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They were already late when they made it to the steps of the Institute. Gertrude was frowning at both of them, and looking at her watch as if to remind them of their lateness. Like they didn’t already know. Like Gerry hadn’t dragged his feet all morning to delay the trip in the first place.
“I wish you weren’t going,” Gerry mutters. It’s about the tenth time he’s said it in the past twelve hours, “You don’t even speak Russian.”
“Neither do you if we’re being technical. It’s going to be fine. Just a week or so.”
“I don’t like it,” Gerry kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, “You’re bad at dressing for the cold. You hate the cold.”
“I will be fine. You’re never this worried when she takes others for one of her little conferences.”
“I’m not in love with the others.”
Michael reddens, though Gerry thinks it might just be from the cold. He reaches out and tucks a loose blonde curl behind his ear. Gertrude eyes them as she speaks to the taxi driver, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. Bitter old fucking bat.
“Maybe we’ll go on that holiday,” Michael says, shifting his bag on his shoulder, “When I get back. Somewhere warm.”
Michael would like that, because Michael’s like the sun.
That’s what Gerry thinks anyway. He thinks Michael in his yellow sweaters and his blonde hair and his laugh-- which is not annoying, contrary to what Michael says-- is the sun that his life has been missing for oh, so long. It is cruel to take the sun away and shuttle it off to somewhere in Russia he’s never even heard of. Gerry had even volunteered for this one, but Gertrude had told him his place was at the Institute, and that Michael was the right choice for this trip.
“I’d like that. Take this at least,” Gerry takes his scarf off-- red’s so not his color anyway-- and puts it around Michael’s neck, “And when you get back we can discuss travel plans.”
“Michael, we’ve got to go,” Gertrude calls. Her patience has clearly worn off.
“Coming Mrs. Robinson,” he replies.
“Be safe?” Gerry whispers. He has such an aching, painful feeling in his stomach that this is going to end in tragedy. Perhaps that is just because his life always ends in tragedy.
“Always do,” Michael smiles, wraps the scarf around his neck and slides into the back of the taxi. Gertrude gives him a look he can’t decipher-- somewhere between pity and irritation-- and he watches until he can no longer see the taxi. Then he lights up a cigarette and stomps inside. Elias hates when he smokes inside, and pissing off Elias will take his mind off his nerves.
If he had known that those would have been the last words that he’d ever say to Michael-- his Michael, soft spoken and lovely-- he would have thought them through a little better.
But he didn’t know shit. And when Gertrude comes back a week later to tell him that there’d been an accident and she was ever so sorry to be the one to tell him this-- he couldn’t help but think of how much Michael hated the cold. And now he’d never leave it.
****
The first time Gerry manages to venture back to the Institute-- Elias had oh so kindly given him bereavement time off-- there is a door in Gertrude’s office. Rather, a door that’s not supposed to be there. He has spent countless hours here, and he knows very well there is not meant to be a door there.
If he’d had a little more regard for his own life, he’d have turned right around to tell somebody. But at that moment-- he wasn’t sleeping well. Michael’s things sat around the flat like ghosts and his nightmares were full of ice and snow-- he didn’t particularly care who, or what, was behind the door.
He stepped forward and knocked on it.
It creaked open and a very long hand pushed it open.
The person-- for it was, in theory, a person, but their proportions were not right. Too long. Like static personified-- was familiar.
“Michael?” he asked softly.
“Yes. No,” the man giggled, “Not anymore. But more than before.”
“Oh fucking hell,” Gerry muttered, “She gave you to the Spiral?”
“Poor Michael,” he hopped up on Gertrude’s desk and crossed one leg over the other-- Gerry couldn’t help but notice the red scarf around his neck and couldn’t help but feel his heart shatter, “I ate him. And then he became me and I became him and I became this. Didn’t the Archivist tell you Book Burner? What happened in Sannikov Land? Didn’t you know it does not exist?”
“No,” Gerry swallowed, “She didn’t tell me.”
“The Michael you loved is gone and he is here. She ended the Great Twisting by sending poor Michael in. He became me and we became neither and here I am.”
“Why did you come here?” Gerry asked. He wanted to throw this thing back in that door, but it was Michael-- kind of-- and he wouldn’t dare do that to the man he loved.
“To see you Book Burner! Why else?”
“You came here to rub it in my face? That you took him from me?”
“He is fond of you. He was fond of you and since we are one and we are neither-”
“Enough with the fucking mind games. I get it.”
“I thought you would like to see us.”
“Why would I like that?”
“We like to see the faces of the ones we once loved, even if they are no longer themselves.”
“I don’t want to see you,” Gerry says. He is not going to cry because Gerry doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried since he was a child. But he wants this thing that wears Michael’s face to get out of here, “You are not my Michael.”
“We will meet again, I think,” he says, with a shrug, as if Gerry’s words are of no consequence. He opens the door again and Gerry avoids looking at whatever is behind it, “The Coming End is not finished with you. And the Twisting Deceit is not finished with us.”
“What does that mean?” Gerry asks, as if the Spiral is supposed to make sense, as if being confusing and driving you mad are not its entire motivation.
Michael laughs-- it’s not exactly Michael’s laugh, but it echoes around Gerry’s brain just the same, “Tell the Archivist hello from us. We are sure she’ll be thrilled.”
Gerry feels another headache coming on when the door slams.