Oliver avoided hospitals for the longest time. There was no escape from ever-present death, but there were places where the tendrils grew like briar-patches, breaking free from open windows to wave invitingly in the wind and tucking themselves around thresholds as though to hold the doors open. It didn't bother him anymore, and the little black tendrils had guided him to Jon's room, a few splitting off to seek out others that would soon be claimed by the End. The majority of them had clustered in the room where Jonathan Sims lay comatose, expectant. When Oliver arrived, a few swayed towards him. One curled around the leg of his chair as he sat to give Jon a statement. None of them touched The Archivist, though they lingered close, almost curious.
Jon looked surprisingly well for someone who'd been unconscious for months. Oliver felt a shade of sympathy for him. Even as he slept, he couldn't seem to find peace, signs of pain and fear in the lines on his face. The streaks of gray in his long hair stood out starkly against the rest, and on a whim, as Oliver spoke, he brushed one loose strand away. He'd never been a romantic, but he had stood once where Jon was and would have given anything for the barest hint of kindness. A cold tendril followed his hand, creeping close to Jon's face but never touching. It chose instead to wrap around Oliver's wrist and remained even as he pulled away.
"You're balanced on an edge where the End can't touch you, but you can't escape him," he told Jon. As if in agreement, several tendrils drew closer and then retreated. "I made a choice. We all made choices. Now you have to as well." He'd said his piece, and now he should leave. Except, he found himself staring down at Jon, remembering all his own fear of the inevitable turning. It was never pleasant, becoming what they were (or what Jon would be, if he chose to live.)
"Can I tell you a secret, Jon? The End isn't cruel. You can fear it, but it won't hurt you when it comes." He tried to explain it in his statement, the feeling of home when he first touched one, the patience he had sensed in it, and the way they came for the soon to die like an affectionate last embrace. "I'm not sure if you believe me. I could show you, I think. It might make your choice easier to know what the other side offers." Jon didn't stir. Not even a smile for Oliver's morbid joke. He sighed and stood to leave. It was as he was turning that he saw, from the corner of his eye, one bold tendril dart out and touch Jon's shoulder. Oliver stopped. The tendril retreated, once, and then wiggled its way under Jon's hospital gown sleeve to press against skin.
"Huh. I guess that's a yes, then." Oliver sat back down. It was nice to know that Jon had heard him, that he hadn't been talking at no one. More tendrils came closer, feeling the open invitation. At first, they merely poked, as though unsure of what Jon was to them. He was not one to be claimed by death, not yet, but the End was called to him all the same. Jon didn't react to any of the touches, and they grew braver with every passing moment. A few found interest with his hair, twining through it but never tangling or pulling too hard. The one that had first found his shoulder seemed content to stay there, curling around his upper arm. A few more went to the bed sheets and began to tug uselessly. Oliver saw what they intended to do and helped, pulling the sheets off of Jon.
They delightedly explored Jon, who Oliver supposed must be something novel to them. Very rarely did Avatars die, and none had hovered so close without taking that final step like Jon was now. A tendril weaved between Jon's fingers like it was holding his hand and then shot towards Oliver, bringing him closer, inviting him, too, to touch. Oliver hesitated, but the tendril was insistent. He ended up holding Jon's hand, the scarred handprint warmer than the rest of his body by far.
"You can stop them," Oliver told him, squeezing his hand as though that would get Jon's attention. Still, no reaction. "You let the End touch you, but you can make it stop. That's not an option a lot of people get." The tendrils were getting more daring. They glided along the length of Jon's body, curling and uncurling around various body parts as they pleased. Oliver batted away the first one that went for his underwear, more out of surprise than anything else. The tendril recoiled, and then slid up Jon's gown instead, coiling on his stomach like it was sulking at having been denied. It was a few minutes before another one tried, and this one, Oliver didn't stop. It didn't do what he was expecting, instead sliding through the underwear all the way down his leg until it reached his ankle, which it promptly wrapped itself around. Oliver smiled.
Another tendril had been exploring Jon's face, tracing worry lines on his forehead and gently caressing his eyelids. It slid down, hovering over his mouth, and brushed itself against his lips. It was almost a kiss, and like Sleeping Beauty, Jon's eyes opened for the first time. He blinked a few times, confused, and the tendrils seemed to still for a moment. Jon sought out Oliver, and he could practically see the questions on the tip of the Archivist's tongue. He let go of Jon's hand and covered his mouth. Oliver didn't feel like giving another statement today.
"Do you want them to stop?" He asked, and Jon stared at him. Swallowed nervously. Nodded. Oliver withdrew his hand. Almost immediately, the tendril returned, sliding against Jon's lips again. Jon jolted back. "Can you See them?"
"No," Jon said, "I can feel the cold, but I can't see anything. It's... disconcerting, to say the least." The tendril tried a third time, and Jon didn't move, letting it bump the tip of it against his lips again and again. Oliver watched him stick his tongue out and lick experimentally.
"Well?"
"Rubbery." Jon said. The other tendrils were beginning to move once more, squeezing where some were curled around limbs and prodding where others were hovering over his skin. Some were getting very impatient with his gown, tugging the same way they had with the sheets. Jon pushed himself up to his elbows, knocking several of them off-course. "I don't think stripping in my hospital bed is a good idea." Oliver wasn't sure if Jon was telling him or the tendrils.
"Probably not." He answered. "Not entirely, anyway. Maybe just..." He leaned forward, grabbing the end of Jon's gown. Jon let him pull it up to bunch under his arms. There were more scars, dozens of circular ones that covered his sides and disappeared under the bunched gown towards his shoulders. They were the same as the ones on his face. Two more, much older scars sat symmetrically on his chest. One of the tendrils got curious, coming close to inspect the circular scars and following them upwards. It found the scar on his neck, then, but Jon cringed away when they poked it. Oliver reached out, took hold of the questing tendril and redirected it back to Jon's chest. "Sorry. They can tell where you've nearly died before." Oliver laid a hand on his sternum, and Jon closed his eyes for a moment as though savoring the contact. "Do you want to keep going?"
"Yes." Jon whispered. It was unnecessary, as already the tendrils had begun touching the exposed skin of his torso. Jon shivered as they explored his ribcage. One slid up and lay on his collarbone like a pet snake, the head of it idly drifting back and forth over the same few inches. The one at his mouth seemed to take offense at being ignored, prodding at his lips until he turned his head to kiss it. Others still mapped out his scars until one accidentally rubbed against his nipple. Jon gasped. The tendrils took interest immediately, curling and rubbing at his nipple until Jon's breath was coming in short pants. The tendrils seemed even more intrigued by the fact they could find an identically sensitive spot right across from the first, and soon, many of the tendrils that had been caressing his chest had honed in on both of his nipples. They were relentless.
Oliver reached down to pull away his underwear, not off but far enough down to leave Jon exposed. Jon made a breathless sound, twisting his head to press against the pillow. The tendril at his mouth followed and took advantage of the lapse in concentration, darting into his open mouth for a moment before pulling back again to rub along his cheek. More tendrils came closer, taking on exploring the rest of Jon so that the ones making him whine by playing with his nipples could keep doing so. They pulled Jon's thighs apart with ease. They were useless against his clothes or the sheets, but Jon himself became pliable to them. Oliver rubbed a hand up and down Jon's thigh to reassure him.
"Just relax. They won't hurt you." He told Jon. Jon tried to take a deep breath, but it was cut off by two of the tendrils pressing tight against one nipple, pinching. Jon squirmed.
"This- this isn't how I expected to wake up," he said, shakily, "but it's better. So much better." The tendrils were finding their way down to Jon's crotch. He was already wet, his dick hard and begging for attention. The tendrils seemed to enjoy spreading his legs as far as the underwear still around his knees would let them.
"Enjoy it." Oliver advised him. Part of him wanted to touch Jon himself, and the other simply wanted to watch. He didn't move his hand from Jon's thigh, and slowly, the tendrils found their way to Jon's hole. He tried to arch his hips to rub against the tendrils, but more came to hold him down on the bed. Thin tendrils began to curl around Jon's dick, rubbing and twisting in a way that made him whimper and struggle. He was getting more vocal, and before Oliver could do anything about that himself, the tendril at his mouth pushed inside again and this time, didn't retreated. Jon no longer seemed to mind the taste, sucking on the tendril and moaning around it. Every sound he made now was thankfully muffled.
One tendril rubbed against his hole, sliding up along his slit to meet the ones at his dick and then back down to circle his hold again. It pressed against him, retreated, and then pressed forward again, teasing. Jon moaned, clenching one hand in the sheets beneath him and trying to angle his hips up to invite the tendril in. Finally, slowly, achingly slowly, it slid home, and Jon shut his eyes, shivering with pleasure. Oliver tried to memorize it. Jon was utterly beautiful in that moment. The tendril thrust in and out steadily, and with each thrust, Jon would let out a moan around the tendril in his mouth. The one in his mouth started to mimic the one below with shallower thrusts against Jon's tongue.
Jon was getting close. Another tendril pushed against his hole, entered into the tight space and began thrusting at a different speed. Jon tried to reach down to touch himself, but two tendrils wrapped around his wrist and pinned it, twining like a fishnet around his hand and between his fingers. He was helpless, and loving it, and Oliver was doing his best to push down his own arousal. Later, he told himself. Everything now was about Jon. The tendril in Jon's mouth pulled away, and he let his head fall back, panting.
"I want to see- I- I need to-" The tendrils thrust in deep, and his words were lost for a moment before coming back, drawing static into the air. "I need to See." Oliver felt a small loss. Jon looked down, eyes widening as he took in the tendrils getting him off. They did not retreat from the gaze of the Archivist. His chest rose and fell quickly, so close now, and with one more thrust, Jon came. They kept going as he moaned and twisted under their embrace, drawing his orgasm out for as long as they could and then continuing past that, until Jon was saying, "Stop, stop, that's enough, I can't-"
With that, seemingly satisfied, they retreated for the last time. The one that had hovered near his face the entire time gave him one last pseudo-kiss that Jon returned without thinking. He lay back, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. Oliver reached over to the bedside and pulled some tissues free. He felt it was the least he could do to clean Jon up, and he wiped away the evidence of his orgasm from between his legs. Oliver pulled his underwear back up as Jon smoothed his gown back down.
"Did I," he paused, "Was that the choice?" Oliver shrugged. Once more, he found himself combing Jon's hair back with his fingers, trying to get it into some semblance of order.
"I guess so." Jon breathed in deeply, but he didn't protest Oliver's touch. If anything, he tilted his head up to encourage it. He looked exhausted.
"I knew I wasn't going to... Dying would be easy." Oliver nodded. "But I have people here who need me. Or, maybe I need them." Jon's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Thank you, though."
"I told you it wouldn't hurt." Jon didn't laugh, but he looked like he wanted to.
"Some things are worth a little pain," Jon said. Oliver got the feeling it wasn't meant for him.
"Make this count, Jon. I better not see you at the End's doorstep again for a long, long time." He pulled away, and for a moment, Jon looked sad at the loss. Oliver left him there, alone but not for long.
Miles away, Jonah Magnus smiled. An unorthodox way for the End to mark Jon, but how it happened didn't matter. The ritual would work either way. Jon didn't know how right he was. Dying would have been so, so much easier.