Buttons
A Halloween Ficlet

Written: October 1, 2013 7:06 pm
Finished: October 1, 2013 10:26 pm
Rating: T
Warning: eye horror, body horror, some sexuality
Pairing: Egon/Finitevus

He was eight years old when he first met him.

They had gone to visit an aunt out in the Old Country -- this was before his mum got ill -- who lived in one of those creaky wooden houses, the sort that they don't make any more, with at least two floors and actual glass windows facing out against dead grass and wild trees. 

He was allowed to play by the pond, where he skipped stones and scared the frogs, and he played in the shorter trees, and learned to climb, as long as he took off his school shoes, but they always scolded him for getting too mussy before supper. When it rained, he entertained himself by peeking around the house, mostly examining the many empty rooms covered in white sheets and dust, and playing hide and seek with his imaginary friend, Rufus. There were games of 'stay quiet', where he would do his best not to make the floor-boards creak, and get from one end of the room to another, and there were games where he would make up horrible stories about the people that had once occupied this house. (He knew that his mother's family once called this home, and that the estate was passed to the eldest sibling of every generation, but it was always ax murderers and asylums in his games.)

He was playing 'fortress' in the pantry, stacking heavy canned goods and running around being both sides of the army, when the floor collapsed beneath him, and he found himself suddenly in a forgotten basement. Any pain over scraped knees was neglected in favour of exploration, and he strayed from the section of rotted floorboards to where the pale light filtered to the ends of sight. An old-style mining lantern miraculously lit on its first strike, and he could explore at his leisure. It was probably an old root cellar from the early days, but he expanded it to great caverns and rooms. At the very south wall, he found a door, the key still in the lock, and he turned the knob without any more thought or reservation.

It opened onto a cheerily-lit foyer, golden light on oak paneling. Colourful raincoats, mismatched boots, and shoes cluttered the entryway, and he set the lantern down while he wandered in, the door closing behind him. There was a delicious smell of fruit pie filtering through the air, and he followed it to find the kitchen in this house of light.

"Hello there." Egon was confronted by a man in a vest and turtleneck, busy wiping a dish dry by the sink.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he said in return, folding his little arms over his chest sternly. The aside glances to the oven gave him away, however, and the man turned to him, smiling, his eyes a purpled glint of button.

"I'm not a stranger, dear child. I'm your Other Father." He didn't have a father in the first place, but the room was warm and bright and the man was not threatening, and really, really, if he let his mind wander, it made sense that he should be here. "Oh. You've hurt your knees?" The man, his father, knelt to examine the scrapes, which he belatedly realised did sting, and then wiped at them with a washcloth. He kissed each of his knees better, and put a bright neon bandaid over them, and by the time his Other Father was done taking care of him, Egon trusted him completely.

"Why don't you stay here, for dinner." A lid was lifted, and the scent of roast beef joined that of the berry pie. "You can have as much as you want, darling."

It tasted as delicious as it smelled, and he had three servings in short order, and his Other Father didn't make him take as much veg as his mum would have. Stomach full, he was led down the hall to his room, where pajamas with stars on them, and a nice warm bed twice as big as the one he had at home were waiting. Other Father told him a story about robots and aliens, and tucked him in with a kiss on the forehead.

He woke to hotcakes drizzled with maple syrup, and Other Father listened to him as he retold the great dream he'd had the night before. He was allowed to have a bath all by himself, like a big boy, and then they went and played with the toys in the play room. He built a wooden train loop, and pushed the vintage cars around along it, providing the suitable sound effects. When he became bored with that, he read through picture books and very nearly damaged a set of porcelain dolls with listless painted eyes, and crinoline dresses. 

Other Father did not cook the food, he soon learned. The food cooked itself. The pots were always filled with something new and delicious-smelling, and while Other Father washed and dried a few representative dishes, the kitchen was always clean and the cupboards full. The house was magical. There were always new play things, and sometimes the rooms shifted around a little, and when Other Father found that he didn't mind, he made the dolls move around and talk for him. 

The days began to blur into each other, every day new and strange and wonderful but fully indescribable from the every day, as it all was new and strange and wonderful. Other Brother was brought to play with him when he said that he was lonely, an older brother, with blue button eyes  and a vacant smile. Other Brother was quiet, and he wasn't very good at playing trains or make believe, but that just meant that Egon had to be the favourite. The only way that Egon really knew that time had passed was that the owwies on his knees had scabbed, and then were slowly healing. He began to forget his dreams, but Other Father didn't mind much. Every day he was here was so much better than his dreams, and the bland house outside this house began to fade from his mind.

There were no mirrors in the house, so he never exactly knew how any of his play outfits looked. He wanted to see if he was dashing in his sailor's outfit, and Other Father assured him that he was the most dashing, but he wanted to see for himself. Other Father never talked about the outside. He never talked about growing up. He didn't talk about jobs or war or government like Uncle Trent or Bah-bi. Every day was in the moment, but only as long as the moment was the same moment. But that was alright with Egon. He never felt sick after eating as much candy as he wanted, and he never outgrew his outfits. When he curled up against Other Father, sitting in his reading chair, he was just the right size.

"Egon, darling, would you like to stay here with us?" Other Father brushed his hair back with his locks, comforting, smooth motions that reminded him of how he loved his father, and how fortunate he was to have a father like him.

"I'm here."

"Stay here with us forever." He looked up to see the soft smile and the tilt of Other Father's head. "You know I love you, darling, and you know I take care of you. But you can't stay here with me forever, not the way you are."

He thought about it for a moment, and those hands resumed their petting. His every need was satisfied, and he couldn't imagine not living here. It felt foreign, no matter what dim and pressing memories came to light. A nod, and then Other Father got up and took his hand. "Let's go take care of that, then. Just a small thing. Come with me, dear. You'll look so pretty when it's done."

Egon was led into a dark room hung with fishing net and broken items that needed repair, and he took a seat on an incongruent velvet couch shaped like an S-curve while he waited for Other Father to come back. He noticed motion behind the netting, and realised, distantly, that he was looking at himself, through a mirror. His eyes were lined and hollow, as if he hadn't slept in a while, and his face was wane and pale there. He made faces at himself to pass the time, waiting for Other Father to return.

"It was difficult to find ones to match. You have such beautiful eyes. I wanted to make sure it was right..."

As Other Father approached, Egon watched him in the mirror. Where there was a soft smile and love, the mirror version showed sharp teeth and a mouth drawn back in some twisted version of a grin. Where Other Father was bright colours, the mirror version was desaturated, a black turtleneck, snowy white fur, a strange mark between his black button eyes. The only thing that was the same between them was the outstretched hand holding the needle, thread, and two emerald green buttons.

Egon didn't remember screaming, on the note of concern in Other Father's voice. He only remembered suddenly that there was an outside, and there was a mother waiting for him, and that he was rushing from the room to the entryway, and throwing the door open, and Other Father was behind him, reaching for him, and then the door was closed, and locked, and he pulled the key away and cried and cried.

Auntie Bah-bi later told him that he had been gone for three weeks. It didn't feel like it, afterward. It didn't feel like much time at all. It was the sort of blurry memory you have of a dream, even if it was a really good one, and in time, he forgot it had ever happened. And maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was a dream. The real life had more pressing concerns, like illness, and school, and finding a job, and then true love. Real life had no time for dreams and monsters and heart's desires, as long as they were impossible.

He was twenty-four when he met him again, running blindly and letting the rain disguise his tears for a good drenching. His heart had been torn out by this truest symbol of infidelity, and while they protested loudly once discovered, he wouldn't hear it, couldn't hear it. His heartbeat drowned out any other words but 'Egon, Egon, Egon'. He didn't wait at the bus stop, and he ran the rest of the way home, macintosh half-on, socks squelching in his rainboots, vest soaked through, until he came to his darkened apartment, lonely and simple.

He stood there for a long moment, looking at the bed, before trudging forward and divesting the wet clothing as he went. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the catches on his vest; his socks were the ones knit for him the year before he became independent, and now the colours seemed muddied by the rain. There was a key on his dresser, and he took it and pulled his closet open, and there was a door that had been long forgotten.

Egon fitted the key in and stepped through into an entryway with polka-dot umbrellas and a strong sense of home. He let the door swing shut behind him, and he squeaked along the wooden floorboards as he sought out the occupant of this house.

He found the button-eyed man in his bedroom, patting through the fur of a purple-buttoned boy. Unguarded like this, he looked somewhat as he did in the mirror, white fur against a warm-toned sweater, black buttons and a soft, sharp smile, no younger than when Egon had last seen him.

He collapsed to his knees, sodden and drained, and the man approached, drawing him into a hug. "There, there, darling. Other Lover is here. Let's get you out of your wet clothing before you catch a cold now." Egon nodded compliantly, and allowed himself to be moved around as the pieces were removed, feeling like he was eight years old again. Other Lover kissed him, and it didn't feel false like his boyfriend had kissed him, and he was held and petted until he was dry and warm and loved.

"You've hurt your heart now, haven't you, darling?" It was followed by a kiss to the chest. "Let me make it better."

Egon told him how he had discovered the infidelity, and after the words were spoken, it didn't seem so real anymore. That must have been some of the magic of this place, and he followed it with every pain of his heart, of death and a sense of loss and betrayal and never quite belonging anywhere, until he had emptied it all out and could be filled with love instead.

"Stay with me forever," Other Lover murmured into his neck. "You know I love you, darling, and I want to take care of you. Stay here with me, and you won't have to hurt anymore."

"I don't want to hurt." It wasn't that hard of a choice. Remain in the arms and the house of the one who wouldn't die and wouldn't hurt him and wouldn't leave him, versus facing the cruel 'real world'? Focus on a job and schooling when he didn't have to work for anything here? Open himself to new hurts and pains when he could just let his heart be sewn shut?

"Let me get my things," Other Lover whispered. "I promise you won't feel a thing, soon enough. Trust me, and it will all be alright."

Other Lover let him examine the buttons very briefly, a close fit to his own eye-colour, and then he was instructed to close is eyes and breathe steadily, curved needle threaded with thick-gauged black line like he had done this many times before. His last sight was of the comforting smile and the cruel teeth jutting out from behind those lips. Other Lover cradled his cheek in his hand as the needle went in.

It felt like nothing. It felt like nothing at all.