its way down Gerry’s unmarred torso. Michael thought he might be sick. This was a nightmare. He was more than used to the sight of blood but he had wanted Gerry to be spared so desperately. He swallowed, closed his eyes to fight down the nausea.

“Keep your eyes open, Michael,” Annabelle said, and Michael felt his eyelids open again. “This is your fault. So watch.”

Michael had little choice, but he did feel like he should . It was the least he could do after getting Gerry into this mess. Emma dragged the knife to the side, slowly, precisely. Like she always did on Michael. He knew how much it hurt; the last time had been recent enough for him to remember very well. He looked at Gerry’s face, a tense mask of anger. But the way his eyebrows were just slightly scrunched gave away the pain. I’m sorry .

Michael stood, lips pressed together tightly for fear of him saying something - even just flinching at the torturously slow way Emma dragged the knife down Gerry’s ribs - somehow making this whole situation worse. It seemed impossible, but Michael, unlike Gerry, knew the queens well. They always found ways to make life worse. They knew exactly what to do - where to cut, how deep, how far to push - without killing. 

So Michael forced himself to keep quiet as he watched Gerry’s chest become more and more streaked with blood as Emma worked in her methodical way. Looking up at him to taunt, or just to watch Gerry’s face for any kind of reaction. Michael’s fingernails were digging painfully into his palms. He hated her looking at him like she was contemplating where to cut next.

Gerry - strong, beautiful, stubborn Gerry - held up. He kept glaring daggers at her throughout, even when his eyes started becoming unfocused with pain and bloodloss. He was starting to look pale and the tension in his body gave away that it hurt , no matter how much he tried to hide it. Michael would know. And Michael also noticed the quiet exhales - gasps of pain - the way muscles twitched when the blade reached a new spot to break into. It was all so painfully familiar and Michael’s heart broke with every sign of pain. Pain that could have been avoided had Michael known his place. 

“You’re holding up remarkably well,” Emma crooned, meeting his eyes again. Gerry took a moment to process her words. The world was starting to become fuzzy at the edges. “Especially for your first time. Michael screamed so much,” She sighed, wistful. Gerry balled his hands into fists once the words settled, pulling weakly on the chains. They held. “Of course,” she added, pressing down on the fresh cut she had just made on his side. It burned and Gerry tasted blood trying to keep himself from whining by biting the inside of his cheek. 

The pain seemed to be getting worse, skin sensitive, nerves tight-strung, expecting the abuse. Gerry had hoped he’d grow numb, but it was the opposite. Tears were burning in his eyes and he was starting to struggle to keep them from spilling over. 

“I’m going easy on you. We don’t really have time to do this right…” She smiled at him. “Though I sincerely hope we’ll get the chance to do so, Gerard. I’m sure I could find what hurts you enough to open that mouth of yours with a bit more time...I could cut so much deeper. You’d be surprised how much you can do without killing a human.” She grinned, looked over her shoulder at Michael. “And an Antari...well, even I am still surprised sometimes.” 

She sighed, looked at his face again, took him in, tight jaw and sweat beading on his temples. He was barely holding his head up. “But no point in dwelling on that now. You’re not looking so good, Gerard. How much more can you take, hm?” She twisted the tip of her knife into that same wound with cold precision, slowly. Pain shot through him, white hot and somehow worse , or maybe simply too unexpected. He winced, a hiss that came out more a whine escaping his lips.

Michael nearly jumped at the noise. It wasn’t much louder than the quiet gasps from before, but it was still a clear sign that Gerry was at his limit. Emma looked delighted about it, mumbled something about it being a start and moved to presumably do the same again or find something else new to try and Michael couldn’t just stand and watch anymore. They had made their point. Gerry’s blood was making a small puddle below him and his eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and it was enough .

“Stop.” The tears Michael had been forcing down were too obvious in his voice. Emma turned to look at him, her icy gaze making him shrink. “Please...I understand. Please...please stop.” He was growing so tired of begging. But it was all he could do. And he would. For Gerry.

Emma raised her eyebrows. “ Do you understand, Michael? Because I thought so last time, too.” He didn’t like the sudden delight in her eyes. “Why don’t you come and try your hand yourself? Maybe then we can be sure you understand .”

Michael’s eyes went wide and he stumbled a step back. No . Not this. Not his worst nightmare, not a knife in his hand, biting into Gerry’s skin because no matter how much Michael fought his body wouldn’t obey him. He opened his mouth to respond but terror made it difficult to breathe, much less to speak . Michael was vaguely aware that he made some noise - something like a whine, but more fear, dread - over his quickening heartbeat.

“That is a good idea.” Annabelle. She’d been quiet - she often was in these situations, watching, always watching, analysing, planning. 

Her words made Michael freeze. He looked at her, pleading, desperate. Tears were spilling down his face. “No...don- please don’t...don’t ma-”

“He’s always been so quick to kill.” Annabelle was looking at him, expression unmoving as she kept addressing Emma. “Maybe some practice on someone he clearly does not want to die might help.”

“Don’t make me. Please don’t- ”

“Shut up and come here,” said Emma and Michael’s body moved accordingly, closing the short distance between them in seconds. Gerry looked even worse from up close. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, the pain in them a lot more obvious now that Michael was standing right in front of him.

“Take it,” Emma was holding out the knife. She somehow managed to hold it by the blood-soaked blade without dropping it. 

Michael looked into Gerry’s eyes. There wasn’t much anger left to hide the agony. Michael understood too well. It always got too much to keep up the front after a while.

I’m so sorry . The words were meaningless as Michael felt himself take the offered knife in his hand. He wanted to scream. His mouth wouldn’t open. Michael cringed at the slickness against his fingers - blood. Always blood. It should be his . His blood belonged on that knife. It had been his fault.

“Now come on, Michael. Hold it right. We both know you know how to hold a knife properly.”

Michael’s fingers wrapped around the hilt more tightly. It was sticky where the blood had begun to dry. Michael knew no amount of apprehension would make his hand stop, but he still tried. He still tried to fight the order. He could barely remember how it felt to fight it by this point. There was no point to it. Emma ordered him to bring the knife to Gerry’s chest and Michael did, his mind screaming for anything to stop him, his eyes still on Gerry’s, begging for him to somehow break out of the chains, escape, run from this horrible place and never come back. 

It wouldn’t happen. Emma told him to look at what he was doing so Michael lowered his eyes to his hand. It wasn’t even shaking. It should at least be fucking shaking from how much Michael was fighting the compulsion. All he could do was fucking cry silently as the blade inched closer to Gerry’s skin. Michael wasn’t aiming anywhere in particular. Emma always made it hard to tell where the blood was coming from, if there was any skin left unmarred. 

This couldn’t be happening. It had haunted Michael in his dreams from the start - the very real possibility of them making him hurt Gerry sending him into a panic attack in the middle of the night on more than one occasion. Still, somehow, Michael didn’t feel at all prepared for this. He could hear Gerry breathe - could see the quick rising and sinking of his chest at the tip of the knife. Too close to the tip of that knife. Michael felt like he was choking on his tears. He wished he would.

“Stop.” It was Annabelle who gave the order, just as the knife touched skin. It hadn’t broken through it yet. Michael fell to his knees, collapsed, sobs finally ripping free from his throat. He kept himself from fully falling into the blood on the floor with his hands, arms shaking, his whole body shaking at the sight of his fingers in Gerry’s blood, the memory of the knife in his hand against Gerry’s skin. A dizzying wave of nausea hit him and Michael thought he would be sick, vision swimming with tears and panic. He would’ve done it. Michael would have barely had to do anything and the knife would have broken skin. Gerry’s skin. Michael couldn’t breathe.

Emma sighed, rolled her eyes. “Pathetic.”

The knife flew from where it had slipped from Michael’s fingers, blade brushing his ear on its way into Emma’s waiting hand. Michael didn’t register the cut. They really can do it. They can make me hurt him. They could make me kill him. I nearly cut him-

“Heal him and clean him up. Don’t free him.” Emma vaguely motioned with the knife and the chains slackened suddenly. Gerry hit the blood-slick stone floor with a wet thump, wrists still bound but no longer pulled taunt to hold him up. It was over. Michael was still choking on his own sobs, but the order made his shaking body move.

Michael didn't dare reach for his knife. He didn't want to hold one so close to Gerry so he pushed the hidden button on the ring on his finger and cut a shallow, shaking line into his hand with the protruding spike that hadn't been there a moment before. There was a slight sting to his movements and Michael remembered that his shoulder was still hurt. He ignored it, bringing his bleeding hand to Gerry’s arm - he was unsure if he'd be able to tell his blood from Gerry’s anywhere close to the actual wounds - mumbling the spell quietly.

Michael sat for a moment and looked down at Gerry’s face. He was still conscious - Michael should be relieved but he felt sorry. Fainting was the only mercy to be had once Emma started - eyes half-lidded, looking at Michael. There was so much pain in them. Michael wanted to say something - apologise, console, anything - but he was well aware of the queens watching him. He had already shown them too much today. If he truly made known how much, how desperately he wanted for Gerry to be safe they could only see that as an opportunity to hurt him more. Gerry looked to have come to a similar conclusion. He looked very much like he wanted to talk but kept his mouth shut. Michael thought he could see an apology in his eyes. What for? Michael should be apologising. He urged to tell him.

"Michael, didn't you hear?" Emma sighed. She had settled into the empty throne next to Annabelle and was cleaning her knife. "I told you to clean up, not sit there and stare uselessly."

Annabelle smiled. "Don't worry, he won't run off. We're here."

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to leave Gerry alone with them, but his body was already moving. He forced himself not to look back, to not make his apprehension too obvious lest they decide to prey on it. He walked quietly out of the room, away from Gerry - the last destination he wanted to be going into - to get the supplies he'd need.

Chapter Text

Michael tried not to appear too hurried when he came back with water and towels and some bandages. The latter would probably not be needed - Emma had purposefully kept the cuts shallow enough to heal quickly with Michael’s spell. But just in case.

Relief hit Michael when he came back into the room and found everything the same. Gerry was still lying in his own blood, motionless save for the rising of his chest with every breath he took. The queens still sat, watching. Michael had been dreading to come back to Emma having decided she wasn't quite done yet. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He made his way back to Gerry. His eyes were starting to look a little clearer already; the bleeding, as far as Michael could tell, seemed to have stopped for the most part. Michael opened his mouth, but thought better and simply gave him an apologetic look before carefully pulling him away from the bloody puddle he had fallen into. 

Michael tried to be as gentle as he could without it looking anything but efficient to the queens. Gerry still gasped - Michael couldn’t blame him, he knew moving hurt when your body was full of holes - and Michael bit his tongue to keep himself from apologising. He could feel the queens’ watchful gaze. And speaking had always only made things so much worse. Tonight, too. So he knelt down next to Gerry, too afraid to give into the urge to brush the sweat-stuck hair out of his face. What would they do if they saw? What would they make him do if they saw? Michael didn’t want to risk it. 

Michael wrung out one of the towels. The water was warm, which had probably not been strictly necessary, but the queens wouldn’t know about it anyway. From Michael’s experience, neither of them took too much interest in this part. They’d watch, sometimes, watch Michael struggle to clean off the blood without a functioning hand or shoulder, whimpering all the while as every slight movement pulled on cuts upon cuts upon bruises. 

But they never got close. They’d never know that part of why Gerry relaxed just a little the moment Michael brought the towel to his collarbone was because the towel was warm, soothing against his frigid skin, only made colder by the bloodloss. It still hurt, clearly, obviously . 

Michael watched, concerned - without showing it on his face - as Gerry’s eyebrows scrunched together when he started moving the towel to clean up the blood. I’m sorry . Michael wanted to tell him so badly, wanted to give him something to focus on instead of the pain, wanted to console him even though he knew the words would probably ring empty in this situation. It would be something . It would be more than just constantly shooting worried, pained looks at Gerry’s face, trying to apologise wordlessly for hurting him with the towel, for this whole fucking night. 

Michael worked quietly, tried his best to dab the blood off still healing cuts carefully, as tenderly as he could without it seeming affectionate. Colour was starting to return to Gerry’s face, but he didn’t say anything, either - occasionally hissed or held his breath to bite down the pain but otherwise kept quiet. He probably understood now. It nearly hurt to meet his eye. Red from mostly unshed tears, agony and fear mixed with something that looked like an unspoken apology. Apology for what ? Michael should be apologising. Michael should be telling him that he was sorry and that things would be okay. Except Michael had stopped believing that a long time ago. But for Gerry he could make the effort. If only he weren’t so acutely aware of the queens still watching his shaking hands work.

Michael didn’t hear anyone leaving, but he did hear Emma’s confident steps approach from the door. He was basically done. Most of the cuts were but rapidly fainting scars by this point, most of the blood wiped away. Michael had no doubt that by the time Gerry would be home, it’d look like none of this had happened. Michael was exhausted. Gerry looked like he was, too.

“Oh, and Michael.” Michael looked up from where he was still kneeling, expecting her to tell him to finish up or something. His heart sank at the item in Emma’s hand. Gerry’s coat. Michael had kept it hidden in his room since Gerry had left it with him weeks ago. It had been silly to believe they wouldn't find it, that Michael could hold on to the comfort it provided for a little while.

He kept his expression neutral. "Yes?"

Emma’s eyes flared in anger. Michael saw the kick coming but knew she wouldn't want him to move out of the way so he didn't. Her boot collided with his jaw with enough force to throw him to the ground. His ears rang with the impact - of the boot or the floor Michael couldn't tell - and he tried to catch his breath, reorient himself. Gerry was looking at him, shock and concern obvious in his eyes. Michael wanted to reassure him, but the shaky smile slipped from his lips when Emma’s boot pushed his head down further, keeping him from even attempting to raise his head. 

"Don't 'yes' me. Did you seriously believe you could hide this from us?" She pressed down harder on his temple. Michael grit his teeth against the pain.

"I hope you don't take me stopping you today for mercy, Michael." When had Annabelle approached? He tried to move his head to see but Emma wouldn’t relent. "This was a reminder. You didn't think you would do it, did you? Now you know. Now you'll hopefully remember that you will do as we say, no matter what it is. Or to whom." Annabelle let that hang in the cold air for a moment before continuing, "This was a warning, Michael. Fuck up again and I will make you carve his heart out.” He could hear the grin in her voice. “Emma can instruct you on how to do so particularly slowly, so he'll stay conscious for a good bit of the process." Another pause. Michael felt cold. "Though who knows with you Antari...he might simply do so without you even trying. Just don't forget this."

Michael swallowed, trying to find his voice, "I won't-"

"Silence," Emma sounded impatient. She was done with him. For now. 

The pressure of her foot finally disappeared from Michael’s head, leaving him with a dull ache. He didn’t dare to move just yet. Gerry was still looking at him, eyes just a little wider in terror. But there was anger, too. Michael hoped he wouldn’t act on it. Even with most of the wounds healed, he should still be weakened from bloodloss. The chains were still holding his magic at bay. Michael hated himself for being glad about it in that moment.

Emma threw the coat at him. "Dress him and show him out. And make sure you show him out, he seems to be developing a bad habit of getting 'lost' on his way to the entrance." She turned to leave, adding, "Come to me right away after he's out of the palace."

Michael listened to Emms's steps retreat as she left. He waited until the door closed before pulling himself up into a sitting position. Annabelle still stood in front of him, watching. Michael closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. 

Gerry was struggling - and failing - to sit up, too, skin uncomfortably tight where the cuts had just healed. He watched, numbly, as Michael got to his feet and walked towards the pile of clothes next to the thrones. Gerry was cold and nauseous, his body aching. He could still feel Annabelle’s eyes on him, so he tried to show none of it.

Michael was back a moment later. He helped Gerry up into a sitting position, slowly, carefully, his hands barely a presence where they touched him. Gerry tried his best not to show how much it hurt to move. The cut down his side was still tender and clearly did not approve of it. Michael gave him a knowing look - he’d given him so many tonight, it broke Gerry’s heart - and Gerry could read another silent apology in his eyes before he started helping Gerry into his shirt. Gerry bit his lip to keep a hiss from escaping when he raised his arm. 

Michael moved with the same efficiency as he had while cleaning off the blood, fingers never lingering longer than strictly necessary. Still, there was a certain tenderness to his movements, a suggestion that he wanted to do better, that he wanted to do more than what he was doing. Or maybe Gerry’s mind was still a bit hazy. He realised that the chains were gone from his wrists, but he felt too weak to attempt any magic. Too weak and afraid of what Annabelle would do. She was still staring at him.

Michael helped him to his feet, steadied him when Gerry stumbled at the sudden shift in perspective. Gerry wanted to lean into the touch, desperately. He was still cold. Michael’s warm hand was soothing after what felt like hours of nothing but metal against his skin. Gerry bit back a sigh and moved to finish getting dressed instead. He braced himself for the pain of bending down, but it was duller than expected. Gerry gently touched the scar through his shirt. He wondered if it was still there.

At last, Michael handed him his coat. He didn’t meet his eyes as Gerry accepted it and put it on with only some discomfort. The familiar weight felt good on his shoulders. He buried his hands in the pockets of it, glad to finally have somewhere to hide the slight trembling that hadn’t stopped yet. Gerry didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think at all. He felt too close to panicking for that.

“I’ll bring him out,” Michael mumbled, looking at Annabelle.

She nodded. “Don’t get distracted by talking. Emma doesn’t like to wait.”

Michael nodded in his strangely mechanical way and watched her turn around and leave. Only when the door shut behind her did he motion for Gerry to follow. Gerry did so wordlessly. He was afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth. There was a lot he wanted to say, more that he probably should say. But he couldn’t. If he’d try now he’d break down. And Michael had just been instructed not to make conversation anyway. So they walked in heavy silence, steps echoing in the hollow building.

They came to a stop once outside the fortress and Gerry turned to him, looked like he was about to say something. He didn't and Michael simply gave a nod before turning around, walking the way back to find Emma. He was acutely aware of Gerry’s eyes on his back. Michael wished he could turn around. At least wish him a safe journey home. Fucking apologise . But his legs wouldn't stop walking until he had fulfilled Emma’s order.

Something strange happened as his steps quietly echoed in the same hallway he had just listened to Gerry’s steps following him in. A warmth in his stomach. Not a good one but something tense and tight-strung and burning . Suddenly, he felt his eyes fill with tears again. But they didn't feel the same, they weren't out of sadness and guilt for Gerry. They were frustrated. Angry. 

Michael startled. He couldn't remember the last time he had been angry. He hadn't thought he still had it in himself. There was no point in it, fury was nothing but a waste of energy, the kind of emotion that made him feel the bars of his invisible cage much more strongly because he couldn’t do anything about it. He never could. Numbness had always served him better. He had never liked feeling angry or sorry for himself anyway.

But tonight hadn’t been about him. It hadn’t been Michael’s blood pooling on the floor, it hadn’t been his skin breaking against Emma’s knife. Michael was used to that. It left him mostly exhausted and hurting by this point. Anger would be energy wasted that he needed to recover. 

Seeing Gerry in that situation was different. It had been all Michael had feared - and yet, somehow, it had still surprised him. He should have expected this. He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t dared to even actually consider it in his waking hours. Somewhere deep down Michael thought he could keep Gerry safe. A stupid idea. In the end, he’d been made to hold the knife like in his worst nightmares. 

Why had he still been surprised? He should have known. He should have fucking known nothing would stop the queens. There was no line they wouldn’t cross and after years of being their plaything Michael should have known.

By the time he arrived at the throne room, Michael could barely tell if his anger was directed at him or at them. Yes, he had acted foolishly, but despite being made - being shown - that they could make him hurt Gerry, they had been the ones doing so. And Michael knew both of them enough to recognise they had very much enjoyed it. A kind of disgust Michael hadn’t felt - hadn’t allowed himself to feel because he was no better than they were - suddenly overtook him again as he came to a stop in front of the queens.

“You called,” Michael mumbled, struggling not to speak through his clenched teeth. 

Emma had tidied herself up. Despite rarely getting any blood on her while she worked, she did always change after, redid her crown braid, changed her boots. She looked like the torture hadn’t happened at all. It had long stopped bothering Michael that she did so when hurting him. But tonight, it only added to his anger.

“Now, that’s a look we haven’t seen in a while,” Annabelle said after holding his gaze for a moment. “Care to share your thoughts, Michael?”

Michael pressed his lips together. He was struggling to keep his fists from shaking at his sides. It had become easy enough to mask his anger usually - why was he struggling so much now? Why did it burn so badly? He couldn’t stop seeing Gerry’s pain-filled eyes.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Speak up.”

Michael’s lips parted despite his efforts to keep his mouth shut. “You’re monsters.” He hated how watery his voice came out. If he was going to voice his anger, could he not at least sound less pathetic doing so?

They laughed. They always did laugh at Michael’s misery. But now they also laughed at Gerry’s, which was a lot more difficult to brush off. Michael needed to calm down. The more he said the worse he would make things. His eyes were burning with tears.

“What does that make you, Michael? How much blood is on your hands?” Annabelle watched him closely for his reaction, her voice as calm as ever. 

Michael should have been numb to this comment by now and he usually was . Today, however, it made him ball his hands into tighter fists. “Because of you! Because you make me! I….I-” A sob cut him off, and Michael realised hot tears had started to flow down his cheeks. 

He lowered his head in shame, anger disappearing, leaving the much more familiar feeling of defeat, resignation. It suited him better. Clearly, he couldn’t even be angry without starting to cry. He couldn’t protect Gerry, nor could he express rightful anger at his suffering. Michael was a pathetic, shaking mess that had just wasted his breath pointlessly. He saw the queens exchange a look and knew that in one way or another, he would pay for this breakdown.

Emma suddenly clapped her hands together - Michael actually flinched . He had gotten so good at not doing that whenever Emma moved - and got up from her throne. “Anyway. Thank you for sharing your thoughts , Michael, but there is still work to be done. Annabelle needs to focus on the letter.” She gave Annabelle a smile, one of her rare genuine ones. It turned to ice once she looked back at Michael. “And you’re coming with me. There’s some things we need to take care of.” She walked down the steps and waved for him to follow. Michael did, of course, trying to brush away the tears with his sleeve. 

Annabelle watched them leave.

Chapter Text

Gerry barely had time to steady himself after stepping back into Red London before he felt metal close around his wrists, multiple pairs of hands holding him still despite him not fighting back. He was hours behind schedule and it was dark. Gerry barely registered what the guards were yelling as they pulled him along. He was exhausted. Even with the cuts healed, he felt achey. And so very tired.

The guards gave up asking him questions by the time they were in the carriage. They didn’t let go of him. It was well-known that the magic-cancelling handcuffs only dampened Gerry’s magic. Gerry, however, was too tired to even try. He knew it wouldn’t hurt like it had in White London, but he couldn’t quite shake the memory of the stabbing pain. His wrists still felt sore from the chains even if they bore no signs of them. Michael had healed the chafing, too.

Michael had turned right around the moment Gerry was out of the fortress. The memory still made Gerry’s stomach turn. He didn’t want to think of what he might have walked back to. Gerry couldn’t think about that now. He forced his eyes to stay open if only to not see Michael turning his back. Emma’s knife. Michael holding that knife. Michael on the floor. Gerry quickly shook his head - only worsening his dizziness, the headache that had set in on his way through White London’s streets. It also made the guards holding him in place tighten their grips on his arms. Gerry barely registered the pain. He felt hollow.

The Palace was never completely quiet, but it was late enough for it to feel like it was. Gerry’s steps were drowned out by the noise of the guards’ armour as they guided - dragged him, because Gerry kept missing steps in his exhaustion - towards the throne room. Gerry had hoped Elias might have gone to sleep already. He was in no state to answer any of his questions. He couldn’t focus. He kept looking down at himself, half-expecting there to be blood on his shirt. 

What could he say? What could he give as an excuse for tardiness that wasn’t the truth? Because much to Gerry’s distaste, Emma was right. He didn’t want to tell anyone what had happened. He didn’t want Elias - or anyone - to know that the queens had taken personal interest in him. It would require too much explanation, explanation that would end with pulling Michael into it, too. Gerry couldn’t do that. He couldn’t protect him from the queens, but he wouldn’t let him catch the Red Thrones attention, too. 

The guards pushed him in front of the throne, then retreated to the back. Gerry nearly stumbled with the lack of support. He caught himself, though, acutely aware of how closely Elias was watching him. 

“You are very behind schedule. I am sure you must have noticed.”

Gerry nodded. “I...ran into some trouble.”

He struggled to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. He just wanted to sleep. Maybe the rest of the aching would be gone by tomorrow.

“With the queens?” Interest coloured Elias’ voice. Gerry shook his head. Elias sighed, expression one of irritation. “You seem to spend a lot of time outside of the palace for someone specifically sent to deliver letters to it and gather information there.”

“The queens don’t talk easily and-”

“You say that, but you never bring anything of substance from your apparent run-ins with the populace, either. Is today any different?”

Gerry faltered. He should have made something up, of course. If only he could focus on anything but the pain of Emma’s knife cutting into him. Michael watching. Michael raising the knife-

Elias sighed deeply, pulling Gerry out of his thoughts. “I assumed as much. Well, you know what happens if you break the rules. Especially for one this important.”

Gerry felt himself deflate, wither. He hadn’t even thought this far. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault that he had been late. Of course, he couldn’t say that, couldn’t defend himself. Not that it had ever done him much good. So he bit his tongue and nodded slowly.

“I will inform Mary tomorrow - or later, rather.” Elias waved the guards forward. “Bring me the token, then take him to the dungeons. You know the procedure.”

As usual, Gerry watched with sadness and some vague aching as the White London token disappeared in Elias' hand. The guards were pushing him out of the throne room the next moment, handling him a lot harsher than they had before. They knew there wouldn't be consequences now. And Gerry knew that whatever twisted version of fear and resentment many of the Red Londoners expressed whenever he went into the city didn't make stop at the palace's door. He guessed in the guards case the resentment made a lot more sense, even. If he'd have to shadow someone at all times because the king commanded it he doubted he'd have a more favourable opinion of that person. 

So he half-stumbled his way down the narrow steps to the dungeons, tired feet struggling to keep up with the pace set for him. 

It was cold there. A humid kind of cold that seemed to creep through skin and into your bones. It was so unlike the dry, biting cold in White London, but still, Gerry was reminded of it. Of the cold room he had woken up in only hours ago. He shivered as the guards pushed him into the first cell, unsure if it was from the chill or the memory. Gerry was too tired to figure it out, and he’d only be getting worse. The bars of the cell - much like the handcuffs around his hands - were designed to dampen magic. While Gerry knew it didn’t work as well on him as it did on normal magicians, he could still feel it. He felt off-kilter, like he hadn’t slept in weeks and was lacking the full energy he was accustomed to otherwise. 

It was a lot more noticeable when they dragged him in kicking and fighting, as they had the first couple times. Gerry wondered when he had bent, at what point he had decided that playing by the rules and keeping his mouth shut was preferable to going against everything he was being told. 

Tonight, he was too exhausted to think about it. He curled up on the cot, face to the wall - it used to be impossible to sleep like this, the idea of being watched without glaring back inconceivable. But at some point Gerry had opted for as much privacy as he could find within his confines. He didn't know if there were any tears left in him tonight but he wasn't going to risk it. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and wondered if Michael was alright. Why had Emma called him again? Why was Gerry so fucking helpless? He couldn't even help himself. When had he accepted this as his life?

Gerry lay awake for a long time before sleep finally took him.

*

The Red Throne had tried many a way to bring Gerry under control. Anything short of outright torture had been used as punishment over the years. And Gerry gave them a lot of opportunities to try new ways, forced them to find something else. Get creative.

In the end, though, the most effective punishment and the one Elias had settled on in the last year or so was, in many ways, the easiest one. Despite hating being in the Red Palace there was still one place Gerry wanted to be in even less and that was with Mary. He'd do - and refrained from doing - a lot to avoid that fate.

So he wasn’t particularly excited when his guards dragged him to her door wordlessly after he had been given time to wash himself and change after his restless night in the cell. They had freed him from the handcuffs in the morning, but Gerry could still feel them, his wrists cold and sore from what he assumed must have been him moving too much during the night. Still, while they waited for Mary to open the door, Gerry wished they’d simply cuff him again and throw him back into the damp cell.

Finally, the door opened. Mary had long stopped pretending to look disappointed at finding him there in this context. She gave him the thinnest smile and waved him inside. Gerry lowered his gaze and followed.

"Why were you late, Gerard?" She leaned against her desk, arms crossed.

Gerry sighed and closed his eyes. "Something came up."

She laughed. The noise made Gerry tense. "You're still not talking, hm? Well, that's fine. There's a lot else to be done." She considered him for a moment. "We'll leave the fun for later. Clean up here first. The books need to be sorted."

Gerry nodded numbly. She always left the 'fun' for last. He wasn't particularly useful when bled to the point of barely being able to stand. And she wasn't supposed to give him a break to recover. Gerry was meant to stay here and help her with everything she might need all day. Nobody else would call for him or talk to him. It was just him and Mary. Like it used to be. 

Worse, because she didn't use to scare him this much. She didn't use to have access to the books in the royal library that gave her more and different ideas for her experiments, for understanding magic and making it her own. If that's what she was even trying to do. It was difficult to tell sometimes. 

Mary moved to show him what he ought to do and Gerry followed quietly. Fighting would only make it worse. He used to fight so much in the beginning. Where had all his energy gone?

Many hours of doing as Mary told him while growing more and more bitter about it, Gerry lay on the cot in her backroom. She had told him to stand and leave, but the room was spinning too much for him to dare getting up. He wondered what she did with his blood sometimes. He knew about her research but she never explained what exactly she was up to. She disliked him asking, too. It used to concern him a lot more, but occasionally, when his head spun from lack of blood, he'd think about it again. What was she even trying to achieve? Where did all his blood go?

He was sure it wasn't going to waste like Michael’s. Like his own on that cold stone floor. 

"Gerard, it's getting late and you are not sleeping here. Get up. How many times do I need to tell you?"

She sounded irritated. She didn't like him taking so long to follow her orders. Gerry took a deep breath and slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. Nausea overcame him for a moment and he worried he might lose the little food he had managed to eat in the short time Mary left him to do so. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting for the worse to pass.

"You're worse than usual today. Slow. What did happen yesterday?"

Gerry used to tell himself she cared when she asked him such things. He had stopped lying to himself a long time ago. If anything, she sounded mildly annoyed.

"Just sore. Like I said, I ran into some trouble on my way from the-"

"Like I said you don't lie to me this easily. I thought that'd be clear by now."

Gerry shut his mouth. He wordlessly rolled down his sleeves - the blood was dry and even if not nobody would ask questions. Nobody was to speak to him in the next days. Weeks? Gerry wondered how long his punishment would go this time. 

The cuts weren't deep. Mary preferred to let him heal more quickly so she could repeat the procedure soon if necessary. It had been strange to sit there and watch her cut into his skin. She looked nothing like Emma and yet it had been impossible not to think of how similar of a situation Gerry found himself in just a day later. The main difference was that this time the woman holding the knife was his mother and she cut with purposeful precision, not a drop of blood going to waste. There was less obvious joy in her expression, but Gerry knew her well enough to know she liked having him sit still at her mercy. She enjoyed the control and power coming to the Red Palace had given her. While she had let him roam free - somewhat - back at their house, she liked having him pliant here. Maybe she simply had access to more theories she wanted to try out with his blood here. He didn't know. But he sometimes missed her more neglectful attitude towards him. He felt suffocated by her here. By her and everything else, he guessed.

He slowly got to his feet, room tilting dangerously with the movement. She made no move to help him, simply stood leaning against her table full of books, arms crossed, dark eyes trained on him in a near predatory way. Gerry used to make an effort to not show weakness in front of her but he needed his energy now to steady himself. Mary knew his weaknesses. She had proven that many times.

Gerry moved towards the door once the room settled. Mary’s eyes followed, disapproving. Gerry wondered what displeased her this time. He didn't linger to find out, opening the door and walking through without a word.

The last times Gerry had fucked up enough to get punished for it like this he had been allowed to stay in his room. However, Elias had insisted on him sleeping in the cell this time, like he used to in the beginning. Not keeping his schedule was too severe a fuckup to be punished lightly.

It did mean that Gerry had to find his way down the steep stairs into the dungeons dizzy and in the dark. His wrists were bound again and the guards kept their distance behind him so the lamplight barely reached in front of him. It hadn't been like this at first. In the beginning the guards had been too afraid of him - not necessarily because of anything Gerry had done, but of the general stories about Antari and their powers - to dare do something like this. 

He'd still see fear in their eyes occasionally, fear and apprehension. They clearly didn't like that a group of them was to follow him around at all time. Gerry couldn't blame them. He didn't like it, either. But with time he guessed they had realised that he wouldn't hurt them and while they might get told off by the king for overstepping under normal circumstances they had found out that if he was being punished, Elias wouldn't say anything as long as he wasn't incapacitated. They made the best of it. 

None had ever dared to actually hurt him - though sometimes Gerry could see the wish to do so in their eyes - but they'd add to making his experience worse in any other way. The rough handling the night before, the way they were letting him stumble down the steps, groping for the wall in the dark in the hope it would provide some balance. He'd hear them snicker on occasion, when he slipped and nearly fell. Gerry grit his teeth. He should be used to this humiliation, but it still got to him. It was in these moments were the old white-hot rage gripped him again, where he wanted to fight, turn around and fucking punch them. He'd done so once only. It had resorted in his punishment dragging on for months. 

He was too dizzy to even attempt such a thing tonight anyway. He simply stumbled on, looking forward to a couple hours of sleep even if it wouldn't leave him particularly rested. At least he could escape consciousness for a little while.

Chapter Text

Michael turned around at the sound of steps, surprised if not shocked. He had hoped Gerry would come - hoped and dreaded it at the same time. He hadn’t seen him during his last visit to Red London, making him wonder if maybe he didn’t want to see Michael. Michael couldn’t blame him after last time. And technically he knew that not seeing each other again like this would probably be the best way to avoid something like last time happening again. 

But Michael felt like the time for such caution was over. The queens knew - even if he doubted they knew any details - and it wouldn’t matter if Michael actively tried to keep Gerry at a distance or not now. If they wanted to hurt him - or Gerry - nothing would stop them.

“Michael,” Gerry mumbled, a slight smile on his lips. Michael couldn’t tell if his face looked paler than usual or if the dark circles under his eyes had just gotten so deep they made him look slickly. It brought back very old memories of times Gerry came to visit still recovering from whatever his mother had done to him.

The concerned question was on the tip of Michael’s tongue, but when he spoke he said, “I...wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Gerry walked into the room and leaned against the wall next to Michael. He seemed exhausted. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

Michael shrugged. “I might as well. I don’t think there’s much to lose anymore…”

That wasn’t true. Michael had learned a long time ago that whenever he thought the queens couldn’t make his life much worse, they’d find ways to do so. He knew it was selfish of him to be here, but in the end the harm was already done. Michael told himself that whether he met Gerry again or not, it wouldn’t change too much about the queens’ reactions.

Gerry nodded slowly. “I don’t have much time, though. I...I just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t your fault.”

“It kind of was…” Michael smiled wryly. “I’m sorry about it. And I’m sorry for not helping. And I’m sorry for nearly-”

“It’s fine.” Gerry closed his eyes. “I don’t blame you, Michael.”

Michael fell into stunned silence. He should blame him. Michael was at fault, and mercy - forgiveness - was a dusty memory. Gerry should be angry. Gerry shouldn’t even have come after Michael got him into such a mess.

“Did she hurt you afterwards?” Gerry’s quiet, worried voice interrupted Michael’s thoughts.

He blinked, confused. “Hm?”

Gerry didn’t meet his eyes when he said, “Emma. She made you come back to her after I left…”

“Oh...no.” Michael shook his head, baffled by Gerry expressing concern for him after all of that. He didn’t deserve it. “Not...she just wanted me to run some errands.”

“Oh…”

Gerry’s hair slipped from behind his ears as he sighed, falling into his face in a motion that nearly looked like a caress. Michael hesitated, but reached out with a mumbled may I before brushing the strands back after Gerry’s nod. It was still as soft as Michael remembered. Only shorter in the front, barely long enough to stay behind his ears. It looked cute.

“I like what you did with your hair…” Michael mumbled, idly running his thumb over the tips of the strands before tucking them behind Gerry’s ear again. His fingers hovered over the small eye tattoo by his ear, “And those…”

Gerry smiled, tilting his head so Michael’s fingers brushed his skin. “Thank you. The hair wasn’t my choice, but I’m used to it by now. I like it this length. Wasn’t big on the shorter fringe.”

Michael frowned. “Not your choice?”

“The king disliked my habit of covering the Antari mark with my hair. He wanted it on display.”

Michael’s free hand abscent-mindedly went to one of the clasps holding his hair out of his eyes. Gerry watched him, expression slipping into something more sad.

“Same for you?”

Michael nodded slowly, still trying to process the new information. He had spent embarrassingly little time considering Gerry’s life at the palace, but for some reason Michael had thought it had gotten better there. With other people to hopefully protect him from Mary, with any comforts he could want. The guards had been strange; Michael had noticed that they seemed to follow Gerry around at all times, but he had never put much thought into it being more than a protective measure. He had never thought Gerry would have to do things without having a choice. At least not something like this, something Annabelle had insisted on the moment Michael’s hair had grown long enough again to fall into his face. It chilled Michael to know anyone would’ve done something similar to Gerry. He didn’t want to think about it.

“And the eyes…?” Michael mumbled instead, tracing the black outline with his fingertip, trying to not press down too much because his fingers hadn’t been soft in a long time and it would probably not be particularly pleasant. Even this felt wrong, like a lie, the motion a dusty memory. Michael’s hands should have lost the ability for gentleness after all this time inflicting pain.

Still, to Michael’s astonishment, Gerry leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering close. “That was me. Probably the only time I semi-successfully managed to sneak out of the palace…” 

The hands he had done himself in the months after. They had only had time for his face and neck before the guards found him again. Gerry had eventually managed to convince Elias to allow him to return for more - an occasional, rare treat that got spoiled by how obviously Elias used the opportunity to show him off, more guards than necessary accompanying him. 

"Sneak out…? Are you not allowed to leave?"

Gerry shook his head. "Not without permission. And I need a good reason."

Michael frowned. "Why?" Gerry shrugged. Dread filled Michael at a sudden realisation. "The guards. They never leave your side. It's...not for protection?" 

Gerry looked up at him in surprise, like the very idea had just occurred to him. "I don't think so. I mean...maybe? They mostly are supposed to keep me in line. And keep me from getting out of the palace."

Michael furrowed his brows. "You're a prisoner."

Gerry shrugged, but didn’t meet his eyes. "It's a big cage. It's...it's okay."

Michael wondered what else he’d been ignorant about. How much had he missed being busy with keeping Gerry safe from the queens? Was Gerry even safe where he was? "I'm sorry."

Gerry gave him a tired smile. "You don't have to be. It's not your fault."

Michael shook his head. If anything, ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem like nearly enough to express how awful he felt. "No, but I never thought- I never stopped to consider that your life isn't…" Isn’t what? Michael didn’t even know what to say, because he had, frankly, not thought about it at all. He had seen Gerry alive and seemingly well and simply assumed things must be going well for him.

Gerry shook his head, raised his hand as if to touch Michael’s arm, but stopped himself from doing so. His hand hovering over Michael’s arm, he mumbled, "It's fine. I...it's the same old but on a bigger scale. I'm used to it."

Michael bit his lip, chest aching. He wished he could explain, could find a more accurate way to express this feeling. He had wanted for Gerry to be well and happy. Not like this. "Still...I'm sorry."

Gerry shook his head, crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wall. He sighed, looking ahead, voice quiet when he spoke. " I'm sorry. For you."

They fell silent, Michael eventually leaning against the wall next to him, letting his eyes wander over the flat. Or what was left of it. It was barely recognisable, anything of any value had long been taken and the rest left to rot. But Michael still remembered how it used to look vividly. He wondered if Gerry remembered, too. What was he seeing? Michael considered asking, but it felt like just another dreary topic to bring up. Their conversations used to be so much more than this.

Michael chuckled dryly, spoke more to himself than to Gerry, "What did we use to talk about back then?"

Gerry chuckled, too. "Everything. Nothing. Sometimes simultaneously." There was a small, nostalgic smile on his lips that was infectious. It slipped after a short moment and he sighed. "I really miss those times."

Michael nodded. "Me too…"

"I think I was happy then," Gerry mumbled, brushing his hair behind his ear.

Michael nodded again, but got distracted when Gerry’s sleeve slid down a little with the movement, revealing a short glimpse of a reddened skin. Suddenly, Michael saw him bound again, dangling in Michael’s place, Emma methodically carving into his skin. Michael tensed, reached out on instinct, but stopped himself before touching. 

"Is that still from the last time you were here?" he asked, quietly. Michael didn’t want to mention it. Didn’t want to think about it. It couldn't be though, could it? It had been two weeks. Even non-Antari would’ve healed such superficial wounds by now.

Gerry blinked as if pulled out of some revery, looked at Michael, "Hm?” He followed Michael’s gaze to his own wrist. “Oh." Lips pressed into a thin line, Gerry abscently traced the thin band of red skin. Sleeping in handcuffs with his inability to keep still in the night was a bad combination. He really hoped it would be over soon. "No, that healed immediately."

Michael looked alarmed. "Then-"

Gerry looked away. Michael didn’t need to know, not right now. "I...don't want to talk about it."

Michael looked at him for a moment, then nodded once. "Okay, I'm sorry." Michael didn’t want to push him to talk about anything he didn’t want to share, but he also felt like he wasn’t doing enough. It looked painful. Michael wanted to help, somehow. He chewed his lip, considering. Gerry had leaned into his touch earlier. Maybe Michael could soothe the skin with his cold fingers? He tentatively held out his hand. "May I?"

Gerry hesitated, then nodded. He could still feel Michael’s finger against his cheek. Gerry had forgotten that such touches were possible. Such gentleness. It had been easier to force himself to forget, to push any thought of it away than to deal with the intense pain and yearning of missing being touched like that while guards bruised his arms manhandling him. 

"Sure," he whispered, putting his hands in Michael’s waiting one. 

Michael tensed at first, as if surprised by Gerry agreeing. He gave Gerry a questioning glance, but Gerry simply nodded. Michael gently took his hands, then hesitated before carefully tracing the calloused palms with his thumb until reaching his wrists and pushing the sleeves up a little. His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the abused skin, afraid of hurting Gerry further. But Gerry only sighed quietly and when Michael looked up his eyes were half closed. So Michael continued carefully, following the red marks around his wrists with his fingers. They were purple in some places, yellow in others, and Michael wondered what had happened. From experience the easiest way for this to happen was to spend days if not weeks with metal chafing against skin. There was no blood, but Antari healed such wounds quickly. 

What had happened? Michael looked up again but Gerry’s eyes had closed fully now, something like relief in his expression as he leaned against the wall. He didn't want to talk about it, he had said. Michael worried. He continued quietly tracing his wrists, trying to marvel at the feeling of Gerry’s skin under his fingertips rather than let his concern about the hot skin push him into asking again.

"I sometimes wish I had accepted your offer…" Gerry mumbled suddenly.

Michael looked up, startled. "My...offer?"

Gerry opened his eyes with a sad smile. "Yes. The one you made time and time again. For me to stay."

"Ah." The memory made Michael ache. He had always hoped Gerry would take it some day. He shook his head now. "White London only got worse...much worse. You probably made the right decision."

Gerry gently took his hands and squeezed them. "But it has you."

Michael froze, stunned by that simple statement. As if that would make the crumbling city that was becoming less and less habitable any better. "I...I have nothing to offer you now. Not even myself. I'm not my own."

He looked up and their eyes met only for a moment before Michael looked away. Gerry’s eyes were filled with such sadness. Michael didn't want to look at it. There was no point in starting to feel sad for himself again.

Gerry sighed, straightened up again. "I should go. I can't be late again." He hesitated before pulling his hands away. "Thank you."

Michael shook his head. "Use the shortcut. And...take care."

He tried for a smile and Gerry returned it with an equally watery one. They stood for a moment, neither knowing what else to say or do but not wanting to go either. Gerry eventually stepped towards the other wall, the sign above what had been the fireplace all those years ago. Michael looked away when he brought a blade to his arm - he saw him bleeding every night in his dreams, he didn't want to refresh that image - and mumbled a goodbye.

"Bye Michael." Something like a smile filled Gerry’s voice. "Take care."

And then he was gone.

*

Michael wasn't exactly sure why he was back at the flat. They hadn't decided on meeting up again last time and Gerry had been very much back to the usual, trying to get any of the queens to answer his questions without seeming at all affected by Emma’s torture. Michael didn't know if he ought to be impressed or concerned. It had taken himself a long time to come close to that nonchalance. He hoped it simply came more naturally to Gerry. 

But he couldn't forget the band of irritated skin around Gerry’s wrists. They had still been there when Michael delivered his letter a week ago. And something had felt off. Gerry had been present as usual, but seemed to be just a bit more to the side. Had there been more guards?

Steps pulled Michael out of his thoughts. He turned around and Gerry was there, standing by the wall with the blood mark. He met Michael’s eyes and smiled.

“Hi.”

Michael hesitated, but then nodded. "Hello." He smiled tentatively. "I didn't expect you to come."

"I wasn't sure I'd find you here, either." 

They both huffed a soft laugh at the strange repetition. It was a tentative thing, devoid of levity. But it was something.

An awkward silence settled between them. It felt so wrong. Gerry still remembered how effortlessly they used to fill such silences, how even when their conversation grew quiet it had never felt awkward. Never felt like this. Or at least he didn’t remember it being the case. Maybe the very beginning had come close, when Gerry had forced himself to keep as quiet as he could for fear of giving away his secret. For fear of his lack of experience talking to anyone but Mary making things go bad.

Gerry hadn't thought about his ineptitude in a long while. Why did he suddenly feel like he didn’t know how to speak? He could feel himself start fidgeting restlessly as the seconds passed. He had to say something. "I never asked you but...how did you figure out the Antari magic?"

It was out of nowhere, and there were surely many more appropriate topics, but Gerry couldn’t think of any. He had many questions, but this one, at least, seemed the safest of them all. It would hopefully not bring back the image of bloody bodies in windowless rooms.

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. I remembered bits from what you told me all those years ago. And the rest just kind of...came to me?” Michael shrugged, “I don't know."

"Ah…" Gerry nodded, wishing he had more to say. "I know what you mean…" he mumbled, because that, at least, was something .

"You?" Michael asked.

Gerry sighed, looking at the ceiling. "Mary pushed me a lot...she did have some books, too."

"Of course." He sounded wry.

“I mostly also just...knew. The words were in my head suddenly.”

Michael nodded knowingly. His brows knit into a pained expression for a moment. Gerry tried to not sound as alarmed as he felt. “Are you okay?”

Part of him wanted to laugh at the question. The answer was obviously no, but Gerry couldn’t find a better way to phrase it.

Michael hesitated for a moment, then nodded carefully. “Just...a bit of a headache. I’m okay.”

Gerry frowned. “Maybe your hair clips are pulling on your hair?”

Michael looked surprised by the suggestion. “Hm?”

“Maybe take them out for a moment? It looks quite tight.”

He shook his head slowly. The suggestion seemed strange to him, the very idea of Michael choosing to simply take the clips out without being ordered to foreign. And even that they very rarely did. Emma liked how they kept the hair out of his face when she hurt him. Annabelle had been the one to insist he’d wear his hair like this. Taking them out had never sounded like an option, except for when he was specifically dismissed to bed. 

“I...I only take them out to sleep.” Why did he suddenly feel so insecure about it?

Gerry shrugged. “Well, they’re not here to see. And you can put them back in before you leave. I’ll help, if you want.” Now he sounded a little unsure. “Sorry, I just...I think part of your headache at least might be from that?”

Michael didn’t disagree. He remembered getting acute headaches from the clips pulling his hair back in the beginning, but he had gotten used to it. Or at least he thought he had. One of his hands came to touch one of the hair clips tentatively. Pondering.

Gerry wasn’t wrong. Michael had no order to keep them in at all time and right now he was out of sight of the queens. And maybe it would help. Michael had woken up with an aching head and it had only gotten progressively worse throughout the day. The clips probably didn’t help.

Michael started fiddling with one of them, trying to remove it. They generally got stuck in his curls, but Michael had long given up on the patience to remove them slowly rather than simply ripping out hair along with them. He suddenly heard Gerry flinch beside him and Michael stopped in his tracks, looking at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Gerry shook his head. “Watching you do that is painful. Can...can I help you? I’m sure there’s a less painful way to get that clip out, just...please. Stop tugging like that.”

His tone was nearly like it used to be whenever Michael used to do something a little reckless like taking the boiling water off the stove with his bare hands. It was fondness mixed with concern and Michael froze and Gerry suddenly seemed to realise how he had spoken and grew quieter, stumbling through the last couple words, eyes to the floor. The ache in Michael’s heart was nearly enough for him to forget the pain in his scalp for a moment. To nearly miss the offer.

He didn’t know what to say. The idea of Gerry wanting to be near him still seemed wrong. Michael had hurt him. Michael had gotten him hurt and still he had come here again. And still he was offering his help like Michael deserved anything but him turning his back to Michael for good. Like Michael hadn’t been holding a knife to his chest not too long ago.

Michael rapidly blinked the memory away, already feeling his stomach twist, his eyes growing moist. Not now. Gerry was still not looking at him, nervously fidgeting with the button on his cuff. It drew Michael’s attention to his pretty hands - Michael had thought of them too much since he got to hold them last time - the covered wrists that may or may not still be sore. Michael wanted to ask. Michael did not want to make the conversation dreadful again. And Gerry didn’t want to talk about it, anyway.

“Okay,” Michael mumbled after a too-long moment. Gerry gave him a confused look and Michael lowered his head a little so Gerry could see. “If you still want to help, I mean…”

“Oh! Of course, sorry…” He moved the rest of the way to where Michael was standing, hesitated. “Are...are you sure this is okay? You’ll tell me if I’m hurting you? If I should stop?”

Michael frowned, still unsure what to do with this strange feeling in his chest at Gerry’s consideration. It felt good, but in a dangerous way. Like it might make Michael remember that this was an option, too, that there was something else besides the queens’ orders, regardless of what Michael ever wanted or didn’t want. Michael couldn’t afford this thinking. It had cost him enough already.

But right now - for Gerry - he considered the words, and nodded. Gerry’s fingers were in his hair a moment later and Michael held very, very still. He always held very, very still at any touch. Sometimes it would discourage Emma from hurting him any further. She didn’t like being bored.

Gerry wasn’t hurting him. Michael could feel his fingers working, careful, slow. It felt so strange. Michael remembered Gerry’s gentleness but it had been too long for him to really recall how it felt. There had been too many years of blows and cuts for him to not expect one or the other at any touch. He knew Gerry wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure if his body understood, if maybe he simply hadn’t known how gentle Gerry would be but when Gerry’s finger slipped and his nail scraped Michael’s scalp, pulling on a hair just a little, and he apologised with such genuine concern in his voice, something inside Michael broke. The sob slipped from his mouth before he could stop it and there was no time to keep the tears from spilling. He still didn’t move from his position. He knew he was shaking. They never liked when he shook under their punishments.

“Oh shit, Michael? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” 

Gerry’s hands had disappeared from his hair instead of tightening in it to the point of bringing fresh tears into Michael’s eyes. This was all wrong. A hand on Michael’s cheek, too warm, too careful as it guided his face up, as if suggesting for Michael to look up rather than forcing him to do so. Gerry’s face was too close and too worried, his eyes their painfully warm shade of brown, his lashes still a couple shades lighter than his hair, the tips nearly blond, and Michael didn’t know what to do with all of this. He covered his mouth, but the sob still made his shoulders shake and Michael’s eyes widened in fear. But Gerry didn’t strike, of course he didn’t, he simply took another step back, held up his empty hands, worry and confusion in his face.

“Michael…? Is...are you- can I do anything? Do you need something?”

Michael clutched at his chest. Why did he ache so much at those words, at that tone? Why did it all feel so much, so wrong? Michael shook his head, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t do this right now. Gerry hovered closer again, repeated his question but Michael stepped back, shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I...can’t.” Can’t what? Michael didn’t know. “Please...go.”

Gerry shook his head, took a step forward. Then took a step back again. He didn’t want to leave Michael like this. He did not. But neither did he want to push him. Clearly something had gone wrong. And Gerry wanted to know what and fix it. But Michael looked at him pleadingly as he asked him to leave again and Gerry probably didn’t have much time left anyway. He made a frustrated noise, held Michael’s gaze for another apology - hoping it would help, hoping whatever he did was forgivable - before forcing himself to turn around and walk out. Michael’s crying seemed to be calming down. Gerry didn’t turn back.

Chapter Text

Michael didn’t understand. Gerry’s hands in his hair had felt good, had felt nice and then they had felt like so much and Michael could barely calm himself down before leaving to meet the queens again. He didn’t know what had happened. He just knew that shocked look on Gerry’s face - the pained expression when Michel told him to leave - would not leave his mind and Michael wished he could somehow reach Gerry and tell him he had done nothing wrong. Because while Michael still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, he knew it hadn’t been Gerry’s fault. It had been him. He just didn’t understand what exactly had gone wrong. Gerry had been so careful and it had felt so good and Michael-

Michael wished he could stop thinking about it. Darkness had fully fallen and Annabelle’s instructions had been painfully detailed and Michael didn’t want to think of Gerry - didn’t want to think of the feeling of his hands in Michael’s hair, the way he had taken such care not to pull on any strand - while cracking bones and drawing blood, wishing he could make the screaming stop and knowing he could not because his orders were too specific for him to ‘slip up’ and kill them too soon. 

There shouldn’t have been space left in his mind to dwell on Gerry, not with how much Michael still wanted to scream as his boot came down on an already twisted ankle, the shout of pain followed by more pleading for mercy, desperate attempts at making him stop and Michael wanted nothing more than to stop, but his body moved on its own. The order wasn’t completely fulfilled yet and Michael wished Gerry would not also be on his mind right now, right here. 

He felt guilty for that being the case - both towards Gerry, who had been nothing but kind and gentle and shouldn’t be associated with this , and for the figure attempting and failing to get out of the puddle of blood, looking at Michael’s hand - the one holding the knife - at him in utter terror because Michael shouldn’t be distracted while inflicting this much pain, should remember every moment so it could torment his dreams in a sorry excuse of penitence. 

There were tears on his face. Michael hadn’t cried on one of his missions in a while. He hadn’t cried in so long before Gerry had shown up again and immediately cracked the cold mask Michael had struggled to compose for himself over the years in the palace. Michael hated it. Michael wanted it. It had felt good to cry, even if he didn’t understand why he had suddenly felt overwhelmed enough to do so. It felt right to cry now, in frustration, in anger, in pain as he watched pale blue eyes turn glassy. 

It was such a familiar sight by now. Michael forced himself to look at their ruined face as it went lax and still, and made sure to remember it. Another dead face to his steadily growing count and his hands were shaking as he wiped them on his pants before turning to leave. Michael had long given up on prayers or apologies. He had no right to say words over the corpses he made. The words had always only been for him, and Michael was beyond deserving any comfort.

Of course, if he weren’t a hypocrite about it that would mean Michael would make sure Gerry stayed away. He wouldn’t still be thinking about how much he wished to feel his fingers in his hair again. Michael felt disgusted with himself on so many levels. He made sure to wash the tears off his face before heading back to the castle.

*

Gerry struggled to focus in the following two weeks. He couldn’t figure out what he had done wrong, and he couldn’t stop thinking about whether Michael was okay. It was a stupid thought, he obviously was not, but the last thing Gerry wanted to do was add to his suffering. And to avoid doing so, he had to find out where he had overstepped last time.

“Gerard?”

Gerry snapped out of it, pausing the excessive chewing of his lip. “Hm?”

Gertrude regarded him for a long moment, frowning. “Something is on your mind.”

He blinked, then gave a hesitant nod. “I’m still wondering how you got Elias to shorten my punishment. He’s dragged this out for over a month for a lot more petty missteps than me being late.”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. “That is for me to worry about, not you. There is a high chance your mother will make sure you will see the dungeons soon enough again by arguing you still seem quite distracted from your mission.” She shook her head. “I would be inclined to agree. You are not here to daydream, Gerard. This is important.”

Gerry sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I’m sorry.” He leaned forward, forcing his mind to stop wandering, “What do you want me to do? I think I missed the details…”

Gertrude shook her head. “Again, the ball tonight. Talk to people. Some close...acquaintances of Elias are supposedly attending. They might know something.”

“Do you think he’d tell them if he’s being this secretive here?”

Gertrude shrugged. “He will have to slip up somewhere. It is up to us to catch it.” She looked at him sternly. “This is as good a place as any to start. Or do you have a different idea?”

Gerry shook his head. “No.” He sighed. He didn’t want to attend any balls or parties, but he didn’t seem to have much choice. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Gertrude nodded. It was the closest thing to satisfaction she’d ever show. Gerry got up from his seat and stretched. “Was that all?”

“For now. Report to me tomorrow morning.”

Gerry nodded, then waved goodbye as he made for the door. 

Gerry felt highly uncomfortable among the frilly nobles. The clothes he had been put in were even more uncomfortable to move in than the ones he had to wear for his official missions and too much fabric made too much noise with every movement. He could feel the usual stares - the ones people were convinced were unnoticeable - as he made his way along the edge of the ballroom. 

Gerry hated these gatherings so much. They were always a waste of time. Despite everybody being very eager to look at him, few people didn’t shy away when he approached. Talking to people was difficult when they were in some way terrified, or at least resentful of you.

Gerry still tried, obviously. Gertrude had gotten more and more insistant and Gerry just wanted her off his back. He was tired. He didn’t care about any of this. He would much rather be trying to find something to help Michael.

Gerry had never stopped his efforts, but had little to nothing to show for it. It seemed that that kind of magic wasn’t only barely known, but basically not known at all. His mother’s notes were the only substantial thing he had been able to find - he stole glances while she set up her things a couple times - and even those were little more than an assurance that soul seals existed and then a lot of questions on how such magic could possibly work. Unhelpful, and probably slightly unsettling if Gerry took a moment to think about the fact that his mother of all people seemed interested in such a thing. Then again, it didn’t surprise him.

He watched the nobles laugh and chatter and wondered if any of them might have answers he so desperately needed. Probably not. And even if they did, how would Gerry go about finding out? He already struggled gathering anything for Gertrude without making the guards shadowing him suspicious. Gerry sighed, and put his still-full glass away before moving towards the chatting group closest to him.

As usual, Gerry felt utterly drained after the ball. He had spent most of the night trying to get anything Gertrude might find interesting out of a variety of those attending, but he hadn’t gotten much. She probably wouldn’t be happy, but Gerry couldn’t find himself to care. He was exhausted. And he had tried, had done his best to stay focused on the task. To not think of Michael.

It all came back the moment Gerry collapsed into his bed. He was too tired to really think about any of it - their last strange interaction, the fact that the snippets Gerry had gathered on binding magic were nothing, the blood - always the blood pooling beneath Michael’s feet, trickling down his shoulder as he sobbed at Gerry’s feet. Gerry simply lay there and let the images pass in front of his inner eye, let thoughts form without having the energy to really focus on them until exhaustion finally brought unconsciousness.

His dreams were haunted by cold, dark eyes, watching. Only watching as he screamed in pain.

Chapter Text

t felt like years passed before Gerry was finally sent to White London again. Despite Gertrude and Mary seemingly trying to one-up each other in keeping him busy, time had passed torturously slow. Gerry found himself sketching to pass the few free minutes he got, trying to not dwell on Michael and where he had fucked up. Michael’s face ended up staring back at him when he was done. Not the rough sketches he used to draw from memory after coming to the palace, but Michael as he was now, hard face and tired eyes. Gerry closed his sketchbook with a shaky breath.

When he was finally back in White London, his conversation with the queens seemed like it went on forever. He was acutely aware of Michael’s presence in the shadows. He couldn’t see his face, vaguely wondered how accurately he had captured it. It was a silly detail to think of in that moment, but Gerry hadn’t drawn Michael in so long. He couldn’t help himself. It was an easier topic to dwell on than Michael’s tears last time.

But eventually, Gerry was dismissed. He took the usual detour to the rotting flat. Michael was already there. It was a relief to see him, but Gerry still wanted to fix whatever went wrong last time.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he stepped up to Michael.

Michael shook his head. “No, I need to apologise.”

Gerry frowned. “No, I shouldn’t have-”

“You did nothing wrong.” Michael sighed. “I...I got...overwhelmed.” He looked away at the admission, too ashamed and guilty to keep looking Gerry in the face. “I’m not...used to it anymore. It...touch usually...hurts. And like...I knew it wouldn’t. I wasn’t expecting you to hurt me, I just...it...was a lot.” He swallowed, feeling like he didn’t really manage to explain what he meant. But he didn’t know how else to say it. He hesitantly met Gerry’s eyes again. “You did nothing wrong. It...felt nice. I just...it surprised me? Kind of. It- it was too much. But that’s not on you.”

Gerry looked heartbroken. “Michael…” He wanted to say more - wanted to make things better, wanted to at least find a way to express the tightness in his chest at the small, nearly scared voice Michael uttered those words in. It reminded Gerry of the way he had spoken when he had found him dripping blood onto the floor. He wanted to gather Michael in his arms until he didn’t have to talk like this, say something like this anymore. 

Gerry balled his restless hands into fists at his side. “It’s okay.” He frowned. “Well, it’s not, it’s the opposite of okay. But...now we know? So I’ll just keep my hands to myself-”

“I- I actually thought we could try again?” Michael spoke too quickly, nearly too fast for Gerry to catch the words.

Gerry blinked. “Huh?”

Gerry thought he could glimpse a light blush on Michael’s cheeks as he averted his eyes. “I mean...I know what to expect now.” He pulled lightly on one of his curls. “It...it felt nice. And I think...I think I’d like to try again.” He froze, then looked up at Gerry, eyes a little wide, “If- if you want! I understand if...you don’t. I can’t...promise it won’t be like last time.”

“No! I...I’d love to, but...are you sure?”

“I am...I...would like to get used to it again. Or...something like that.” Michael knew this was a bad idea. Getting used to not being hurt at every touch would just give him the acute awareness that things didn’t have to be like this when one of the queens did decide to hurt him again.

But Michael was already lost, had been unable to not think about the gentleness of Gerry’s hand in his hair for weeks now. He wanted it so much. 

Gerry held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. If it gets too much, tell me?”

Michael nodded. He took a step towards Gerry and lowered his head. After a moment’s hesitation, Gerry reached out to carefully undo the metal clasps again. They were less tangled up in Michael’s hair than last time since Michael hadn’t been trying to rip them out before. Still, Gerry was gentle - maybe moreso, trying to pick up on any sign of discomfort - halted occasionally, giving Michael a moment, asking if he was alright. Michael would nod and Gerry’s fingers would go back to his hair. It felt so much like it used to and it brought back memories of playing with Michael’s hair that left Gerry aching. 

Michael seemed to relax after the first clip was gone, no longer holding so still it seemed tense as, Gerry’s fingers carefully worked the rest of the last clip out of his hair. A quiet sigh of relief left Michael’s lips once the hair clasp came out. The hair itself barely budged and Gerry frowned, gently fluffed the strands stuck to Michael’s head, ruffled them carefully until the strands spilled into Michael’s face. Michael looked up, blinking the hair out of his eyes in surprise. Gerry brushed the strands, curls nearly fully flattened with how much they were pulled back, behind his ear. He gasped softly. Michael gave him an uncertain, questioning look.

"I…you look so much more like you." Gerry halted, shook his head. "I mean- like you used to look."

"Oh…" Michael touched one of the strands behind his ear. He looked sceptical. "You think?" Gerry nodded, brushed his cheek with his knuckles - barely, a ghost of a touch. Michael sighed quietly, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"The help." He smiled a little, "The patience."

Gerry chuckled. "You're welcome." He sighed then, hand falling from Michael’s face. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

Michael shook his head, accepted the hair clips when Gerry handed them to him. "You don't need to apologise. Take...take care." Michael’s fingers hovered over Gerry’s cheek, not daring to touch. Gerry leaned in, just enough to feel the brush of Michael’s cold fingertips against his cheek. 

He sighed. “You take care.” He gave Michael a small smile. “See you in a week.”

Michael nodded, and watched when Gerry turned away to leave, missing the feeling of his gentle fingers in his hair. It still felt wrong to want more of it, more of the kind of touch that didn’t hurt, more of Gerry . 

It wasn’t safe. They both knew. Gerry had still come. And so had Michael.

*

Their meetings became an unspoken agreement. At least on occasions where Gerry had some time left over and Michael wasn’t called to attend to one of the queens right away they would both find their way to the crumbling flat. It still felt awkward at the beginning. They weren’t sure what to talk about, and the silence between them was never easy anymore. 

Touching didn’t feel quite right either, even with Michael usually managing to ask him to stop before it got overwhelming again. It just didn’t come as natural to trace each other’s hands as it used to - the fingers felt different, the touch too light in fear of hurting or it being too much - but they still did it because when words failed, as they most often did, it was at least something to hold the other’s hand. Even if Michael’s hands were hesitant, Gerry still loved feeling them. It had been long since the last time anyone had touched him just for the sake of doing so, and even if Michael barely dared to hold him properly now it was still nice and Michael usually didn’t mind Gerry leaning into it.

Michael still didn’t think he deserved any of this. Not Gerry leaning into hands that kept committing atrocities, not his gentle fingers raking through Michael's hair as if Michael had any right to be touched like this after all he'd done. He knew he didn't. Yet, he didn't stop Gerry, indulged as much as he dared without his guilt becoming choking. And sometimes he'd lose himself so much that he barely felt guilty. It felt too good to have Gerry’s nails trace his wrist to dwell on whether he should or should not be doing it. Gerry seemed happy. And Michael let himself be.

"Michael?"

"Hm?"

Gerry hesitated for a moment, but decided to simply ask. The question had been haunting him for a long while. “Does Annabelle always just…watch? Like that?”

The dreams had never stopped. The details had started to fade a little with time, but Annabelle’s dark eyes, nearly indifferent as they simply bored into him while Emma cut, always stayed. Something about it chilled Gerry, something about her expression bordering on disinterest and yet she never looked away. The way she didn’t even look at Michael when she drove the knife into his shoulder. Gerry seemed to be struggling the most with shedding those images rather than the actual pain Emma put him through.

Michael tensed beside him, pulled his arm away from Gerry’s fingers. Gerry let him go, ran his hands through his own hair instead to calm his nerves. This wasn’t something they usually talked about. Michael clearly tried to avoid talking about himself and the queens and Gerry was usually happy not to push. Gerry was not somebody who talked about what haunted him. Only to Michael, way back, when Mary had been his only problem in life. He didn’t know why he had started to feel the urge to talk again after so much time of dealing with his problems by himself again. Maybe it was Michael. Michael still made him feel too comfortable, made him want to share things he’d never dare to speak of otherwise. 

It had probably been a bad idea, but there was no going back now. Gerry glanced at Michael’s face and it had closed off like it often did when conversation drifted too close to what happened inside of the White Fortress. It made sense, obviously. Gerry didn’t want to think about that specific night, either. But it kept finding him in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I shouldn't have brought it up-”

“Nightmares?” Michael asked, voice quiet and sad. He still wasn’t looking at Gerry.

Gerry shrugged and it felt like admitting to Mary hurting him all over again when he spoke, “Kind of…yeah. Never really…stopped.” He struggled to form the words, shame and that uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability making him feel like he was choking. 

He knew he had done a decent job at covering up how much he still thought about that night. How much control it took him to look Emma in the face and not show any of the rage - the fear - that still lingered from it. Gerry was confident that if he hadn’t said anything, Michael probably would have never known. Yet, there was such resignation in how he had said nightmares? . It was less a question and more like a statement and Gerry couldn’t tell if that made him regret bringing this up more or less.

Michael wrapped his arms around his knees, frowned. He was still avoiding looking at Gerry. “Usually? I…yes. She tends to- but…sometimes-” the grip on his arms was tightening, “She also…she has…her own ways.”

He didn’t sound like he was planning to elaborate and Gerry didn’t want to push the topic any further. He didn’t want Michael to be uncomfortable or afraid or whatever it was that was making him tense so horribly. Gerry put his hand, palm up, in the space Michael had created between them by curling into himself. “I’m sorry for making you think of this.”

Michael shook his head, finally looked at him. “No, I’m sorry. I had hoped…I thought you might be okay. You seemed…it was convincing?” He sighed, sounding pained. “I should have known, though. I should have…offered. To talk to me. It...I know how it is. If you need to talk about it, you can. Don't be sorry."

Gerry frowned. Michael didn't sound at all like it would be okay. There was something in his expression Gerry kept catching, but struggled pinning down. Something in his eyes, a tightness of his mouth. Gerry had stopped whatever he was doing more than once to ask if everything was still okay when he caught this expression on Michael’s face. He always said it was, but Gerry still thought something about his expression looked like he was in pain. Gerry wasn’t even touching him now, so it must be something else.

"You shouldn't push yourself,” he tried, not wanting to be too direct, “I…I can manage. It’s fine if you’d rather not talk about them. We did okay about it so far.”

Michael shook his head, hugging himself more tightly. "It's the least I can do.”

“Michael, none of this is your fault-”

“That doesn’t change what I’ve done . It doesn’t change the fact that I shouldn’t be here- because if anything, this will make things worse . Because I don’t fucking deserve this. Not with everything I do.” Michael pressed his face into his knees, voice choked, “It’s so much , Gerry. And I- there’s always more . It’s- it’s getting…difficult. To remember. But I can’t forget , I can’t. I killed them- I hurt them - and I have to remember-” He sounded barely intelligible  through tears, through sobs and Gerry didn’t know what to do. He had turned to face Michael properly, hands hovering uselessly because he didn’t know if touching him would make this worse. Michael looked at him, eyes and face red and wet with tears, expression one of despair, “I shouldn’t feel good , Gerry. This- this is wrong.” He shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair with a frustrated, choked sigh, “But- but I want this so much . I’m selfish. That isn’t them. That’s me . I’ve always- even when I wanted you to stay-”

“Michael…” Gerry opened his mouth, desperately trying to find something to say, knowing he had to say something , “You’re not being selfish. You deserve this and so much more. You deserve not being made to do things you don’t want to do. You deserve not having to remember.” Gerry tried to look into his eyes, tentatively wrapped Michael in his arms - tightened the embrace when Michael let himself fall into it. He stroked Michael’s hair as he continued, “And I wish I could help you. I’ve been trying to find something- anything . It’s difficult, but I’ll keep trying and…and meanwhile, Michael, you deserve to feel good. It’s not selfish to want that, it’s normal.”

Michael didn’t say anything - partly because he was sobbing too hard to speak, partly because he wouldn’t know how to tell Gerry that none of his words were hitting their mark, that they were all sliding off on Michael’s disgust for himself. He let himself be held and took comfort in Gerry’s warmth, his presence, and kept silent. There was nothing else to say.

Gerry left the crumbling flat feeling empty, mind spinning everything. He had stayed and mumbled reassurances as Michael cried and Gerry knew from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t really hearing him. Michael had been miles away - stuck in memories that made him tremble and sob, and mutter things Gerry didn’t want to linger on. Didn’t want to think about.

He had spent little to no time really considering what Michael even did . Not that he wasn’t curious - Gerry always was - but simply because the way Michael would immediately close up the moment conversation went even close to it - the haunted expression in his eyes - made Gerry afraid of knowing. So he had always stopped himself from his thoughts wandering down that path too far. Because Gerry knew, no matter how much he wished he didn’t. It wasn’t a difficult guess. And any doubts about it were pretty thoroughly extinguished that night. Annabelle had said it very clearly, and even though Gerry had been so very sluggish by that point, the words reached him eventually - along with the image of Michael clutching the bloodied knife pointed to his chest.

But she could have been lying. Gerry knew she hadn’t, but he also knew he had been barely conscious with pain by that point and it had seemed a possibility. Just another way to hurt him. But he had known, deep down.

And Michael had said it now, too, and Gerry couldn’t ignore it anymore. The fact that Michael killed for the queens - the fact that they made him kill - was not surprising, but Gerry was still shaken - shocked - by hearing Michael say it, hearing him choke on sobs as he muttered about all the blood on his hands and how he didn’t deserve anything else.

And Gerry had meant every word he had said about that not being true. None of this was Michael’s fault and he did deserve so much more, so much better. But that didn’t change the fact that Gerry was imagining. He hated how easy it was. He had seen the way Michael’s face could look so very hard - cold - now, had seen him fight, had seen the steady way he brought the knife to Gerry’s chest and it wasn't difficult to imagine him driving it in.

Gerry shook his head. He didn't want to think of it. Michael had barely managed to stop sobbing by the time he left and Gerry didn’t want to linger on what had made him break down in the first place. In the end, even if it came easy to imagine Michael doing harm, he knew it wasn’t really Michael. And Gerry was determined to hold on to that. 

It didn't change the fact that when Gerry went to sleep hours later, his dreams were uneasy with another pair of cold eyes and blood.

Chapter Text

Gerry didn’t bring it up again - not directly, at least, not beyond the occasional reassuring squeeze of Michael’s hand when he noticed - guessed - that Michael’s mind was spiralling down that path again. Michael was grateful for it, was grateful that Gerry still treated him the same - touched his face gently while holding eye contact, the worry in his eyes not looking terribly different from before - still asked as he had before if this was okay, if Michael wasn’t feeling overwhelmed.

Michael was, but it was a good kind of feeling, one that shut everything else up for a little while. Gerry had been touching his face a lot the last couple times and Michael didn’t know how to tell him how much he liked it. It felt strange to have somebody look into his face like this - openly, appreciatively, even - after years of nobody on the streets daring to do so, years of only the queens ever looking into his face after forcing him to not look away. It should be uncomfortable. That’s how it had felt for years. This did not feel uncomfortable.

Gerry’s eyes seemed to warm him where they lingered - as if sharing some of the warmth within them - and Michael’s skin tingled pleasantly under his gaze.

Sometimes Gerry wasn’t looking at him so much as he was following the trail of his own fingers across Michael’s face and Michael watched the movement of his eyes while enjoying the feeling of his fingers on his cheek, his temple, nose, jaw, trailing pathways of faded freckles and purplish veins. They were often silent in those moments - a companionable kind of silence that didn’t suffocate - except for the occasional question from one or the other about whether what they were doing was okay, felt good. It was so difficult to believe Gerry when he’d hum yes , but the familiar way his eyelids fluttered when Michael tentatively combed his fingers through his hair after removing the hair tie pulled at Michael’s heart, made this situation feel more real, more probable. Slowly, it was getting easier - both to accept that Michael’s touch was something wanted and the idea that touch didn’t have to hurt - even if Michael often hurt afterwards with guilt. But the problem was him and not Gerry’s touch.

That didn’t mean Michael’s breath didn’t still get stuck in his throat occasionally, that his heart didn’t stutter sometimes still. They had only had a few minutes last week and the motion had nearly felt thoughtless when Gerry traced the curve of Michael’s left brow, a smile on his face that looked so genuine, as untainted as Michael had ever seen it since they had met again.

“You’re so pretty,” Gerry mumbled, and his face was so close Michael could feel his warm breath brush his lips. “Thank you for coming today even though I basically…have to go right away.” Gerry sighed, though the smile didn’t quite fade from his face as he carefully brushed Michael’s hair behind his ear. “I love you.”

Michael was speechless. He didn’t know why. The motion was familiar enough, and even the words weren’t too far off from the words Gerry would whisper into the silence sometimes. Maybe it was the combination, maybe it was the smile, the softness of his voice, but Michael’s throat felt too tight to speak and all he did was nod and wish Gerry would close the little gap still left between them for a kiss. Michael knew he wouldn’t and still he felt disappointed as Gerry stepped away, thanked him again - Michael’s heart fluttered at it, the idea of being thanked for anything still feeling somewhat alien - and walked to the bloody mark on the wall. Michael looked away when Gerry brought his dagger to the soft skin of his arm and when he looked up again Gerry was gone. 

Michael put his hands to his cheeks. They were warm. His mouth pulled into a small, embarrassed smile. “Thank you .”

*

Michael fell silent after he had finished his report - he'd done his usual rounds around the palace perimeter, finished all the other tasks he had been given around the city. It had been one of those rare calm days where completion had required minimal bloodshed. Now he waited, head lowered. Annabelle had left that morning, so Emma was the only one present to listen. Michael never liked reporting to them when they were alone. They got antsy. It never went well for Michael when either of them was a little on edge. 

He caught a glimpse of movement and was unsurprised to feel cold metal against his jaw a moment later. Emma moved the blade along to his chin, forcing Michael to look up at where she was still sitting on the throne. She looked thoughtful.

"Hold still." Despite knowing well that Michael had no choice but to obey, she grabbed his chin with her free hand, forcing his head further back until he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. Something about the movement was painfully similar to how Gerry would sometimes tilt his head back - gentle, always a request rather than an order. Michael tried not to think of the similarities now.

Emma's blade came to his brow, and there was no warning before she cut. Michael somehow managed to keep himself from flinching at the short burst of pain. Emma pressed on and soon Michael felt the warm drops of blood run down his right eye, catch in his twitching eyelashes, find its path around the edge of his eye. He blinked quickly on instinct but it didn't help much. He urged to brush the blood away so his eye would stop burning but his body was still frozen in its position. Emma watched, contemplating. Her thumb came to the wound - Michael was reminded of the way Gerry sometimes caressed his eyebrow - and new pain sparked behind Michael’s eyes when she pressed her fingernail into it. This time, Michael couldn't bite back a grunt of pain.

"You'd be dead if it weren't for us, you know." She still wasn't looking at him, but at the trickle of blood. "So much power wasted…What were your plans, Michael? To just let it die pathetically on the streets?" Emma shook her head. "You should be grateful we picked you up and put all of this blood to use. You weren't leading much of a life before." Michael was starting to taste blood. He must have bit the inside of his cheek to suppress any more pained noises. "Don't you agree?" 

Michael gasped as she pressed in more, his breath catching in his throat. He half-wished Emma would just use the knife again. Some blood was running down her hand and Michael caught sight of it as it flowed down her wrist.

"Speak," She ordered.

"I'm not leading much of a life now, either."

Emma shook her head with a sigh. She got up. "Get out of my sight."

Michael got to his feet, a little unsteady. Finally, he brushed the blood stinging his eye away. Emma was already halfway out of the room, blood still dripping from her fingers. Michael left through a different entrance, knowing full well that his comment would not go unpunished.

*

Michael couldn’t quite forget how close Gerry had gotten last time. He couldn’t stop thinking of that sudden wish to kiss. Sudden in the sense that it had been overwhelmingly strong in that moment, not that Michael hadn’t thought of it before. It was a vaguely distracting thought to be had as he went about his week - Gerry was surrounded by guards as usual when Michael went to Red London and, as usual, the sight made Michael’s chest feel tight now that he knew. He didn’t dare look at Gerry too much for fear of his expression betraying anything. But he did catch his tired eyes briefly on his way out. He looked too pale. Michael wanted to kiss him until that pretty blush dusted his cheeks, as he used to. He looked away and left the room, hoping his own face wasn’t showing any of the warmth he was starting to feel creeping into it. At least his guilt was quick in making that stop. 

One way or another, the idea - and the memory of that awful kiss Michael had put Gerry through months ago - was still on his mind the next time Gerry came to White London, the next time they met up in that dark flat. Michael’s nerves felt frizzy with two weeks of thinking - and overthinking - the same thing and he wasn’t particularly surprised when he heard himself blurt out, “Did I ever apologise for kissing you? Back then…”

Gerry closed his eyes against the feeling of Michael’s fingertips tracing paths on the inside of his arm. “More than once.” 

Gerry wondered at the genuine haunted note in Michael’s voice, like this was something that still kept him up at night. It was a strange thought, definitely sounded like the kind of misstep that would have made Michael apologise profusely for months back then. Michael now, though, had so much else to keep him up, probably had new nightmarish situations adding to the pile daily and Gerry was both endeared and also sad that he would still worry about something like this on top of everything. Michael had enough on his plate. 

Gerry looked into his face, trying to make him understand, “It’s okay, really. You don’t need to worry.”

Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have- for so many reasons, maybe they would’ve never-”

“Michael, stop.” Gerry took his hand, which had started to tremble. “None of this is your fault, okay? And certainly not the fault of that kiss. Please.” He smiled slightly. “It’s okay. I...I liked it.” He sounded a lot more sheepish, but Gerry forced himself to not look away even as he felt his face warm. “It was nice. It felt good to have you kiss me again. Yes, it was confusing and overwhelming, but it was the first time you had even gotten close to me again. It...maybe this just speaks to how desperate I was, but it was nearly a relief- or...or something like it.” 

“I should have asked-”

Gerry shook his head. “Yes, but I know you know that. You don’t need to apologise forever about it. I forgive you. I promise you that what stuck with me from that kiss was the fact that you were kissing me more than...anything else.”

Silence stretched for a long moment between them. Gerry was still looking at him imploringly - as if he could somehow make him understand like this, make him feel like he didn’t need to feel guilty and apologise. Knowing Michael, it probably wasn’t working. Gerry had realised that, at his core, he hadn’t changed that much.

To Gerry’s surprise, Michael said, “Does...does that mean you still want to kiss me?” Michael was avoiding looking at him, hand twitching where Gerry was still holding it. He let it go, and Michael started wringing his hands, muttering, “Despite...everything.”

Gerry blinked, confused. “Of course. Did I do something to make you think otherwise?”

Michael shook his head, his expression somewhat shocked. “No! No, but...you know . You know about the blood on my hands. The fact that they could make me hurt you easily, the fact that they could be making me do this right now, I-”

“Hush. You’re worrying yourself unnecessarily. I am aware of all of that.” Gerry wasn't really. Michael never spoke in detail about what the crown had him do. But Gerry didn't need details. The haunted expression in Michael’s eyes was enough. "I’d still love to kiss you. I don’t care. You’re you and I love you.”

“I’m not-”

Gerry took his hand again, squeezed it. “Michael. I know. I know you’re not the same, but neither am I. We’re still here and it still feels the same to me. Okay?”

Michael hesitated, then asked, “So...do you want a kiss?” 

Gerry nodded, “I...only if you want.”

“I do.”

Gerry’s hand came to rest on his cheek, and Michael allowed himself to be guided gently to meet Gerry halfway, heart feeling like it might jump out of his chest. Michael wouldn’t admit it, but it wasn’t just guilt that made him think of that short kiss so much. It had felt good. Despite everything - despite Michael not wanting himself to feel anything but guilty for that whole situation - the feeling of Gerry’s chapped lips against his own still lingered in his mind and it had felt good . He missed it. 

And now Michael worried he wouldn’t know how to kiss him. This wasn’t spontaneous, wasn’t Michael’s overwhelming emotions making him act. Gerry was closing in slowly, gently, and despite weeks - months? - of learning, of finding out Michael could still be all of those things, all his worries crashed back into him. He wanted to do this right. He wanted to apologise for the last kiss again.

Gerry’s lips brushed his and Michael’s breath came out shaky. Gerry held still, and Michael thought he could imagine the concerned expression, the quiet question in his eyes. Michael squeezed his own eyes shut tighter and carefully leaned in, pressed their lips together, shy. Gerry’s thumb traced his cheek, gently, reassuring, and he kissed back slowly, leaving Michael to decide how - or if - he wanted to continue. Michael very much did, and his racing heart seemed to calm a little with the caress, the feeling of Gerry’s rough fingers familiar enough by now, comforting. 

He felt far from confident in what he was doing, but Gerry didn’t seem put off or bothered and felt so very warm, so real against Michael’s cold lips. Michael’s hand came to the back of his head as he carefully deepened the kiss. His heart skipped a beat when Gerry matched him equally, and then it felt suddenly easy to melt into the kiss, the anxious knot in his stomach dissolving with the low, satisfied hum escaping Gerry’s lips when Michael brushed his fingernails against his scalp, the way Gerry inched just a little closer, tilting his head to make it easier, to let Michael kiss him deeper.

And Michael did and it felt good . He didn’t know if it felt as it used to - it had been too long - but it felt good. Michael didn’t have to think about how to kiss Gerry, his body knew, lips parting before he really registered Gerry’s tongue running over his bottom lip. It didn’t seem to matter whether he was doing it right or like he used to, not with Gerry sighing contently into his mouth, not with the warmth spreading in Michael’s chest from the sound, the feeling of Gerry’s warm tongue against his own.

Michael’s fingers were playing in Gerry’s hair, Gerry’s dancing idly over Michael’s face, brushing temple and cheek, the shell of his ear, his jaw, his neck. It was nearly a little overwhelming, but in a good way and Michael sighed quietly at the feeling of Gerry’s fingers trailing his shoulder. 

He nipped at Gerry’s lip, marvelling at the way it gave under the gentle press of teeth and he felt Gerry’s fingers wander down, find his collarbone to trace through the layers Michael was wearing, caressed his chest - and Michael froze, breath catching in his throat at the feeling of something sharp, cold. His own screams in his ears - back when he could still scream the way she liked - and Michael’s hand shot up to clasp around Gerry’s wrist. The fact that he could do it - the fact that his body obeyed the reflex - brought him back a little, made it easier to parse memory from reality. Gerry’s hand wasn’t soft, but neither was it sharp or cold. Michael wasn’t bleeding the last of his free will onto the marble floor.

Gerry had pulled away - Michael didn’t know when - and was eyeing him with concern, slight panic. “I’m sorry, was that too much? I should have asked, I- fuck. Michael?”

Michael shook his head, breathed deeply, once, twice. It wasn’t quite enough to shake off the image, but he tried to focus on Gerry. Gerry hadn’t been there that night. Michael wasn’t there right now. He realised the vice grip he still had on Gerry’s wrist and slowly forced himself to let go.

“Please- don’t touch the scar. Please.” Michael sounded too choked, words running together, too quiet, too high pitched.

Gerry nodded, still looking spooked, “Of course. I’m sorry, I...I should have checked in with you. I’m so sorry, Michael.” He had put some distance between them as he spoke, tentatively raised his hands, “Can I do anything? Should I go?”

Michael considered - his breathing already calming, his heartbeat still a little too quick. “Can you hold me for a little bit?”

Gerry nodded, inched closer again. “Yes, of course...I still have a little time." He opened his arms, "Come here.”

Michael nodded, sniffed - and leaned into Gerry’s arms, letting himself melt into the embrace when Gerry wrapped his arms around him.

*

It was less unnerving next time. It was easier to ask - after Michael apologised for his breakdown and Gerry apologised for overstepping and both chuckled about how much of their exchanges lately consisted of apologies. And then they closed the space left between them, kissed. Gerry kept his hands to himself at first, but Michael took them after a moment and pressed them to his cheeks. So Gerry cradled his face, stroked his cheeks as he stepped closer, hands wandering into his curls, gently.

"Can I touch your back?" Gerry mumbled into the kiss - aware that he’d have to go soon, but not wanting to stop yet. Michael was close enough to feel warm against him and Gerry wanted to hold him like this forever. 

Michael nodded, but looked uncertain. Gerry broke the kiss, looked at him. “Are you sure?”

Again, Michael nodded. His cheeks were dusted light pink when he mumbled, “Yes, I…I’m just- what should I do with mine?”

Gerry blinked. “Oh. Uhm…whatever feels good to you?”

“It should feel good to you .”

“Well, you’ve done nothing that hasn’t felt good since…this started. So it seems safe to say you can put your hands wherever you want?”

Michael guessed that made enough sense. He was unsure why this was making him so nervous all over again. Why would Gerry find anything he did good or desirable? He felt so conscious about the roughness of his fingertips again.

“Okay…sorry.”

Gerry shook his head. “No, there’s no need to apologise. Thanks for asking.” He smiled, cupped his cheek. “I think everything’s fine for me. If not, I’ll let you know. Deal?”

Michael nodded slowly, met Gerry halfway for another kiss. Gerry’s hands stroked his back, slowly, deliberately, making Michael shiver. Michael raked his fingers through Gerry’s hair and enjoyed his quiet hum against his lips.

They spend a lot of time kissing the next couple meetings. It was Gerry who - in a brief moment his lips weren’t occupied - pointed out that this felt a lot like how the months after their first kiss had gone. He said so with a grin, one of Michael’s curls wrapped around his finger, and Michael’s eyes went wide in realisation, before he chuckled, nodded his head. Their noses brushed as he did, and then Gerry’s lips were on his again, and Michael’s hands continued tracing up his arms - careful, but no longer as hesitant.

Chapter Text

For the third time in a week, Gerry found himself in front of Mary’s office door. She kept calling him lately, and while not every visit necessarily ended with Gerry’s head light with bloodloss it was still always exhausting. Gerry didn’t want to be here. And he certainly didn’t want to be here every single day .

He sighed and opened the door. Mary was already expecting him.

“You’re late,” she greeted.

Gerry shrugged. “I do still have other tasks besides being at your beck and call.”

Her eyes narrowed. Gerry knew that, for her, his punishment could have continued a lot longer. Especially since she seemed to require his presence a lot more frequently lately.

She motioned for him to follow into the backroom and Gerry did, taking off his coat on the way. “Why do you keep asking for me lately? There’s only so much blood I can part with this frequently…”

He didn’t expect her to answer. Mary generally only spoke when she wanted to and didn’t react to anything she had no interest in responding to. So Gerry was rather surprised - nearly stopped in his tracks - when she threw him a glance over her shoulder and smiled. “Elias has finally permitted me to send my own letters to the White Throne. I think they’re warming up to me.”

Gerry felt a cold shiver run down his spine. That sounded anything but good. It sounded terrifying.

“What do you mean?”

Mary stepped through the door to the backroom, impatiently motioning for him to follow. Gerry did, pressing his lips together. He knew Mary wouldn’t part with any information she didn’t want to share, no matter how much he tried. 

Gerry needed his energy to make it back to his room later anyway. He rolled up his sleeve and tried not to dwell on that information right now. Mary was already holding the scalpel. 

*

“Gerry?”

Gerry stopped pressing kisses to Michael’s jaw, looked up through his lashes. “Hm?” 

“Is there anything…” Michael frowned, as if trying to find the right words. “Anything you like…more? A lot?”

“What do you mean?” He straightened up - slowly, to avoid the worst of the dizziness still clinging to him. 

Mary usually never called him so close to the letter delivery date, but whatever new ideas she had gotten, they seemed to leave her too eager to further her research to wait. So Gerry wasn’t particularly steady today. He had tried his best to cover it up and, as far as he could tell, neither the queens nor Michael seemed to have noticed.

Michael frowned now, though. He had been rather distracted today - too much was on his mind. The queens had left him be for too long and he kept thinking - and overthinking - conversations that had happened between him and Gerry probably too long for it to be appropriate to bring up. 

Gerry hadn’t been in a very talkative mood today, but that wasn’t unusual. He had leaned in for a kiss right away, and Michael had returned it and it had been good. After a moment Gerry had requested to kiss other spots on his face - as he sometimes would - and Michael had agreed to it, loving the feeling of Gerry’s lips against his cheeks, his nose, his jaw and urging to make Gerry feel even a fraction of this bliss. But Michael was still unsure about how. And now his attempt at finding out was diverted by the fact that Gerry didn’t seem well . He was definitely paler than usual. Michael thought he was moving particularly slowly but now he watched as he nearly swayed as he sat up fully.

His hand came to rest on Gerry’s shoulder on instinct, to steady. “Gerry? Are you alright?”

Gerry nodded, too slowly, “Yeah, sure, I…sorry. Think I moved too quickly or something.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen a single quick movement from you since you walked into the throne room, Gerry.” He gently pressed the back of his hand to Gerry’s cheek. “Are you unwell? Ill?”

Michael nearly hoped he’d agree just because Michael knew these signs and he didn’t want it to be Mary. After all those years and everything Gerry went - and seemed to still be going, Michael had not forgotten the bruised wrists that had taken so long to fade even if he had respected Gerry’s wish not to ask about it - through, Michael desperately wanted Mary to no longer be a source of pain and bloodloss to Gerry.

Gerry looked away. "I'm fine."

They were quiet for a moment, Gerry still avoiding looking at him. It was an old, familiar silence. Dread settled in the pit of Michael’s stomach. After his idea of Gerry’s life being better at the palace had crumbled, he had still held onto the idea that Mary, at least, was no longer hurting him.

“She never stopped, did she?” Michael gently traced small circles into his cheek with his thumb. “I don’t know why I thought- I’ve never noticed before, maybe I wasn’t paying-”

Gerry shook his head, took Michael’s hand and squeezed it. “No, it’s not that. She usually…she used to avoid leaving me…compromised. For my missions. That only started now.”

Michael frowned. “That doesn’t make it any better. I’m sorry, I…I really hoped she would have stopped by now. I thought…I thought the crown might protect you-”

Gerry gave a short, dry laugh at that. “She might get into trouble if she leaves me unable to do my tasks, but otherwise…” 

“She’s getting worse?”

Gerry nodded slowly. “Whatever is in those letters she started exchanging with the queens here must be giving her plenty of new ideas.”

Michael’s eyes went wide in shock. He suddenly felt very cold. “They are exchanging letters?”

Gerry gave him a small smile, touched his cheek. “That’s what my reaction was, too.” He shook his head. “Mary won’t elaborate.”

“That’s terrifying.” It was beyond terrifying. Michael could barely imagine it.

Gerry nodded. “It is. But it’s not like we can do much about it.”

“She has to stop-” Michael suddenly froze with realisation, “Gerry, did she…the bruising on your wrists-”

“Michael…” Gerry shook his head, lowered his gaze. “Please. I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about this.”

Michael shook his head, insisted, "You're not fine. This isn't fine." It was the rising panic in his voice that made Michael catch himself again. He shouldn’t get loud, get pushy. In the end, if Gerry didn’t want to talk about it, he’d respect it. So Michael swallowed, took a breath that didn’t really calm him much. "But...okay. I'm sorry I brought it up again." Gerry still wasn’t looking at him. He looked exhausted. Michael gently touched his temple with his fingertips, spoke quietly, "I'm...here if you change your mind about speaking about it."

Gerry closed his eyes with a sigh before turning to look at him, smiling. "Thank you." He took Michael’s hand and squeezed it. "What were you talking about? Earlier. What I like…?"

"Ah…" Michael didn’t feel like this was an appropriate conversation to have now, but Gerry was clearly desperate for a change of topic. Michael brushed his hair behind his ear, feeling the same nervousness that had been bubbling up in his stomach earlier, despite the dread - despair even - that had settled there throughout this conversation. "I was wondering if...there's anything you like in particular? I- you make me feel so good. I want to...return. But I'm not sure how?"

Gerry frowned. "You make me feel good, Michael.”

“Do I? I…I don’t know, I sometimes am unsure how and…I thought I’d just ask. If there is anything you like the most.”

Gerry considered, thankful for the distraction from the other topic. It was true that so far he enjoyed Michael’s affection in general. Gerry hadn’t really put much thought into whether he liked anything in particular more than the other. They never had much time and Gerry was simply happy to be held, caressed, kissed at all. Michael made all of it feel good, comfortable. But he also sounded lost right now and Gerry felt like he should give him something more specific.

“I…I do think I like everything you’ve been doing? It’s hard to choose I…I just feel. Comfortable. With you?” He frowned. That still felt too vague. He looked at Michael’s hand in his own - watched his own thumb trace the lines of Michael’s palm - and elaborated, “It’s…it’s good. I like when you comb your fingers through my hair, the…the way your nails feel against the inside of my arm. Sometimes you’ll just trace patterns on my back or shoulder and it feels so nice. I like when you just lean against me…it’s comforting. I like holding your hand. I like when you hold mine, when you play with my fingers…” 

Gerry cleared his throat, trying to make that awkward, embarrassed tone in his voice go away. His face felt too warm and he still didn’t dare to look up, stared at Michael’s hand as he continued, “I like your kisses. You kiss my cheek or my brow or my nose and you always do it so gently and sweetly and I feel…good. I feel cared for. You kiss me…right.” 

He frowned, considering his word choice. It felt…right. This was exactly what he wanted Michael to understand. He looked up at his surprised face, squeezed his hand, confident in what he was about to say, “It feels right , Michael, and it feels good. Being with you, I mean.”

He couldn’t help the slight embarrassed smile that followed, but he hoped it wouldn't make any of his words sound less genuine. Because Gerry meant it. He wanted Michael to understand that.

Michael’s eyes were wide, his cheeks red. “Oh…” he whispered, blinking slowly in disbelief, voice a whisper, “Okay.”

Gerry suddenly worried whether that had been too much. Michael looked - sounded - overwhelmed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Michael shook his head, still sounding a little dazed but also grateful, “No, no, I- thank…thank you…”

Gerry considered him for a moment, that strange hazy expression, warmed by the blush in his cheeks. It didn’t feel right to apologise again but Gerry wanted to do something . “Do…do you want a hug?”

Michael nodded quietly, a dazed smile on his lips, and Gerry moved to gather him into his arms, returning the smile.

*

Gerry’s mind got stuck on their last conversation. He had to leave in a hurry - he might have gotten a little too distracted by the feeling of Michael’s fingernails against his scalp - and it had taken a long time before he felt like he had fully processed that meeting. He was disappointed that he hadn’t managed to keep it together enough for Michael not to notice he felt off. Michael didn’t need more to worry about. Mary was an old problem Gerry knew how to cope with without burdening Michael, too.

Another thing he regretted was not returning Michael’s question. Gerry still felt his cheeks burn thinking of the fact that he had somehow managed to answer - and what he had said - but he also wished he had asked Michael back. Gerry had been careful - he knew some of the things Michael used to enjoy weren’t okay anymore - but he felt like Michael deserved the chance to tell him not only what he disliked, but what he liked, too.

Gerry knew that, in theory, he could simply ask next time. Gerry also knew that it wasn’t simple. Not for him. Michael used to be the one with the words - affections spilling easily from his lips, even if he’d deny that being the case when Gerry asked about it. At least he usually got such words out at all. Gerry had always found it rather hit or miss for him. And considering how nervous he was getting only thinking about it, he doubted asking this question would be an easy endeavour. But he would try.

“Gerard?”

Gerry blinked slowly, struggling to find his way back out of his thoughts. The lightheadedness Mary had left him with hours before didn't help. Nor did the fact that Gertrude had called for him this late.

“I’m sorry, what?” he mumbled sleepily.

Gerry was hallucinating something like concern in Gertrude’s expression when she said, “Go to bed. Mary has barely left you conscious.”

Gerry shrugged carefully. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. “You need to ask for me earlier if you want to beat her to it now…”

“I still do not understand what she is trying to achieve.”

“According to her, the correspondence with the White Throne is rather…stimulating.”

Gertrude frowned. “Why would they tell her more than Elias?”

“Maybe she’s asking different questions. About magic…”

“We agreed that Elias is most probably interested in that, too.”

Gerry considered. “Maybe. But maybe what he wants is more…directly related to them? I doubt Mary cares too much about messing with them as much as she just wants information for herself…” He frowned, struggling to remember the words that had just left his mouth. He wanted to figure out if they had even been coherent. Gerry sighed, rubbed his face. “I don’t know if that makes sense. My head hurts.”

“It does make sense.” She sighed. “Go. You cannot sleep here.”

Gerry sighed and slowly got to his feet, muttering something about Mary always saying the same. He didn’t bother saying goodbye as he made his way to the door and back to his guards waiting in front.

As expected, Gerry’s tongue was lead next time he walked into the cold, rotting flat and Michael was there already, sitting by the burnt-out fireplace. He didn’t look well - Gerry didn’t either, feeling his fa ç ade collapse the moment Michael looked up at him with knowing eyes. Neither of them asked. Gerry wordlessly sat down next to him - it was one of those times where there was enough time to sit down, but not so much as to get properly comfortable - and Michael matched his silence as he put out his hand, a request or an offer, Gerry couldn’t tell, but he accepted either and both.

Michael was very gentle with him - he always was, but still Gerry thought he felt a difference this time. Michael had been careful, hesitant even, since they met again, afraid of hurting Gerry or of his touch or presence not being pleasant, but he was being cautious in a different way now. Like Gerry might break - the way he used to hold him all those years ago when Mary was the only problem in Gerry’s life.

Gerry felt his eyes grow misty as Michael did exactly what Gerry had given as a mumbled answer to his question last time - pressed the softest of kisses to Gerry’s face as his fingers drew patterns on his shoulder and arm - and Gerry allowed himself to collapse against Michael’s side for a moment and be silent.

Chapter Text

“Michael?” It was two weeks later and they were back at the flat and Gerry felt a little steadier, even if his heart still raced at the very thought of saying what he wanted to say.

Michael’s eyes fluttered open, fair lashes catching the orange light of the fire they had made today. They had enough time for it to be worth it. Michael turned his head where it was resting in Gerry’s lap - Gerry’s fingers idly mapping out his face, now paused - to look up at Gerry properly.

Gerry immediately felt himself getting flustered again. “I wanted- I mean- last time already I…” He sighed, frustrated, ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry. I just…I forgot to…ask you? Back. I mean- wha…what you like?”

Michael had sat up as Gerry stuttered through his words, and Gerry knew he was looking at him despite him doing his best to avoid looking at Michael right now.

Michael watched his face for a long moment. He looked hopelessly flustered - the red of his cheeks a stark contrast to the paleness lately - a little ashamed, maybe. There was guilt in his voice. “You didn’t have to ask, Gerry.”

Gerry shook his head, finally looked at him despite the blush burning in his face, “I wanted to! I…I want to know. You…I know what you don’t like, but I also want to know what you like. You said I make you feel good, but if there’s anything…anything specific? I’d like to know, I want you to feel good, Michael. I love you.”

Michael was a little startled by how passionate Gerry seemed to be about this. “Okay. Thank you.” 

He considered the question earnestly. What did he like? Why could he not remember anything but instances of things he disliked? “I’m not…sure. It…it’s easier to remember what I don’t like because when I’m enjoying myself I just don’t- well, it’s not like I don’t focus, but I guess not…as much?” He bit his lips, trying to find words, “I don’t know how to explain, sorry, I…sometimes, I randomly remember very specific things that felt nice in that moment. But usually what I remember is that I felt nice in that moment. Does…does that make sense?”

Michael looked at him, half-apologetic, feeling like he wasn’t saying anything helpful. Gerry nodded slowly, still alert, eager to listen. 

Michael shook his head, “Sorry, I…I promise I’ll tell you if anything comes to mind, but for now I…I like how things have been? You always ask when doing something new and I can think about it and…decide. And other than that, you know…” He shrugged. “I like what you’ve been doing. I…” He pressed Gerry’s palm to his cheek. “I know I like the feeling of your fingers on my face and…I like how you kiss me. I…yeah.” He gave an awkward chuckle. “Sorry, it’s not much…”

Gerry shook his head. “No! I didn’t- I didn’t mean to pressure you, I just…I wanted you to know that if you…if you have anything you want to tell me I…I’d love to hear.”

Michael nodded, “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” He smiled, gently brushed Gerry’s bangs back to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Thanks for asking. You did well.”

Gerry smiled, too as Michael let his hand run through his hair, the shorter strands falling back into Gerry’s forehead, keeping the spot safe that still tingled warm with Michael’s kiss.

“Thank you,” Gerry mumbled, meeting Michael’s eyes again. 

Michael nodded, then grinned slightly, fingers coming to rest on Gerry’s cheekbones, featherlight. “Do you think there’s still time for a kiss? If you want…”

Gerry couldn’t help but chuckle as he felt for the timepiece in his pocket, glanced at it. He had taken too long to speak up, but there was still some time left and Michael’s face was already so very close - warm breath brushing Gerry’s lips - it took very little for Gerry to close the gap and press their lips together. Michael’s hand cupped his cheek - the other one finding its way to Gerry’s face, too - and kissed him back sweetly with that desperate edge that made it into every kiss, every touch between them. Too little time and the looming awareness of how quickly this could simply be brought to an end by so many factors, the awareness that they needed each other - wanted each other close - but couldn’t have any of it, not the way they used to and not in any other way but these brief moments scattered between hours and days alone and hurting. 

Gerry wrapped his arms around Michael’s middle, pulled him closer. Michael climbed into his lap, pressed himself close, lips parting just as Gerry’s did - one hand burying in Gerry’s hair, cupping the back of his head to tip it back slightly, kiss him deeply and gently, the fingers of his free hand finding their way underneath the silk around Gerry’s neck - he had forgotten to take it off today - to find warm skin and trace it with warming fingertips and nails that made Gerry shiver against him. 

Gerry’s fingers traced his back - followed the line of his spine up and down, pressing down just right, making Michael gasp - an invitation Gerry took as such, and Michael’s mouth was soft and warm and Gerry didn’t want this to ever stop, wanted Michael’s soft lips against his and his coarse curls between his fingers, the plane of his back against his hand, steady, alive, always.

They broke apart not long after and Gerry pressed his face into the curve of Michael’s neck to catch his breath, still grinning because it was difficult not to when he could feel Michael’s quick heartbeat against his own matching one, felt Michael’s breath play in his hair as he buried his nose in it, still panting.

“You need to go…” Michael mumbled after a moment and Gerry still wondered if he knew. 

Gerry didn’t think he had ever mentioned the consequences that came with being late, but worry laced Michael’s voice when he spoke those words and Gerry ached. He wasn’t used to being cared for like this, not anymore. And Michael really had so much more to worry about himself, it baffled Gerry that he somehow still found time to be concerned about him. Or maybe not baffled. It sounded very much like Michael to do this. His world crumbling around him, and he worrying about Gerry being a little unsteady. Some things really hadn’t changed much. 

Gerry squeezed him close for a moment. “I know. Take care.”

He knew Michael had very little choice in that. He knew Michael knew that he still meant it, from the bottom of his heart.

“Will do my best,” he muttered, pressed a kiss to the top of Gerry’s head. It was as much as he could offer.

Gerry nodded. “Thank you.”

They stayed hugging for a moment too long and by the time Gerry moved to leave he had to hurry. Michael pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, mumbled something about being grateful for and proud of Gerry and Gerry stumbled through the Antari shortcut a little too flustered, spent a couple seconds trying to calm down before pressing his fingers into the shallow cut at the back of his arm, wrapping his freshly bloodied fingers around the coin and his pocket and pressing it to the wall with the fading bloodied marks of his travels.

“As Travas,” he whispered, and White London’t biting cold was gone.

*

Gerry was half-asleep when he started following the noises. He should have been in bed, but Gertrude had kept him up with research and then the noise had started on his way to his chambers and now Gerry was standing in front of the door to Mary’s office. Another crash from inside. Gerry could hear his guards' heavy steps struggling to catch up with him. They had been asleep by the time Gerry left Gertrude’s office and he hadn't had the patience to wait for them. He didn't have it now, either, not with something like a stifled scream coming through behind the door. 

What was Mary doing? It strangely sounded like her voice. But that, of course, was impossible. Gerry opened the door and walked in, half-expecting Mary to immediately complain about him not knocking like she usually did whenever he did so.

She didn't. Her desk was in disarray, papers tumbling to the floor, red-speckled. It was also empty of her. Instead Gerry’s eyes landed on the floor in front of it where the sound of heavy breathing was coming from. But it wasn't Mary. Mary lay motionless on her back, blood on her throat and nothing in her eyes, a dagger in her heart.

Michael was the one breathing. He was the one clutching the dagger in two bloodied hands and when he looked up his eyes were cold, hard, and a speck of crimson was on his cheek, smeared by a nail or finger across his cheek. Time stopped for a second. And then Michael’s expression morphed into terror and Gerry opened his mouth, feeling like his body was moving on its own while his mind was growing numb with shock. 

He didn't say anything. He could hear the guards' steps grow closer. Gerry couldn't let them see Michael. He wasn't sure why, but the urge to protect Michael from being seen was enough for Gerry’s voice to finally work. "There's a back door in that room." He pointed towards the door to the back room, hand looking strangely hazy to him. "Go. They…they'll be here in a moment."

Michael stared at him, unblinking. Gerry could hear the guards' voices. More urgently, but not loud for the fear of being heard he repeated. "Go."

Apparently it was enough. Michael bolted upright - flinched as his dagger detached from Mary's body in a sickening squelch - and Gerry thought he might be sick. Michael gave him one last terrified look and quickly ran for the door Gerry had indicated. 

By the time the guards arrived, Gerry had sunken to his knees, clutching at his chest as he tried to heave breaths between the sobs that had suddenly started to shake him. Mary’s eyes were still empty, her body motionless on the floor. Dead. Her dead eyes stared right at him and Gerry wondered what he was crying for. He couldn't stop. He was numb but the tears kept coming. Michael was gone but Gerry still saw him, cold and blood-stained and killing .

"Wake the king." Gerry heard from somewhere behind him. The voices sounded too far away. He hugged himself tight trying to keep himself from drifting off further. Or maybe to help with the uncontrollable shaking.

Chapter Text

There had been no letter from Red London last week and Michael was unsure if Gerry would come today. He was pacing the abandoned flat. He could have probably gone directly to the palace after he was done with his tasks and checked if Gerry was there, but he couldn’t bear the idea of facing Gerry under the queen’s scrutiny right now. Michael needed to explain and he couldn’t do that in the throne room.

Not when he was struggling so hard not to think about Gerry’s expression that night. The wide eyes, the shock, the fear . At Michael. It had been directed at Michael . Michael should be used to that look, really, he often didn’t even need to do anything to draw it. Reputation was enough. But this had been different, seeing it on Gerry’s face had been different. Gerry, who had stayed close no matter how much Michael told him, no matter how desperately he tried to push him away. Gerry, who had still looked at him with soft, warm eyes and his beautiful smile the moment recognition set in. He hadn’t cared that Michael was different now, was barely a shadow of his old self. It had given Michael hope. That look had shattered it and his heart ached at the idea that Gerry might not come again today. 

Michael wanted to explain, had to explain. He hadn’t had time when Gerry found him, there had been so much blood and Gerry said they were coming and Michael had to get away. Gerry had let Michael escape. Michael clung to that detail. Maybe Gerry didn’t hate him. Maybe it had just been shock. Maybe Michael had imagined the fear. 

He knew he hadn’t. This was a mess. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

There was a noise in the always-quiet room and Michael turned around to see Gerry by the other wall, bloody hand still against the cold stone. Michael wanted to call out to him, to say his name, but something in Gerry’s face made the words die on his lips. He looked tired, worse than before, pale, and hurt . Michael stilled his nervous steps and balled his shaking hands into fists.

Gerry looked up at Michael and saw blood and it took him everything not to flinch. He couldn’t stop seeing it, seeing Michael over his mother’s body, his knife in her chest. There had clearly been a fight and there had been blood on Michael’s cheek when he looked up at Gerry and his eyes were so cold, so fucking cold . It was all Gerry had been seeing whenever he closed his eyes since. Michael’s hard gaze, the blood on his cheek, his fingers, him crouching over Mary’s dead body. Gerry couldn’t stop seeing it. The blood on his cheek might be gone now, but Gerry couldn’t stop seeing it .

He had known, of course, that Michael killed. Michael had told him himself, Gerry had seen the fear in other people’s eyes when Michael walked the streets of White London. But part of him had never believed it. It didn’t fit with the picture he had of Michael. Even when they met again and he had been distant and cold, Gerry had still managed to see him as he had been, that wonderful person whose smile could brighten even the darkest room, who met everyone with kindness despite knowing that, more often than not, it was undeserved. Michael would never hurt anyone on purpose, Gerry had been sure of it, had been so sure Michael was unable to do anyone harm. 

But he had seen it, and he had looked like a different person altogether and yet, unmistakably, it had been Michael’s hands holding the dagger. It had been his eyes, even though Gerry couldn’t imagine it now, looking at the gentle, cloudy grey of Michael’s eye. It didn’t look hard or cold now, but Gerry kept thinking of how it had been the same eye. The very same. Michael had killed her and Gerry had seen it with his own eyes and he couldn’t stop thinking of it . 

The silence was heavy as they looked at each other. Michael wanted to break it, but it didn’t feel like it was his place to do so. So he waited for Gerry to do it, trying not to crumble under his scrutiny. He hated that look in Gerry’s eyes. He looked haunted and Michael wanted to take him in his arms and kiss his face until his cheeks were dusted that pretty red Michael loved so much and those giggles Gerry always tried to hide behind his hand would be escaping his lips. Michael knew that wouldn’t happen.

Gerry took a steadying breath before he finally asked, “Why? Why did they want her dead?”

It had been the question he kept asking himself after the initial shock had settled, after the confusion about what he had seen subsided. He knew he had seen Michael, he knew , but when his thoughts cleared enough Gerry also realised that it hadn’t really been Michael. Michael wouldn’t hurt anyone, not of his own will. It had been them . Which didn’t make sense. Mary and the queens had been exchanging long letters. They seemed to get along, unsurprisingly. Gerry had caught himself thinking they would probably be friends had they been living in the same London. It was a terrifying thought. But now Mary was dead and Gerry didn’t understand.

Michael froze at the question. He had tried not to think about it. Of course he had to tell Gerry, he knew, but he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about how he hadn’t managed to retreat in his head this time, how he had nearly choked on the panic because the blood wouldn’t come off his fingers no matter how much he scrubbed. He didn’t want to think of the taunts. Remember, this one’s on you and you alone . Michael didn’t want to think of the truth, but he had to speak it.

“They...the queens didn’t. I killed her. Myself.” Michael didn’t manage to keep his voice steady, everything he had been trying to push into the furthest corner of his mind crashing in on him. He had killed her. He had killed her himself, of his own free will. He knew , he had known it when he made the door, had known it when he raised the blade. But he hadn’t wanted to know it, had wanted to pretend it was just like before, all those lives his body had taken as his mind screamed. 

It hadn’t been like that at all, it had felt different and now Michael had put it into words and he tightened his fists, hands shaking even worse.

Gerry was stunned. It had to be a joke. It had to be them playing with him. Annabelle or Emma was making him say this. Could they do that? Gerry couldn’t remember Michael ever mentioning it. Michael definitely looked like he meant it, but that was impossible.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Michael swallowed the lump in his throat. This wasn’t the time to give into his rising panic and start crying. It wouldn’t help. He killed Mary and he would have to face the consequences. Even if Gerry let him escape, Michael still had to tell him. Part of him wondered if Gerry had come to bring him back, let him be thrown into the dungeon. 

Wouldn’t it be what Michael deserved?

“I...She- I killed her. She, she wanted to-”

“ You killed her? You? Michael? Michael Shelley killed her?” The words felt so wrong on Gerry’s tongue because they were , this was all wrong .

He nodded. “She wanted-”

“Michael, she was my mother .” Gerry said it like it meant something, but the feelings the words were supposed to carry were hollow. It didn’t matter. Not now.

“She wanted to make you like me! She...she asked. In the...in the last letter. She asked about it.” Michael felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but he refused to shed them. He didn’t want this to sound like an apology, like he was begging for forgiveness. He wanted Gerry to know, that was all. Gerry deserved the truth, and the truth was that Michael obviously didn’t need to be controlled to murder.

“What?” Gerry just looked more confused, shocked.

Michael took a step towards him, raised his hands. He wanted to comfort him so bad, wanted Gerry to be okay. Gerry stepped back, eyes wide. He shook his head. There was still blood on Michael’s fingers for him. Mary’s blood. 

Michael froze. One of the tears escaped his eye, but he stepped back. Of course. Of course Gerry wouldn’t want him close anymore. Michael couldn’t comfort when he was the source of the pain.

He swallowed. Gerry’s eyes stayed wide and he looked like he wanted to run and Michael thought that maybe he should. Would Michael hurt him, too? Michael didn’t think so. But Michael had never thought he could kill. Even after he had, he had been sure he could never kill without being made to do so. Clearly, Michael didn’t know himself very well.

He shook his head, this wasn’t the time to break down, Gerry still didn’t know the truth and Gerry deserved to know it. Gerry deserved everything and Michael had nothing to give.

“The letter. I...she gave it to me. To read. They never do, she...I knew it couldn’t mean anything good.” He took a breath and brushed his hair behind his ear with shaking fingers. Michael still remembered the words too well. Words he had never wanted to see. “Mary asked...she asked about how the compulsion works. She had tried finding anything on it in Red London, but...but apparently there isn’t much to be found. She was getting impatient. She...she said you...you were slipping out of her control. She wanted to stop it. She...she wanted you to be...like me.” 

His cheeks were wet with tears but Michael barely took notice of it. It didn’t really matter, not when Gerry’s face was a mask of shock and disbelief and betrayal and so many things Michael never wanted to see on that face that looked best smiling, that deserved to look happy. “I couldn’t let her. I couldn’t . I...I know she wasn’t...kind to you. Before.” 

Gerry never went into much detail, but Michael noticed the slight shift in tone when the conversation went to Mary. It had been like that before already, his smiles turning into frowns when she came up. And it had continued even after they met again. Michael didn’t need details to get the gist. He lost count of how many times he steadied Gerry after his mother went too far. 

After that letter Michael didn’t need to wonder too much about Mary’s character. But still, she had been Gerry’s mother. And her blood was on Michael’s hands.

“I don’t...I couldn’t imagine what she’d do if she controlled you . I couldn’t let it happen. I...I don’t want you to become like this.” He was whispering by the end because he knew his voice would break if he tried to raise it. 

Gerry’s expression was still the same and it was still too similar to the one from that night and Michael thought he would never find all the pieces to his shattered heart again. Not with Gerry looking at him like this burned into his memory.

Gerry brought his still-bleeding hand to the wall behind him, to the door he’d been using for months now to come and see Michael, to talk and hold him and slowly, so slowly, Michael had stopped expecting pain with every touch. They had come so far and Gerry’s mind was whirring because it had all been a lie. Because Michael wasn’t Michael, not like he had thought. And Mary was gone and Gerry felt like he didn’t care about it enough and felt like he cared about it too much at the same time. She was gone because Michael killed her, not Emma, not Annabelle but Michael . His Michael, who could never hurt anyone. Gerry had clearly been wrong.

“I...I have to go,” he mumbled, before turning away and stepping through the wall.

*

Michael stumbled back to the palace, tears glistening in his eyes but he didn't care, couldn't stop them. His body moved towards the throne room by itself - probably an order Michael hadn't caught in his state - but still he couldn't stop the tears. At least he was too numb to break into sobs yet.

They were both waiting for him in the throne room, expressions the same as the night Michael had come stumbling into the palace with Mary’s blood on his hands. They looked like they knew . 

Michael still heard their voices from that night. They had found him in his bathroom, scrubbing at the blood on his hands, heaving breaths amidst sobs, his throat raw with how violently his body kept trying to empty his already empty stomach. It hadn't been this bad in a long time - Michael had felt guilty for how used to killing he had gotten - but this was different. He had killed. It hadn't been an order.

"This one, Michael, was all you. Keep that in mind next time you're sprouting something about us making you into a monster." Annabelle, voice calm and even as ever as she watched him tremble.

"And get a grip,” Emma sounded irritated, “You wouldn't have killed her if you didn't think it right. Don't be so pathetic about it."

Michael could only cry and scrub.

They looked nearly bored now when he came to a stop in front of them and lowered his head. The motion made another tear escape. 

"Guess he didn't react well, huh." Mocking. Emma.

Annabelle sighed, propped her head up on her hand, elbow on the armrest of her throne. "You should have never gotten this involved.” She didn’t sound particularly sad about it. “But at least you learned now. We're not the source of your ability to kill, Michael. You do just fine on your own."

"It's time to focus on what's important again, hm?” Emma was using that tone that made clear she was about to give him an order he wouldn’t like. Michael felt too numb to worry about it right now. “This city won't stay stable on its own. Stop moping and take care of the...disquiet in the northern parts.” 

Michael vaguely remembered what she was talking about but it was impossible for him to focus enough to know for sure. What did it matter anyway? None of this would take that awful expression from Gerry’s face, would make things right again. 

“And do it right this time,” Emma added with finality, and Michael heard the threat in her voice that would have usually made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He barely took notice of it now. “I don't want to hear from them again."

Michael nodded numbly, feeling the instructions settle - knowing Emma or Annabelle would find him and get more into detail if they found it necessary - and turned to leave. His body headed north but Michael’s mind was still stuck in that small room with Gerry’s terrified eyes trained on him. He felt cold.

*

Gerry had half a mind to ignore Gertrude when she asked for his assistance the same night. He was exhausted - he had barely managed to get anything over his lips to report to Elias, feeling too numb and like everything was too loud at the same time. He couldn't focus. He couldn't conceptualise what Michael had told him. Michael didn't kill. Michael was made to kill, he had no choice. Then why would he tell Gerry he had killed Mary? How was it even possible - the image of cold-eyed Michael with the knife in her chest still seemed a completely different person from his sweet Michael who would hide his giggles behind his hand if he had nowhere to press his face into to do so. Then why did he say it? How did Gerry feel so sure that it was true? 

He blinked the tears threatening to spill from his eyes - he'd been crying so much this week, how were there any tears left? - and opened Gertrude’s door.

Gertrude gave him a glance and frowned. She hadn't been with Elias when Gerry reported, so this was the first time she was seeing him today.

"What happened?"

He walked over and sat down wordlessly before mumbling, "Nothing."

"You look miserable."

"And I have for about a week," he didn’t mean to snap, but Gerry was too tired to care.

Gertrude watched him for a long moment in silence. "Something is different today." She frowned, then shook her head. "Anyway. Did they say anything about Mary’s death?"

Gerry flinched and hated himself for doing so. He shook his head. They hadn’t, and Gerry didn’t want to think about it. He assumed whatever statement they planned to make about it was probably in the letter he delivered today.

Gertrude asked a couple more questions about his mission, but even in his distraught state Gerry could tell she didn’t push as far as she usually would. He must truly look like shit if even Gertrude was taking pity on him. She dismissed him a couple minutes later, and Gerry walked to his chambers as if he were sleepwalking, without taking any notice of his surroundings.

*

The next week was the same. Gerry felt…wrong. He had never felt right in the palace, but it had been Mary who brought him here, she who had pushed for his training, who kept him busy. Hell, Gerry knew that a lot of people’s fear of him came back to being afraid of her . Gerry might have the black mark and the tattoos and a reputation for making trouble, but he knew he was never half as intimidating as his mother, no matter how much he scowled.

What was he without her? Mary had been the only real constant in Gerry’s life. Even if he didn’t like it, she had always given him the feeling of a direction to go, of a purpose, even if he could barely understand what her plans for him were exactly. Even if she kept leaving him lightheaded with blood loss. At least it had been something , a pillar to ground him.

He felt adrift now. The palace was starting to feel too big and alien again and Gerry kept finding himself in front of her door - what used to be her door - simply because this is where he belonged. She hadn’t called him in so long it left him feeling anxious and worried, and he kept finding himself in front of that door without remembering walking there. He’d stand there and would stare at the dark wood, waiting for it to open. Mary never let him wait. He’d hear her voice sometimes, from behind the door, would wake up sweat-soaked and panicking because he hadn’t followed her call and scramble out of bed to hurry to her office. 

Sometimes he didn’t make it there before it hit him. Sometimes he’d stand in front of that door for minutes - hours? - before he realised that Mary wasn’t there. She wouldn’t call him anymore. She couldn’t hurt him anymore. Gerry couldn’t fight the tears at that realisation for long. He couldn’t even tell why he was crying. Sometimes what he felt when he remembered nothing was waiting for him behind that door was an overwhelming relief. Sometimes it was a deep, stabbing aching, a sense of loneliness he had never experienced before and didn’t know what to do with it now. He missed her. He shouldn’t miss her. He didn’t miss her. He mourned her. He was glad she was gone. He felt so very guilty for each and every thing he was feeling waiting in front of that door and the frustration that followed only made him sob harder. 

Gerry vaguely noticed his guards dragging him back to his room on more than one occasion. He guessed it wasn’t a good look to have the Royal Antari having a breakdown in the hallway. Gerry didn’t fucking care. Gerry cared too much. It was so difficult to breathe through his tears. He squeezed his eyes shut and Mary’s disapproving face was there.

Gerry couldn’t tell why he got so much worse after talking to Michael. The weeks before the confrontation, Gerry had something else to focus on, forcing all of the strange, complicated feelings about Mary - about her being gone - back, his mind concentrating more on the night itself, on the look in Michael’s eyes. All of that was gone now, and thinking about Michael only hurt, too, if in a less convoluted way than thinking about Mary did. 

Was it less convoluted, though? He still couldn’t wrap his head around Michael having killed her himself. Gerry believed it, knew, somehow, that it was true, but he couldn’t understand. It made everything he thought he knew about Michael crumble. It made him afraid. He was angry, resented him for doing it, for ripping Gerry’s main reference point - because what had he ever been but Mary’s son? Mary’s experiment, Mary’s prized possession, Mary’s - away from him, leaving him floating, disoriented, scared. 

Gerry was sad, because he remembered Michael’s despair last time they had seen each other, sad because he knew that Michael might have killed her of his own will but he hadn’t wanted to do it, either. Sad because he knew Michael was hurting and because the cracked, pretty picture he had of Michael was now broken beyond repair and Gerry needed it. He needed something that stayed, something he could look at and know what it was and what he was towards it. 

Maybe he was also angry at Michael for taking this away from him. Angry, sad and frustrated. And so fucking guilty. He couldn’t even pinpoint what for, only knew he was starting to break under the weight of guilt that kept crashing down on him every day. He should be doing something. Gerry didn’t know what he should be doing anymore. Directionless, he cried.

Chapter Text

Gerry didn’t know what made him look in the mirror. He knew he had to wash. He had heard about the commotion earlier that day, that the White London Antari had returned and admitted to Mary’s murder, had been put in the dungeoun for it. Gerry had felt very little at the news - a dull pain that made him curl up tighter under his covers and stay in bed even longer. Nobody called for him - he was too much of a mess to be of much use to anyone right now - and the thought that had finally gotten him out of bed was that if Michael was in the dungeon, he was probably cold. And while Gerry had been unable to pinpoint any emotion he's had in the past weeks and much less been able to make sense of it, he knew he didn't want Michael to be cold. No matter what he had done.

But before Gerry could leave his chambers he had to tidy himself up. He had gotten into trouble for neglecting his appearance twice in the past week and he knew by now his guards were instructed to make sure he wouldn't leave his rooms unless he looked at least presentable. 

Still Gerry didn't know why he had looked at the mirror the moment he stepped into the bathroom. He hadn't in at least two weeks - ever since a maid was sent to cut his bangs again - and now he froze, Mary staring right back at him through the reflection. Panic seized him, harsh and quick. Gerry stumbled back. So did Mary. 

Gerry blinked - tears were already starting to gather at the corners of his eyes - and watched as the reflection did the same. It was him. He hadn't kept up with his hair and the product he'd been using to darken it all his life had faded to the point of leaving it barely a shade darker than Mary's dark blonde. 

It was too much. Mary had never left. She was there in the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips, the colour of his eyes and hair and it was too much . The terror Gerry felt at seeing her, the relief, overwhelming, when he realised it wasn't really her . How much longer would he grieve her when the strongest emotion he felt knowing her gone was relief? 

Gerry had been a mess of barely distinguishable feelings these past weeks - terror, fear, grief, relief, guilt, always, always guilt - and had never been far from tears and this was ridiculous . If the sight - the idea of the sight - of his mother filled him with such dread, how could he struggle so much with making sense of his emotions, figuring out which of them were the right ones, which ones to act on? 

Gerry was angry - a dull kind of anger that frustrated him because he couldn't feel it properly. He glared at himself in the mirror - his cheeks wet with tears now - and decided he needed to get a grip. Mary was gone. She wouldn't come back. Michael was in the dungeons of the palace and cold and Gerry, permanently unsure about how he felt and how he should act since his mother's death, knew for sure he wanted to do something about it. Michael had brought him a lot of pain killing Mary, but he had also brought Gerry relief on a scale he had never known before. Gerry didn't need to forget that night - Michael’s cold eyes and the knife in his mother’s body - but he had to do something . And the only thing he wanted to do for sure was go to Michael. He wasn't sure what he'd do once there, but it was the first clear idea he'd been wanting to follow through with in weeks and so Gerry turned his back to Mary in the mirror and moved towards the bath.

Gerry took his time in the bath. It didn't do much in clearing his head - nothing did lately - but it helped him relax. He'd focus on the task at hand for now. He'd wash and dye his hair and then he would go to the dungeons and bring Michael some warmth. The rest he'd figure out there. He hadn't seen Michael in so long he was equally as excited as he was nervous about it. How would he react? Would there still be Mary’s blood on his face? Gerry took a deep breath and put his head under water. There was no point in getting worked up about it now. The guard placed by the door shuffled nervously as Gerry stayed put until his lungs started to burn.

The guards asked no questions when Gerry folded one of his own blankets and left the room with it under his arm. They didn't ask but Gerry noticed their shared glances. They had been sharing a lot of glances as they watched him sob or go about his day in apathy. He didn't care.

Gerry made a stop by the kitchens on his way, knowing well that the kind of cold in the dungeon was not something a blanket alone would relieve. Staff stared at him, a mixture of awe and nerves and curiosity, but Gerry paid them no mind as he made tea and put the mug on the tray he had just put a bowl of soup on. 

It was only when he left the kitchens with the tray balanced on one hand and the blanket tucked under his other arm - drawing the eyes of any servant or noble passing through the same halls - that one of the guards found the courage to mumble, "Where are we going?"

Gerry didn't answer.

He went down the steep stairs without trouble, thoroughly familiar with them when he still had all his blood in his body. There were two guards at the door to the dungeons and Gerry heard them move to stop him before he had reached the bottom of the stairs. Their arms - swords half-raised in defence - froze when they saw him.

They shuffled uncomfortable, shared nervous looks with each other, before one of them tentatively - nervously - spoke up, "Lord Keay-"

"The Keays are dead,” it was the steadiest Gerry’s voice has sounded in weeks. It nearly startled him, but he focused on staring coolly into the obviously uncomfortable guard’s eyes instead. “Open the door."

They shared another nervous look - closer to alarm, fear - and Gerry could feel the guards behind him doing the same. He didn't know what their detailed instructions were to deal with him in his, as Elias had put it, ‘fragile state' but as far as Gerry could tell they were still supposed to treat him with the usual respect of his authority. And as far as Gerry knew, the dungeons were not off-limits to him right now, meaning they'd have to let him through.

"We…we have no orders from the king to let you in. He didn't tell us you'd be coming-"

"Do you have orders not to let me in?" Gerry was losing his patience. He didn’t care about how uncomfortable the guards were feeling.

He hesitated at first, but then had to admit, "Well, no-"

"Open. The. Door." His voice dropped into something close to a threat, eyes narrowing. He didn’t have time for this. The soup was getting cold.

Another tense moment of nervous glances later, they finally opened the door, stepped to the side. 

Gerry ignored the fear on their faces and stepped through and into the darkness. He knew the layout well enough in the dark, but Gerry wanted to see . The torches on the walls - inside and outside of the cell - flared to life. One of his guards gasped, but Gerry approached the only occupied cell without looking back. He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care .

Michael was cowering on the floor, pressed into the corner made by the cot's footend. They had taken his coat and shirt and he was trembling, though Gerry didn't know if it was from the cold since it seemed to get worse the closer Gerry got. Gerry frowned, wondering why he chose the floor over the cot. It was quite a bit colder, even if it was pretty much equal in comfort to the hard cot. 

Neither did he understand why Michael wasn't looking up. If anything, he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, stopped only by the handcuffs hooked into the chain in the wall, keeping his arms pulled up above his head. The chain should have allowed for enough movement for him to lie on the cot if he wanted, but it seemed to be jammed. They'd done it to Gerry before, in the beginning. Elias had made it clear that that went too far. 

But Michael was not under the crown's protection. 

Gerry pushed the door open with magic, feeling anger, real hot fury, starting to boil in the pit of his stomach. It made him halt in his tracks for a moment, the feeling so intense after so long of everything feeling so dulled, directionless, confusing. It nearly felt like a physical blow, and Gerry had to press his teeth together not to gasp.

The doors to the cells were guarded against magic of course, but much like the metal around Michael’s wrists now, it did little more than simply dampen Antari magic. Gerry needed to push harder, but the door did give almost immediately.

Guards moved to stop him, shouting questions and orders and Gerry focused on their bones and made them freeze. More shouting - an edge of fear in their voices now - but Gerry kept his grip tight as they struggled, making legs, the urging to advance , still, making hands halfway to their weapons freeze. Bone magic was not his favourite, but Gerry was beyond caring. They could yell all they wanted. Nobody could hear upstairs. He’d know.

The door opening made Michael jump and turn his head to look, tentatively, at the source of the noise. His jaw was badly bruised and as Gerry approached he saw that that wasn’t the only discoloured patch of skin. His arms and shoulders were lined with them, clear fingerprints on his biceps, another purple stain on his sternum and Gerry fought the urge to make the bones he was holding still break. They could get away with some rough handling when Gerry was being punished. They could get away with a lot more when the Antari was foreign.

Michael was blinking against the light and Gerry saw tears stuck in his pale lashes, trails dried on his cheeks. “Gerry?” His voice sounded rough and Gerry wondered if they had even given him water since putting him here. His anger was sharp by now, and it was nearly overwhelming after so long spent in apathy and depression.

 “Michael…” his tone went soft naturally, like pieces fitting together. 

Gerry put the blanket and tray down and yanked the chain in the wall free of what was keeping it from extending. Michael flinched at the movement, but his arms collapsed into his lap, finally free of their strain. Gerry moved to crouch in front of him. Fresh tears were gathering in Michael’s eyes as he looked at him, wide-eyed and confused, hurt. He threw a couple of fearful glances behind Gerry where some guards were still struggling against Gerry’s grip. At least they were silent now. 

“Let me help you up, the cot is hard but less cold.” Gerry spoke very gently, took Michael by his elbows and helped him to his trembling feet and onto the cot. Michael was stiff, and Gerry caught glimpses of further fading bruises and small scratches as he helped him move and grit his teeth against the desire to make those who hurt him suffer.

Michael broke down into sobs the moment Gerry let go of him again. “I’m sorry, Gerry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I shouldn’t have- She- They…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Michael, hush, it’s okay, it’s…it’s okay.” The words didn’t quite feel right on Gerry’s tongue, but neither did they feel wrong. He meant it. It wasn’t fully true, but Gerry meant it and he wanted nothing more than for Michael to feel better, to help stop the violent sobs, the shaking.

Michael shook his head so hard it made his curls fly, then buried his face in his trembling hands. “I killed her, Gerry. I killed your mother . Nothing is okay , no- I-”

“I know. I know, Michael, I know.” After a moment’s hesitation, Gerry decided to stroke his hair. It made Michael cry harder but he didn’t pull back. “I brought you some food, some tea. It’s okay,” Gerry bent down so he could mumble the words to him, for him alone, “I’m so sorry.” He carefully wrapped his arms around Michael’s shoulders and pressed him close. His voice shook a little when he said, “I should have never left like that, I- I’m sorry, it was…I was…it was a lot. It…it still is.” He sighed, pressed his face into Michael’s curls, voice quiet but firm. “But Mary is gone and you are still here. And I’m sorry I let them do this to you.”

Michael shook his head again, pleading, “I deserve it, I deserve so much worse , I-”

Gerry took his face into his hands - careful to not press down on the bruised side of the jaw, but making sure Michael was looking at him, could see how serious Gerry was when he said, “No, Michael. You don’t.” They held perfectly still for a moment. Gerry realised how long it had been since he had simply looked into Michael’s face. He missed it. With a quiet sigh, he gently brushed an escaped strand of hair out of Michael’s face. The hairclips had probably qualified as a weapon and had been taken away.

“You’re going to escape, right?” he mumbled gently, thumb carefully tracing his swollen jaw.

Michael nodded slowly, “I’ll be gone…by morning.” His expression cracked again, new tears filling his eyes, “I don’t want to, Gerry. This feels right -”

“It’s not.” Gerry shook his head, caught his eyes imploringly, “ Nobody should hurt you like this. Nobody should play with you like this.”

He swallowed hard, feeling his voice crack. Tears were pricking his eyes and he blinked them away. He needed Michael to understand and breaking down didn’t seem the right way.

Michael shook his head, sniffed, “Why are you here? Why are you being nice to me? If anyone, you-”

“Because I love you.” Gerry pressed his forehead to Michael’s, closed his eyes. The regret - the guilt - was nearly overwhelming when he mumbled, “I’m sorry I left you like that, Michael. I’m…I’m with you. Okay?”

Michael’s voice was barely a whimper, “You- I killed-”

“I know. I…I’m not saying I’m…over that.” Gerry opened his eyes to look at him. He didn’t want to talk about this. His tongue felt heavy under the weight of the words, but he needed to push on. Michael needed him. He was tired of being miserable. He sounded a little steadier as he continued, “But the important thing is that you are still here and I adore you and I want you to be well. Safe.” He cringed at that, shook his head, “I know I can’t do much towards it, but…I need you to know. I’m with you. I love you.”

Michael buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Gerry held him close, caressed his back. His skin was so very cold to the touch and Gerry remembered what he brought with him. He pressed a kiss to Michael’s temple, mumbled a quiet reassurance before pulling away. He felt suddenly aware of the guard’s stares. Most had stopped trying to escape his magic’s grip too actively, but all were staring at them, in surprise, in fear. In disgust. 

Gerry ignored them as he walked to the tray and blanket he had set down when entering the cell earlier. He picked up the blanket first and moved back to drape it carefully around Michael’s shoulders. Michael sunk into the fabric a little, trembling hands clutching the edges of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself with a quiet, still disbelieving thank you . Gerry gave him a small smile before going back to retrieve both the soup and the tea - both starting to cool, so he warmed them in his hands. Fire didn’t come easy in the damp cell, but Gerry had always been best with it of all the elements, so he managed fine. He sat down on the cot next to Michael and held the bowl with the soup towards him.

“Eat. It’ll help with the cold.”

Michael didn’t seem to like the idea of letting go of the blanket, but eventually took the bowl with both hands to help with the shaking and brought it to his lips. It was good - a lot more flavour than Michael remembered ever tasting - and he was a little sad when, after drinking it far too quickly - the warmth was so soothing against his tear-raw throat - he had none left. He looked into the empty bowl with a sense of loss as the taste already started to fade from his tongue.

“You liked it?” Gerry asked.

He nodded. “You eat this…every day?”

There was something close to awe in his quiet voice and Gerry felt his heart clench. Things had only gotten worse in White London, and they had already been bad when Gerry had been forced to leave for good all those years ago. What did Michael even eat? He didn't look as underfed now as he had then, but the tone in his voice - the nearly pained expression in his face as he saw the empty bowl - told Gerry that whatever it was, he should have better.

"Not this specific soup. They tend to have at least one every day, but switch them around." Gerry answered softly, holding out the tea and taking the empty bowl.

"Oh…"

Michael took the mug in both hands and pressed it to his cheek with a sigh, eyes fluttering close. He looked so tired. Gerry wanted to do more for him, so much more.

Michael took a tentative sip from the tea and sighed. "Thank you."

Gerry gave him a small smile, pet his cheek. “Of course.”

Michael clearly forced himself to finish the tea a little more slowly than he had the soup. Still, it was gone so quickly. Michael looked at least a little bit warmer, drew the blanket tighter around himself with a sigh. His eyes landed on the still struggling guards. 

“You should go,” he whispered.

Gerry shook his head. “I can’t leave you alone with them.”

“You can’t hold them like this all day. And you can’t stay.” Michael caught his eyes, “I know…I got you into some kind of trouble last time. They hurt you here, too.” He swallowed, “I’ve hurt you enough. Please. Go.”

Gerry opened his mouth to protest, but Michael wasn’t wrong. He realistically couldn’t hold the guards off all day. And staying with Michael…Gerry pressed his lips together. He had probably already done a good amount of damage by coming here in the first place. By acting like this right in front of their eyes. Gerry could still feel their gazes on him - on them. Some still looked shocked, but for most, the confusion had faded into disgust, anger even. Gerry wondered why. Did they feel like he was betraying the throne? Did they care enough to get mad about it? Was the disgust about him sitting like this with his mother's murderer? 

He looked at the bruises Michael was half-covering with the blanket.

“Promise me something?”

“Gerry…” Michael sounded like he knew exactly what Gerry was going to say, and didn’t like it at all.

“Don’t let them hurt you. Please.” 

"I can't promise you that," Michael curled up into himself a bit tighter - a quiet flinch escaping his lips in that moment. 

Gerry looked at him, imploring, "You're still stronger, even in this cell, even with those chains-"

"I know," Michael sounded pained.

"Then promise."

Michael looked at him for a long moment. He looked exhausted. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to be left alone in this cell to cry himself to sleep. 

"Fine," he sighed, "I…I promise."

It was such an obvious lie. Michael was clearly too tired to even try. Gerry decided to nod - he had pushed him enough, had made things worse enough. Maybe he should have never gotten out of bed.

He gently put one hand on Michael’s cheek, pressed a soft kiss to the other. "Thank you." He sounded as genuine as he could manage that moment.

He got up, took the empty mug from Michael’s hand - it had turned cold - and put it with the bowl on the tray. He could feel all eyes on him - the guards he was starting to feel the strain of holding in place, hostile; Michael’s, sad or tired or maybe just empty. A little unbelieving. Gerry pushed the cell door open with his hand this time, but made sure to lock it properly, if only to make it a little harder for them to get to Michael.

Michael gave him a small, grateful smile at that. It occurred to Gerry that part of him had probably feared Gerry might try something stupid and break him out. He hadn't even offered it. The idea had barely occurred to him. He had known the moment it had taken vague shape that Michael would not come with him. Gerry hadn't wanted to waste their time arguing about it.

He returned Michael’s thin smile, before hardening his features and turning around, facing the frozen guards with murder in their eyes. He clutched the tray between his hands, exhaled slowly. Let them go.

There was shouting - Gerry barely caught anything, feeling a little faint from the effort it had taken to hold them still for so long. He didn't practice bone magic very often, and the strain was unfamiliar and disorienting.

He noticed he was being grabbed, gloved hands closing tightly around his arms and Gerry could feel how much they were struggling to hold back, didn't need to look up into their hostility filled, seething faces - to know they wanted to hurt him, the hand on his biceps shaking slightly with the effort of not doing so.

They didn't have a reason to hold back like this for Michael. Gerry threw the remaining guards a warning glare as he was dragged out of the room. He knew he'd find Michael hurt because he knew Michael had lied to him. He knew he could do nothing to prevent it. But still, he glared .

*

Elias wasn't in the throne room, but in his study. It was a smaller room, but not less opulent and the rug was plush beneath Gerry as he was forced to his knees in front of the king once they had been let in.

"Your highness, the Antari has been working for White London all along," one of the guards said, barely containing his malicious satisfaction. Gerry raised an eyebrow. "He went down into the dungeon, ignored the guards there, then attacked them and us to speak to the murderer. They're planning something, they-"

"They kissed . His own mother's killer," the guard to his left interjected and she sounded genuinely appalled Gerry wondered if she was simply an admirable actress or if she maybe had never had the displeasure of meeting Mary Keay.

They said some more - about Gerry’s aggressive, disrespectful behaviour, about him daring to use magic on them, about how familiar he and the other Antari were - and Gerry barely heard any of it. He wondered if Michael was okay. He wondered how much fear he had managed to put into the guards with the magic - with his warning glare. He wondered if he should have killed them.

Gerry had never killed anyone before. The thought didn't startle him as much as it maybe should have. Michael had looked so fucking miserable. Gerry needed to help him.

"Gerard," Elias spoke loud, as if repeating himself, and Gerry looked up. Elias was staring him down as usual, less calculating and more waiting, expectant. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

It was nearly funny to be asked that. There had been a time where Gerry had been talking over whoever had dragged him in front of the king, screaming for justice he quickly learned did not apply to him. It had been a waste of energy then, and it would be a waste of energy now.

“I don’t work for them. And you know that.”

Elias looked vaguely disappointed. He contemplated Gerry for a long moment, then his guards. With a sigh, he leaned back.

"You still seem…disturbed by her death, Gerard. Why don't you go and sort through her things. There has been no time to see to that yet." His smile looked like a warning, "Maybe it'll help you put this behind you. Clear your head."

Gerry knew it wasn't a suggestion, but an order. He also knew very well that his wellbeing was the last thing on Elias mind. This was his punishment. Mary might be gone, but there were still ways to make him regret decisions related to her. Gerry lowered his head. He knew that whatever he could say would only make things worse, both for him and Michael. They knew now. Elias knew now and Gerry wasn't stupid enough to think he wouldn't sense leverage in this knowledge. And soon surely the whole palace would know. Gerry’s long- and desperately guarded secret. He felt himself deflate. 

His guards didn't look wholly satisfied with the punishment, but nodded in acceptance nonetheless when Elias instructed them to bring Gerry to Mary’s old office. They obediently – but roughly – pulled Gerry back to his feet and walked him out of the room. Gerry could feel Elias' eyes bore into his back.

*

Gerry had no time to contemplate how much he didn't want to go through that door. The guards - clearly uneasy - pushed him through and Gerry heard the turn of a key as he tried to steady himself. Then he froze. It all looked the same.

Nobody had been in the room since that night, clearly. Mary’s desk was its usual mess - messier, still, from the struggle that had clearly preceded her death - the chair still lay where it must have fallen when she got up to defend herself. Her body, at least, was gone and Gerry swallowed a relieved sob at that, rubbed the gathering tears out of his eyes. 

He took a slow, shuddering breath. Mary was gone. There was a dark, brownish stain on the carpet where Gerry had last seen her - and he remembered that night vividly enough to know that that’s where Michael’s knife had been embedded in her chest - but Mary was gone . No matter how much the office looked as it always had - as it had the countless hours Gerry had spent in here against his will, bleeding or helping her with things he wanted nothing to do with - there was nobody here now.

And when Gerry calmed himself down enough to take another step in, dared to look closer, it became just a little more obvious. The dust, primarily. Mary had never stopped in her work, making it nigh impossible for anything she found remotely interesting to actually catch dust.

But there was a thin film of it over everything now, the desk, books, shelves, her notes.

Gerry’s hand shook as he brought it to the desk, where papers had been pushed aside, revealing wood. He left fingerprints in the dust, and felt another sob threaten to rip through him. Gerry didn’t want to be here.

It had been easy to look into Michael’s face - it hadn't, not at all, but it had - and talk about how despite Mary’s murder, Gerry loved him. It had been easy to speak as if he had figured everything out, finally. As if Mary was something he had worked through and could now close the chapter on to move on.

But it was impossible to believe such lies here, where her presence was so obvious in every stack of books, every half-hazard note. Gerry thought the room smelled of her, though maybe Mary had smelled of it. He didn't know. He didn't want to be in here.

Gerry still missed her. He didn’t want to. He never had wanted to. But he did. He missed her fiercely. She had been his reference point for all of his life, the only constant. She had been cruel, but familiar, and Gerry simply felt wrong without her. Like he was somehow missing guidance, even though he spent most of his life going out of his way to not do what his mother had wanted from him. It made no sense.

He still feared her. That made no sense, either. Gerry knew she was gone, she couldn’t hurt him anymore. The quiet, dusty office - empty of her usual shuffling, the noise of pages turning, her mumbling - should probably help with him finally understanding. Yet, when he noticed a tear - he didn’t know when he had lost his fight with the tears, but he was crying quietly - hit the notes he had been skimming, Gerry drew back as if struck, heartbeat picking up in panic because he knew she-

She was dead . Gerry couldn’t stop the sobs anymore, hid his face in trembling hands and sobbed. He had cried so much lately. When would he finally run out of tears? When would any of this start making sense ? Mary was dead and Gerry felt so fucking relieved, but also so very hurt . It shouldn’t be both. Mary Keay had never been kind, and Gerry should not miss her . 

Seeing Michael - looking into his face again after so long - should not have brought both gratitude and resentment on top of the million other things Gerry had felt in that moment.

It had been so easy to focus on the other things. The rage at seeing the bruises, the state he was in. The warmth at seeing him again that had spread in Gerry’s chest despite everything. It had felt good to not think of her primarily after so long of doing nothing but. But now he was here and this room was still hers through and through and Gerry wanted out .

He let out a frustrated cry, sank to the floor. He hadn’t touched the chair. He didn’t dare.

Gerry didn’t know how much time passed while he cried, but eventually, he grew tired of hearing his own sobs - he’d been hearing little else for weeks - and once he finally managed to calm himself down, got back to his feet. He felt slightly numb, as he always did after crying, but also angry . 

He took a deep breath, cleaned his face as best as he could with his sleeves. It had been mere hours since he had decided he had enough of this. Hours after he had looked into Michael’s face and felt so strongly that it was what mattered, above everything, above Gerry’s messy feelings. He had been so confident, had used his magic against palace guards, something Gerry hadn’t done in years.

And yet, all it had taken to make him a crying mess again was coming into this room. Gerry ground his teeth. He had to get a grip. He would be useless like this.

Gerry closed his eyes, took a breath. Then another. He was surrounded by notes he had desperately tried to read months ago, finally at his disposal. And while by now he had next to no hope of them containing anything that might help Michael, he couldn’t be sure about that. The possibility was still there.

The room was quiet, as empty rooms tended to be. Gerry opened his eyes and moved to pick up and righten the chair. It made him cringe, goosebumps spreading on his forearms. It felt wrong to do this. He did it anyway.

Gerry gathered all the notes he could find and piled them onto one side of the desk. He had to sort of clean the desk at first, which also felt incredibly wrong, like Mary would come and shout at him to stop any moment. But she didn’t, and it became easier. By the time Gerry forced himself to sit in her - the - chair, the room did no longer look like it had the night he had watched her die. And he felt better, if not good. Any other feelings threatening to resurface about that night - about her - he drowned in reading. He had a lot to go through.

Gerry didn’t find anything particularly useful. He found a lot of notes he could simply not understand - they were written in some kind of shorthand, and the few words spelled out made little sense to him - and a lot that he did understand, but they were mostly musings on magic, blood - his blood - and empty ideas on how one might connect to the other. He found the same scattered notes on soul seals, but there wasn’t anything more concrete than her questions Gerry had seen there the first time. Though he did find the piece of paper with those notes worryingly far up in the pile. She clearly had looked at it again recently. And considering what Michael had told him, Gerry could guess why. He shivered, and put it away.

Gerry read until the words became unintelligible - both because his eyes hurt so much and because he was utterly and thoroughly exhausted. He tried the door, but knew before he pulled that it wouldn’t open. He sighed, turning back to the room. He didn’t want to sleep in this room, didn’t want to sleep where Mary’s blood still stained the carpet. Just looking at it was making him tense up again, and Gerry had no energy left to cry tonight.

He dragged himself to the back room, where he could at least lie down. The cot was as hard as ever, and for a moment, when he opened his eyes to that familiar ceiling, Gerry braced himself for the pain of Mary’s scalpel breaking through his arm’s skin. But he was too tired for that to really stick. Had Mary been there, she would have already told him, as she had many times, that he could not sleep here.

So Gerry rolled up on his side, closed his eyes. He wondered if Michael was sleeping, all the way down in the dungeon. He hoped he was. He’d need the energy to escape tomorrow, if he had told Gerry the truth. Gerry wished him a good night, quietly, and finally gave into his own exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Gerry startled awake, unsure what had woken him. His dreams had been uneasy and finding himself in Mary’s backroom added little to it when he blinked his eyes awake. Where did his dreams end?

"Gerard."

It took Gerry a moment to recognise the voice. He knew it wasn’t Mary even before he had time to panic about it. Mary had always had a very distinct voice. Gerry frowned, turned his head. Gertrude was looking down at him, expression impassive.

“Gertrude?” Gerry hadn’t seen her in a while. Or at least he thought it had been a while. Time had turned rather strange in the past weeks. “What are you doing here?”

“The Antari escaped.”

Gerry nearly sighed in relief, but managed to contain himself. Gertrude’s expression hadn’t changed, her tone just as neutral. Gerry pushed himself into a sitting position with some struggle. He felt weak, a little dizzy. When had he last eaten? 

He looked at Gertrude. “You’re not surprised.”

“Neither are you.”

Gerry shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine them actually allowing their only Antari to rot in a cell for long. Especially since-”

“The punishment for murder of somebody so close to the king himself is death,” Gertrude completed, coolly.

Gerry nodded, mutely, avoiding her eyes because he was sure some remnant of the fear that had gripped him when he had put two and two together was showing in his own eyes. He hadn’t dared to think of it. 

A moment of silence passed, and Gerry nearly expected Gertrude to ask. Ask what had happened yesterday, ask about this . But she just sighed, “Elias wants to talk to you.”

“Why? He can’t be surprised about this.” Gerry frowned.

“He is not. But whatever game they are playing, I assume he wants to continue.”

Gerry groaned, buried his face in his hands. “What fucking game are they playing?”

“You would know better than I.” A slight accusatory tone made it into her voice and Gerry peeked up at her through his fingers. She was scowling.

He sighed, rolled his eyes, “You’ve heard about me working for the enemy all along.”

“Is it not true, in a sense?”

Gerry frowned. “Michael is not our enemy.”

Gertrude sighed, “On paper he is, no matter what you say. It was stupid to do what you did, you know that.”

“ This is stupid,” Gerry snapped, getting to his feet. “What does Elias fucking want?”

“You will have to ask him yourself. I just came to get you.” She looked at the door. “You made an enemy of every guard, it seems. I thought it might be better if I picked you up instead of them."

Gerry blinked at her, shocked. Then lowered his head. "Thank you."

Gertrude shook her head. "Come on."

She started walking towards the door and, after a second of watching her, grateful and confused, Gerry hurried after her. He did appreciate not having to deal with the guards right now. He could only imagine them somehow finding a way to blame him for Michael’s escape. As if Red London’s bars and shackles could ever hold an Antari against their will. 

Or well, the queens’ will in Michael’s case. Gerry cringed at the thought as they stepped into the hallway, door falling close behind them. He breathed in. He still had that faint smell in his nose that had clung to Mary, but it was fainting quickly as he fell in step next to Gertrude.

“What…what have you been up to?”

Gertrude threw him a look. He sighed. They walked the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but neither was it particularly amiable. Gerry was grateful for it, in a way. He didn’t feel like his head could take much input right now. He was exhausted, still hungry, throat dry. He hoped they’d at least give him something to drink in the throne room. His head was killing him.

To Gerry’s disappointment, the king was not alone. It was the same fucking crowd that had seen Gerry off that first time he had gone to White London, chattering nervously as he passed. The atmosphere was tense, confused. More openly hostile than it had been since the very start. Great.

Gertrude came to a stop in front of the throne and gave Gerry a nod. He returned it, unsure of its meaning but glad to have it. She moved on to take her place towards the back of the throne, to the side. 

Gerry took a breath and lowered himself onto his knees. It was nice to not be forced down for once, even though he would have liked to spit into Elias' face. But so many people were watching for that, were clearly just waiting for him to misstep so they could-

Gerry didn't want to know what they would do to him. He kept his head lowered as he spoke up, "Your highness called for me." His voice broke towards the end and he had to cough. He cleared his throat after the fit was over. "I apologise. My mother's office was rather dusty and there was no water."

Gerry could feel that stir another round of mumbling. He tried not to listen to it.

Elias sighed. "Somebody bring him some water."

And after a moment, somebody did. They scuttled away when Gerry took the glass with a thank you . He drowned the glass.

"So," Elias picked up again after Gerry set the glass down. "Your lover escaped." 

That brought a lot of mumbling from the crowd. Gerry knew rumours spread fast here, but he couldn't guess how many had realistically heard of this since just yesterday. He was pretty sure he was hearing some shock. But he was also hearing a lot that was less surprise and closer to satisfaction of hearing it from the king himself. Gerry grit his teeth. He hated him for this. He could have simply said the other Antari had escaped.

But then that wouldn't have united the court against him. Then somebody might have noticed how little Elias truly cared about his prisoner being gone. The bastard wasn't even hiding it, but the audience was too busy feeling validated in their unease towards Gerry to notice. He wondered what kind of nonsense stories will spring from this.

"I did not free him," Gerry said, because he knew that half the whispers were turning into wrong accusations for sure.

"I know," Elias nodded, and that did seem to shut the whispering down a little bit. "He still escaped before trial or sentence." Death . "And I want you to go and inform the White Throne that we won't accept that. That a way has to be found to pay us back for our loss."

Gerry didn't like this at all. He watched as Elias picked a sealed letter from the tray next to him. "I put together some possibilities in this letter. It also contains the response to the letter they sent along with him." He paused. The murmurs had died down, but Gerry could taste the restlessness in the air. 

"We're very off-schedule. But I am sure they will understand," he said, smiling, and Gerry was pretty sure nobody missed the underlying threat in it.

He frowned. It was all show. Elias still had no way of actually hurting them. Couldn't even reach them without Gerry. 

Right? 

Gerry threw a quick, paranoid glance at Gertrude but her expression was unreadable. He swallowed, nodded.

"Should I deliver it right away, then?" He asked. He hoped he could at least eat something before. 

Elias took him in for a moment. Gerry was aware that he looked a bit crumpled, he had slept in these clothes after all. 

"You need a change of clothes. Maybe a bath. Somebody needs to take care of that hair." Gerry frowned at that. He had just washed it, after all. "But it won't take too long. Servants will assist you."

Gerry didn't want assistance, he wanted to be alone. He felt himself nod once more and when the Servants along with his usual number of guards came to him, he got to his feet and left the throne room wordlessly, ignoring the ogling eyes of the court.

Gerry was ready in no time indeed, the Servants moving quickly and efficiently, trying to minimise the time they had to spend this close to him as much as they could. At least some things hadn't changed.

He ended up bathed and dressed in his room with little time having passed since Elias had given the order, and Gerry used the opportunity of waiting for his hair to be pulled into an acceptable ponytail to at least snack on some old, stale crackers on his desk. He was still trying to make sense of his mission. Especially Elias' hurry was making no sense to him. Was it just a reaction to the restless court after Michael’s escape? It surely put him in a bad light. But then again he seemed to be just a little too glad as he reached for the letter. So was this planned all along?

Gerry sat up when his hair started to be combed back neatly, held still and kept quiet during the whole process. Lost in the same, circular thoughts. At least he'd get to see Michael again soon. He hoped he was alright after the dungeon. Had the guards understood his threat?

The guards followed Gerry closely as he made his way back to the king once he was ready, and it all felt eerily as it used to. Except for the fact that some of the guards were openly staring daggers into his back. And the fact that many of those people still present in the throne room did the same the moment he entered.

Elias had not dismissed them. He wanted this to be seen. Why?

Gerry felt uneasy. He walked towards the king to accept both letter and the White London token. A carriage was waiting for him outside.

*

White London was as cold and unwelcoming as always. Gerry felt more disoriented than usual at first - maybe the lingering confusion from how he had been sent here in the first place, maybe lack of proper food. One way or another he stood by the wall - leaning against it after stepping through - for a long moment, blinking against the harsh wind.

He could see the fortress in the distance, as looming and intimidating as it had been that very first time Gerry had seen it from a rooftop. 

Shit. How fucking long ago had that been? Michael-

Gerry needed to focus. He sighed and put the bloodied token away. He never bothered to clean it personally, but it was always spotless when he was sent on his missions.

He made for the fortress, as he had countless times in the past months. He barely had to think about the way anymore. He knew it by heart.

Gerry was very close to the heavy doors that marked the entrance when he felt something, a sharp, piercing pain in his calf. It made him stumble, turn - more slowly than he intended to - but before Gerry could get a better look at what was sticking out of his leg a hand was covering his mouth. A knee kicking him into the back made him gasp, and the hand pressed something between his lips and Gerry was out before the terror of repetition had really caught up to him.

Chapter Text

Gerry came to with a bitter taste on his tongue and the familiarity of the situation cleared the lingering haze from his mind in a heartbeat, pulse picking up in panic. 

“Not as unfazed after all…”

“I told you it was all façade.”

Gerry blinked the room into focus. It was as windowless as the last one, but better lit and Emma was leaning on the throne Annabelle was sitting on a good bit away from Gerry. Both were watching him and Gerry struggled to fight the panic clawing at his throat at their chilling gazes. Emma straightened from her slouch and Gerry felt his blood turn to ice. She grinned, satisfied.

“I just wanted to see if you had forgotten. It’s not your turn tonight.”

Gerry blinked in confusion – once, twice – and before he could catch the meaning in his slightly hazy state there were hurried steps approaching. Suddenly Michael rushed through the already wide-open door – a blood-curdling cracking noise and a voiceless, stunned scream before Michael hit the stone floor, hard. 

Gerry froze, shock making him take just a little too long to connect Annabelle’s boring eyes – staring intently at Michael’s crumpled up form – with the sound of cracking bone and the decidedly wrong angle of Michael’s ankle. She has her own ways , Michael had said. Bone magic. 

Gerry felt a cold shock running through his veins, terror only magnifying when Emma stepped towards Michael and ordered him to stand . He struggled, clearly not wanting to move that ankle but his body still following the order. The first attempt to rise failed and he crashed back into the floor with a pained grunt. 

Emma made an impatient noise. "Come on, Michael. Your lover is on a schedule."

Michael tried again – slowly, without putting weight on the already swelling ankle. He looked at Gerry with big, panicked eyes, balancing awkwardly on his good leg. 

Emma rolled her eyes. “I won’t hurt him,” she paused, knife in hand and the blade’s end against Michael’s jaw, forcing him to turn to look at her. A warning. “It’s at least not planned. I guess it fully depends on you.”

“Why is he here?” Michael’s tone was a strange mix of demand, fear and pain.

Emma smiled. “You’ve become much more talkative lately.” The knife’s edge came to rest on his collar, voice still close to cheerful. “You know the drill. I don’t want blood on your clothes. Take them off.”

Michael threw Gerry an apologetic glance, his fingers already moving to the buttons of his coat. He didn’t trust Emma when she said she wouldn’t hurt Gerry one bit, even if she seemed to want to start with Michael. Michael didn’t have the sort of luck that would allow Gerry to leave here unharmed and he fucking hated the fact that he had gotten Gerry into this mess in the first place. He wanted to apologise. Gerry looked so tired – below the fear he was covering up with fury – and Michael wished, not for the first time, that Gerry had never returned to White London.

He looked away as he gingerly raised his aching foot to step out of his pants. The pain was starting to dull already, but Michael had no delusions about that being it. He still felt the bruises he had gotten in the Red London dungeon ache faintly. The guards hadn’t appreciated Gerry’s visit, but that didn’t matter now.

Michael followed familiar motions he had no control over until every downy hair on his body seemed to stand on edge with the cavernous room's chill. He tried not to think about Gerry watching. He avoided meeting anyone's eye. Despite the years of this - the early ones a blur of just metal cutting skin, hilt breaking bone when Annabelle didn't feel like intervening, again and again until Michael finally gave up fighting - Michael had never managed to rid himself of the shame - the disgust. 

He didn't want to be seen like this. He was nearly grateful for the fact that soon he'd be in too much pain to be concerned about all the eyes watching his thin, freezing body as he very carefully tried to put at least enough weight on the cracked - healing - ankle to not lose his balance. Michael had been too weak to stand before during this and it hadn't gone well for him. There was a thin line between Emma’s irritation and her amplified cruelty.

There was a short moment of silence while Emma stood and contemplated. She frowned at the bruises that hadn’t fully faded yet. Then she turned towards Gerry, who was glaring daggers at her in an attempt to not look at Michael. He knew Michael didn't want to be seen like this. The stark raised lines across his chest were still burned into Gerry’s memory - the plea for him not to touch it.

"I guess it's only fair I ask you as I asked him: any wishes? Suggestions?" She twirled the knife lazily between her fingers and Gerry was too aware of Annabelle’s heavy gaze on him alongside Emma’s cold one.

He pressed his lips together tightly to swallow what he wanted to say, afraid it would only make things worse. He wanted her to stop. He wanted them to leave Michael alone. He knew that wouldn't happen. No matter how much he glared at her.

Emma shrugged at his silence and turned back to Michael. She cut deep. Deeper than she had with Gerry. The knife touched one edge of Michael’s scar, bit into skin and traced it - blade burying deeper along the way and Gerry flinched. Michael was clearly fighting the urge to do the same, wobbling a little in place as the first drops of blood started to flow down his chest, face tight, mouth a thin line. 

Emma moved unconcerned, cut with chilling precision through skin and muscle. It was obvious that she knew exactly what she was doing. How far she could push - how deep she could cut, where to twist the knife in just a little, just enough to make Michael’s forced neutral expression crumble for a heartbeat, betray agony in his eyes. 

And Gerry had known, of course, knew that this was a regular occurance, had heard Michael allude to it more than once and still he couldn't help the feeling of absolute terror settling in his stomach at actually seeing it happen. Gerry tried to free himself but much like last time his attempt to summon his magic ended in sharp pain and tugging at his binds only made the metal dig further into his skin.

"Stop it!" He couldn't keep quiet, he couldn't swallow the terror, the panic and just watch .

Emma looked back at him - and Michael’s expression turned to open panic - and smiled. "Stop? We haven't even started."  She held his gaze for a long moment, a warning in her eyes and Gerry’s skin tingled with the memory of her knife's abuse. 

Michael made a quiet, pained noise as he tried to once again readjust himself. By this point any movement had to pull at the open gashes across his chest and Gerry instinctively tried to go to him as he swayed again, face a mask of pain. It was enough to get Emma’s attention back, and she did not wait, knife coming right back to his already bleeding chest, finishing tracing the pale spiderweb across it with deliberate cruelty - going slow and deep when Michael tensed with pain - whined very, very quietly, hands tight fists at his sides.

To Gerry’s absolute horror, she dragged her knife through the bloodied mess of his chest and then moved upwards. Michael was trembling with the effort to stand and keep quiet and Gerry saw the tears starting to gather in his eyes and wanted to scream. 

Emma didn't stop at his chest as she had with Gerry. She didn't have to. Still, Gerry froze as the tip of the blade wandered towards Michael’s face - passed his throat, forced his head back and him to nearly lose balance, foot clearly still in too much pain to support as much weight as Michael was trying to put on it. He somehow managed to find a way to keep himself from stumbling - it hurt, but not as badly as it had a moment before, ankle clearly starting to mend itself - or maybe the pain Emma inflicted was simply distracting from the pain of putting weight on it.

"The problem with Antari healing," Gerry hadn't forgotten about Annabelle, but he still felt a cold shock running through him as she suddenly spoke up, voice nearly bored. Gerry couldn't help but look at her. Her eyes were boring right into Michael’s - growing wide and pleading with dread - as she continued to speak, "is that the bones heal so quickly they rarely heal right."

Another cracking noise. Michael couldn't help the pained, hoarse shout that escaped him when he collapsed this time - the movement only ending up pulling on wounds - reopening already healing edges. 

Everything hurt and Annabelle’s quiet voice felt like stabbing in his ears as she mused, "How many times did we have to rebreak your hand last time, Michael? Finger by finger by finger…" She pronounced each syllable of finger carefully, sharply and Michael couldn't help the terror running through him at the memory - tried to curl into himself and hide his hands, grit his teeth to fight the pained gasp wanting to force its way out of his throat with the movement.

Gerry strained against his bindings as he watched, in terror, mouth open as if there was anything he could say to make this stop. In shock. He remembered Michael’s slowly healing hand. Gerry had assumed it was normal for it to take so long. He had never broken a bone himself, so he had simply guessed that even Antari took a little longer to heal such an injury. He could barely conceptualise what he was hearing - barely understood beyond the fact that Michael’s eyes were wide and hazy with old agony and fear and Gerry needed them to stop. Had to stop this.

"Please! Please stop, stop hurting him!”

Emma ignored him, pressed the tip of her boot into Michael’s side. "Do you want to stay down there, Michael? My knife's a little short to reach." Staring right at Gerry. "It's been a while since we've gotten a little creative. Should I get the whip? You could summon a little fire and I could get the poker." 

Michael’s full body froze at that, panic taking over glazed eyes. It had been over a year since the last time she had seared through his skin with hot iron - Michael had struggled to keep the fire going when pain was starting to make it impossible to stay conscious - months since the last time Michael had stood and bit into his arm to keep himself from shouting as the whip came down onto his already bleeding back again and again and again , the violent, loud noise making him flinch even before he registered the horrible pain. 

The knife was better, was preferable to any other tools Emma had used over the years. Michael shook his head, unable to see anything but his own reflection as he tried to clean long, burnt streaks down his back that made the slightest movement agonising for at least a week. His lower lip was trembling. "No...n-no, please-"

" That's been a while, hasn't it?" Emma hummed, nostalgic. "Would give your friend - your lover - over there something more exciting to talk about at home, don't you think?"

Michael still hated how she said that word, even with his brain preoccupied mostly with panicked dread. He had nearly forgotten Gerry, still chained across from it, face ghostly pale now, lips slightly parted as he strained against the chains. There was terror in his eyes and something pleading and Michael wished he would close his eyes or look away. Gerry shouldn't see this. Gerry had seen him in so many sorry, pathetic states by now and yet Michael still deeply wished he wouldn't see this . It was hurting him. And Michael had inflicted enough pain on Gerry already.

He felt the pressure of Emma’s foot against his back cease which could only mean she was going to make her threats reality and Michael’s eyes went wide with fear and he started to quickly scramble to get up.

"Don't! Don't, plea...please, I- I, I will get up, I-" he gasped as some too-quick movement shot white-hot pain through his broken ankle, making him slip on the blood on the flood and fall right back down. He hit his shoulder painfully and reopened a cut Emma had put there earlier. There were tears streaming down his face but Michael had no time to dwell on them. He had to get up. He had to get up before Emma grew bored enough to get anything aside from her knife. Not tonight. Not when Gerry was here. Not when Michael had been doing so well in avoiding it.

It was a hopeless endeavour. Michael couldn't bend the way he had to with his wounds, couldn't get a secure grip even with his good foot on the slippery floor and he was shaking more and more violently as he kept trying, panic growing worse with every failed attempt, with the acute awareness of the queens watching, waiting for him. 

Michael couldn't get up. His hand hurt as he put it against the cold stone - a phantom pain, he knew, but it trembled too much to support him and Michael couldn't get up . He was dizzy with bloodloss and blind with tears and his heart was beating too fast, his pulse too loud in his ears as panic choked him and he had to get up .

He lost count of his attempts when he found himself slipping and falling again, head bouncing against the hard stone awkwardly. He felt blood in his mouth and wondered if he had bit his tongue just now or during one of his earlier attempts. He could feel his body bruise where he had repeatedly hit the floor and Michael was breathing heavily, a wheezing kind of sound that made him cringe. It hurt. Everything hurt and he had to get up. Michael had long learned to not confuse Emma’s silence for patience. Michael knew there was only one way for him to get up and he knew she knew, too. She was waiting. She wouldn't wait for long.

Gerry was still staring, wide-eyed, straining against his chains - he had begged and demanded for Emma to stop repeatedly and Michael hated hearing him beg for him, wished he were at least alone in his misery. Wished Gerry wouldn’t have to see this. Wished Gerry wouldn’t have to hear this. He was going to hurt himself if he kept pulling at the chains like that. 

Michael squeezed his eyes shut - he didn’t want to see Gerry’s expression when he opened his mouth and whispered, voice shaking, “Please…hel…please help me…s-stand.” 

He was so tired of begging. He felt so ashamed - so aware of Gerry being there to see this, to hear him beg - and Michael just wanted to disappear. But he had to get up.

He could hear Emma snapping her fingers and then cold metal wrapping around his wrists, pry his hands away from where he was still holding them close to his body protectively. Michael yelped when he got yanked up - cried out when the motion twisted his ankle, pulled at his closing wounds. 

“That wasn’t too difficult now, was it?” Emma bared her teeth in a sorry excuse for a smile as Michael struggled to find a way to stand - the chains kept him up, but Emma never pulled him up to the point where he didn’t need to put some effort into keeping himself upright. 

It still was far from comfortable, but with the chains’ support he found a way to stand up without having to put too much weight on his broken ankle. 

Michael was thoroughly exhausted and sore and he wished this would be over but he knew that by now a lot of the more superficial cuts were too healed for Emma to be satisfied with her own work. Michael’s throat felt so dry.

The tip of her knife moved to his chin and Michael reacted too slowly - his head felt so heavy - for her not to cut when she made him look up. “Don’t be rude. I’m talking to you.”  

It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her face, the icy blue of her eyes. Michael barely managed not to flinch when she traced his jaw - then his cheek - cut her way up his face lazily. When the knife got so close to his eye he could see it he did flinch back, unable to fight the instinct to put distance between the blade and his eyes.

"Stop twitching so much or you'll lose an eye," She mumbled, cutting a curved line right underneath his eye to his nose.

Hazily, Michael wondered whether that would be so bad. The eye had brought Michael nothing but trouble. He wouldn't be here if it weren't for it. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes and they stung as they flowed into the fresh cut, making Michael hiss or whine or something in-between. Emma smiled as she smeared the blood on the blade across Michael’s temple and into his hair. 

"You're so quiet today. Does the audience make you shy?" Emma casually pointed her knife at Gerry, eyes still locked on Michael’s. "Would you feel better if he'd join you?"

Michael threw a wide, panicked glance towards Gerry and Emma frowned, ramming the hilt of the knife into his nose. There was a crack and a loud, wet cry of pain that made Gerry freeze mid-flinch.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," Emma hissed, shook her head when Michael forced his eyes to meet hers, tears tracing wet streaks down blood-streaked cheeks - fresh blood flowing from his crooked nose and Michael couldn't keep it from finding its way into his mouth no matter how hard he pressed his lips together.

She brought the knife to his cheek again and Michael couldn't bite back the whimper, the way he tried to push away - it hurt so much to move - was feeling himself getting to the point where he couldn't take this anymore, where he wanted it to stop . She looked satisfied, cut a thin line to his ear and then stepped out of his sight. 

Michael would have breathed relief many years ago but now all he felt was panic. Nothing was blocking his view to Gerry now - there were tears on his cheek and Michael wished he would look away - and Michael wanted to apologise but opening his trembling lips only let the metallic taste of blood in and he was already so dizzy the nausea that followed wasn't helping at all. He gasped - coughed - and couldn't get out much more than a whine when the movement pulled at a cut down the side of his neck. 

Emma’s blade was back - metal far from cold by now, slick with blood and pressing between Michael’s shoulderblades. Michael whined when she drove the blade in - his nerves were on fire, he felt like his whole body was a sore and it was starting to become impossible to keep quiet. 

She twisted the tip of the blade in a way that made Michael’s vision go black with pain for a second, and the noise leaving his lips was louder this this time, too close to a scream and Michael hated hearing his voice like this, hated the way most of what left was a hoarse, sorry nothing and it hurt , both in his throat and in his ears. He should have been used to how pathetic he sounded and yet it was like a twist of a knife each time.

Michael was struggling to hold still which was only making the blade cut deeper at random and he was disgusted by the sensation of warm blood flowing down his back, nerves on edge because he couldn't see Emma, couldn't tell where she'd cut next and with each unexpected cut he whimpered and cried and Michael needed it to stop . 

He could barely tell if the shaky exhales leaving his lips were words, if he was begging as he always ended up doing. His vision was blurry with bloodloss and tears and he was grateful for it, for how it hid Gerry’s disturbed, shocked expression, the pain in his eyes. Michael didn't want to be seen. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. He wished they'd close for good.

Michael barely registered when the chains around his arms loosened - suddenly and without warning and he hit the cold flood with enough force to leave him grunting and breathing hard. The freezing stone was nearly soothing against Michael’s abused skin. 

"Michael," Annabelle’s voice, making him freeze despite his hazy state. "Emma kept her promise. He’s unharmed.” There was a long pause, as if she wanted to make sure Michael would understand the words in his pain-induced haze. But then she did speak up again, slowly and clearly, “Change that.”

Michael felt his body trying to move, to get up before the words fully registered. When they did, he shook his head, tried desperately to fight the movement of his body, eyes wide with panic. He slipped on the blood and crashed back into the floor and he knew that it was luck, that it had nothing to do with how much he didn’t want to follow that order. His arms were already scrambling for some halt to push him up again.

“No, no, no…” he mumbled it like a mantra and there was too much blood in his mouth and his back hurt with the slightest movement, leaving him gasping.

Emma made an impatient noise and Michael screamed at the piercing pain that shot through his leg, his whole body - his vision going black with it – when she brought her boot down on his still healing ankle.

“You heard her, Michael.”

And Michael had, he had , and he couldn’t fight his body following the order, couldn’t keep it from trying to get to his feet despite the pain and he knew he would eventually make it because he had been ordered to and Michael did not want to hurt Gerry . He looked up at him, wild and desperate as his knee somehow found some grip on the slippery floor, his hand starting to push him up. 

It was difficult to breathe with the pain moving was causing him – pulling at tender skin and reopening gashes and Michael was so dizzy – and so it came out more a thin, trembling gasp when he finally managed to catch Gerry’s eyes. “ Run! ”

Gerry had been utterly frozen in shock as he watched, stared, unblinking, unable to look away. He had only been able to guess the state of Michael’s back based on the amount of blood trickling to the floor, but the sight of the mess of criss-cross cuts across the whole plane of it once Michael collapsed – thankfully not face-first, his nose was already bruising horribly – had made a sob climb to his throat and get stuck there. 

The horror when Annabelle spoke up – the terror when Michael started moving as soon as she did, his face a mask of pain and panic, so very obviously not wanting to do as told, to move at all, had turned the blood in Gerry’s veins to ice. He couldn’t even tell if he had been breathing when Michael locked eyes with him. 

The sight of his bloodied, bruised face, some wounds healing, many still bleeding or bleeding again - the drying blood on his teeth when he opened his trembling mouth to speak - finally snapped Gerry out of it. He was on his feet even before Michael had fully finished speaking – his voice sounded rough and miserable and choking – and Gerry barely actively registered the fact that he could move before he stumbled back a step, two – Michael was dragging himself to his feet despite one of them clearly not being ready to support him and Gerry would never forget those noises coming from him as he did. 

Gerry’s heart was beating so fast with terror, with fear and Michael gave him an imploring, begging look and there was new blood on his teeth when he tried to say please and Gerry turned his back to that horrific sight and ran . 

It wasn’t long before Gerry could hear the sounds of uneven steps echo behind him – Michael kept stumbling and using the walls for support, from the sound of it – but Gerry didn’t turn back. He could hear Michael tell him to run, half-soundless, word swallowed by gasps and whines and other pained sounds, the hoarseness mixing with tears that were making him hiss and Gerry ran . He could see the door. He had to get out .

Chapter Text

Emma and Annabelle followed the trail of bloodstains leisurely. They found Michael close to the main entrance, collapsed. Annabelle stepped up to him, moved his head to the side with her boot to see his ruined face. 

"Still breathing," She hummed, thoughtful.

Emma nodded, "Of course.” She came to a stop beside her, took in Michael’s marred back - cuts already knitting back together - with a satisfied smile. “He made it farther than I thought he would.”

Annabelle hummed in agreement. She had given the order to get the foreign Antari out without risking an attack, but she hadn’t really thought Michael could do much aside from looking terrifying in his state. Then again, Annabelle was still impressed with how far Antari could be pushed. Emma had obviously spent years finding out just how much Michael could take but Annabelle had mostly watched and it never quite ceased to amaze her.

“We should probably get going,” Emma mumbled beside her, looking through one of the high windows. It was dark.

Annabelle raised an eyebrow. “You won’t change?”

As usual, Emma looked, as far as Annabelle could see, spotless. She had washed her hands and arms before following Michael and except for the blood on her boots there was nothing left to suggest what had happened. But Annabelle knew she’d usually still change.

Emma’s hands went to her hair, lightly tracing still flawless braids. She frowned. “I’ll meet you in the throne room.”

Annabelle gave her a smile, nodded. “Michael will clean up the mess when he’ll come to anyway. I think we’re done here for tonight.”

“It was a good one,” Emma hummed as she left in the opposite direction Annabelle was walking into. 

Neither spared Michael, breathing shallowly and wetly - still bleeding onto the cold floor - another glance.

*

Gerry would've fallen had there not been guards grabbing him the moment he stumbled back into Red London, heart still racing - Michael’s broken voice still in his ears - and head full of Michael bleeding, Michael screaming , Michael stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet again and again and Gerry running as fast as his shaking legs would take him, away, away from that horrible place, away from Michael’s bleeding figure-

Somebody was yelling something into Gerry’s face but Gerry’s ears were still full of Michael’s pained noises and he could barely see anything through panicked tears that wouldn't stop. He didn't realise that he could stop running, that Michael’s steps had stopped within the palace. He fought the grip around his arms, wanted to run. 

And then, suddenly, all his energy left him. He was overcome by a bone-deep exhaustion, and when the guards started dragging him towards the coach Gerry didn’t fight. He could barely find it in himself to keep upright. Gerry was relieved when they shoved him into the coach and he could let himself collapse into the seat. He barely took notice of the sob escaping his throat.

Gerry was vaguely aware that this felt a lot like last time as they struggled to drag him in front of the throne in the dark. Gerry knew he was unhurt this time and yet he felt so much more unsteady, felt that paralysing terror he had come closest to experience that first time he had found Michael in that dark room, bloodied and barely conscious. 

Gerry shouldn't be surprised that the process to get him to such a point was terrifying and yet he couldn't move as somebody ordered for him to kneel. He was aware of Elias in front of him, through tears and the images he couldn't blink out of his eyes - images stuck to the inside of his eyelids, Michael on the floor, begging for help - and Gerry could do nothing but stand, frozen, until eventually he was forced to his knees by the guards still holding him in place.

He couldn't tell what Elias was saying - his mind too full, spinning with Emma’s cruel voice, Annabelle’s calm one. The words all messy, a mixture of today and last time and Gerry’s chest felt tight and he was struggling to breathe. 

Elias eyed him curiously - the guards were holding him up to keep him from curling in on himself and he was clearly not present. It was getting quite obvious that Elias wouldn't be getting anything out of him tonight. He wasn't even sure Gerard was hearing him. So he waved for the guards to take him away, watching as they dragged Gerard's somehow both tense and limp figure out of the throne room. Elias contemplated for a little while what could have happened to leave the Antari in such a state. He had his suspicions - had had them since the first time he had seen the White London Antari - but it was difficult to confirm what he couldn't see. With some luck, that'd change soon. He got up from the throne and made for bed.

*

Gerry didn't dare close his eyes against the darkness of the dungeons. His heartbeat had still not calmed down and he felt nauseous with the images lingering in his mind. Michael’s face, contorted in pain as he tried to get up again. The blood on his teeth that could've been from his crushed nose, the split lip, a thousand other injuries Gerry had sat and watched being carved into Michael’s too pale skin. 

Fuck.

*

Gerry was pulled from his cell early the next day. He hadn't slept and was unsteady on his feet, though no longer paralyzed with terror. Watching the same images play out in his mind over and over had left him sort of numb. He felt sore even though he knew they hadn't touched him, and guilty for feeling sore from nothing when Michael was probably still in pain.

He didn't look up at Elias as he knelt in front of the throne. He didn't say anything, either. Gerry would not talk - would not drag Michael into any more of a mess than he was already in.

"What happened?" 

Gerry stayed silent. What did it matter? What did any of this matter when Michael was being hurt regularly a world away?

Elias sighed. "Not even attempting to lie this time?"

Gerry said nothing. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to look after Michael. He wanted to take him away from that horrific place.

"Fine." Elias sighed, leaned back. "Your mother is dead, but that does not mean we won't find a way to punish your tardiness. And your silence will only make it worse."

Gerry nearly laughed. Punishment was nothing compared to what they kept doing to Michael. Gerry’s blood wouldn't be streaking the hallways in repentance. This was all laughable and pointless. 

He didn't even flinch at the mention of Mary’s death. It seemed so trivial now. Mary might be dead but the White Queens weren’t and they were hurting Michael. That was all that mattered.

Elias watched him, frowning, for a long moment before ordering for him to be removed.

They threw him back into the same cold cell - the one Michael had been cowering in not too long ago - and Gerry wasn't surprised when he wasn't brought any food or water for the rest of the day. He sat in silence on the hard cot and tried to stop thinking of Michael bleeding. 

The guards, clearly bored, weren't making it any easier. They were talking about Michael. About him. About them , and it hurt to hear it. Gerry had kept this secret for so, so very long, had carefully separated Michael from this, from what he was forced to call home. It had been his, the only bit of real privacy, something like freedom. And now these people Gerry only vaguely knew by face were talking about them as if they knew anything, as if this was just some more palace gossip. And they weren’t even bothering to keep Gerry from hearing.

“Creepy is drawn to creepy. It makes sense,” one of them was mumbling, throwing Gerry a glance. Gerry hadn’t followed the conversation, but he knew it had started with them pondering what he wasn’t talking about. He wished they’d leave Michael out of this. He regretted giving away his secret so readily. It had been unavoidable, but it still hurt.

"Yes, but the other one seems barely human. I don't understand-"

"Neither is this one. That amount of power…"

A brief silence. Some of these guards had been here when Gerry had visited Michael two days ago. He could feel their ire in the uncomfortable silence that fell, their wounded pride. The fear. 

Gerry couldn't give less of a shit.

“And all of that wasted,” the third guard, not masking the venomous tone, not lowering his voice. “Ignoring the king’s orders, the country’s - his own fucking country’s - needs just to fuck some walking corpse!”

Gerry pressed his lips into a thin line. He wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t . There was mumbled agreement and snickering and Gerry would not react.

“Say,” louder now, and the tone obviously meant what’d follow would be unpleasant. They were talking to him . Gerry was still facing the wall, forced his body to not tense. He wasn’t listening. He wouldn’t listen . “Does he at least come somewhat alive in bed? Because he sure as fuck didn’t when I kicked the shit out of him.”

“I think they do something to him over there. To make him…like that.”

“Well, I’d like to know what they do. I barely got him to flinch.” 

Laughter. Gerry grit his teeth and refused to give any reaction at all. He wanted to break their necks. It would be so easy. He could feel the bones with his magic, even when weakened by the handcuffs and the cell itself. It was so tempting . They had hurt Michael. They were gloating about hurting Michael. They should die.

They weren't worth Gerry’s time, his anger. Nothing was if it wouldn't help Michael in any way. 

Why had Gerry left? He should have turned around, should have helped. Should have noticed when the bindings left his hand and should have killed the queens then and there. He should still do all of that. Should finally hold to his promise and help Michael instead of rotting in this cell.

The guards kept laughing at some joke, and Gerry glared at the dark stone wall in front of his face. He might need his energy later.

Chapter Text

Gerry was done. He didn’t know if it was the damp cold of the cell, the snickering guards - the occasional taunts when one of them raised their voice - or the lightheadedness from lack of water and food but Gerry was done . Nothing was holding him here with Mary dead and Michael bleeding - in need of help - a world away and Gerry was done with playing along, was done with sitting quietly and biting his nails to nothing worrying if they were allowing Michael to heal, if they were hurting him again. Gerry needed to get out and help him somehow, no matter what. 

The guards first didn’t react when Gerry got to his feet, too absorbed in their chatting. They did notice when the cuffs around Gerry’s hands fell to the floor, busted. It felt good to use his magic again. His blood had been boiling since he came back and it had only gotten worse as he lay in the dark cell, thinking. Seeing Michael’s bleeding figure, again and again. 

It felt good to finally have something to direct his anger towards. The guards were frozen before most of them had even managed to grab their swords and Gerry made sure to force their jaws shut tight. He didn’t want to alert anyone. He still had a long way to go tonight.

The door to the cell burst open and Gerry grit his teeth with the effort of balancing the bone magic while pushing against the magic-stifling charms in the iron bars of the cell. But the door opened, as it had last time when Michael had been the one cowering in this cell. 

Gerry would make sure that would never happen again.

He took the guards out as noiselessly as he could - couldn’t deny the bitter satisfaction he felt at the fear in their eyes, the plea for mercy, to be left alive. Gerry didn’t kill them despite part of him very much wanting to. They deserved it for what they had said, for hurting Michael. He wanted to kill them. It would be so very easy, now that his magic flowed freely again.

But he needed his strength. He had a long way to go tonight. And he knew that no matter how much he hated the guards, they mostly followed orders. The source of those was the problem.

Gerry considered his options for a moment - allowed himself to breathe, to drink from what the guards had brought down for themselves, soothing against his parched throat. Gerry was very familiar with the patterns and placements of the guards in the palace. He had studied them obsessively when he first started to feel caged in the beginning to figure out gaps for escape. He knew he couldn’t get to the king’s rooms while avoiding every guard positioned on the way to it. 

Gerry bit his lip. He could make it to the nearest window unnoticed. And it wouldn’t be the first time Gerry climbed the façade of the palace. Before it had always been to get out. Most guards posted outside rarely looked towards the palace for disturbances.

Gerry made sure to keep his steps light as he hurried up the stairs - made sure to silence the guards posted at the door to the dungeons before they could see him and took them out immediately. 

Gerry held his breath and listened, but apparently his sense of time was still somewhat intact. It was so quiet it had to be night.

He was out of the window before anyone else could spot him - the patrols were still the same as the last time he tried to escape - and the night was cold outside and Gerry missed his coat but was glad for it, too. He needed his senses sharp if he was going to do this. And Gerry was . Gerry was tired of waiting, tired of doing as told, of being used for petty games when he was needed elsewhere. Michael needed help, had to be freed, and Gerry would find a way. But he wouldn’t leave any unfinished business behind.

Gerry brought the dagger he had taken from one of the guards to his arm and cut shallowly, smeared some of the blood on the fingers of his other hand. He pressed it to himself, whispered, “As Narahi.” To quicken . One of the few spells Gerry was familiar with using on himself and he could feel the speed in his blood even before he started his climb. 

The air grew only colder as he climbed up - rushing past him as his body moved with inhuman speed. Gerry’s hands and feet rarely lacked hold - the façade of the palace was, much as its interior, unnecessarily decorated. Even when the cold stone grew slippery the higher Gerry climbed, he was usually too quick to notice - instinct kicking in and provided him with a gust of wind for support or manipulated the stone to be enough for his naked feet to stand on. 

Gerry still knew where the trees that would hide him were, but he also knew that after a certain point all he could do was hope nobody spotted him. His fingers were growing numb with the cold stone and despite the added speed the climb felt like it was taking a lifetime. 

There was no light burning behind the balcony window Gerry knew to be the king’s and he didn’t hesitate - didn’t dare to give himself enough time to think about this - before breaking through the glass. It was stiflingly hot inside the room compared to outside. There was rustling - movement - coming from the huge bed at the centre of the room and shouting from the front of the door and Gerry had no time for a fight. He’d need his energy for later.

He threw himself onto the bed - the speed was already gone, but he still made it before Elias managed to get up - and pushed hard against the bones of those guards pushing open the heavy wooden doors. Gerry struggled against Elias' surprisingly strong grip - he wasn't saying anything, was only looking up at Gerry with his piercing eyes, unsurprised - and that expression did not change when Gerry finally managed to drive the blade into his chest. It sent a shiver through him - not as much feeling the resistance of skin and muscle, though that wasn't pleasant either, but the fact that his eyes stayed the exact same, too green and barely wide enough to discern any sort of surprise. 

Gerry caught sight of something he had glimpsed before hanging from Elias’ neck. The White London token. Gerry had no idea when Elias had started to wear it like that, and part of him had thought he was hallucinating it in his desperation before. But he hadn’t. He ripped the cool stone from Elias' unmoving neck, quickly tied it around his own before pulling the dagger free from the corpse and getting up from bed.

Gerry had no time to linger, walked back to the balcony - avoiding most of the shattered glass after stepping right into one of the pieces at first - and let go of the guards in front of the door as he swung himself over the balcony railing. 

The climb down was more of a challenge albeit more familiar territory. His hands were sweaty or maybe bloody and getting a steady grip was decidedly more difficult than it had been before. Thankfully, he didn't have to go far and the window to Gertrude’s office was always open. Gerry slipped through it once he had reached it and took a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the wall.

Gertrude had stood up from her chair and was looking at him with the closest to shock Gerry had ever seen on her face. In any other situation, Gerry might have grinned about it.

"Gera-"

"The king is dead. They'll probably be here in a moment," he managed between pants. He met her eyes. "Don't wait for me."

"Where are you-"

Gerry didn’t wait for her to finish. He had pushed his finger into the closing cut of his hand and finished drawing the symbol he had memorised months ago, before any of this had started, when he had been nothing but excited at the prospect of leaving at all and even more thrilled at seeing White London - and possibly Michael - again. The memory made Gerry sick. 

Gerry took a moment to steady himself after the world around him shifted back into focus. Moving within the same world took so much more focus for some fucking reason. 

He blinked a couple times. At least it had worked. He was right by his door to White London. Finally that shortcut had come in handy.

His arm hadn't stopped bleeding yet and Gerry pulled the stone from where it was dangling from his neck. He brought the bloodied stone to the wall, as he had done countless times by now, and whispered the command. And then, for what Gerry knew would probably be the last time, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Gerry did not bother with stealth in approaching the White Fortress. Michael had told him a while ago that the guards of the palace were like him, but worse. They had lost both body and mind to the queens and unless they got specific orders from them, they simply stood, silent, guarding. 

Michael hadn’t sounded completely convinced about it being worse than him being fully conscious while his body couldn’t help but follow each and every order the queens gave him. It sure didn’t look it when they made him chase Gerry last time.

Gerry shivered. He didn’t want to think about that right now. He should . Because he would kill them tonight. He might be unable to break Michael’s seal, but he would put an end to them. And with luck, it might make the seal fade, too. What was a soul seal going to do when the person it bound you to no longer breathed?

Gerry couldn’t be sure, but he had made up his mind. His steps were sure as he proceeded in his way.

As expected, the guards stayed quietly unmoving in place as Gerry made his way through the high-ceilinged halls. He wasn’t running. Gerry would need his energy once he got to the throne room. He didn’t know what was drawing him there - it was late, late enough to assume people were asleep, but Gerry somehow doubted the queens of White London would be found anywhere else but on their thrones right now. 

He found the heavy entrance doors to the throne room closed, which was a first. But he could also hear them . Gerry was too angry to distinguish who was speaking and he didn’t care. His veins felt on fire with something bitter and cold. Elias’ blood had already dried on his hands and Gerry didn’t have the time to ponder it. He pushed the door open with magic, breaking the metal bar securing the doors in half - sending both halves flying into the room - and once he had a clear view of the queens, directly at them. 

Annabelle, already standing, jumped out of the way of both, but Emma was just a little too slow in getting off the throne. She moved out of the way enough to not get impaled through the stomach, but it did catch her thigh, metal piercing through flesh - Gerry realised it had never occurred to him she could scream in pain but he had little time to dwell on it because Annabelle was advancing on him rapidly, a silver whip unravelling in her hand. She was a lot faster than Gerry had assumed from how deliberately - slowly - she tended to move, but he barely reacted in time to escape the forked tip of the whip as it collided loudly with the floor where he had stood on not a second ago. 

Gerry tried to get closer - he knew that if he tried too hard to get out of her range, he would end up cornered. Focusing on his magic was nigh impossible - he could feel hers pushing against his bones all the while and pushing against it while staying out of the whip's way was about all Gerry could manage in his tired state. So he needed to get close enough to hurt her physically .

Steps sounded suddenly and Gerry whipped around to see, pulse quickening at the prospect of another threat. It was a mistake, as a quick, sharp pain in his arm made clear. Something between a gasp and a scream escaping his lips as he locked eyes with Michael, frozen in the entrance to the throne rooms. 

Annabelle’s voice came sharp and loud, "Help her!" 

And Michael moved, panic clear in his face as his feet hurried towards Emma, who was still leaning against the throne, metal rod embedded in her leg. Gerry could hear her panting as he tried to scramble out of Annabelle’s range without being cornered. He had thankfully either not stood close enough or the angle had simply not been right for that vicious thing to properly wrap around his arm, but it still hurt . The whip had cut through skin, Gerry could feel warm blood welling up, but he didn’t dare to look away from Annabelle again to check how bad it was.

Then Emma screamed again and Gerry heard the disgusting noise of the bar being pulled from her leg over his own laboured breathing. Annabelle, too, seemed to hear the scream and Gerry threw his knife at her - not distracted, but just frozen for a heartbeat at the noise. He managed to scrape her arm, and that did distract her. She had clearly not been expecting to be hit at all.

He used her momentary surprise to immediately close the distance between them, throwing himself at her with his full weight. She caught herself soon enough for her eyes to widen, but not quickly enough to dodge. The impact was hard and sudden and they both went down. Gerry struggled to keep her down - she thrashed and tried clawing at his face once he finally wrestled the whip out of her fingers. She was also trying to get a hold of him with her magic. Gerry could feel her push against his bones and he had to keep pushing back, making it difficult to do any other magic in that moment. 

Michael’s fingers shook as he wrapped the gauze around the steadily bleeding wound. Emma seemed to be unaware of the fact that it kept bleeding, eyes fixated on where Michael could hear the fight, could hear Gerry’s grunts and Annabelle’s eerily controlled noises that put Michael on edge, made him wonder how much she was genuinely struggling. He didn't dare to take a look. His heart was still racing, his mind still spinning with the image of Gerry - looking like he hadn't slept in a week, bare feet bloody, eyes too wide as he caught Michael’s gaze. What was he doing ? Why was he here ? The answer was obvious but Michael simply couldn't wrap his head around it. Couldn't comprehend what he was seeing - he had never seen so much of Emma’s blood - what he was hearing . Gerry had promised not to do anything stupid. So why the fuck had he attacked the queens?

Michael heard a shout - although he had never heard Annabelle shout, he still knew it was her voice - and couldn’t help but flinch, forcing himself not to look because Michael didn’t want to see Gerry so close to either of the queens, didn’t want to see him fighting them. So instead he kept staring, wide-eyed, as the blood stained the bandages and his hands became more red with it. 

Emma’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, nails digging into flesh as she hissed, “Stop him!”

And Michael obviously had known this would happen. Long before following the fighting noises into the throne room only to find Gerry attacking Annabelle, he had known, deep down, that one day they would make him hurt Gerry. So Michael wasn’t surprised by the order and yet he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes as he felt his body stand up from his crouched position and turn around.

They were back on their feet, both Gerry and Annabelle looking worse for wear with bloody scratches on faces and arms. Gerry was clearly trying to keep her away from the whip that still lay abandoned on the floor, but Annabelle was still keeping him at a distance, side-stepping and dodging his every attack - physical or magical, though Gerry seemed to be keeping to physical attacks more - enhanced or quickened with the occasional blood spell, but he was mostly using the dagger. Michael understood well. Annabelle was never not pushing against your every bone in a fight and it was near-impossible to work any other magic without ending up with something cracked or broken that put you at a disadvantage or end the fight immediately.

Michael moved slower than he should, but his orders had been too vague and he wanted to give Gerry time to hear him approach. Gerry did, turned around just in time to block Michael’s attack that wasn’t as half-hearted as he had intended it to be. Obviously not. He couldn’t stop the other Antari with half-hearted attacks. 

Gerry didn’t look surprised, or mad, or anything Michael might have expected on his face at this. His expression was set in cold determination, only slipping into something softer, apologetic, when he tried to throw his fist into Michael’s stomach and turn right around to get to Annabelle before she managed her unsteady sprint to the whip. But Michael saw it coming and despite gritting his teeth trying to force his body not to act on it, his fingers were holding Gerry’s knuckles in a vice grip. Michael could feel his hand tighten around the hilt of his knife and he did not want to do this . He glanced towards it - partly in panic, partly so Gerry would notice - and the next moment he was attempting to slash at Gerry. Attempting because Gerry did have his knife in his free hand and blocked in time, leaving them both pushing .

Michael eventually jumped back - Gerry’s hand suddenly too hot to hold on to - and Michael wanted to at least give Gerry some time to recover, but his body was already moving before Gerry really had the time to stretch the fingers of the hand Michael had been pushing together. Michael made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat.

This time, Gerry didn’t allow him to get as close, the stone floor cracking with a whispered command and Gerry’s blood. The broken pieces of stone blocked - or at least complicated - Michael’s advance as they flew vaguely towards him. Michael knew Gerry wasn’t aiming to hit him and wished he were as he dodged most and pushed the rest aside himself. Gerry’s focus was still elsewhere - Annabelle was trying to corner him and Gerry was clearly trying to avoid it, keeping one eye on her, one on Michael while at the same time not letting himself move too close to the wall.

The moment Michael’s view was clear of debris - the moment he was close enough to attack - Michael was suddenly pushed back by a wind so strong it made his ears pop as he flew backwards. The pained yelp escaping his mouth at the hard impact of one of the thrones against his back was swallowed by a much louder, hurt scream - and a crack that was probably not loud, but Michael’s ears had grown sensitive to the sound of breaking bone over the years. 

Gerry cursed as he caught himself from stumbling. It had been a stupid idea to let her hit him properly, to let Annabelle’s whip wrap painfully around his biceps for him to grab its sharp edges and use the blood welling up to make it freeze - As Isera , a spell Gerry used rarely - only to break it like he had done with the marble floor a moment before. 

True, Annabelle was now finally weaponless, but Gerry was struggling not to black out from the pain in the arm she had broken the split second he had needed his focus to push Michael away. All Gerry could manage was keep her from breaking more.

Gerry was too fucking dizzy for the fact that neither of the queens was down - Emma was surely back on her feet soon with Michael’s help - and Michael himself was also still concious. That, at least, had been a relief to glimpse. Gerry had no time to aim or control where exactly he was pushing him and the panic at the sound of the impact - that strangled shout of pain - had nearly made him miss the right moment to get a hold on Annabelle’s whip before she could pull on it. But Michael’s eyes had been moving in the short moment Gerry had dared to throw a glance towards him and that had to be enough for now because Annabelle was not anywhere close to being defeated and he had to use the short moment of surprise at her whip being gone to attack.

Michael was too disoriented. His head had hit the edge of the throne along with his back - not bad enough to knock him out, but bad enough to make it difficult to make sense of his surroundings again. He could hear the fight, but barely. Most of what he could hear was Emma’s heavy breathing beside him. Then his own screaming when a sharp, sudden pain in his hand snapped him out of his hazy state. He looked down, blinking the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes away. Emma’s grip was white-knuckled around the knife she had just driven into the floor. Right through Michael’s index- and middle finger. He stared, wide-eyed, at his fingers, the bloody blade separating them from his hand.

“Michael,” she said, and her voice was quiet but the tone still made his blood run cold, froze him before he could spiral any further at the sight - not unfamiliar but it had never been his fingers. He looked up at her, fearful. She met his eyes and Michael shrunk away at the cold, sharp rage that covered any pain or panic her pinched lips and furrowed brow might suggest. “Kill him.”

Michael felt himself move before the terror of those words truly settled. He vaguely, disturbingly, saw how his fingers didn’t rise with him but stayed where they were lying lifelessly right by Emma’s knife. Michael felt nauseous. Michael did not want to look away, needed to understand what he was looking at - why his hand hurt and bled and the fingers that should have been there to stop it were all the way down on the floor - but his body was moving on its own, trying to locate Gerry. 

Annabelle had finally stopped moving. Gerry wasn’t stupid enough to think her dead, but she had been already unsteady after he had driven his head into her nose with enough force to crack it to get her off of him earlier. It had left him so dizzy he had nearly missed the opportunity to finally push her off and put some distance between them again. His throat was bleeding where she had scraped it with his knife and the pain in his arm had gotten worse and worse as she kept going for it. 

His whole body was sore and hurting and Gerry had no time to linger on it. He went for her before she had managed to fully get to her feet and the first attack she dodged, but awkwardly. For the second attempt, Gerry used full force and magic to push her into the closest wall. 

The impact left his ears ringing with how loud it was and Annabelle’s head bounced off the cold stone hard. When she crumpled to the floor she didn’t get up again.

Gerry breathed.

“Gerry!”

He had nearly forgotten about the others - why had Emma not attacked yet? - and he turned too slowly - not because he wanted to, but because his body wouldn’t move quicker - to catch anything but Michael’s horrified expression before he felt the burst of pain in his left shoulder. The force of the impact nearly made him stumble, made him take one, two shaky steps back. His mouth hung open, but no noise had come out. It had been too quick. The relief of Annabelle finally stopping to move had still been too fresh for him to process the metal bar flying towards him. 

The pain did hit him, hit him bad the moment Gerry’s mind finally caught up with what had just happened, with why he suddenly felt so off-balance. Why metal was sticking out at an odd angle from his shoulder. 

Gerry felt the panic rise, but he had no time for it. Michael was already too close and Gerry could tell by his expression - the panic, the fear - that he would not be holding back this time. Gerry was nearly sure he didn’t have the time to remove it, at least not without passing out, so he cut through the excess with magic - he had no time to be careful and the way it moved hurt and he had to focus on staying conscious. 

Gerry brushed the tears out of his eyes, tightened his grip on his knife. And when Michael attacked again, he was ready, jaw tight against the pain, but ready . He deflected the next flying pole, and before Michael could gather himself, he was on him. 

They struggled against each other - with knives and fists and more flying debris, fire, magic - and it took too long to wear Michael down enough for Gerry to finally manage to wrestle him to the ground. Gerry was so tired. He managed to freeze Michael’s body to the cold floor while he was still recovering from the impact of falling to the floor, but it took so long to blink the black spots out of his eyes after. Gerry had no time for this. 

There was so much blood on Michael’s hand and Gerry had no recollection of getting him there with the knife. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, kept his eyes on Michael’s pained face - he groaned as he moved his head, clearly bruised from hitting the floor with such force, probably still bruised from hitting the throne earlier.

Michael stared up at him with big, tear-stained eyes - unfocused - and managed a nod despite the tight grip Gerry had on his hair. Gerry didn’t trust him not to move despite knowing he couldn’t, despite his mouth being too swollen to dispel the freezing. But he knew he couldn’t leave Michael conscious. So Gerry mouthed an apology and hoped he wouldn’t have to do this more than once when he raised Michael’s head off the floor only to smash it back into the cracked tiles - hard enough to knock him out, hopefully not hard enough to do any permanent damage. He flinched at the sound of Michael’s head hitting the cold stone floor, at the impact he felt in his arm. 

He held his breath as he held Michael’s hair loosely, waiting for any movement, a twitch. But Michael was still and everything felt very, very silent as Gerry watched his bloodied face, the half lidded eyes, the slightly open, bloodied mouth, for any sign of movement. He was still breathing - shallowly, but Gerry could feel his chest rise and fall where he was still sitting on it - and yet Gerry felt very little relief. He hadn’t wanted to do this, any of this. He didn’t want to see Michael like this. That was the whole point of tonight, wasn’t it? To make the pain stop. 

Gerry whipped his head to the side just in time to avoid the knife flying right by his ear. It came from the wrong direction - Emma, who was slowly pulling herself to her feet, blood soaking through the haphazard bandaging on her leg, face tense and deathly pale and Gerry didn’t understand why she was taking so long to heal. Seeing her did remind Gerry of Annabelle - and he was on his feet before he had fully turned towards her.

Annabelle looked unsteady, one hand still pressed to her side, where Gerry had actually managed to drive the dagger in deep earlier. He threw another quick glance at Emma, but decided Annabelle would have to go first. She looked like she could still move more than Emma did. 

Gerry didn’t want to get close, but he was exhausted and it was growing more and more difficult to control his magic, especially at a distance. He also didn't think Emma would stop her projectiles and he didn't want Michael anywhere close to her attack line.

Gerry didn't make it the whole way before Annabelle was on him, but he was expecting it this time. She moved fast after giving little away about where she was going to move to, but she was clearly starting to feel the exhaustion or the pain herself because Gerry saw just enough to jump out of the way, whirl around - and miss her. He was growing slow and the pain in his arm had turned to a concerning numbness that made the sharp pang of pain the smallest movement sent through him even worse. He desperately wanted the metal out but he couldn't do it while fighting. 

Eventually, after a couple more fruitless attempts on both sides, she got a hold of his arm - and Gerry screamed as she pulled but refused to go down, free hand grabbing her wrist and yanking her away - she wouldn't let go and Gerry felt something flying towards him and new he had no time to move out of its trajectory. So he pushed against it - only enough that it'd miss him - but it was enough attention gone from Annabelle’s relentless pushing for the bone in his leg to shatter. Gerry went down with a cry and dragged her along, hand cramped in agony around her wrist. 

They were on the floor once more and Gerry was dizzy with pain, struggling to blink tears out of his eyes, to keep everything in focus. Annabelle sounded frustrated as she tried to wriggle out of his grip, moving strangely carefully - the fall must have reopened the wound in her side or something. Gerry knew he couldn't let her go, knew he had to somehow find something to put an end to her before she got her hands on what Gerry could only assume had been another knife that had just flown towards him. 

They struggled for a bit - Annabelle was going for his face again and as much as Gerry tried, he couldn't move his other arm to protect himself - so he tried to turn it away, tried to kick or pull her off of him - but he didn't let go of her wrist, because he knew he couldn't. She'd kill him.

He had to time things just right to get his fingers on the knife he had pushed against earlier. It hadn't landed too far away, but he couldn't focus enough magic on it to simply call it to himself. Annabelle was clearly getting weaker, but he could still feel her magic pushing against his bones. Emma was probably getting closer, close enough to see if he moved it too obviously. So it took an excruciatingly long time until he got it close enough to reach - had tried moving them towards it as they fought - and by the time he could reach it his face felt like one big bruise. Annabelle had grown slower, though. She still was rather quiet but Gerry had noticed her breathing growing more laboured after he managed to bury his knee in her tender, still bleeding side.

Still, he knew he had to move quickly. His nails left bloody half-moons as he let go of her wrist and her fingers were wrapping around his throat swiftly the moment his closed around the blade. 

Gerry heard a strangled scream - it wasn't Annabelle and it wasn't him - and Annabelle apparently caught up, her free hand stopping trying to claw at his eyes in favour of trying to get the knife out of his hand. But Gerry had done a fair amount of damage to her hand - had bitten and twisted it close to breaking more than once. She wasn’t quite as dexterous as she had been at the beginning of this fight, and Gerry’s grip did not loosen around the knife, no matter what she did.

Annabelle wasn't quick enough to scramble off of him once she realised she couldn't get him to relinquish the knife and he buried the blade between her ribs with a grunt, the angle awkward and painful for his elbow but the relief of the pressure on his throat stopping was too great for him to worry about it too much. 

With some struggle, he pushed Annabelle, now dead weight, to the side and breathed - the air tasted like blood and did little against his dizziness. The high ceilings above him spun and Gerry thought, with some certainty, that he wouldn't get off the floor anytime soon. Probably not at all. He would die here. 

Gerry did feel his body healing, but there was a lot to fix and breathing felt like a chore - he probably broke some ribs and maybe punctured a lung - and he still could not feel his left arm and could feel his shattered leg so much every slightest movement felt like it was on fire, his vision turning dangerously dark for a moment when he attempted to turn his leg.

Gerry very much wanted to pass out. But there were steps approaching - shuffling and struggling - and he knew this wasn't over. He considered sitting up but suddenly, there was the other half of that metal bar - glistening with Emma’s blood - aimed straight for his heart and Gerry had no time or strength to push it far away enough. 

It ended up piercing right through his hip above the broken leg and this time Gerry’s vision did go black when he felt Emma - weak, clearly, but not weak enough - push it further in. Gerry’s throat was too raw for more than a hoarse shout and he tried to blink the blackness out of his vision, panic making his every nerve come to life again. The pain that followed nearly knocked him out, but Emma’s steps were close and when Gerry managed to raise his head just enough to see her reaching him - one, two, three more steps - he lowered his head onto the floor again, listened. Stared at the ceiling - kept his senses sharp in case she'd attack from a distance again. But Emma had lost so much blood Gerry was surprised she had managed that last attack, and she didn't try again. Pushing that metal bar in had probably been her limit for now. 

He could hear her gasped breaths and was reminded of Michael struggling to breathe as she carved into his skin. She wasn't quite close enough to touch him but close enough for Gerry to trust he would get her. He stared at the foggy stone ceiling above him - and her - and pictured it crumbling, ordered it to crack and break and fall. He couldn't tell whether the room actually shook or if it was him forcing himself to focus on magic when his body was screaming at him to stop, but a wave of nausea rushed through him as the ceiling came down. Emma’s surprised scream was quickly shut down by falling debris - the sound of her breaking bones swallowed by stone hitting stone - and Gerry did his best to keep anything from hitting him with little success. 

He was too tired. He knew he should have done this with more distance to her but he also knew he wouldn't have managed, knew he had been nearly too weak to get the stone right above him to crumble, much less anything a significant distance from him. A heavy piece of stone hit his leg - moved the metal embedded just above it in a quick, jerking motion - and the pain from one or the other knocked Gerry out, a silent scream on his lips.

Chapter Text

Gerry didn't know how long he'd been out but when he came to, the immediate pain he felt nearly made him black out again. It was quiet except for his own shallow breathing. Quiet and heavy. Gerry blinked the tears out of his eyes and realised there were still big pieces of rock pinning him - his legs, mostly - to the ground. His head was swimming and it took two attempts, but eventually he managed to push them off with magic.

It was quiet except for Gerry’s panting breaths. He counted until he felt like his pulse was slowing, until the pain stopped threatening to pull him under again. Gerry had no feeling in his right leg. He couldn't see the metal bar protruding from his hip anymore, but he could still feel it. One of the rocks must have driven it into the ground. Gerry closed his eyes. Looking down at himself was only making him nauseous. So he listened instead.

It was quiet.

"Michael?" Gerry croaked. Was he still out? How long had it been? Had Gerry gone too far after all?

He tried to move his head - carefully - and was relieved to find it worked. It was painful, but not in a way that suggested significant damage to his spine. He could make Michael out across the room, still lying in the exact same position Gerry had left him in. That couldn't be right. Had Gerry missed some kind of injury that was keeping him out? He felt his heartbeat quicken in panic and moved to sit too quickly, which knocked him out again for a moment. 

He didn't have time for this. He focused on the blunt spike in his hip, took a deep breath through his nose - caked with dry blood - and pushed it through with everything he could muster up in magic. He bit his lip bloody and yet couldn't keep himself from crying out at the pain. 

Consciousness abandoned him once more.

He came to again - still, silence - and after realising he couldn't get up he decided to roll around with some effort. He had to pause to catch his breath - his body felt like it was beaten to a pulp - and then Gerry crawled. Michael was so far away. But Gerry had to reach him, and he would, no matter how.

It felt like it took him years and he was unsure whether he was conscious the whole time but eventually he did reach Michael. Gerry was lightheaded  and nauseous with bloodloss and pain, and nothing really looked right anymore. Was he crying?

Gerry put his hand - shaking with exertion, bloody from what he couldn’t even tell anymore - on Michael’s chest, held his breath. It took a heartbeat too long for him to notice - it was so hard to focus - but Michael’s chest did move. Barely, shallowly, but he was breathing. The relief Gerry felt at that was enough to make tears escape his eyes - stinging as they flowed down his ruined face.

“As Hasari,” he forced his mouth to move slowly, to articulate the healing spell clearly. His tongue felt heavy and Gerry couldn’t tell whether he got it out right but he could feel himself slipping, unable to muster up the energy to try again. 

He let his forehead rest against Michael’s arm, unmoving, and he couldn’t have opened his eyes again had he tried. It was so quiet. The queens were dead and Michael was breathing under Gerry’s limp hand. Gerry passed out with a sigh.

Chapter Text

Gerry watched, on edge, as the throne room filled with people. This was a bad idea. Necessary, yes, if they wanted to make any kind of difference, but stupid in its recklessness. Gerry wasn't even fully recovered yet. The pain had dulled - he told himself, although it was more likely that his body had simply gotten used to it - but it was still a constant presence. He could still not move leg or arm, despite the metal being long gone. No wound of his had ever taken this long to heal before. Gerry focused on the frustration, the impatience. He wouldn't let the despair get to him, the suspicion that he would not heal. 

No. He was Antari. He'd recover. He always did.

Michael had not moved beside him since the crown had been placed on his brow. Occasionally Gerry looked over to see if he was still breathing. It was hard to tell sometimes. Michael didn't speak much anymore, barely moved unless out of necessity. His expression was usually blank, and Gerry had come to prefer that to the horrible haunted look in his eyes whenever somebody called him out of his thoughts. He was thinner than Gerry remembered, paler. It hurt to look at him. 

They saw each other only fleetingly since Gerry had woken. There was too much to do. It was too dangerous to not stay on top of everything. White London had never been stable, and many of its people were less than amused at not getting a chance to grab the crown themselves. Losing it to two Antari – one the previous queens' notorious shadow, the other foreign - wasn't helping the matter of keeping the city from breaking into utter disorder.

Gerry wished he had more time for Michael. Wished he could ask him what happened in the time before Gerry woke. What happened after Michael came to, alone, to the queens dead and the throne room destroyed in a city as hostile as White London. Gerry pressed his lips together and turned back to the gathering crowd. He had a bad feeling. He still hurt so much and it was so exhausting to hide it, to sit straight against the cold stone when his shoulder ached and pulled and felt wrong. Gerry shouldn't have agreed to this.

The doors were closed as the last of the guests made it into the room. Many turned visibly nervous towards the closing doors. Gerry couldn't blame them. He knew that large groups of people in the castle were usually a trap that ended in blood.

It was one of the men in the first row who started to run at them - Gerry only noticed a heartbeat later, his eyes focused on a group at the other end of the room behaving suspiciously. The guards, too, reacted belatedly and by the time shouting began they had to focus on keeping the rest of the people from falling into chaos. 

Michael, however, was staring right at him from the start. Gerry threw him a glance, wondering why he hadn't stopped him yet. Nerves were getting to him and he tried to wrap his hands around the thrones armrest more tightly, which only made a sharp pain run through his shoulder. He barely managed to keep himself from gasping, forced his expression into something neutral. White London was no place to show weakness. And certainly not when a good number of the populace was watching them, disquiet, ready to burst with whatever was about to happen. 

The man was too close. He was staring down Michael, running straight at him. Michael didn't even twitch, held his gaze with an unreadable expression. He did not stop him.

The man was close enough to touch Michael, now, something sharp in his hand that he tried to ram into Michael’s black eye. Gerry pushed against his bones so hard he didn't just freeze, but stumbled, fell. Gerry’s pulse was racing with panic, eyes moving to Michael’s face. He hadn't even flinched, though Gerry noticed his grip on the throne’s armrests had tightened - noticed, too, the flicker of…of what? Disappointment? Despair? In his eyes. Gerry frowned, waved for the guards who had grabbed the man and taken his knife from him to take him away. 

The agitated crowd hadn't calmed down, but frozen with dread. Gerry was sure that if they hadn't been expecting punishment and death before, they were now. He sighed, closed his eyes. This was so exhausting. 

When he opened his eyes again, his expression was neutral, as close to regal as he could manage. He pushed what had just happened out of his mind - because if he lingered on it he would probably start screaming at Michael for a fucking explanation, or yell for everybody to leave, and that would undo so much hard work. No. They would do this.

"Welcome," he didn't speak particularly loudly, but he was heard. Most of the restless whispering fell into silence, eyes looking up at him with a mixture of fear and disgust. Not so different from home, in the end.

"You were invited here today to meet your new Kings," Gerry said, hating every syllable of it on his tongue. "The queens are dead. I killed them myself."

Whispering. Most knew, of course, of the fact that the Antari held the throne now. But as to what happened to the previous monarchs, there were rumours. Gerry was sure those would continue on. They didn't keep anything from the queens’ bodies to show as proof. They had been dust by the time Gerry regained consciousness.

"There will be some changes," Michael didn't raise his hoarse voice at all and yet, all the whispering died down, nervous - outright fearful - eyes all turning to him. Gerry guessed it made sense. Gerry was still a stranger to these people. They knew of his power, but it had been Michael they had been taught to fear for all those years. They had heard rumours about Gerry’s abilities, but some of these people had probably seen what Michael could do. 

They had agreed on not making promises they couldn't keep, so it all sounded painfully vague as they explained. Gerry had always hated this, but he knew that just because they were Antari they couldn't count on there not being attempts to take the throne from them. They had to be careful with their words. The fact that they had opened the fortress doors for this - without it being a trap - was the main thing supposed to leave an impression.

They kept things brief and by the time they stopped talking, confused silence had fallen over the room. A mixture of anger and unease was on peoples' faces, and Gerry guessed that made sense. He hadn't really expected anyone to look particularly hopeful after listening to a foreigner - a stranger with unimaginable power - and probably the most hated equally powerful local talk about their plans for the future of this city. 

They let the silence linger for a little - daring somebody to speak up or try something again. Nothing happened. Gerry gave the sign to open the doors again. Many still looked distrustful of this - all of it - and hurried out in obvious fear. Those who lingered did so in thinly disguised terror, eager to be out but terrified that this was when they would get trapped. But eventually, as more left without anything happening, the room fully emptied.

Gerry turned to speak to Michael once the doors closed again, but Michael had already gotten up and moved towards the exit, crown abandoned on the throne. Gerry frowned. He wouldn't let him get away with this.

"Michael!" He called after him before getting up himself to follow.

His body hadn't appreciated sitting in the same position for so long and he gasped at the sudden, sharp pain as he hurried to his feet. Gerry felt like one big sore and Michael was disappearing behind the door. Gerry followed as quickly as his body allowed, cursing the slow healing process. Thankfully he was more than used to pushing on despite the constant pain by now.

"Michael! Wait!"

Michael didn’t wait, but Gerry wasn't going to let him escape. He followed him through the door he walked through, which led to an empty room, as many of the castle's doors did, high-ceilinged and dusty.

"Michael," Gerry tried to sound calm, to swallow his anger, his fear, "What was that?"

Michael didn't turn around, stood with his back turned, looking out of the tinted window. "I thought you had a meeting now."

Gerry did. It would wait. "Why didn't you stop him? You saw him. He was right there-"

"Why?" Michael sounded so tired.

"Why what?"

Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest so tightly it looked like he was trying to hug himself. "Why should I have stopped him, Gerry?"

Gerry frowned. What was he talking about? "Are you kidding? He was clearly going to kill you-"

"And?" His tone was harsh, even as his voice stayed quiet. "Wouldn't that be right?" He was so tense. "Didn't you kill the queens because it was the right thing to do? I'm no better than them. I'm the one who executed their orders and yet I'm here when I should have died with them-"

"That's not true and you know that!"

"Do I, Gerry? Do you?" He shook his head, hands tightening around his own arms. "You weren't here. You don't know. Why won't you trust the judgement of those who were?"

Gerry took a step towards him, desperate, but not daring to actually touch him, "Because they don't know. You were fucking made to do that shit. It wasn't you. It wasn't fucking you or you wouldn't be standing here arguing about how you should be dead!"

"You don't understand-"

"I don't. I don't think I will ever be able to." Gerry shook his head in frustration, sighed, "But Michael, I…I never killed anyone before that night, you know? And I still…it’s still…I still dream of it. And it leaves me wondering what fucking right I had to do it. What right I had to wake up again when I had put an end to three people - awful fucking people, but still people - that very night." Gerry grit his teeth. He tried so hard to keep himself from thinking about this when awake. The restless nights were more than enough. He didn’t have time for this. "And I know it's not the same. I chose to kill them. But…it's the closest I have, Michael, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry about all that happened to you. I can't imagine- this alone already fucked me up so much. And you-" He took a shaky breath, feeling a familiar panic bubbling up in his stomach. Gerry had no time for this. Especially not now. "I'm sorry. It's not that I can't see where you're coming from, okay?"

He said it quietly, and yet it hung in the silence that followed heavily. Gerry couldn’t remember Michael turning around but he was looking at him now, expression unreadable. Too much in it to read.

"But you could have run. Fuck, you could have killed yourself while I was out." He held his gaze. "You didn't. When I came to, you were already doing this." A vague gesture towards the fortress walls. "And I don't know if this is your way of punishing yourself, but I was relieved to find you alive. I'm thankful for being here with you." 

It was getting unbearable to stand and Gerry moved a step, trying to shift his weight from one foot to the other. He breathed through clenched teeth and Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Gerry wasn't done, held up a hand to stop him. "Despite everything. Despite how much of a fucking nightmare it has been to keep this city running. At least I'm doing something, at least I'm not letting these nightmares consume me." Gerry’s fingers were clenching around his cane, in pain or emotion or both. He shook his head, took another step towards Michael. "At least I'm finally with you. Michael. I love you. Please don't let them hurt you. We can do this. Together."

He didn't intend to beg and cursed himself for doing so, but it was too late to go back on it now. Gerry shook his head. He was dizzy.

"Gerry…" Michael reached out to steady him. "You should sit down."

Gerry couldn't help the tears welling up in his eyes. This was all too much. He was so fucking tired and in pain and it hurt to stand here and pretend otherwise. 

"It doesn't make a difference. It doesn't matter…" He felt short of breath. Standing hurt just as much as sitting. 

Michael put shaking hands on Gerry’s arms, steadying him. "I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry." 

He was. He was so fucking sorry for making Gerry come after him like this. For getting him into this mess in the first place. For being weak.

He wrapped his arms around Gerry, pressed him close - careful not to hurt his arm. Gerry used the opportunity of being held to brush the tears away with his sleeve. “I need to go, Michael. I need to go to that meeting.” He looked up at him. “But believe me, okay? I need…I need you to believe me. This…we can do this. We will. I…I’m sorry things are so bad but at least we’re here together.”

Gerry squeezed his arm, voice steady, and Michael was in awe of him. And hated himself just a little more for not being more like him.

"I'll bring you to the meeting. I need to walk the same way," he offered, an apology and Gerry didn't refuse it for once, let himself be led back out of the dusty room and down the hallway. They walked in silence.

Michael pressed a short kiss to his forehead at the door Gerry needed to go through, a whispered apology. Gerry exhaled slowly, gave him a strained, short smile before walking through the door.

Michael stood watching the door for a moment. He had little time himself before the next appointment but he felt so low, so close to a breakdown. He bit his shaking lower lip and turned around to walk the rest of the way to where he needed to be.

It had been stupid to hope. Stupider still to do so right in front of everyone. In front of Gerry. Gerry who had been through so much and could have gone back home anytime but who had stayed. Fuck.

Michael could feel himself losing the fight with the sobs stuck in his throat and ducked behind the next door. Another empty, white room. Michael let himself slide to the ground, back against the door. He buried his face in permanently shaking hands and allowed himself to cry.

He still tensed whenever he felt tears in his eyes, years of knowing he’d pay for them with another night spent in pain not easy to shake off. But Michael was conscious enough to know the queens were dead right now, even if his body urged to follow old instincts. It was worse in the night, in his dreams. They hadn’t died there.

It wasn't long before a knock came at the door and for a split second, Michael’s body panicked. But the voice that came was neither of the ones that haunted him, and it didn't speak in orders Michael felt his body move to fulfill before his brain had even fully comprehended. He exhaled, shaky.

"I will be right there. You can go ahead." His voice sounded steady despite his eyes still weeping tears and for this, he guessed, he owed them thanks. He had much practice in keeping his voice - even his expression - neutral, steady, through everything. A skill that had come in incredibly handy since he had woken in that broken throne room. How long had it been? It felt like an eternity.

Michael waited for the steps outside to quiet fully before getting up, brushing himself off. He'd need to at least wash his face before the meeting. He squeezed his eyes shut with a weary sigh. He hoped Gerry was alright, and left the room to prepare for his own meeting.

*

Two days past without Michael seeing Gerry. Their schedules were purposefully made so they slept in shifts, just in case, and sometimes there was so much to be done on opposite ends of the city or even just the castle and they went days without running into each other.

Michael didn’t set out to find him. Too ashamed after last time, he had been nearly relieved about not seeing Gerry again. He missed him, too, always, but it had been good to have some time to think. Even if that, too, was scarce amidst all of his appointments and meetings.

Michael didn’t set out to find him, but Gerry was still there when he entered the room. It wasn’t surprising, as they both liked to come here to work. The room was in a remote enough part of the castle to be rarely disturbed, even by staff, and the generous windows were tinted only the slightest, let in enough light to work without candlelight most times. Candles were getting difficult to come by and so both Michael and Gerry had taken a liking to rooms like this, even if there were few in the palace.

Gerry was writing something on the desk by the windows, face a mask of focus as he slowly, carefully guided pen over paper with his right. His hand shook a little and there was a crease between his brows at the effort. Michael could feel the frustration all the way to the door. Gerry’s left hand lay uselessly in his lap.

He didn't notice Michael approaching, which was concerning. But Michael couldn't blame him. He looked exhausted in all his concentration, still strange and pale in the faded grey he had exchanged his clothes from home for. Less conspicuous and there wasn't much of what he had worn left that hadn't been ripped and soaked in his blood anyway. 

Still, this looked wrong. It made him look like a ghost of himself and it hurt to see him like this. It hurt more still to remember that it was Michael’s fault.

Even his beautiful sable hair looked strangely faded in the light. Michael frowned, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, he was sure that the colour looked more washed out, barely black anymore. Michael’s heart plummeted in his chest. Had he been in White London so long already that the pale sheen that dulled all living within was beginning to settle over him, too? How much was the hungry, magic-starved city pulling at Gerry’s magic?

"I'm sorry," it came out a sob and Michael hadn't even noticed the tears streaming down his face.

Gerry started, cursed as his hand slipped on the page and looked up at Michael in wide-eyed alarm. "Michael? What happened?"

He got to his feet too quickly, winced, his grip on the cane tightening until the short burst of pain passed and he took a couple steps towards Michael, who had raised his hands to motion for him to stay seated too late, who was now outright sobbing at the pain and concern in Gerry’s face.

Gerry gently put a hand to his cheek, looked into his face. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"

Michael noticed that even from up close, even removed from the big windows’ light Gerry’s hair looked wrong, black dulled. How had Michael not noted how much being here had affected him before?

"Your hair—" he managed, sniffed, moved his hand to touch it. 

Gerry frowned, still looking worried. "My hair…?"

"You're fading." Michael nearly choked on it and Gerry still looked lost, searching his face desperately for what was wrong. He must have noticed surely? Michael knew they had both been busy but surely Gerry had seen himself in the mirror at some point.

"It's not black anymore. It's…it's losing colour. Like everything and everyone in this city…you shouldn't have stayed, you—"

"Oh." Gerry’s eyes went wide and he shook his head. "Michael, no, that's…that's not it, my…did I never tell you? It's dye. The dye is fading since I don't have any here." He took Michael’s hand and squeezed it. Michael sniffed, gave him a confused look. "What?"

Gerry shook his head. "My real hair colour was never black. I just…if you remember…Mary's." Exhale. He still saw her bleeding on the floor, still saw Michael bent over her, knife in her chest. Gerry forced his eyes wide open, focused on Michael’s confused, teary face instead. "That's kind of how mine looks if I don't darken it. Okay? It's not White London, I promise. Just dye. I'm sorry I made you worry…"

"What?" There was an edge of hysteria in his voice, a pained sort of laughter accompanying the tears welling up in his eyes. It broke Gerry’s heart.

"Let's sit, love, come." He pulled him gently to the old couch. By the time they were sitting, Michael was sobbing again. Gerry, glad to have his good arm free to hold him now, pulled him close, squeezed him tight against himself. It felt good to do so. He missed being close.

Michael only cried harder, wailed in his arms, fingers twisting into the fabric of Gerry’s jacket in despair as he shook. Gerry let him. He held him tightly and let him cry. Eventually, tears welled up in Gerry’s eyes and he buried his face in Michael’s hair, too tired to fight them. 

Michael didn’t know how long they sat like that, only that his body felt sore from being crumpled up for so long when he finally dared to straighten up again. He wiped at his face with his sleeves, knowing it probably wasn’t doing much. Blinked at Gerry - eyes red and face tear-streaked, tired, but smiling. Michael sniffed, swallowed.

“Your hair…isn’t black.” The banality of the words made Michael chuckle despite his aching throat. He felt like something came loose in his tight chest, a constant, uncomfortable pressure lifting just a little. It felt good. It felt better still when Gerry chuckled, too, the same broken edge to it. But it was genuine.

“No. It has never been black.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it never came up…” 

“I never questioned it.” It seemed rude, now that Michael considered it. “I…uh…”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise, Michael.” He exhaled, still smiling, “I…needed this.”

Michael nodded, squeezed his hand. “I think me, too.”

They sat in silence for a moment, but it was a different kind of silence than the heavy, dark thing that had fallen over them since the night the queens died. It wasn’t light per se, nothing was anymore, but it was comfortable. Comfort was hard to come by as of late.

“Even if my hair was fading…” Gerry began again after a moment, looked up at him, “You know it wouldn’t matter, right? Michael, I know you struggle to believe me but I want to be here. I don’t regret doing what I did. It was all worth it for this, for you being here and free of them. I don’t want to go anywhere where you are not. Okay? Even if the city were draining me that much, I’d still think so. I love you.”

Michael was too tired to argue. And he didn’t want to, wanted to for once allow himself the comfort of taking Gerry’s words for truth without searching for the lie in them. So he nodded and gave a watery, exhausted smile. “Okay.”

“You should rest, love. It’s your turn to sleep, right?” Gerry placed his good hand on Michael’s cheek, concern in his eyes.

“You—”

“I need to finish what I started. Needs to be done by tomorrow.” He smiled tiredly. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting.”

Gerry shook his head. “I don’t have much left, it’s okay.” He got up with a sigh. “But you need to rest. It will be another long day tomorrow.”

Michael nodded. He didn’t want to think of it. “Do…do you mind if I stay?”

Gerry frowned. “You should sleep-”

“I know. But I…I don’t want to be alone right now.” Quiet. “I can rest here…”

He curled up on the tattered couch, barely big enough to hold him and Gerry couldn’t very much deny him his request, even if it did look rather uncomfortable. Gerry sighed, bent down to press a kiss to his temple. “Try to sleep.”

Michael nodded, obediently closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. Gerry watched his face for a moment — when had he last seen it relaxed in sleep? Or at all? — before turning to make his way back to the desk, trying to be as quiet as he could as he sat down and took up his writing again. He threw a last glance towards Michael before putting pen to paper, hoping he felt better, hoping it had helped to let some of what he had been bottling up out, even if not with words. 

Gerry shook his head. He’d let himself believe for now. It felt necessary. He wished him goodnight quietly — Michael hummed something unintelligible in response — and went to work. 

Michael tried to relax. His body still felt stiff and tense and the position wasn’t helping with the aching, but it was quiet in the room except for Gerry’s breathing, the scratching of his pen over paper, and Michael felt himself calm. With his eyes closed, he could nearly pretend they were back in that small apartment on a chilly morning, Michael dozing as Gerry sat on the foot of the bed or the floor beside it and sketched. 

The memory felt Michael with warmth, made him smile. It felt so long ago, and yet Gerry’s breathing sounded the same, the scratching of the pen more uneven but familiar. And for the first time Michael thought this was good and that maybe, somehow, things would work out. He drifted off to sleep suspended between memory and hope.