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It is generally agreed upon that in life, there are two types of men: those of words and those of action, and that neither can fully understand the other. The man of action sees the frippery that spews from a fellow's mouth and disdains it, preferring the reality of a fist or a foot. A man of words, on the other hand, eschews such brutality, preferring to do his bloodletting with a finally placed insult, or a remark that lingers far after the listener has left.
It is therefore, much to Mike Jackson's detriment, that he was of the former. He was not an unintelligent man, but he was not given to loquaciousness, preferring a simple exclamation to make his point. This sadly meant, however, that upon faced with a battery of words, beating down the doors to his mind, he was the type to step aside, letting them rush themselves through his ears and out the other side, leaving the general crux of the speech, even if all details were washed away.
This, in and of itself, might not have been a fatal flaw, for many men can make a profitable life generally ignoring others and casting any misunderstandings they might have as the fault of others. Indeed, such men can rise to the loftiest of positions by completely failing to grasp that those below them might ever say something worthy of their full attention.
But sadly, Mike was at heart, a good lad, and thus, faced with Mr. Dawes's beaming, yet desperate face and a curious pressure at the back of his mind that told him that he wished to acquiesce to his professor's plea, he was lost entirely, on a blank page of a book that he had missed the first several chapters of.
“Yes?” he said uncertainly. He fancied he had heard something about joining a society, which promised to be deeply inconvenient and possibly unpleasant, but he could always find an excuse to leave, he reasoned. Surely, they would—and Mike shook his head.
Something at the corner of his eye twitched, and smiled.
“Splendid!” Dawes said, in naked relief. “I must say, Bates was proving to be most unsuitable, and quite frankly, we are so few in number that we cannot lose any more. I know that our college is in some slight disrepute, but--.” He stopped and sighed heavily. "Even the Fellowship of the Golden Tree That Waves Without Wind is able to get recruits and they can only promise a modest annuity and the possibility of a small summer cottage at the 56th rank."
Mike stood there awkwardly, his glance switching between the slumped form of his cloaked professor and the flickering shape that had the gall to insubstantially wink in and out of existence. “Sir?”
“It is nothing, Jackson,” Dawes said, rising to his feet and clapping a hand upon Mike's shoulder. His glance turned hopeful. “At least you are physically strong. You should pass the first trial quite easily. Why, you might even get to keep both of your hands!”
There was no flipping back the page, Mike realized with dismay. “Sir, might I ask?”
Dawes ignored him, smiling vacantly as a darkness seeped into his eyes. He hummed a queer little tune and walked out the door. Mike heard the twist of a key in the lock.
“Ah,” the figure said. “Comrade Dawes has finally vacated the premises, going to less exciting climes.” It stepped past the incomprehensible sigils on the floor, snuffing out the candles as it passed. "Rather in a hurry," it added, peering at the bloody markings on the floor. "The seventh sigil is quite messy. For a binding, it is most inept."
“Would you mind materializing a bit more?” Mike asked politely. The figure was still not quite in existence, and such a lack of commitment to the laws of reality was deeply annoying to someone as substantial as Mike.
The figure shimmered briefly, then firmed itself and became a languid young man, thin and well-dressed, with a monocle. He inspected Mike briefly, then smiled, showing teeth that were a trifle too white and sharp to be comforting. “Comrade Jackson, I presume,” he said. “I am Psmith.”
That was not the name that was in his head.
Mike opened his mouth and Psmith waved his hand.
“Yes,” he said, “but I like you and I'd rather you not end up like poor St. John.” Psmith clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly. “Youth these days. So keen on improving their body that they neglect their mind and end up in such a dreadful state.”
“St. John?” Mike frowned. “Was that the one they sent to the--”
Psmith's face turned even graver. “Cheer up, Comrade Jackson,” he said. “He was most unsuitable for the rigors of our society.”
“About that--” Mike said.
But Psmith gloriously ignored him. “You might find one man in a hundred, who can handle the physical labor, and one in a thousand who can also take the mental pressure. But to accept the third trial, that of the companionship and bosom affection for eldritch creatures that may unravel the mind? Alas, it is perhaps once in a lifetime that the man doesn't go running screaming into the night.”
Wrykyn was easier, Mike thought gloomily. There, if a supernatural horror set its sight upon you, a lad was first permitted to attempt to murder it with half a dozen weapons. Mike had even been granted Henfrey's mace, which had seen no less than seven ghoulish nightmares brought low by its hands.
And yet—nothing had ever materialized! It had seemed to Mike as if he had passed his time in a curious dream, one in which he always felt like his life should have gone in a different direction. His father would look at him, or a creature would leap out, ready to bash in his skull, and then something would glaze across their eyes and it would be as if Mike didn't exist. There were times when Mike himself wondered if he was just a curious footnote, something to be forgotten in the long, strange annals of someone's much more interesting history.
But here Psmith stood, a shadowy rebuke to such a thought, a lurking presence in the back of his mind that cozied up to its dark corners and patiently waited for it to be recognized. He gazed at Mike, and it was familiar, like a door opening to a home that Mike had always been waiting to find.
Perhaps Psmith had always been there, Mike thought.
The revelation should have terrified him, but something in his mind brushed that aside, as it brushed aside all the petty annoyances and grievances of life. What did he have to worry about? Psmith would take care of it all.
“So,” Mike said carefully, packing as much as he could into the few words he could manage. “I suppose--”
“Yes,” Psmith replied.
And really, what more could be said?
Mike lay backwards upon the sofa, letting the darkness swarm over him. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation, as such things go, and the cool fingers that slid inside his clothing warmed quickly, leaving a slight, but not terrible chill against his skin.
“I dare say,” Mike gasped, as the finger deftly undid his shirt, “that you are a rather strange one.”
There was the feeling in Mike's mind of amusement mixed with a bit of affront. “Comrade Jackson, truly, your tongue is one well-suited towards the sweetness of romance.” Mike shifted slightly, letting the clothing fall away from him. “Where others might speak rapturously of a lover's eyes or their propensity for a charming song, you go straight to the heart of the matter.”
“You know what I mean,” Mike grunted. One hand was tracing up his thigh, while another was stroking his chest. The eyes that gleamed in the darkness took care of the rest of the body, exploring what the hands could not.
“Yes,” Psmith smiled. “I believe I always will.” He let his hands drift lower, and Mike arched back, letting Psmith express his “bosom affection” more directly.
But it was also true that Mike, for his part, was no wilting flower. Dawes had indeed correctly calculated his strength, and soon Mike was reaching out his hand, to feel along Psmith's body. Though it was less solid than his and seemed to undulate under his touch, it was still that of a man's. His heart beat, his lungs moved in and out, and he responded to Mike's touch as eagerly as Mike had hoped.
He pressed against Mike, and Mike gripped him tightly, letting his fingers hold firm just a bit of Psmith, while the rest of him sought to envelop, to engulf, to devour and possess. He delved beneath skin, ran through blood, until Mike's entire system was lit up like a night sky, bits of him burning like the crimson star that bathed the room in its reddish glow.
A lesser mind might have gone mad from such an experience, retreating to the placid reaches of blissful insanity or matrimonial obligation.
But Mike had always risen to any challenge, and under Psmith's touch, this was no exception.
He found himself climbing further than he ever had, and in response, he felt a curious affection and fondness in him, caused not by any eldritch power nor the trappings of the ritual, but by the very nature of Psmith, who in the midst of his overwhelming barrage upon Mike's body, had taken the time to gently run a finger along Mike's brow and kiss him sweetly on the lips. It was...
Mike blushed, but he was not a man to lie, even to himself.
Dash it all, it was deeply romantic.
Perhaps, it would not be that terrible after all.
“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said softly.
“Mike.”
Psmith's smile was real this time, and the teeth shone sharp and bright. “If you like.”
“I do.”
"Well, then," and there was a blaze of light in the darkness and oh--so that was what the songs were going on about.
They might have just said so directly, Mike thought.