Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His gloves are covered in dirt from trimming and changing out the soil of the shop’s tea plants when his phone starts buzzing in his apron’s pocket. Much to his annoyance, he yanks his gloves off and lays them on the edge of the lavender’s pot, answering the call and pressing it against his ear, not even bothering to check who it was. It’s not like he has a huge group of friends after all.

“Jon,” Daisy’s voice filters through his phone, her unique accent filling his ears. He’s always liked the way she says things, her voice tight but light when she wants to be. “How have you been? I assume you’re not bankrupt yet.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no,” He chuckles instead.

“Mm,” Daisy hums on the other line. “Heard you had your head up your arse though.”

He groans. Goddamnit.

“Let me guess, Georgie?”

“No, actually, Melanie,” She chuckles.

“Of course, my bad, should’ve known she wouldn’t be quiet about this,” He feels embarrassment flood him, it was bad enough that couple, along with Tim and Sasha, wouldn’t leave him alone about his stupid freaking crush, but now his sister and her fiance definitely knew? Just great. He would never hear the end of this.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly news when you’re overthinking and acting paranoid,” He can practically see her rolling her eyes. “But it is news when apparently you start liking the person you were paranoid about.”

“Look—I—” He scrambles to think of an excuse, to bring up all the reasons why in the moment his actions were valid, but even he knows when he’s too far gone. “I apologized and it’s fine now, okay? Can we drop it?”

“You’re asking me to stop making fun of you?” She cackles. “Jonathan Sims, you should honestly know better.”

“Yeah—yeah I should because apparently all of you are praying for my demise, as of late.”

Her grin is so clear in his mind, he doesn’t even have to ask if she’s smiling when she asks, “So, Martin, huh?”

“I am not talking about this with you, of all people.”

“Oh no, yes you are, or I’ll come rip your throat out.”

For once, he knows that is a joke, thank you very much. “You guys are frankly impossible to deal with.”

“Well, someone’s got to keep you on your toes. Can’t let you get too comfortable now or you’d get bored.”

He sighs, accepting his fate. The moment she got whiff of this, Daisy was never going to let this go. He may not entirely understand friendships or even relationships but he does understand Daisy.

“He’s—he’s nice?”

“That’s all you got?”

“You—this isn’t easy!” He splutters. “This is embarrassing, frankly.”

“Oh, I know. It’s a delight for me,” She says and he knows for sure. He can hear it in her voice, that giddiness caught on the edge of her words as she begins to listen to him spill his guts about his feelings, which is something he notably does not do!

“He—he works at the coffee shop across the street. Apparently he’s related to the Lukas’ somehow.” There’s a clatter on the other side, the sound of button tapping on the other side and he doesn’t even have to guess what’s she’s doing. “He is—I mean it is when he’s very kind and, um, forgiving. He likes cat and cows? We go to lunch often?”

“The fact you’re saying those like they’re questions is worrying.”

“What do you want me to say—I’ve been moved by his kindness? I didn’t realize someone being nice and genuine to me would—would sway me this much! That—that it just happened and suddenly, I’ve been taking breaks more often because I enjoy Martin’s company far more than I would have ever thought possible—that—that I want more time with him. Do you want that?”

Daisy pauses for a moment.

“Well, yes?”

“Oh, so to embarrass myself to the point of passing away!”

“Quite.” She chuckles on the other side. “Martin Blackwood, huh.”

“I—I don’t recall giving you his last name.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He knew she still had resources from her previous jobs, working for a classified section in policing and her short time as a private investigator, but since she moved onto opening her own shop with her fiance, he completely forgot she could just do that, pull up background checks and reach for records that are out of the public’s reach.

“Hm, seems like a nice fellow. Not much to him.”

“I told you that.”

“Mm, no harm in double checking.” Daisy answers back.

“There was no need to look him up Daisy!”

“Well, if he’s going to be a probable candidate for dating my brother, I’m more than justified in doing some research. You attract freaks, did you forget about Jude Perry?”

“Considering I still have the scar on my hand, no, but that’s not my fault and Martin is—”

“Nice, kind, forgiving, is making you swoon, I heard the first time, Jon.”

“I am—I am not swooning!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

God, he wishes he ignored her call. He wishes he was continuing his routine of tending to and caring for the tea plants, so he could have never ended up in a position like this, wanting to disappear from this place because Daisy is a devil in disguise who apparently wants him to die from shame.

“I know how you get,” She says, softer this time. “I guess it makes sense with our history, but you do really get in your head too much. It’s a bit pathetic really.”

“Gee, thanks, just what I wanted to hear.”

“It’s your own fault.”

“Daisy, I do appreciate you looking out for me, even if your methods are a bit…unorthodox, but nothing’s going to come from this. This is my own problem and there’s no need to bring anyone into this.”

“Including Martin?”

“Especially Martin.”

He hears her groan on the other side.

“My god, I forget how damn stubborn you are sometimes. You act as though you’ll die if you ask him out.”

“It’s—it’s nothing, okay! I can handle it.”

Daisy hums, but he doesn’t feel like she believes him at all.

“Really—Daisy, it’s—”

“Knowing your track record, Jon, no, it’s not, but it’s going to be funny to watch you struggle.” She laughs, before hanging up on him, not even saying goodbye, and he’s left completely in the dark. It’s like he’s been hit by a truck, so thrown off track, he doesn’t even know how to think or process anything.

He stares at his phone, as it goes back to his menu screen with the call ended, and tries to comprehend their conversation. Doing so only hurts his head more so he places the phone back in his apron pocket and prays no one else will call to harass him about his embarrassing feelings that sprouted like weeds.

He pulls his gloves back on and goes back to repotting his plants.

Martin is late.

It’s fine, he tells himself, it’s not that big of a deal, even if they’ve settled into a bit of a routine. It’s fine, things happen, he knows this better than anyone, right? Plans cancel, traffic stops up people, work keeps you backed up.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from worrying, from wondering if he did something wrong, spilled the wrong idea pass his lips, but even in states like these, he knows he’s overreacting, getting too far up in his head like Daisy said he would. He just needs to breathe and wait, and preferably, stop tapping his foot from behind the counter insistently because Sasha looks like she’s going to throw frothed milk at him any second if he keeps it up.

Just as he considers if he wants to gain another burn, a rude customer long ago didn’t like their coffee and decided throwing it at him was a great decision, but before he can, their shop’s door slam open, the bell ringing above it.

“Oh my lord,” He gapes, eyes going wide. “Martin—what the hell happened? You’re—you’re soaking!”

“An accident? I think?” He laughs out nervously, scratching the back of his head with his hand. His shoulders shake but Jon’s not sure if it’s from Martin’s own nervous chuckle or the undoubtable shivering he must be feeling. “It was raining earlier you know—”

“And you didn’t have an umbrella?” He can’t stop himself.

“No, no, ‘course I did, Jon! Give me some credit here!”

It’s very hard to do that when Martin stands in his shop, soaked to the absolute bone, a puddle slowly forming underneath where he stands. His clothes are absolutely drenched, as if they left to soak in the damned rain water for hours.

“But Peter was Peter y’know?” Jon does not know, actually. They don’t talk about him much, outside when Martin complains about the fact the guy hardly understands their own menu or runs with his tail between his ears when there’s a customer. “There was a big puddle and his valet pulled up too close to the street and I happened to be standing on the edge so when they left—slasph!”

Jon excuses himself from behind the counter, feeling Sasha’s eyes on him. He walks over and lord, he’s never seen Martin so pale before. He wasn’t sure if there were edges of blue in his skin or not or if that his brain trying to send him into a panic.

“You must be feeling miserable right now.”

Martin chuckles, looking down. “Well, yeah—wet jeans are never comfortable y’know. I feel more bad for your floor though, um, I tried to see if I could find some clothes, but I didn’t have any and my apartment’s close but not that close. It’d take my entire break to get there and back.”

“So you decided to come here instead?” Just like he had promised? “Martin, you could have canceled, it’s fine, things happen. All it would have taken was a call.”

“Oh, well—I didn’t know if you were a call person?”

“Well at the very least you knew I was a text person, Martin.”

Martin chews on the inside of his cheek from the way it divots. “What were you planning do when you got back from break?”

“Hope the manager on shift feels really bad for me and lets me go home to change?”

“Oh good lord, man, come here,” Jon’s not really sure how he manages it without making a complete fool of himself but he grabs onto Martin’s hand, wrapping his own scarred fingers around Martin’s pale hand. It’s absolutely freezing. “Jesus, you’re like ice, Martin!”

“Sorry—sorry!” Martin squeaks out. At least there’s some color coming to his face. It must be from the heat inside the cafe.

“Sasha, can you get Tim to mop the floor and put a wet sign up? I know he’s in the back trying to see if we’re going to see those geese again today.”

Sasha rolls her eyes fondly, “Sure thing.”

“Geese? You guys have geese?” Martin says excitedly, as Jon drags him past the employee’s only area.

“They’re not ours. There’s a lake nearby we think and they wander over in the back of the shop sometimes. Tim likes to give them bread and was quite heartbroken to find out that was not healthy for them so now he carries seeds around in a plastic bag like it’s trial mix.”

Martin snorts at that but immediately goes stiff in his hand as they reach Jon’s office. He opens the door up and lets go of Martin’s hand. He goes behind his desk, opening the bottom drawer, pulling out some clothes of his own. Well, they’re not his, but rather Daisy’s.

“Here, these should fit you,” He offers them up. Jon, admittedly, is a bit of a stick with no meat on his bones, as Basira likes to point out, but Daisy thankfully has a lot of leftover muscle from her policing days and is frankly unfairly taller than Jon so it should be able to fit Martin.

“Jon—I mean I appreciate it but—” Martin looks down over him.

“They’re not mine. Well, I mean, they are but they’re my sister’s.” He begins to explain. “They’re clothes, I, well, borrowed from her a while ago, and forgot to…return?”

“Right,” Martin snorts. He takes offense.

“But, um, my sister is a butcher. Runs a shop of her own.” He continues, gesturing towards the clothes. “She used to be a police officer too, her and her partner, so these should fit you, I think. Frankly, I think Daisy got all the good genes.”

Martin smiles, taking the clothes in his hands. “Oh, well, thank you, but won’t she mind?”

“Quite frankly, I’m not even sure she remembers she bought these.” He brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “You can, um, use the bathrooms to change, just come back this way? Do you know the way?”

“Oh, um, yes, okay!” Martin stumbles, flushing hot, and ducks out the door.

Right. Time to hatch a plan so Martin doesn’t turn into a frozen man in his office. He used to sleep here—the couch is quite comfortable—at the very start of opening up the cafe. In fairness, every day could’ve potentially closed their doors back then, but he’s almost thankful for those stress-woven days now because he has blankets he can bring up to help Martin warm up. He throws them on the couch.

Tea, yes, he needs to make tea, alright. He knows from his own daily fight with his body that consuming hot teas will warm you up and help keep you warm. Thankfully, he keeps his own electric kettle in here with a few tea packs, back when he was still working in between days and night shift but Helen and Micheal seem rather insistent on nights and good lord he’d get a scolding from Tim if he tried working doubles now.

As he’s waiting for the tea to steep for both of their cups, the door cracks open.

“Hey, Jon, it’s me?” Martin says from behind him as he dangles the last bit of tea out of the packets. He opens his top door, taking honey out and placing it next to the cups. “Um, why are there blankets? And why do you just keep honey in your office?”

“Oh, well, you’re cold, right?” He turns back around to face him and he was right, the clothes fit him snugly. They look a bit odd since Daisy often goes for blacks and darker colors, just like Jon, and Martin looks so odd in them. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him in anything darker than a pleasant brown, usually he sticks with softer colors like greens, blues, and muted yellows. “Um, I used to keep blankets in here so I could sleep. I figured even if the clothes help, with being dry and all, there’s no harm in using blankets?”

“Wait, wait, you sleep here, Jon—you can’t—”

“I said used to, Martin,” He smiles back at him, swirling a lot of honey in Martin’s cup. He caps the lid after pouring a little in his own, placing it back in his drawer. He turns back, offering him the hot cup. “I keep honey in my office because there’s medical research backing due to it’s antioxidant properties. Good for sore throats and colds, viruses, that kind of stuff.”

Martin stares at him. “I didn’t know how much of a nerd you really are, Jonathan Sims, I feel like I underestimated you.”

He snorts at that, shaking his head. “Take the cup and go on the couch.”

Martin just beams but grasps the cup in his own hands. They’re still cold as they brush across Jon’s, and sits on the couch. He looks hesitantly at he covers before sighing and shrugging his shoulders, he wraps it around him.

“Oh, oh, this is nice.” Martin smiles into his cup.

“Well, that’s good then,” Jon takes a seat next to him.

There’s a moment of silence and he can just breathe. He can allow the smell of Earl Grey wafts over him, the steam warming his face, until Martin speaks again, after taking another sip.

“You’re sure you’re not overworking yourself?”

“Yes, Martin, I am,” He laughs. “If you’d like, you can ask Tim yourself.”

Martin frowns. “But—I mean, that’s what you’re used to, you probably do it without noticing.”

“That’s certainly a possibility. A capitalist society does wire and train us on the bottom of the pyramid to become workaholics, even if it’s against our nature or desires, but I can assure you, I don’t believe I have been for quite a while now.”

“Oh, really, why is that?” Martin’s furrow deepens. He is such an idiot.

“Martin, how could I overwork when you practically make me takes breaks everyday you work?” He laughs at the very notion. As if he could escape Martin’s worrying gaze for a day. “I find that I’m rather enjoying the way things are. It’s nice, comforting. It’s true I have a hard time taking leisure time for myself but it’s a bit easier when I am with others.”

“Oh.” Martin says. “Oh.”

“Are you alright there, Martin?”

“Um, yes, right, absolutely.” He splutters out. “Do you get, um, sick a lot, I mean, you were talking about colds and stuff earlier.”

Jon would worry about his stuttering and moving on if it wasn’t for the warmth on Martin’s face. Good, he’s warming up at least. It is a wonderful color.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m disabled,” He gestures over to his cane, leaning on the side of the desk. “I don’t need it all the time but sometimes I do. I just tend to be more susceptible to those sorts of things, can’t count the amount of times I’ve gotten a cold in the summer. It’s quite atrocious. My body is a bit frail.”

“Which is why you should take care of it, not overwork it.”

He laughs. “You sound like Georgie now.”

“Well, maybe, she’s right in this one instance.”

Jon grins back at him.

“Perhaps so,” He shrugs, taking a sip. “My body doesn’t handle it’s temperature so I have to adjust my life to trying to maintain it, which leads me often getting sick. I try to keep up with it, to do all the things the preppy self-help websites recommend and the doctors say, but there’s—there’s sort of no end to a disability.”

He frowns. “I guess I sort of got numb to it all. I still felt it all, don’t get me wrong, but I just got so used to living in that pit of pain that I guess I forgot how nice it was to be slow, to just breathe.”

“Jon…”

“No, no, sorry I didn’t mean to make this about me. I apologize.”

“You’re not making it about you if I asked.”

“I suppose,” He traces his fingers around the siding of the paper cup. “I’m glad we’re…friends, Martin, it’s easy to remember to breathe around you, I think. Certainly when you won’t let me forget.”

Martin’s fingers tap nervously on the cup.

“Right. Um. Of course! Because we’re friends. Naturally.”

“Which I appreciate, despite my misgivings.” He chuckles. “Your presence is…welcomed.”

“Yes. Uh. Good to know. For sure!”

He looks up at Martin and he looks like he’s burning, even his ears looking like they’re running a fever.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, um, maybe the cold got to me a bit.” Martin plays it off.

“Maybe you should go home then? Tell your manager what happened?”

Martin thinks about it. “Is it…okay if I stay here instead?”

Jon blinks at him.

“You want to stay here until closing time? Martin, that’s nearly ten hours from now.”

“No—just, ugh, maybe until you leave.” Martin focuses on the color of the tea inside his cup. “I don’t know, it’s comfortable right here. And well, you’re here.”

“I—” Jon’s mouth opens and closes, as he struggles to understand. “Sure, you’re welcome to, Martin, naturally, but it’s lunchtime and you need real food, surely? Not just sugary pastries.”

“What if we ordered takeout?” Martin beams at him. “Have you ever had Chinese?”

“I don’t, no, I don’t think I have.”

“You’ve got to try it.” Martin grins before his face falls as he takes out his phone, glaring at it. “That’s if my manager lets me leave. I doubt it.”

Jon offers his hand.

“Wh—what?”

“Give me your phone, I know you have the contact pulled up.”

“Well, yes, but I’m about to call, not you.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t be speaking with them,” He shakes his head. “But Tim has a masterful skill of tricking cruel professors and former grouchy bosses into giving him the day off. I’m sure he could be convinced to do you a favor with yours.”

Martin laughs. “God, I’d love to see that.”

Jon takes the phone from him.

“This better be a good one, Sims,” Martin smiles up at him as he stands up and heads for the door.

“If it’s not, I’ll make Tim clean the bathrooms for you.” He grins back and calls out for his best friend who’s wiping down tables.

“Sooo,” Tim says, distracting him as he reaches for the kettle. “When are you planning to confess, boss?”

His hands stutters, the kettle dropping out of his grip, and hitting his bad hand. He feels the painful heated strike of his hand, along the scar, and goddamn it hurts.

“Ouch, you okay?” Tim grimaces.

Instead of answering that when obviously he’s walking himself to the sink, letting the cool water run over the heated skin, he says, “Who says I have anything to confess?”

Tim grins, gesturing to his own phone. “Yeah, no, Georgie snitched to me. Especially when I happened to mention the fact you guys were cute together and how you walked Martin home the other day.”

“Goddamnit, can’t a man have any privacy around here?” He groans, rubbing over the injured skin gently with his thumb. He’ll probably need to get some ointment for it.

“Nope!” Tim grins cheerily, walking closer to him. “I didn’t take you for such a chivalrous man.”

“Oh, for the love of god,” He sighs, tipping his head back. Okay, so they’re doing this. He turns back to Tim, turning off the sink and wiping off his hands with the spare paper towels he keeps up here. “There is nothing, uh, ‘adorable’ about me, first off. Secondly, I was being nice.”

Tim hums, the grin so wide that it makes Jon consider violence. He’s not an angry person, he tells himself, he can control himself, there are surely other ways to wipe that damned smirk of his colleague's face, right?

“Right, there’s nothing adorable about the fact you got me to get Martin off of work with an excellent excuse, thank you very much, took care of him making sure he got warmed up, and walked him home. Nothing at all. Right?”

“Glad we understand each other, Tim, so there’s no need to discuss this further.” He shakes off his hands and goes to search for the first-aid case. Where did he put it? In his office maybe?

“Don’t underestimate me, boss!” Tim follows him around as he desperately searches for it in the drawers up here to make sure he’s not wasting time. “We do need to talk about it, don’t you think?”

“And why, in the world, would I think that?”

“Let’s see…because you have the emotional regulation of a very depressed duck in a need of some good seeds!”

He slams the drawer close, looking at Tim with horror.

“What in the hell does that mean?”

“Oh y’know, classic overthinker, horrible social skills, dated one person, didn’t work out, gave up. The typical case of the anxiety-ridden folk that runs this joint.”

“What the heck does that have to do with acquainting me to a duck?”

“I got geese on the brain,” Tim shrugs. “My point stands.”

“I don’t think you had one.”

“Oh I totally did, man! You suck at this shit but I am your experienced friend to tell you all about the wonders of love and relationship!”

“Tim, you’re aromantic.”

“I am also a frequent romcon watcher!” He grins. “And happened to be experienced in the way your head works so out with it! Why won’t you confess?”

“Oh, great, so this conversation is happening. Amazing. I’m thrilled.” He groans in disgust, as he wanders off to the office. Tim can actually follow him this time since it’s mostly empty, the lunch rush hasn’t hit them yet. He opens the top drawer on the left side and ah, there it is.

“Yes, yes, I know, trust me.” Tim follows him out of his office as Jon pries the white case open on one of the empty counters of the drink station. He pulls out a tub of ointment that he thinks is good for burns. “Now, go on.”

Much to his own disappointment and irritance, it doesn’t look like Tim will be dropping this, so he sighs, spinning the cap off of the ointment tube with his thumb.

“Nothing good could possibly come of it.”

Tim stares at him like he’s said to throw all their coffee beans out.

“Look, me and Martin met on bad terms. Sure, we’re—we’re friends now but that doesn’t, for the record, mean he could possibly be interested in me. There’s not been one single sane person who ever has.”

“You’re forgetting you’ve dated Georgie.”

“Georgie runs a ghost-hunting show. She’s never claimed to be sane.”

“Right,” Tim hums, his frown deepening. “Go on.”

“That isn’t enough of a reason?”

“Nope! It’s a quite shit reason also!”

He will never understand how Tim’s head works.

“I would be making an utter fool of myself, confessing to someone who hasn’t even shown an inkling of interest,” He snides, rubbing the ointment on his battered skin. “I could lose Martin as a friend. I would lose Martin as a friend. He’s been far greater of a friend than I deserve, as it is.”

“There it is, the classic crippling low self-esteem. Can’t say I’ve missed it!”

He rolls his eyes, recapping the tube.

“I don’t want to put Martin under any pressure. I don’t want him to feel as though he has to response to my feelings, which I’m perfectly fine bottling up and not letting them show.” Tim gives him this look that says he doesn’t believe him but regardless, he goes on. “I don’t want Martin to feel another type of pressure if he doesn’t want to. How awkward would that be, to reject someone and still be friends with them actively knowing how they feel about you?”

“Jon, this is a crazy thought, but you do know Martin is an adult and can make his own decisions, right?”

“Wha—of course I know that!”

“And I have to admit, you’re not all that intimidating.” Tim shrugs.

“Martin certainly seems to disagree,”

“Martin gave you bread pudding after you yelled at him. If some zombie-looking walking mess came to me, yelling about how I was the enemy and we’re at war, and he needs to go on the other side of the wall—”

“That’s not what happened!”

“—let’s just say I’m not coming back or bothering with the fucker. I’m leaving a bad yelp review and hiking out of there.”

He frowns at this. Sure, yes, Martin was kinder than most folks would have been.

“I’m—I’m not sure what there is to like about me romantically to begin with, Tim.” He closes up the first-aid kit. He places it in a drawer up here, just in case. “I’m irritable cranky person who, yes, does overwork and go overboard a lot of the time. I try and push through without my cane sometimes because I hate being seen as weak and I’m stubborn as all hell. I’m a frustrating person to be around, in all counts.”

Jon knows, better than anyone, that he is just a bunch of sharp jagged pieces of glass. No one needs to fix him, this is how he is, and even as he works to dull his pieces out, someone’s bound to get cut in the process because he is clumsy and impulsive and he still doesn’t understand anything about social cues or how to make romantic relationships work.

“Jon,” Tim snorts, with a stupid smile on his face. He reaches out, patting his shoulder with his hand. “Those are areas to improve, not red flags!”

Jon glares at him. So what? It doesn’t change anything about what he said.

“You know romantic relationships aren’t all perfect right? Remember how Melanie hated you at first when she started dating Georgie?”

“She still hates me, what’s your point?”

“No she doesn’t, she’s just a little shy in showing her care for you!”

“You’ve completely gone off your rocker if you think that.”

Tim smirks down at him. “Who was it that made you homemade chicken noodle soup when you were bedridden with the flu to the point we were all worried we’d have to take you to the hospital?”

He frowns.

“Melanie.”

“And who taught you how to properly take of your clothes so the texture would never change?”

“Okay, okay, fine, I see your point.”

“Jon,” Tim sighs, really sighs, shoulders dropping and his face going soft. “You know you can be loved right?”

Well.

He does know that right? He has all these great friends, that surely wasn’t a coincidence.

“Right?” Tim pesters him.

“I—I do, I think.” He admits, unsure. “I know you’re all my friends, you don’t have to worry about that. You know you all care about me.”

“We all love you, Jon.”

“Right, but it’s different. It’s not romantic, obviously.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Being in that sort of relationship, even trying it, it’s far different than what I have with all of you. The fact that you guys stand me, that you actively like me and want me as active parts of your lives, well it’s…”

Tim makes this sort of noise that sounds like he’s choking.

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbles out. “I don’t—I don’t know how to explain it.”

He knows his grandmother wasn’t the kindest to either him or Daisy but he has a hard hating her, blaming her. He was a trouble child after all, right? He had to be maintained and he understands that, really, even if it digs the dagger in deeper for him. He knows she messed up a lot, like forcing Daisy to off into the police academy against her will and sending him off to college the moment she could.

He’s sure it works on him, tears him down, even in this month, years after death, it still haunts him. He doesn’t know how to escape it’s gaze, how to unravel the invisible touches on his soul, and escape from it. How to understand what Tim believes, without a shadow of a doubt, that despite everything wrong about him, despite every horrible tendency he has that he’s trying to be better at, he can be loveable. That he does not have to downsize himself in order for it to be achieved, that he does not have to prove his worth or earn the affection tossed it’s way as though it was free.

“You don’t have to explain it,” Tim says, tearing him out his own thoughts. “Jon, you’ve got to know it’s wrong though. You’ve got to understand that, that it’s wrong and maybe your head is messed up and it’ll always be wrong, Jon.”

“I—I know. I think.”

Tim smiles at him, stars in his eyes. “Jon, don’t let prevent you from something good. Something you want. You’re allowed to chase it, not just hope it lands in your pocket.”

Is he? Is he allowed to want and hope? Is he allowed that, after everything?

He’s still so unsure, but he trusts Tim with his life, and everyone else as though they were family, so he chooses to believe in him, in that moment, than his own head, for once.

“Alright.” He smiles back at him.

There’s a soft scritching near him that he knows is Martin’s handwriting as his pencils dots along his paper. That same journal, leather bound and worn, like he’s had it for years, splayed out across the table as he hunches over the table, eyes completely glued to the paper.

Oftentimes, when he comes here for breakfast, or a quick coffee because apparently theirs is better quality than over at his shop (he finds this hard to believe, why would the Lukas invest in a lower-standard coffee shop?), he sees Martin with that book. He knows what it’s for, Martin had talked about how one of his hobbies was poetry, scratching his flushed face in embarrassment as he admitted, before moving on to talk about one of his favorite poets, taking the heat off of himself.

He could talk hours about other’s poetry, it seemed. Everytime Jon sat down with him for lunch, it seemed like he had another on the mind, apparently he likes to study different artists at varying times, something about the difference in time and age brings something truly to life. He’s not sure what that means, but then again, Jon’s not a big poetry guy.

He looks deep in his work and Jon almost doesn’t want to bother him. While Martin may seemingly be borderline miserable or at the very least bored at his job, it’s nice to see him so inthralled in something, as if he’s losing himself in it, but he doesn’t think he’s ordered himself anything to drink and he’s bound to get parched at this rate, right?

He decides on something soothing and soft—chamomile tea and he drizzles it with honey this time, since Martin seemed to like it the last time he made tea for it like that with him. He’s unsure of it’s sweet enough with enough cream in it but he thinks he’s got his order right. It’s amazing how quick he’s learned Martin’s favorite ways to take his drinks and which pastries he prefers over others.

It would be embarrassing, if it were not helpful in situations like that.

“Here you go,” Jon gently places the cup down on the table, away from the scattered pages, wrinkled and scruffily written it looks like. Rough drafts maybe?

“Oh, Jon, I think you gave me—”

“It’s yours,” He chuckles, already knowing what he’s going to say. “You haven’t ordered anything and I figured you’re thirsty but too into what you’re doing to get up for it and order. On the house.”

Martin frowns immediately, “Jon, I can pay y’know. Let me!”

He shakes his head. It’s nice, he thinks, despite his own frustrations whenever Tim or Georgie have gifted him unnecessary but appreciated items in the past. It reminds him a bit like that.

“It’s—well it’s for you, Martin, think of it as a gift from me.” He says and Martin’s face immediately softens, staring at the cup on his table. “You’re…writing something?”

Yes, Jon, he is, that is the worst way to make small talk, a social cue he does not understand, yet here he is.

“Um, oh, yeah,” Martin flushes, growing warmer under the light. “It’s a poem? I think. It’s different from what I normally right and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Well, are you publishing it?”

“Oh, god no, Jon!”

He feels a bit perturbed at how horrified Martin sounds at the very idea that his writing could be published.

“Submitting it for a competition?”

“No?”

Martin just stares at him bewildered, like he’s asking such bizarre questions.

“Then, the poetry is for you, no?” Jon decides to take the other seat at the quaint table. He might as well sit down if they’re going to have a little chat, it’s about time he takes a fifteen anyways, lest Tim hunt him down again. “It doesn’t matter if it’s different, right? I presume it’s your own feelings, it’s your creative outlet for whatever you like, Martin. Unless I am mistaken.”

Martin sighs, sinking into his sweater. “No, you’re not wrong. I just, I don’t know? Feels weird.”

“Trying anything new feels odd, Martin,” He points out, looking down at the scattered pages. “It’s an uncomfortable feeling to do something you’ve never done because of that unfamiliarity of it, but I’m sure whatever it is, Martin, you’ve done it well.”

Martin snorts at that one, shaking his head. “I don’t exactly think you’re a poet critic, Jon.”

“Well, what do I need to be one?” He huffs, rolling his eyes. “All I need to do is read poetry and complain about it. Martin, you know I don’t exactly shy away from complaining about matters. So, then, perhaps I am one.”

Martin just giggles at him, actually giggles, short little bursts of laughter attempting to be hidden behind the back of his hand, but he is doing quite a horrible job at it! He didn’t think he said anything funny.

“What, so you want to judge my poetry and tell me all about how nothing rhymes?”

He frowns at that. “Poetry doesn’t need to rhyme to be a valid form of art, Martin, surely you know that. There are many varieties of it and different formats—”

“I know, Jon, I told you that,” Martin grins at him, this look in his eye full of electricity and fire, and oh, Jon is a fool of a man. “Remember? I went on a whole rant about it the other day when we were having Chinese here?”

“Oh, that’s right,” He feels a little silly for throwing Martin’s own argument tactics back at him.

“Would you even want to hear it?” Martin says after a moment, his grin falling of his face, and instead Jon is left with soft corners and unsure eyes. Martin seems to hide in his sweater, burying himself in his seat, and Jon can’t fathom the reason.

“I would,” He answers honestly. He is curious as to what Martin would write. It’s Martin’s after all. “But only if you want to.”

Martin seems to perk up at that, looking down at the pages opened in his journal, messes of scribble that Jon can’t read on his own.

“You—you don’t mind?”

“Martin, why would I mind?” He’s baffled really. “I am interested in knowing you and that includes your hobbies and joys. You seemed rather fascinated to learn that I know how to garden well.”

“Because that’s an actual skill, Jon!”

“Yours isn’t?” He frowns at that. “I think some literature professors would have some arguments about that.”

Martin rolls his eyes, holding up his journal.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Martin nods, willing himself. He takes in a deep breathe, fingers softly tapping on the leather back of the journal.

“I was not expecting this,” Martin speaks but his voice is different. It’s stern and strong, as if he had taken upon some role. “This was so much more.”

“You have stayed the hungry hunters, you have locked death’s door,” Martin, he notices, talks with his hands, because this time they’re more precise in the movement, more slow and purposeful in the way they move, how they express what he’s reading.

Jon’s gaze is locked on him, he has a strange feeling that he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Martin’s grabbed all his attentions, the sounds of his customers filtering in and Tim’s laughter fades into the background as he centers in on Martin’s words, unsure of whatever they could mean, but clearly dear to him.

“For all your skulking, slinking, sneering—for all I was fearing,” Martin’s words are sharp and his gaze is stubborn and bright.

He’s wonderfully confident as he speaks, each word carefully spoken, and Jon is taken back on how well of a look that is for him.

“I was not expecting this!” Martin takes a shuddering breath, purposeful and precise. It draws Jon in. “For you to step into the light and reveal yourself.”

Perhaps, the temperature is too low, or perhaps, he’s forgotten the way succinct words wrestle with his chest, because he can feels goosebumps along his skin, covered by a old turtleneck. How is that possible?

“I see you,” A shiver run along his spine and he’s not sure when he last took a breath. All of it fell away in comparison to Martin’s performance. “I see the lamb you hide under the wolf’s skin.”

Martin looks down, as if defeated. His words grow softer.

“I was not expecting this, as the sharp pain of jaws to give way to you.” His tone cuts sharp on the edge of the sentence.

Martin’s gaze jumps back up, determined, and with a fire burning through his soul, and Jon’s never felt so seen, so looked at, like he is at Martin stares at him with a oil fire in his gut.

“You cannot hide from me any longer.” Martin bites down on those words, hitting like war drums in Jon’s chest cavity. “But I will try to hide from you.”

Martin’s shoulders fall, his expression softens, as he relaxes back into his chair. That sheepish expression he’s so used to seeing on him comes back in full force, it’s like a whole another person before him.

“Um, well?”

Jon is, adamantly, a bit lost of words.

“Oh, um, wow, Martin.”

“Like…wow in a bad way?”

“What? No, gods no, that—that was powerful,” Jon finds himself tumbling out, not sure how to explain it. It was exhilarating, like the passion of the words flowed right into him, like Martin had touched something. “It was…good, very good, Martin. It actually reminded me a bit of slam poetry.”

“Oh, wait, you know slam poetry, Jon? Wait, don’t tell me—”

“Afraid to disappoint you, but it wasn’t because I participated. Georgie did, I can recall some of it. I went with her, when we were, um, yeah,” He finds himself saying awkwardly. He always manages to mess it up somehow. “It’s been quite a while since I heard anything like that.”

Martin offers up a shaky smile, tugging the journal close to his chest.

“You—you really like it?”

“It was quite something,” He breathes out. “I’m not the best with words but I couldn’t look away. It was like you were performing, on an actual stage. Have you ever considered it?”

“That’s—that would be in competitions and oh gods,” Martin says frantically, shaking his head. “I couldn’t imagine, really, I just don’t think I’m anywhere near that good, enough to compete for it! The idea of performing it to strangers who are there to specifically judge, I don’t think I could ever.”

“What did you call the poem?” Martin stares at him wildly. “Um, epiphany.”

Jon smiles at the name. “I can’t speak, professionally, of course but that was thrilling, Martin, really. If you’d ever want to share more, I’d love to listen. You’re so confident when you’re performing, it was, well, lovely.”

“Oh. Right. Um.” Martin’s face twitches, like he’s nervous, but all Jon said was the truth, right? “It’s no wonder you like slam poetry, though, Jon, you’re just—you’re like the most passionate person I’ve ever met. Have—have you ever thought about writing?”

The question is almost laughable.

“As I’ve said, I’m not quite good with words and you’ve…experienced my ability to regulate. I don’t—I don’t quite connected or whole if I tried a creative outlet, like you. Nothing wrong with it, I just—”

“No, no, I understand, Jon.”

“I just don’t think I’m that creative of a person,” He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “Never clicked with me I suppose.”

“I bet you were a mathematics kid.”

“Well, I did tutor, Tim, in university for it,” He recalls.

“Oh my god,” Martin gapes. “He must have hated it. I couldn’t imagine being tutored by you.”

“Wha—Martin! I take great offense, I was an great tutor.”

“And if I ask Tim? He’ll say the same?”

He throws his hands up. “He passed his classes, didn’t he?”

Martin snorts and it’s a lovely sound, amidst all the chatter and smell of chai overrunning the place.

“You’re painfully obviously smitten,” Sasha let out a heavy sigh, her face contorted. She stood, leaning against the countertop of the barista area, glaring over him where he was wiping down tables again. “Frankly, it’s making me rather sick, Jonathan Sims.”

His body faltered, the damp rag stuttering along the wood line of the table as his brain fought to catch up and understand the bizarre words coming out of her mouth.

“I am—I am not, thank you very much!” He gapes, seeing his own horrified expression in the shiny wet exterior of the table he wiped down. Heat rushes to his face and he cannot let it continue.

“No,” The weight of her judgemental stare doesn’t bother to falter. Even as he moves to another table, he can feel her eyes following him. “You are. How many times are you going to wistfully sigh at the door? How many times are you going to check your phone for an update? How many times are you going to think about Martin while steaming milk because you keep burning it. I didn’t know that was even possible!”

Warmth surges across his skin, her eyes glued straight on him. He hates how oddly seen and called out he feels in this moment, actions and distractions he didn’t even realize he was paying attention laid out before him like an undeniable sentence.

It’s—it’s not like he was meaning to do these things, until the words fell from Sasha’s mouth, he hardly believed it, but he couldn’t deny the fact he had been checking his phone a bit more than usual since he started regularly conversing with Martin through text and yes, maybe when he was foaming, not steaming thank you very much, milk, he had burned it but it was a complete accident!

“You know you can just call him.” She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t—don’t be ridiculous, he’s at work, same as us! That would be rude and why do I have to call him anyways? I don’t see the issue, Sasha.”

He couldn’t believe the way her face scrunched up, darkness protruding underneath her eyes as she glared at him like he had said the dumbest thing imaginable.

“Because you are a blubbering fool who keeps staring off in the distance like a lovestruck teen learning what affection is for the first time!” She brings a hand up, rubbing the side of her temples, as if the very nature of this conversation had drawn her up against a wall.

The rag let out unwanted droplets of water as he squeezed it in his hand against the wooden table.

“Don’t get me wrong, Jon, it’s cute and all that you’re discovering what it’s like to yearn and pin for someone, all that, however,” Sasha tutted. “I don’t think I can stand to see you just wait around like a puppy waiting for it’s owner to come home. Plus, I have a bet to win with Tim and I don’t plan to lose.”

He gawked at her. “How many bets do you people make on me?”

“Stop making it easy to put Tim Stoker into debt and I’ll stop betting,” She flashed a grin, far too similar to Tim’s own mischievous one. Those two were really too close for his liking because it led to dangerous situations like this for him. A glint in her eyes gave her game away.

“He’s working, so—so I’m not going to bother him, just because you want me to.”

“Oh, you’re unbelievable,” Sasha rounds the counter, making a direct cut towards him, and before he even knows what is happening or how in the first place, his phone is being snatched up out of his apron. “There we go, now what’s your password?”

“Hey—give me that!”

“Probably something embarrassing. Oh! Is it this?” Sasha types in a birthdate and immediately snickers when his phone unlocks, his homescreen picture of The Admiral sleeping greeting her. “You really are so predictable.”

“I—I am not, now quit this nonsense or whatever you’re trying to do, Sasha!” He watches in utter horror as she swipes on his phone, the dark menu of his apps pulling up and she clicks on the blue contact icon.

“Oh you have him marked as just his name?” She makes a disgusted face, she presses the call button, oh no, she’s calling him! “You could at least be sappy and put a heart or somethin—”

“Sasha!”

“Oh hey!” Sasha’s face lights up with this blinding smile and he can hear the soft Hello? on the other side, though muffled and low. “Martin Blackwood, that’s your name right? Yeah, yeah, it’s me, Sasha, I’ve served you a couple times, glad you remember.”

Jon can only stare horrified, not believing his ears. He can’t believe this. He can’t, how did this get out of his control so fast? When had Sasha even learned skills, like pickpocketing, in the first place?

“Oh, why am I calling from Jon’s number?” She snickered, flashing that horrible smirk at Jon, telling him he would be regretting his choice to hire her as a full-time employee. “I’m calling because Jon is being stupid and doesn’t realize he can do things without being directly told. He’s a bit of an idiot, if you haven’t noticed, apologies for that.”

He can’t believe this. His world is falling apart before his eyes. Oh, the world should just swallow him up whole, now!

“Great, I’ll pass you to him!” She grins, bright as the sun, and tosses his phone over to him, which thankfully, for once in his life, he catches with his horrible eye-to-hand coordination. He practically stares at the phone, where the timer clicks on where he is in fact in the middle of a call with Martin, in horror. “Thank me later!”

Before he can even begin to think of a response, Sasha is walking off, waving him off with her hand and a horrible glint in her eye, and he hears Jon, you there? is exiting his phone’s low speaker.

“I’m—” His voice catches in his throat, a horrible tightness overwhelming him. The cleaning bucket and rag are completely abandoned, faded away far from his mind, as he rushes to the back, catching Sasha’s knowing smirk, and finds himself in his office again. If nothing else, than to escape her horrible gaze. “I’m so sorry I shouldn’t be bothering you like this—won’t happen again surely—Sasha’s she’s just—”

“Woah, woah,” Martin’s voice flows through on the other line. The very sound softens all his heightened edges and he feels his shoulders shag against the door he’s pressed himself again. “It’s—it’s fine, Jon, really? I mean, our cafe is pretty boring, I’m doing storage right now actually so it’s no problem really. You’re not bothering anyone, certainly not me!”

“Right. I—um—right.”

Martin laughs into the speaker and his heart melts but the panic lingers despite his reassurances. He never thought he would feel so anxious over calling someone.

“Well, I guess we’ve never called before. It’s really different not seeing you!” Martin hums. “I can’t believe this is our first call.”

“Oh, yeah, um. Guess I didn’t think about it?”

“Me neither,” Martin sighs into the phone. “I guess it’s because we usually see each other for lunch! I know we usually text outside of that but I don’t know—it’s, um, nice to hear your voice. Even if you’re panicking.”

“Okay, I am not panicking.”

“Maybe not now.” Martin snickers.

“It’s—okay, it’s not my fault, Sasha stole my phone, dialed your number to prove a point, and I don’t usually do phonecalls!”

Martin laughs again, sparkling heat along his face. Why does it have to be such a nice sound, why does it have to be so contagious? It smooths out all of Jon’s edges and makes him relax, sometimes he’s doing more and more of late.

“Well, we could do them! If you’re comfortable with them.” Martin offers. “Like I said, it’s—it’s really nice.”

He sincerely doubts that, what could be so good about hearing Jon’s voice?

“Is it now?” He finds himself frowning.

“Yeah, you know what else we’ve never done,” Martin says with a smile, he just knows it. “Dinner! We should get dinner, since I have a bit of a later shift than usual! There’s this new vietnamese place that I hear is great—”

Dinner. Dinner, with the two of them.

God, if anyone of them found out, they would undoubtedly call it a date, but he knows it’s not. Martin doesn’t mean it that way. He never has.

“Or—” He swallows his fear. “Or I could cook? If you want.”

There’s a heavy silence on the other side. “...you can cook?”

“Okay, despite what Tim or Sasha may think, yes, I can!”

“Wait, at your place?”

“If—if that’s fine with you, that is. It’s, um, near, not far. I wanted my flat to be in walking distance of my work so…”

“Oh—oh!” Martin’s octave goes higher, something clicking. “Oh, Jon, that’d—of course I’d love to! If you’re—if you’re comfortable with that, that is!”

“Well—well, I did offer, Martin.”

“True, but you can never be too careful.” He says softly. “So dinner, at your place?”

“Um, yeah, when does your shift end?” Jon feels like his face is going to melt off. “I could—I could pick you up, I—I suppose.”

Martin takes a shaking breath. “That—oh, um, four. Four.”

His voice sounds delighted, in the strangest way, like something ethereal.

“Four.” He repeats, to himself, mostly, but Martin hums back. “Alright, um, four then.”

The call ends, the dial tone ringing in Jon’s ears, as the last thing being Martin’s laughter and excited goodbyes filled his ears, and he thinks he’s not going to be able to make it to dinner at this rate.

Oh god, how is he going to survive this?

He presses his phone to his face, burning up, and tries to think of what he’ll make.

He can’t even remember the last time he let someone into his apartment, outside of that time he was sick with the flu, and Melanie and Tim had come over together to check in on him. When was the last time he cooked, for anyone? It felt an eternity away.

“Wow,” Martin looked around, his eyes grazing on every inch of Jon’s apartment he could reach. He slipped off his coat, folding it up in his arms, as he let himself in, exploring Jon’s living area. An old leather couch, courtesy of Basira of course, with a worn coffee table covered in old books that have gathered dusting from being untouched. He really meant to read those but he found himself more and more distracted these days. “You have—you have so many books, holy.”

“Oh, I like collecting them?” He shrugged, not seeing what the big deal was about. He liked to read and his grandmother would throw a new book at him everyday, when everything eventually fell apart, they all had to somewhere…

“You say!” Martin laughs, his eyes scanning over the overcrowded bookshelf, filled to the absolute brim. “There’s got to be a hundred here. Have you read all of these?”

“Mostly,” He shrugs, opening one of the drawers in his kitchen area and grabbing a hair tie. He slips it on his wrist, dragging his hands up to his hair, and tying the curly mess of tangles back. “I—I was a bit of a trouble child, if you can believe it.”

Martin turned back to him with this glint in his eye.

“Wait, really, you?” He grinned.

“Yes, yes,” He rolled his eyes. “My grandmother figured out if she got a good book in my hands, I would keep still and quiet for a bit, so before I knew it, I had so many. I think the only ones I haven’t read are on the coffee table, bought them a while back but never got around to reading them.”

Martin just stares, his eyes continuing to glance all around him. “Yeah, your place is just what I thought it would be.”

He snorts at that, waving it off. “Yes, yes, it’s very moody, I get the joke.”

“Wha—it was a compliment, Jon! I mean, your place is an extension of yourself, of course I’d like it,” Martin beams, falling against his couch before sinking into it. “Your couch is so comfortable, it’s unfair, where did you even get it from?”

“No clue,” He shrugs, opening up his fridge and taking one of the packs of meat from it that Daisy dropped off a little bit ago. “Are you okay with lambchops? I know some people don’t eat meat—”

“I thought lambchops were a pricy cut,” Martin says, like that’s a bad thing, the horrid idea of Jon spending time and care on him. What nonsense. “I’m good with meat though, doesn’t bother me!”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” He smiles back him from across the area, trying to reassure him. “My sister runs a butcher shop, sometimes she’ll randomly drop off packets of meat for no reason.”

Martin blinks back at him, staring for a moment, as Jon’s limbs goes still, unsure what to do about Martin carefully watching him closely like this. His face brightens, eyes going a bit wider, like he’s seeing something astounding. How inane.

“You and your sister both run shops? How long as she been running hers?”

“Oh, um, I think about four years. It took a bit for her and her partner to wrap things up with their old job.”

“Oh, what did she do?” Martin quips before his face heats up. “I mean, of course you don’t have to tell me—”

“Daisy was a police officer.” He answers simply, shaking his head. It’s not like the information was a family secret or anything. “Her fiance was a private investigator at a time, they met on a case.”

“Some meet-cute, huh.”

“Oh, yes, nothing like meeting the love of your life on a case of a missing child involved with a cult,” He uses a knife to cut a line along the plastic wrapping of the meat. “Truly, a tale for generations.”

“A cult?” Martin’s mouth dropped wide open. “Really?”

“It’s horrid, I’m sure you wouldn’t want the details, I promise.”

“But you know the details?”

He grimaces at that, grabbing one of his nonstick metal pans. He places it on top of the stovetop, turning the heat up, waiting for the heat to spread along the metal.

“I—yeah. I know a lot about Daisy’s cases. Um, well, we used to rant to each other a lot?”

“Wait, you—”

“No, no—it’s just—we were both in situations we disliked. That we were forced to.” He sighs, he didn’t mean to bring up this dark history, but it’s hard to open up without spilling it out. “Our grandmother signed Daisy up for police academy, soon as she could, and shipped me out to university.”

“Oh crap, that sounds horrible, Jon,” Martin looks down, but it isn’t necessary. He hardly got the worst of it.

“It wasn’t bad for me, you know. Daisy got the short end of the stick,” He sighs, throwing a bit of oil on the pan to check if it’s hot enough, when it turns into orbs, he takes out the lambchops, laying them on the pan. It sizzles at the touch and he remembers to grab his meat weights, pressing against it so it gets a good sear. “I guess she was just louder about it all.”

Martin decides to join him in the kitchen, apparently, because before he knows it, he’s leaning against one of the counters near him, his head tilted towards him.

“I—I don’t want to bore you with all of this. Or depress you. I swear I didn’t invite you like that.” Jon sighs, as heat radiates up his arm as he holds the meat weight down.

Martin shakes his head. “You’re not, trust me. I mean, I don’t like the idea of you or your sister hurting, Jon, especially—especially being put in unfair situations like that by someone close to you. I guess—I don’t know, I’d like to hear it from you, you know that right?”

His chest hurts but it’s strange. He doesn’t even feel shame, as he flips the chops onto the other side to get a sear, hearing the sizzling of the pain in his ears. It’s like he wants to, he wants to rip open his ribs and let Martin in, to bear all his ugly parts that he does his best to control, but with each day, it’s becoming more and more difficult to not let Martin see all of them. To see him, vulnerable and terrified and idiotic in everyway he knows he is.

“It’s not her fault,” He finds himself defending a woman who is long in her grave, no name to protect and no legacy to defend, but it’s ingrained in him. “I don’t think—it’s hard to explain. Our grandmother was—was, difficult I suppose. Our parents died young and she didn’t exactly seem eager to raise two more children.”

He removes the meat weight, placing it in the sink to be washed later on, and grabs a stick of butter out of fridge. He slices a piece off, throwing it in there with a piece of thyme.

“She—we were rowdy, I suppose. She, um, wanted to contain us, I think. Keep us in control.” He shrugs. “But I suppose that’s what parents are supposed to do, right? Get their kids under control.”

He bastes the chops with the heated butter mixture, focusing on the task as the words spill from his lips.

“We—I guess, even as kids, you realize that at some point. Your own lack of control. I guess I got better, or more manageable I should say.” He huffs, thinking back to his overstuffed bookcase. He spent most of his evenings, stuck in his room, reading away and minding his own business in a house content on trying to make him into something, something he didn’t know. “But—but like I said Daisy was louder, she was—she was angrier and she wasn’t shy about it either. So I guess, I don’t know, she thought the force would teach her discipline, straighten her out?”

“Jon, that’s horrible,” Martin’s face is all scrunched back up when he looks at him. There’s a pain so clear on his face and it makes his own chest hurt. How is that possible?

“I—I suppose…”

He opens up his cabinets, taking down two plates for them and setting on the counter. He’ll make a quick succotash for the side, it won’t take long once as he allows the meat to rest.

When the sizzling stops, lamb chops laid delicately on the plate, and the heated pan discarded on the skin. Jon makes his way for another pan, searching inside his fridge for some of the ingredients for the buttery succotash, something simple but colorful, as Georgie used to say whenever she made it.

“I get it, y’know?” Martin says, suddenly, after a moment of silence and he turns back to him. He’s unsure what he means, he just stares, frozen in place. “My, um, my own mother was a bit like that too. I—I know what it’s like, to be, um, an unwanted child.”

“Oh—oh, Martin, crap, I’m sorry—I must have reminded you of horrible memories—shit.”

His grip tightens around the pan and he glares at his ingredients spilled inside it as he places it on the stovetop. He just can’t seem to do anything right, by anyone, can he?

“No—no, Jon,” Martin’s hand grasps his shoulder, it’s so damn warm, Jon’s afraid his heart will jump out of his chest. “I—you didn’t do anything wrong, Christ, Jon. I just meant, I know. I know what it’s like to—to not understand why. Why you still feel that way about her, even when you know she has done wrong by you. That—that feeling of needing to protect her, when you shouldn’t. You still feel it right?”

Jon hates being seen. He hates being looked after and looked at. He hates bearing his soul for anyone to see, that’s why nothing, no matter how hard he tries, ever seems to work out, but for a moment, it just seems a little bit easier to hold his ribcage open, to let Martin ease all these jagged edges, to smooth them out.

“Of course I do,” He admits, but it’s barely a whisper. He knows Martin hears it though, because you can’t get nothing past a guy like him, so filled with utter warmth and compassion, that Jon fears he’ll burn away next to him. “I’m sorry, I really—I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“Oh, for good lord,” Martin straightens up, his tone growing more sterner by the second. “Jon, I asked. I listened. I wouldn’t have done those things if I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you, either, so please, for the love of god, stop acting like it’s going to kill you if I learn more about you?”

The smell of butter coats his nose. He shoves the pan up, tossing around the ingredients inside. He turns off the stovetop and turns back to Martin.

“Right, um, force of habit?” He admits, feeling like a forest fire has overtook his face. “I just—to be honest? This is the first time I’ve—I’ve talked to anyone about her. Since her, um, death.”

“Oh gosh—”

“No, no, I’m not—I wasn’t sad about it, y’know? Not like I thought I’d be.” He grabs up the two plates, lambchops nestled along a bed of summery succotash and prays it tastes half-way decent because he can’t remember the last time he was actually in his kitchen and got any experience in this. “Um, I’ll take this to the couch. Could, uh, drag some drinks?”

“Oh, uh, yeah! What do you want?”

“There’s an electrolyte drink in there, that’s fine for me, help yourself to whatever,” He shrugs. There’s not really much inside there, besides the necessities but hopefully Martin finds something he likes enough.

He brings their food to the coffee table, nugging the old books away off to the corner and prays it doesn’t fall off randomly during their conversation. He relaxes back into the couch, he can’t believe this.

“Here you go,” Martin hands him his bottle, but turns out he got his own glass for his. “Um, thank you for talking to me about it. It—it means a lot, that—that you could trust me like that.”

From the look on his face, Martin really does mean that. There’s this glossy pained look in his eyes like he can’t believe it but honestly, Martin just made it too easy for him to open up like this. To be honest, to feel safe enough to bear the truths of his soul.

He picks up his fork, holding onto it tight, but he knows he has something else to say.

“I was—we were able to take a chance on this because of inheritance really.” Jon glares down at his plate, like it’s scorned him but all these hideous feelings continue to bubble until they’re heard. “I had just graduated, almost perfect timing really, as horrible as that is to say.”

Martin frowns and it’s so sincere, it hurts. “Jon, you’re allowed that. You’re allowed to be happy or not be affected at all or be too affected by her death. You’re allowed to be upset with her still, even—even if she did her ‘part’.”

“Part?”

“It—it takes more than keeping a roof over your head and giving you food to raise someone y’know. You don’t have to be grateful to someone who only gave you enough to live. You don’t—you can have bad feelings about her. They’re your feelings after all, they’re important to you.”

“I can’t—don’t you ever get tired of it?” He breathes, cutting through the meat. “God, Martin, I just—I get it with me, but I don’t understand how anyone could hate you.”

Martin gives him this look, finally, a smirk working it’s way on his face, after this horrible depressing conversation. “Really now?”

His face goes warm for a completely different reason. “Okay, first off, I’ve already apologized a dozen times for that—”

“I know, I know, but I still get to use it against you!” Martin grins before his face smoothes out. “It’s—it’s not about deserving anything, I don’t think. My, um, mother hated my father. I don’t know the details, even now, and it made her really sick. It destroyed her, I think, but I look just like him and well—it was a hard time, for both of us.”

Martin nudges the food with his own fork as he looks down at it.

“I know it’s hard but—but I don’t think it’s about deserving it.” Martin stares back at him. “You don’t think I deserved that, Jon, but I don’t think you deserved it either. I think—life is shit.”

It’s horribly uneloquent but it makes Jon snort, laughter falling from his mouth before he can stop himself. His chest is folding over and his shoulders are shaking.

“How well spoken of you, Martin.”

He feels a pinch on his wrist.

“Shut up, you get the idea, Jon!”

He smiles over at him.

“I do, I really do, thanks,” He finds himself smiling down at his food.

Martin takes a breath and says words that sends all of Jon’s skin on fire, “Jon, you really are just too lovely.”

It’s like his soul is on fire and words escape him. He can’t imagine the state his face must be.

“Um—um, what—what happened with Peter then? Who—who is he?”

“Oh, um,” Martin takes a bite. “I’m not really sure? My mum cut herself off from her family before she left, don’t really know why. We—I suppose you can guess we didn’t talk about difficult stuff like that. He found me one day, reached out to me and offered me a job, and uh, here I am?”

“Here you are,” He chuckles, taking his own bite.

“Jesus, Jon, this is so good, what the hell.”

The compliment just makes him smile more.

“Thanks—thanks for telling me too,” He looks up at him, catching his eye. “It—it means a lot that you told me, that you were okay with telling me, too. I’m—I’m sure it isn’t easy.”

“No, no I don’t think it is,” Martin sighs but his head perks up. “But it kind of feels like a weight lifted? Is that strange?”

Jon shakes his head, he understands completely.

“No, no, not at all. I—I think I really needed that, Martin, thank you,” He says. “You—you really are a wonderful friend.”

Martin swallows. “Well—well, of course.”

The awkward octave makes him snort and he takes up Martin’s plate, only a few shucks of corn left on it, and his glass empty.

“Jon, I can’t believe this, you’ve never seen Doctor Who? Not even the iconic speech and song? You’ve got to have.” Martin just stares at him, like he’s seen a ghost, but Jon just shakes his head, placing a row of paper cups in the previously empty spot.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV really, or movies in general,” He shrugs his shoulders. “I couldn’t even tell you the last thing I watched on my own really. Usually I get dragged by Tim or Georgie to watch some crap show.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad.”

He looks back at him with a smirk. “Tim showed me Love Island last time, Martin.”

“Oh, gods.”

“Exactly,” He chuckles. “You should never underestimate those two you know.”

“I’m starting to learn that,” Martin laughs, cupping his cup of lavender close to his chest as he smiles.

“I do like watching documentaries though,” He finds himself admitting. “Doesn’t really matter on what, most of them are usually history or nature based and I like both. It’s—it’s entertaining I guess, to learn and know more. Even if it’s random facts about how penguins act.”

“What about indie documentaries? Like online?” Martin perks up. “Have you ever watched commentaries? There’s so many channels like those, you’d never get bored.”

“Oh, sure, Melanie showed me some. She’s worked with a few of them, brought them on their show since some of them act like the perfect skeptics. There’s a surprisingly good number of them that actually believe in ghosts and horrors and such.” He hums, recalling the last rant she went on until she was red in the face about a ‘fake prick’ who was lucky he didn’t get kicked off the set the moment she laid eyes on him. “A lot of those rely on personal drama, which sure, interesting, but not what I’m always looking for. I guess I try to not be nosy about that sort of thing.”

“Really?” Martin hums with glee, like he knows something.

“Okay, look,” Jon feels his face heat up. “Maybe I’m an inquisitive person who worries a little too much! Sure, I’m—I’m a lot maybe and used to have a tendency to snoop around but that was something I told to you in complete confidence, Martin Blackwood, not to use against me!”

“Oh, I’m absolutely using it against you that you thought Tim and Sasha wanted to murder you.”

“I—It was after I had submitted my thesis and finals were in the same week, I had hardly gotten any sleep, let alone food in my stomach, and I was running off energy drinks and an excessive amount of espresso shots and perhaps, I had an academic mentor who turned out to be such a horrid person who filled my head with awful things. I—I was in a delicate position!”

Martin just continues to laugh, as Jon’s face blooms, shoulders shaking and grin growing so wide, Jon wants to smack it off him.

“Yes, Tim, your roommate who made you homemade dinners and Sasha, your lab partner, who knitted you a scarf because you were cold all the time. Obviously, they are wanted murderers.”

“Yes, yes, I am an idiot! Past me is an idiot and many would argue that my current self is not much better, we get it, Martin!” He seethes, this was the only bad part about opening himself up to Martin. He could take his most embarrassing moments and use them against him! It was unfair!

“Don’t act like you’re much better, you hid in your apartment, for like two weeks because you saw some worms!”

“Not worms, maggots. Big difference! I had reason to be terrified! Those things are gross, Jon, and spell bad blood!”

“Oh, but spiders aren’t!”

There’s a ding, a customer entering the shop. He doesn’t pay much mind to it.

“No—they’re—they’re just helpful guys who mean no harm!”

Heavy sole boots patter across the shop’s floor, making noise with each step.

“You are an insane man—”

“Surely, you’re not being a judge of insanity, are you, Jon?” That familiar itching voice sends up a shiver up his spine, as a wet splat! lands to the right of him, surely, on the counter.

“Oh for the love of all that is holy,” He snaps his head over, meeting her gaze before glaring down at the bag of raw meat she sat on the counter. “We have talked about this, Alice, put it in a damned container, if you’re going to bring me meat that I don’t even want! Raw meat can’t just touch my counters like that!”

“Hey, man, it’s in a plastic bag. Good enough.”

“A plastic grocery bag! Are you vile?” He grabs up a dry rag, quickly wetting it with steaming hot water from the faucet. He burns his hands a little as he rings it out but chooses to ignore that, scooping the bag and wiping down the area where it touched, disinfecting it.

“Not as vile as you using that name, I can almost hear her.”

“Oh shush, as if you don’t Jonathan me on the weekly!”

Daisy rolls her eyes before darting over to where Martin sits, with a horrible evil smirk on her face.

“Hey, you’re Martin, right?” She slides into one of the seat next to him, raising her head up. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh—oh, you have!” Martin’s eyes go wide, as if the thought is surprising, and Jon is currently trying to figure out which is more important—putting the meat in a proper container or keeping Daisy supervised?

“Jon’s too shy to say anything—”

“I swear to gods, if you—”

“But his friends aren’t. Tim’s mentioned you a lot. Melanie too. I’ve been aching to meet you.”

“Oh, oh, well, um, me too?”

Daisy just grins, that look in her eyes and he wants to die.

“The sad thing is I’d love to stick around, embarrass this fool until he turns red as the steaks I dropped off, but I’m needed back at the shop.” She jumps up, quickly as she came, grabbing Martin’s shoulders. “Take good care of him for me, will you?”

“Um, right, uh, of course?”

She squeezes his shoulder, laughing when she catches Jon’s expression, and hauling herself out of the shop before Jon can even say anything. Damn that woman, damn her!

“For Christ sake, why does she always have to be like this?” He feels steam could be pooling out of his ears with how hot his face is. She just has to play the older sister and embarrass him at every chance given doesn’t she? Ugh. He really hopes Martin doesn’t read into anything she’s saying or he’s screwed.

“She—was—oh wow.” Martin says, almost in a daze, just staring at the door she left out of.

“Sorry about her. She’s, ugh, always embarrassing like this. Don’t mind her. Really.”

He sighs to himself, resigning himself to put the bag of meat into one of their take-out boxes for pastries, and sticking it in the breakroom freezer until it’s time to leave.

“No, it’s, um, fine really, y’know.” Martin looks down at his cup, but his eyes are distant, just staring onward for miles. “I just—wow, I didn’t know you were, uh, like that.”

He closes the box, clipping it into place before looking up at Martin with bewilderment. What the hell is he going on about?

“What—what do you mean, Martin?”

“Well, it—it really isn’t any of my business and of course I’m not judging or anything, you can date or like or be with whoever you like—”

He thinks he’s going to throw up.

“I just, um, Tim said some things, and of course sexuality is a spectrum and isn’t so black-and-white and I don’t know, I didn’t know you—you liked women or those women. You—”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there before I grow another stomach ulcer,” He throws his hand up, Martin flinches back as if he’s been burn. “That was not a woman, that was my sister, Martin, there is a clear difference.”

Martin’s face rushes to a horrible burning shade of warmth before his own eyes. His eyes dance around and his mouth drops open, fear consuming his being.

“You—you called her Alice!” Martin blubbers on, clearly trying to understand and click the pieces together. Jon almost feels bad for him.

“Right, apologies I suppose for the confusion, Alice is her first name but she goes by Daisy, ‘cause of a mark on her back she got.” He explains softly. “I hardly call her that unless I’m mad or want her to quit something, like how she calls me Jonathan when she’s annoyed or frustrated with me.”

“Oh my gods.”

“And—and regarding that—I have no clue what Tim told you, probably nothing good,” He huffs, his head already hurting knowing he’s going to have to investigate whatever that fool put in Martin’s head tomorrow morning. “I am—I’m not, uh, seeing anyone, no. I am interested in all kinds of people, but uh, yeah, nothing like that going on right now.”

Martin almost looks relieved, as he falls back into his seat, eyes staring at the wall.

“I have never been so embarrassed in my goddamn life.”

Jon snickers at that, “Happens to the best of us, but I’ve got to say, that’s a new one before.”

“And here I thought all our time together was—was going to be whisked away, oh, I’m an idiot. I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Once Tim gets word of it?” Jon grins, leaning towards him. “Never.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh but I would, Blackwood,” His smirk spreads wider. “Don’t underestimate me, now.”

“You are so very cruel, Jon!”

He scoops up the take-out box, shaking his head as he laughs.

“Jon, you made it!” Martin grins, swinging open the door to his apartment. He’s actually wearing an apron, his own it looks like instead of his work one, and is beaming as he lets him inside. As Jon steps forward, the spiced and sweet smell of masala chai wafts over him. “I already made some tea since, um, it’ll be a second before everything is ready, is that okay? You don’t hate chai do you?”

“No, not at all,” He hums. It had been a while since he had made a cup of it for himself, he always ends up going to Earl Grey or Oolong, usually.

“I know you like it pretty bland but I just figured I’d make the way it’s normally made and you could add whatever you wanted.” Martin offers him a ceramic mug, with patterns of cows on the front, and the glass feels warm in his hand, like he just poured it.

“Right, um, thank you,” He raises the mug to his lips, careful of the temperature, and takes a sip. “For, um, the tea and the invite.”

“Of course, I can’t not return the favor!” Martin says, going into his kitchen island area. Curiosity overcomes him and he can’t help himself from scanning every inch of the place, trying to take it in. He understands why Martin was so interested in his flat when he visited now. “But, uh, is stir-fry noodles alright? You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I prefer savoury warm foods anyways, it sounds good.” He decides to take a seat at the kitchen island, staring into his cup as Martin worked away. The heat of the kitchen should bother him, he can feel himself sweating under the collar, as sizzling feels the air and he watches Martin’s hands quickly work, but it’s nice, almost.

“Um, you aren’t, uh, uncomfortable are you?” Martin asks him, all of the sudden, careful shucking minced garlic into the heated round pan.

“Why—why would I be uncomfortable, Martin? I’m quite fine, oh, unless you would rather I wait—”

“No, no, you’re fine!” Martin turns away from the pan back to him, throwing his hand up, gesturing him to stay. “I just—um, you kind of—”

“Martin, it’s fine, you can be blunt with me. I would much prefer it, really.”

Martin’s face squeezes tightly, like he’s nervous to say it. “You just—you hate change, right?”

Oh good lord.

“Oh—um, well yes, oh christ, I didn’t realize I was being annoying about it—I don’t even remember bringing it up—”

“No, no, it’s not—you haven’t said anything.” Martin’s shoulders draw up. “I just—I just want you to be comfortable. I mean coming to an unfamiliar apartment is—is different right? What—what if you’re doing it because I want to? I don’t—I don’t—”

“Martin,” He places his cup down on the island, hoisting himself from his spot, and walking next to him by the stove. They seem to love having heart-to-heart in these areas, apparently. “Breathe for a moment, for me please?”

Martin seems to listen, taking a deep breath in and quieting down, even as his hands still work, taking a spatula, shoving around the vegetables in the pan as they render down.

“Even if you wanted me to do something I had no interest in doing,” He looks up at him, smiling. “Trust me when I say, there’s no way on earth, you could get me to do it. I’m a very stubborn person, y’know? Tim’s been asking me to add his mixtape to the shop’s radio for months now instead of Georgie’s and it hasn’t worked yet.”

“That—that’s true, you really are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.” Martin’s face seems to relax, a smile spreading wide, and he looks down back at the pan. “Sorry I guess I don’t really understand and because I don’t, I just—I worried, over worried probably.”

“Definitely.”

“I just—I mean, change is scary I guess…” Martin frowned, looking like he was already overthinking again.

He supposes there’s no escaping this. He should tell him. It’s not—it’s not like he was hiding it or anything in the first place.

“My—my hatred of change and my, er, stubbornness are coincidentally related. Or at least research has shown that,” He finds himself looking off, scratching his face. It never gets easier saying it. “Do you—do you know what autism spectrum disorder is, Martin?”

Martin’s head perks up, his gaze ripping away from the food and over to Jon.

“Oh,” Martin says, before his face drops. “I’ve heard of it, but I don’t much about it really, sorry.”

“Probably for the best,” He chuckles, learning closer but keeping a careful eye on the heated pan. Oil hurts. “A lot of it is really, well, stereotypical. It’s—it’s a bit weird for me to explain. Well, most people, researchers and doctors alike, describe it as being wired different.”

He takes a breath, staring at the vegetables wilt in the pan. He watches as Martin grabs the boiled noodles, tossing it into the pan, and begins to reach for his seasoning bottles. Soy sauce, fish sauce, shrimp pasta—he’s really stocked up.

“I wouldn’t really know, I suppose,” Jon admits. Martin kills the heat, reaching over him for bowls. “I just feel like this. I’ve always been like this. It feels like me.”

“Here, we can sit down and eat now,” Martin softly interrupts him, smiling. “You’ve been on your feet all day, so if you’re going to spill your guts, you might as well eat during it.”

Jon snorts, shaking his head but following Martin, sitting next to him at the island, bowls and chopsticks laid out, his drink fully cooled now.

“There’s—there’s a lot of commonalities, of those who are autistic, but no one is the same. It’s why it’s a spectrum, you can’t—you can’t fit it in a box. Some of the things are well, like I said a hatred for change, difficulty with social understanding. Routines can be helpful, too, of course but it isn’t—it isn’t a requirement.”

Honestly, when had been the last time since he could discuss this freely? Spout out all his thoughts and frustration with his own diagnosis and how it was seen? To rant and be heard, not sympathized and pitied? It had been a while since he just let it all out, without fear of hurting anyone.

“Sure, I can have a routine, and it can be helpful but not because—because it’s a routine. It’s a lack of change, an expectance I have of everyday, of how the world works and how I play into it, it’s comfortable and safe in that way.” He explains, picking up noodles with his chopsticks, refusing to let Martin’s cooking go cold because his insistent need to rant. “Change—change upsets that expectance. When there’s change, the world isn’t the same and what the world expects of me isn’t the same. My foundation, it’s gone then. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Martin nods before slurping his noodles.

“I can’t smile on command,” He huffs. “It’s just—I can’t fake it, I have to have a reason for it, and I consider myself a quiet person but often that’s—that’s seen as rude or people think I’m mad at them when I’m not. Martin, you can’t really peer pressure me because I don’t care about that stuff. I don’t click with what they call ‘social cues’, common understandings that just don’t work in my brain.”

Martin hums as he goes on, taking a drink of his own cup as he listens.

“If it doesn’t make sense to me, frankly I’m not going to bother with it. With all honesty, it’s often my downfall,” He sighs, “I feel like I’m just rambling, I’m not making any sense and surely this must bore you—”

“No, no,” Martin shakes his head, staring directly at him. “Not at all, I—I want to listen to you. I mean it, I asked right? If you’re—if you’re okay, then please, go on.”

“It’s hard for me to truly encapsulate it to you, I suppose, and that leaves me frustrated. There’s—there’s no way you can understand, Martin, honestly, and I don’t expect you to.” Jon looks down, reaching for his own mug and tipping it back towards him. “I would prefer it if you don’t. It’s just—people pity me and it’s upsetting, quite a bit, to be seen like that. Like—like there’s something wrong with me.”

He swirls the noodles around his chopsticks.

“You can’t really separate my diagnosis from who I am, it’s intertwined, it’s my brain after all, right? I’m just—different and I don’t want pity, for what I feel is essentially being who I am. I dislike change, routines can be comforting, I like staying busy because boredom is like a death sentence to me, and I’m not just going to fold cause some unknown rules say I should.”

He slurps his noodles, the taste is tangy on his tongue.

“I’m not purposefully trying to reject anything, I just don’t see why I should do anything I don’t want to, that I have no reason for doing. It’s hard to understand why anyone would,” Jon rolls his eyes. “I think—I think I’m okay with the way I am? I might—I might even be happy with how I am, I mean, I run my own shop and all my friends know, they understand, and well of course—I have you as well, Martin. I don’t see why I should have to change, to—to appease random strangers? To just mask to make other people happy when I’m miserable?”

“Mask?” Martin asks.

“Oh, uh, it’s what it sounds like. You end up adopting a certain “way” to act, when you repeatedly get in trouble going your way about it. Where you basically hide yourself and do a facade to just get through it to appease others.” He shrugs, trying to explain it in a way Martin would understand. “I don’t—I don’t do it around you guys, though, and I, um, trust none of you to…take offense I suppose? To be myself, lord, that sounds revolting and cliche.”

“It does not!” Martin interjects.

“You are a poet, your opinion doesn’t count.” He snickers.

“Hey!”

“I suppose—” He takes a deep breath. “It’s freeing, I think, yeah. With—with you too, of course. I feel safe with you.”

“Really?” Martin says, like that was surprisingly, that Jon felt like he could breathe around him and not worry about a reaction.

“Even though I hate change, I’m—I’m really glad the Lukas opened your atrocious worksite.” He smiles down at his plate, it’s nearly empty. “I’m quite glad I get to be with you like this, it’s a lot more fun than I would have ever imagined.”

Martin goes quiet, reaching out for his mug and taking a long sip.

“I’m—I’m glad I met you too, Jon.”