Chapter Text
February 14th, 6:18.
Jonathan Sims stands panting on the steps of his workplace, The Bellerose library, as he clutches the book to his chest. Something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong. In all his years working as a librarian, it had never occurred to him that he might again encounter a book laced with that evil magic.
The early morning sun is just beginning to peer out from over the horizon, and the air still smells of dew. Jon had been the first to arrive at work, leaving him alone in that sprawling building when he was struck by the curse.
He races down the street, wondering if he can reach his flat quicker by foot or the tube. Part of him is unwilling to surrender to public transport, though. Jon knows that he won’t be able to sit still on a cushioned seat while his body screams at him that he must run, flee, get home, get home. He almost pulls his phone out of his pocket, but the same instinct informs him that calling an ambulance is out of the question. No stranger can witness the things that are about to happen to him.
Fortunately, the roads are mostly vacant. A few lamps battle to illuminate the dark that still bathes the streets of London, and the only sounds that fill Jon’s ears are the whistling of the breeze and his own frantic breathing.
An almost infinite expanse of sidewalk stretches out before him, and he worries that he might not reach his flat in time. Eventually, he recognises a park near his complex, but his pace does not slow. Jon marvels momentarily that he doesn’t feel even remotely winded. When he has finally made it to the stairwell of his flat, he allows himself to take a breath.
Jon glances down at the antique volume in his hands, an elaborately bound copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It had seemed to appear out of nowhere, managing to find its way into their classic section without being added to the catlogue. He had flipped to a random page, scanning for annotations or anything that would indicate it had been dropped off by a confused student. Instead, he found himself absorbed in reading through the entirety of Puck’s soliloquy in the second scene of act three.
He had scoffed to himself as he finished the last line of the page, “When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania waked and straightway loved an ass.” Jon was about to close the book when he began to feel odd. His hand was suddenly shaking, and his bones seemed somehow softer than before. With dread taking root in his heart, he had flipped to the inner cover.
A metallic taste filled the back of his mouth as he spotted a familiar bookplate declaring, “From the library of Jurgen Leitner.” Jon had raced outside without a second thought.
Now, he finds himself stumbling through the halls of his complex, fueled by an almost animalistic need to reach safety as soon as possible. Without the distraction of his hammering heart, he realises just how unusual his body feels. All of his insides seem weirdly squishy, and his skin prickles as if something is trying to push its way out of him.
Jon tries to collect himself and continues to the door of his flat. He leans a hand against the wall and barely maintains his balance as his legs begin to shake. Finally, he lifts up the little gargoyle statuette that he keeps beside his door and retrieves the key from beneath it.
He lurches into his flat and collapses on the sofa. Jon needs to find help. Something horrible is building up inside of him, and he is terrified of learning what will happen if nobody is nearby when it erupts. He needs to call someone. Someone close to him.
There are only three options: Sasha and Tim, who are both returning from holiday tomorrow, and Martin. Jon presses his temples. He can call Martin over, but he’ll have to leave him some instructions first.
Martin… Jon sighs, thinking of the man’s kind face, his twinkling eyes, his bright smile. Recently, his hands had even begun tingling whenever Martin handed him tea in the morning. God knew it had taken Jon a while to warm up to him, though.
He supposes an invitation to keep him company during a terrifying supernatural occurrence is as good a confession as any. He’s still concerned about the current situation, however. With the strange, gooey feeling growing in his body, he knows he only has so long to prepare.
After rushing to his bedroom, Jon scrambles around until he finds one of the blank notebooks that he keeps under his bed. He grabs a pen from his desk and runs back to the kitchen, where he takes a seat at the table and begins scrawling out an explanation for Martin.
Just as he writes the last line of the instructions, his hand spasms painfully. Jon cries out and drops the pen, watching with widened eyes as it rolls off of the table.
He doesn’t have time. He needs to text Martin. With hands violently trembling, he grasps his phone and pulls it from his pocket. Jon types out the first text and has to delete most of it to correct his spelling errors. It’s tedious work, as tremours begin to spread to the rest of his body. He decides he’ll have to settle for a shorter text.
After a few minutes of trying, Jon succeeds in sending the message. He lets his phone fall to the table and pulls himself from the chair with shaking legs.
Jon is terrified as he supports himself on the wall the rest of the way to his room. He’s tired, suddenly. He’s so, so tired.
He finally steps onto the soft carpet of his bedroom, and an unusual warmth fills his body as he stumbles to his bed. The weight of his head is so heavy that it’s an effort to keep himself from tipping over.
Jon, now horribly shaking, manages to pull himself into bed. He can feel himself sinking into the cushion. He’s warm, and he finally feels at ease. Some great thing sings a lullaby to him from a place that he cannot comprehend. Before his eyes close, Jon smiles to himself as he is embraced by the love of the beast that crawls.
February 14th, 6:52.
Martin Blackwood was not expecting to receive a text during work, especially not on Valentine’s Day. Hardly anyone ever texts him outside of his small group of coworkers/friends. He opens his phone, anticipating a check-up from Sasha or Tim, but he stares in surprise at the name displayed on his phone screen.
Jon had texted him during work? Martin noticed his absence at the library that day, but he had assumed Jon was just sick. Had he just texted Martin since Tim and Sasha are gone? Does he need help?
Curious and slightly concerned, Martin opens the message. “Martin,” it reads, “come to my flat after work.” Martin’s mouth runs dry, and all of his blood rushes to his cheeks. He tries to get a hold of himself. He shouldn’t make assumptions, especially not about the ever so mysterious Jonathan Sims.
After a considerable pause, he receives a second text, one that reads, “It’s urgent. I can’t be alone.” Martin drops his phone.
He finds his entire body heating as his heart starts beating so rapidly he has to stand up from his desk. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
Martin is nearly delirious as he begins to pace around his office. Jon would text him? On Valentine’s Day? And ask him to come over? He barely realizes that his feet are stamping themselves on the library floor.
Donnie, one of the junior librarians, eyes him as they walk past his room. Martin then decides to try and calm down. Excitement will only make the day feel longer, and he should obviously try to avoid seeming too ecstatic at work.
Martin sits back down and opens his computer. He can’t restrain himself from opening his phone to reread Jon’s texts, though. His eyes drink in the two lines.
“Jon♡♡: Martin, I need you at my flat after work.”
"Jon♡♡: It’s urgent. I can’t be alone.”
A few minutes of staring later, he realizes that he forgot to respond to the messages. Shit, what if they had been marked as read since he first opened his phone?
Martin types a quick, “Of course Jon! I’ll be there :)” and hits send before thinking better of the emoticon. Shit, shit, shit, would that come off as too casual? Has Martin already made a bad impression? He groans and clutches his head. Christ, he’ll have to try and make amends in person.
The rest of the workday is spent in anticipation. Martin can barely focus when he continuously checks his phone to make sure he didn’t misinterpret Jon’s messages.
February 14th, 17:26.
After a reluctant bit of overtime following his long library shift, Martin gathers his belongings and walks grimly outside. His stomach rumbles for dinner and he stops to glance one more time at his workplace. The Bellerose Library stands tall and grand, its marble columns catching the gleam of the setting sun. Martin realises he is probably just trying to distract himself.
He can barely breathe as he makes his way to the tube. Is he walking slower than usual? Is he stalling? Why is he stalling? This is the one thing he’s most wanted for literal months.
Maybe he’s worried about what might happen. Martin has been pining after Jon for so long, only for this invitation to come out of the blue. It seems almost too easy. Plus, he has no idea what to expect once he’s actually arrived at Jon’s flat. Tim and Sasha have hinted that the man is uninterested in sex, but what is his stance on other things? Will they just start making out the instant Martin walks through the door?
The thought catches Martin off guard as he steps onto the tube. A quiet laugh finds its way out of his chest. Jon wouldn’t… But now he can't stop imagining it.
Martin gets off a few stops before Jon’s to buy a box of chocolates before boarding again. He may as well bring something.
The train finally comes to a stop, and Martin stands from his seat, clutching the straps of his bag. His legs are shaking just a little bit, and he almost stumbles as he steps back onto solid ground.
After taking a deep breath, Martin checks a nearby neighborhood map. Jon had shared his address once when they had all come over for dinner. Martin walks tensely the rest of the way to Jon’s complex.
He carefully makes his way up the stairs, finally reaching Jon’s floor. He tries knocking on the door only to find it unlocked.
Upon entering Jon’s flat, Martin is immediately greeted by an almost oppressive silence. “Er, Jon?” he calls. He waits for a reply as he grabs the chocolates from his bag and sets them on a table near the door. He doesn’t receive one. “I-I brought you some chocolates.”
Martin takes in his surroundings for a few moments. Jon’s eclectic decorations are just how he remembers from his last visit. Strange antique statues and posters cover his shelves and walls, and Martin can scarcely turn his head without catching sight of some mythical creature or other.
With the company and laughter of their previous dinner party, the decor had seemed fittingly odd for Jon's residence. At present, however, they only add to Martin’s unease.
Just then, he catches sight of something lying on Jon’s table. It’s a college-ruled journal, like the kind Martin used when he was still in school. Scrawled across the top in black pen are the capitalized and underlined words, “MARTIN, PLEASE READ.”
Immensely intrigued, Martin lifts up the journal and flips to the first page. The handwriting is Jon’s usual spidery, curly font, but the letters are uneven, as if they had been written in a hurry. The journal begins with the entry, “Martin, something is happening. Something horrible. In this journal, I have detailed the events that led up to this situation with a list of instructions in the back. Be careful, and please ensure that you follow them to the letter. For both of our sakes.”
Martin looks at the page for a few seconds. “Umm, hey, Jon?” he asks again into the quiet of the flat. “Is this… some sort of roleplay thing?”
He receives no answer and tries to shrug off his slight worry. Surely, if something were actually wrong, Jon would be less cryptic about it. The entire thing reeks of his brand of morbid fantasy. Besides, if he’s so dedicated, Martin may as well play along. He flips to the next page and keeps reading.
Martin squints his eyes at the lines and lines of handwriting that greet him. He’s sure Jon will understand if he doesn’t read all of it right away. Instead, he turns to the back, where he finds an uneven bulleted list titled “Instructions:” It begins with the eyebrow-raising, “No matter what you see or hear, you must not, under any circumstances, let me out of my room.”
Martin tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Jesus Christ, Jon,” he mutters to himself. That eases his fears somewhat, but now he finds his heart racing for a different reason.
After he had become more comfortable around Martin, Tim, and Sasha, Jon invited them over for a tabletop roleplaying game at Tim’s flat. If that interest extends to his…other interests, well, who is Martin to judge?
He takes a deep breath and continues reading. Apparently, Jon is supposed to be wholly confined to his room for the next few days. Martin supposes he’s lucky it’s Friday. He remembers Jon having an attached restroom at least, but he has also requested that Martin bring him meals. Despite the rushed handwriting and ominous tone, the instructions are all very polite and gracious. Jon specifies that Martin need not make him anything too elaborate, just as long as it seems sustaining enough.
The rest is fairly predictable - more emphasis on keeping Jon locked in his room, to not invite anyone into Jon’s room, and that Martin is allowed to leave if he feels uncomfortable at no detriment to Jon’s feelings. Well, the actual bullet point reads, “If I at any point become too much to handle, or you feel that it would be unsafe to stay, you are free to leave. I would rather try to manage on my own than put you in possible danger.” Martin does think it’s cute that he’s staying in-character for the consent section. He lets out an involuntary chuckle as he starts wondering what surprises Jon may have in store for him.
Oddly, the very last line of the page says something completely unrelated to the rest. “This is the most important rule,” it reads. “On the table, you should also find a printed copy of Shakepeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” (Jon had somehow managed to italicize his handwriting.) “Do not, and I especially stress this, do not allow anyone to read that book. Not a single page. You already know why-” The line is cut off by a long squiggle of ink.
Nice touch, Jon, Martin finds himself thinking. Maybe he should have read the rest first, though. He flips through the following pages to find them blank. Apparently, that’s the end of the writing.
Martin sits at the table for another moment, twiddling his thumbs. He should probably read the first part of the journal for more context, but he just wants to check in on Jon. It may ruin whatever kind of surprise he has planned, but Martin is sure they’ll still have fun.
He tiptoes across the floor of Jon’s kitchen until he comes to a forebodingly dark hallway. “Bonus points for moodsetting,” he laughs to himself. It seems like the blinds in every room connected to the hallway are drawn. Martin continues forward softly; he feels like a disturbance in the dimness of the hall. “Long hallway,” he mumbles anyway, in an attempt to break the silence.
Martin continues on until his hand meets the door at the end of the hall, the one that he knows Jon sleeps in. He tries knocking quietly, just to verify that someone is actually inside. “Jon?” he asks. “Are you-are you in there?” Just like his other attempts at gaining an answer, he is met with more silence. Now just slightly concerned, he decides he should check for himself. “H-hey Jon?” He tries to turn the doorknob and finds it, fortunately, unlocked. With a startling creak, Martin opens the door just a crack and presses his face against the side. “I’m-I’m just checking on you, so if there’s something you don’t want me to see, just make a sound. Any sound.”
His weight presses against the door, which opens more widely with another squeal. Christ, why hasn’t Jon oiled this thing?
“Okay, Jon?” Martin calls again. “I’m-I’m getting worried. If-if you’re in-in danger, or…” Peering in, Martin notices that the room is almost as dark as the hallway. A soft, grey light touches one of Jon’s walls, but it’s clearly being filtered by a curtain. “Al-alright,” Martin announces, “I’m coming in, whether you’re ready or not.”
His eyes are squinted in anticipation as he pushes the door open the rest of the way. He expects to see Jon slumped, passed out against a wall or lying dead on the carpet with a knife in his stomach. He blinks at the scene before him, though. Jon’s room is completely empty.
“Huh,” Martin says as he steps inside. “Weir-Oh!”
There is something suspended in the corner of Jon’s room that was hidden by the door. Dangling above his bed, fused between the wall and the ceiling, is some gigantic shape that Martin can’t quite make out.
“Oh, lord,” he pants. “Oh god, Jesus-” He takes a step towards the opposite corner of the room without realising that he’s also stepping away from his only exit. As his eyes begin to adjust to the dim room, he can see strange symbols etched onto the side of the irregular object.
“What-what the hell? What the hell? What-J-Jon?” he calls again. “Jon, what’s-what is…” Martin can barely think. Jon has to be in another room. He has to know what this thing is. “Jon? ” His voice is becoming shrill.
Just then, Martin hears a sound coming from within the object. A strange humming that almost sounds like the song of a cricket. As a quiet shuffle of movement comes from within it, something that Martin fears may just be inside of it taps against the material.
It taps again. And again. And Martin is holding his breath so that he can listen. The volume of the humming increases until it fills his ears, and then it falls silent.
Then, a two-syllable chirp comes from within the object. It almost sounds like words. It almost sounds like it’s saying, “Martin.”
The shuffling inside becomes much more fervent, as whatever it is clearly struggles to escape its prison. A few more incoherent clicks rise from it to form strings of noises that are almost sentences.
A sharp gasp fills Martin’s lungs as he remembers to breathe again, and he tries to crawl to the corner. To hide. To do anything to save himself.
Martin’s breath comes in frantic huffs as something, a claw, begins to push its way out of its cocoon.
A cocoon. Martin realises he’s looking at a cocoon. He laughs at the absurdity of it. What? Is he about to be murdered by a butterfly? Something with bulging eyes and a rolling tongue?
Another claw comes from within the cocoon, followed by a red light that shines out of the hole it left. Suddenly, Martin can see a silhouette behind the wall of the substance. Something curled into itself with too many arms, like an X-Ray photo of a mutant embryo.
More light comes spilling from within the cocoon as the creature continues to fight its way to freedom. It makes the same chirp as before, and this time it’s intoned like a question. The thing keeps chirping, until its sounds gradually morph into those made by human tongues.
The beginning of a scream is born only to die in Martin’s throat as the creature starts speaking in high-pitched gibberish. Its attempts at fleeing the cocoon are no less frantic. In a few short seconds, Martin comes to terms with the fact that he will probably die here.
At last, a long gash cuts slices its way down from the top of the cocoon, allowing for a piercing red glow to fill the room. Martin has to shield his eyes, but he can still make out a thin arm slowly descending from the silky object. A useless sound squeaks out of Martin’s mouth as the shadow of a lithe body lowers itself down onto Jon’s bed. It chirps at him again, but he has no idea what it’s trying to say.
The creature faces Martin, giving him all of its attention. It begins to steadily crawl toward him, its six legs moving in careful synchronism. It walks with the grace of a predator.
Martin screeches again and tries to huddle into the corner as it draws nearer. It’s going to kill him. It’s going to kill him. It’s going to kill him. “Wh-what are you?” He doesn’t expect an answer. Martin can move. He can run. He should. But he had cornered himself trying to get away from the cocoon.
As it steps into the dim light afforded by the window, Martin can make out more of its features. Most of its body is a cheery yellow, the rest of it is a soft pink. Two long stalks rise out of the top of its head. Martin almost laughs again at the fact that he’s about to be killed by an Easter Bunny lookalike.
A few lengths from him, the creature suddenly halts. It utters a few more clicks and slowly stands on its two hind legs. Its face is partially obscured by fur, but Martin notices that it has the features of a human. The thing begins vocalising again, and its chirps become gradually lower as it starts trying to speak.
It keeps producing random consonants and vowels, as if it has forgotten how its mouth works. Finally, it seems to settle on a word. “Mm-Maht-” It sounds like a sped-up record. Suddenly, its back straightens, and the stalks on top of its head stand perfectly upright. “Martin,” it says in Jon’s voice.
Martin makes a wordless sound. The creature still looms above him, unmoving. “J-Jon?” This is impossible. None of this is-
“Martin,” the Jon-thing repeats. It crouches onto its knees with another chirp. “You’re-you’re here.”
“Wh-what?…” In the gloom, Martin can almost make out the features of the creature’s face. It looks like Jon. Why does it look like Jon? “I-I…” Martin shoots to his feet and lunges for the curtains.
As bright light from the sunset fills the room, the creature covers its eyes. Martin is finally able to take in its appearance. The monster definitely has Jon’s face. It has the same sharp angles, the same moustache stubble, it’s even wearing his glasses.
The light also brings its more monstrous features into perspective, though. The rest of its body is covered in a coat of very thick fur, a scarf of which completely conceals its mouth. Upon closer inspection, Martin also realises that the stalks on top of its head are antennae, like the kinds that- Oh.
Jon has turned into a moth.
“Uh-erm, Jon?” The former menace of the creature is somewhat diminished by his incredible fuzziness. Also the fact that he’s just as short as before. “Jon, is that… Is that you?”
Jon? releases another series of clicks before he spreads the fingers on one of his four hands to peer at the window. He quickly covers his eye again. “Could you dr-draw… the curtains?” Martin wonders if he’s still having difficulty speaking.
“Oh, of-of course, Jon. Sorry.” As is only natural, Jon’s voice sends him into a spell of nervousness. Martin closes the curtain, and Jon sighs in apparent relief. “Uhh, does it-does it hurt your-”
“My eyes, yes,” Jon interrupts. The room is returned to darkness, but Martin still notices that he can’t see Jon’s mouth moving from under the fur that covers it.
“And if you-if you don’t mind me asking…” Martin has no idea why he’s being so polite to this monster version of the man he is in love with. “What-what happened to you?”
Jon sighs and sinks to his knees. “I’m so tired,” he mutters. Heartbroken, Martin walks over and gives him a light pat on the head. Jon reacts with a loud exhale. “I-I need to… to… My wings.”
“Your-your what?” Instead of answering, Jon stands and rushes out of the room. He makes a few more clicking sounds before leaping through the door. “J-Jon, wait!” Martin cries after him.
Oh, shit. He’s already broken one of the rules, hasn’t he?
“Fuck, shit, shit,” Martin whispers to himself as he chases the moth through the hallway. Why would Jon have given him those instructions in the first place? Did he know this was going to happen?
Martin curses himself again for neglecting to read through the journal. Jon had clearly been so scared and put so much effort into warning Martin only for him to ruin everything and-
Jon comes to an abrupt stop ahead of him, and Martin is just barely able to keep himself from collision. Jon’s voice is low and weary. “Martin, the curtains.” He only turns his head for a moment but Martin swears something is different about his eyes.
“Right, right. Sorry.” Martin walks into the sitting room and draws the curtains for each individual window. He isn’t sure how dark Jon would like it. “Is-is that alright?”
“Hmm,” Jon replies. He clicks a few more times before stepping into the room as well. The curtains are thinner here than the ones in Jon’s bedroom, and Martin spots for the first time two shriveled pink fins poking out of his shoulderblades. Are those his wings? They’re tiny.
Jon trudges over to his sofa like a man sleepwalking. He rests his knees on the cushion, lets out an airy sigh, and throws his arms over the back, letting his head dangle in the empty space behind it. Stunningly, Jon’s wings? begin to pulsate and grow. Very slowly, they expand like inflating balloons.
“Jon? Um…” Martin tiptoes to the back of the sofa, where he can see Jon is clearly sleeping. His eyes are closed and he makes alternating snores and chirping sounds. His dark hair hangs around his face in a curtain, and Martin just realises that it must have grown considerably while he was in the cocoon. It’s still streaked with the few stripes of white he has been sporting since he first started working at the library, though.
“Jon?” Martin asks hesitantly. He leans down and lays a gentle hand on the side of Jon’s head. Jon doesn’t respond. He keeps sleeping soundly.
Martin peers back over the sofa at Jon’s wings to find them still slowly unfurling. That must be why he’s asleep, right? Will he wake when they’re fully-grown?
Martin slumps to the ground and puts his face in his arms. What is happening? Will Jon be alright? Can he do anything to help? He looks back up at the moth-man and wonders if all of this is just some incredibly vivid dream.
Worrying about Jon won’t solve anything, though. If Martin wants to try and fix this, he’ll have to humour the possibility of it all being real. He should begin by reading Jon’s Journal.
Martin grabs the notebook from the table and takes a careful seat next to Jon. Jon’s chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and the unfurling of his wings, though plodding, is almost hypnotic. Trying to focus, Martin flips back to the first page of the book and rereads it.
Maybe he should have taken the entry seriously. Even still, why was Jon so adamant that he could be dangerous? He had scared Martin when he was emerging from his cocoon, but he seems otherwise harmless.
Sighing, Martin turns the page and reads the rest of Jon’s account. “This all started when I read that book,” his tale begins. “The one on the table beside this journal. Thinking about it now, I should’ve tried to hide it from other eyes, but I didn't have the foresight.”
Jon explains how the book began to change him. How he could feel himself becoming monstrous as his organs (as he feared, at least) began dissolving and his mind began to cry out for cloying company. “I am wary of the instinct, however,” he continues. “For as unnatural as it would feel to spend this metamorphosis alone, I worry what might happen to any friends in my vicinity.”
And, despite the situation, Martin does smile at his use of the word “friends.”
Martin keeps reading on. Apparently, Jon wants to be kept in his flat until they find a solution, “and in the instance that there isn’t one,” he had written, though Martin definitely doesn't want to think about that. “Do with me whatever you see fit. I have the feeling that I may not act completely soberly following my transformation, so please try to keep me from harming anyone. Drop me off in the wild if controlling me becomes too much of an inconvenience.”
“Out of the question,” Martin mutters. He jokes to the man sleeping beside him, “Jon, you haven’t developed an appetite for… babies or anything, have you?”
Jon mumbles something in his sleep.
“That’s what I thought.” With a satisfied grin, Martin returns to reading.
The last page of the journal contains a very long and heartfelt apology for subjecting Martin to this “strange occurrence.”
Martin stands with a groan and places the journal back on the table. Jon is still leaning over the back of the sofa, but his wings are much larger now than they were before.
“God, how long are those things going to take?” Martin asks Jon, who doesn’t reply. He sits back down and tries to get comfortable on the plush sofa. “They’re pretty, at least.” And that is true. Jon’s scaly wings stretch straight out behind him. They’re the same pink as his fur with flashy yellow stripes that run across the centres.
For as much as he can try joking to himself in the silence, it’s still unnerving sitting beside Jon and watching him become something else. Martin sighs and leans his head back against the cushion. “We’ll fix this,” he promises Jon. He pulls out his phone to keep himself occupied until Jon wakes again.
February 14, 19:50.
Jon’s wings have been growing for the past two hours. They finally seem to be nearing their maximum size and have started slowly folding against his sides. Martin has put away his phone and watches Jon with bated breath, waiting to see what will happen.
At last, the wings tuck against Jon’s back, forming a flat triangle. Almost immediately after, Jon sits up on his knees with a gasp.
“Jon!” Martin cries. “Jon!” While Jon remains still and panting, Martin tries touching his shoulder. “How-how are…”
“Martin?” Jon’s breathing finally seems to slow, and all of the tension leaves his colorful body before he faces him.
Something is horribly wrong with his eyes. They aren’t the dark green that had caught Martin’s attention when they first met. Not anymore. Instead, Jon’s eyes have become a bright red, like the eyes of an albino rat. Even more strangely, his pupils appear almost heart-shaped.
Martin really doesn’t mean to stare.
Jon stretches, lifting all six of his arms and fluttering his wings a little bit behind him. He actually very closely resembles a fairy.
Yawning, Jon says, “That’s better.” His mouth is still invisible under the fur, but his eyes visibly crinkle from smiling. “I finally feel whole.”
“Wha-what are you talking about?”
Failing to answer, Jon leans over. “Martin, you must be exhausted.” This time, he rests a hand on Martin’s head. “Why don’t I make you some tea?”
“I-Tea? What?” Why is Jon acting so normal about everything? “But-but you just…”
“Martin, Martin...” Jon’s claw carefully tucks a strand of hair behind Martin’s ear. He suddenly feels like he might short-circuit. “Why do you seem so worried? You belong here.” His voice is the softest Martin has ever heard it. “I want you to feel comfortable.”
“J-Jon, this isn’t-”
He cuts him off. “I promise you, we’re safe here.” Jon runs his hand through Martin’s hair one last time before taking a few steps toward the kitchen. “Safer than we’ve ever been.” Martin sits in stunned silence as he hears the sound of a kettle whistling in the other room.