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Sexualpathologie

Summary:

John remembers his rape at Paresis Hall and drowns little by little into depression. He has more and more nightmares about his past traumas and hates himself more than before. Laszlo decides to take care of him. A difficult task for someone who used to daily roast the reporter. He doesn't dislike it but being kind with John feels so wrong. Laszlo's convinced he's the cause of John's misery and will, for the second time of his life, make his best to make his friend happy. But what makes John really happy is a thing neither of them would have believed.

Laszlo thinks John hates him.
John thinks Laszlo hates him.
Both are depressed idiots.

Chapter Text

A few months had passed since the Dury case and even if there were still boys giving away their bodies in the street, at least their murders had stopped. And John Moore had made sure Joseph would lived in a boarding school. Maybe his work at the NY Times was stupid, as the little boy once told him, but at least it put an end to Joseph’s gloomy one.

That was what John was thinking about as his dear friend Kreizler was describing to him with the grandest enthusiasm the new opera play on the bill. It was the best way not to listen to Laszlo’s incredibly soporific speech, for the famous alienist could not just content himself with only telling the plot of the play and had to add his own specialist nuanced criticism, without looking rude or sleepy.

“I expect you do not plan on snoozing on this arm chair, John.” A firm yet not so moody voice woke him up.

The drowsy reporter abruptly opened his eyes as his chin was about to slip off his hand and crush against a cushion.

Shit, he didn’t look subtle at all in the end.

“I admit the stuffed chairs of the Met are more comfortable to rest on.” John replied in a defiant grin. He realized too late the huge error of uttering that line.

“Then it’s decided. We’ll go to attend La Bohème tonight.” The alienist stood up from his chair.

“‘Labo-? What?” The illustrator interrogated while remaining on his posterior.

La Bohème , John. This is the name of the play. Haven’t you listened to a word of what I’ve just told?” His annoyed friend scolded him as he was putting on his gloves.

“Hard to do when I have a skilled lullaby singer next to me.” The sitting journalist sassed the dapper doctor. “What does it even mean?”

“It’s French. It means ‘simple life’ or rather ‘artistic life’. Even a painter features in it. You should like it.” Laszlo threw John’s coat at his owner.

“Oh, because only one character in that particular play has painting as an occupation, my opinion about opera should shift from aversion to adoration?” The complainer nonetheless put on his coat. “Of course, silly me. It is so obvious. Thank you Lord Laszlo for opening the eyes of the blind fool I used to be.”

“Well, I did actually open your eyes, didn’t I?” Laszlo smirked at him before pulling open the door.


John didn’t know how much time had run since the beginning of the play. French or not, artistic characters or not, it still was as boring as any other show Laszlo had dragged him to before. He was already dozing off.

On his side, Laszlo didn’t realize Marcel the painter shared more common traits with his sleepy friend than he thought. The character lived in a tavern and was in love with an upper-class woman who left him for a wealthier man. But the big difference with Julia towards John is that woman came back to Marcel. Julia never came back. With no mention of Sara who probably had turned down John’s proposal since he didn’t wear on his finger the ring the good doctor had gave him when their last case ended. How much John must feel hurt right now? He shouldn’t have picked that play.

Ugh. Even when Laszlo wanted to be kind with his best friend, he could only be cruel?

Why was he moving his hand towards John’s? Couldn’t he just apologize to him? That wasn’t in his habits at all to publicly apologize, let alone in such a full of ears and eyes place! What’s more, it would look awkward to say sorry to someone who still hadn’t blamed you for anything. Still, Laszlo wanted to show some act of kindness to John. For once.

He suddenly remembered the only kind thing he’d ever done to his reporter friend. Back during the Dury case, when they both had gone to Charlestown State Prison. With a shaking hand, the alienist feebly approached and caressed the rugged back of John’s hand.

Oh. The doctor didn’t remember John’s hands felt so smooth and warm. Had the napping illustrator changed something about his hands? Had he stopped smoking? Did he use some moisturizing cream? Or was it just the forgetful German idiot who simply never touched anyone’s hand without wearing gloves? As he was daydreaming about the softness of John’s skin, Laszlo noticed the hands of the latter were twitching. John was still undergoing his withdrawal effects? That sad spectacle pushed the smitten alienist to caress that poor little thing even more. To the extent of unnoticing his friend was awakening.

“Mmmm… is it ove-?”

The emerging beauty didn’t have time to finish his question he felt a unpleasant yet familiar sensation on his hand.

Dim lights.

Scent of dubious alcohol.

Dancing young boys.

Ellison caressing his hand with a creepy smile on his face.

Paralyzing drug.

Sally unbuttoning his pants.

Countless boys jumping on his still body.

Satisfied spooky faces of three grown men as he craves to move and run away.

Ellison ordering the children to go away and pulling out his… and…

“Are you sure you aren’t a fairy as well, Mr Moore?”

John’s eyes rolled upwards before he collapsed next to a startled Laszlo.