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That’s how it is here: I’m lonely, sad;
the wind blows along the roof and I can’t sleep.
Rain runs down the walls and streams across the floor,
leaving dirty puddles on the boards.
- The Attic, Cynthia Huntington
Chapter One
It’s clear to Martin, in the way that most things aren’t, that the battle hasn’t ended with Jane Prentiss’s little visit to his flat. That first night in the Institute, fresh from scrubbing down in one of the showers inexplicably squared away in a janitorial closet in the East Wing and wearing clothes that aren’t his (are, in fact, Tim’s spare gym clothes) and trying to make a scratchy old blanket cover both his toes and his shoulders, he knows.
Martin doesn’t sleep. He’s nervous, so nervous that if he closes his eyes he’ll wake up back in his apartment, with the worms outside and absolutely nothing but himself inside the walls but unbearable emptiness. And if he thinks about things any more, he knows he’ll end up going a bit mad and doing things he’ll regret. So Martin does what he does best. He gets up, puts on his shoes and he wanders down the dark hallway to the breakroom and the sparsely stocked kitchenette. The kettle he always uses is still there, right where he’d left it on the cool back burner of the stove three weeks ago. Martin pushes through that thought – doesn’t get any further than three weeks and nobody even thought – and gives the kettle a scrub, dries it off, fills it up with tap water. Turns the stove on. Sits in one of the uncomfortable steel chairs, the ones that always remind Martin of interrogation rooms you see on crime shows. Stares blankly at one wall until the pot starts to whistle.
And it’s so incredibly stupid, but Martin only realizes he’s made enough for two when he’s already got the mugs out. So he’s standing there, by the two mugs, pot in hand, trying desperately not to cry (if he cries, that’s admitting something. Defeat, maybe) when he hears it. The faint susurrus of movement behind him. That familiar feeling of being watched.
“Christ, Jon,” Martin says. He turns, and sure enough – Jonathan Sims in the doorway, bookbag over one shoulder, squinting at Martin through his glasses and looking like death warmed over. Well – if death could pull off a dangerously patterned sweater, khakis, and ancient trainers, that is. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“I thought you’d gone to sleep,” Jon said crisply. His gaze flickers between Martin’s face and the mugs.
“Habit,” Martin says, and watches as Jon’s mouth firms into a thin, tense line. Martin forges ahead. “Haven’t really been able to enjoy a good- good cup of tea lately, anyway, not with- well. Her.”
“No,” Jon says. “I expect not.” He’s holding himself very still beneath the doorjamb, and the dim light from the breakroom glints off the silver in his hair, the stubble on his jaw. Martin hates himself a bit for feeling comforted by the sight of Jon standing there, like it’s any other night. Like Jon’s here to scold him for an oversight in one of his reports. Like Martin hasn’t spent nearly a month holed up in his apartment being terrorized by a freakish worm woman or whatever. And that’s done it, Martin thinks dimly as his vision blurs and he feels a wet heat begin to stain his cheeks. He’s tipped the scales, and now he’s crying in front of his boss, in front of Jon, and it really, really couldn’t get much worse than this.
“Damn it,” Jon mutters, and Martin understands – he does. It’s awkward now, it’s getting more awkward the longer he stands there crying, and shaking, and still holding the kettle – only, Martin realizes, he’s not holding the kettle because Jon has pried it out of Martin’s hands and placed it back on the stove. And Jon is pushing Martin back into one of the uncomfortable chairs and swearing some more and patting Martin even more awkwardly on the shoulder. This attempt at comfort is so unlike Jon that it somehow makes Martin cry even harder, and oh God, he’s making noises now, and there’s snot, and it’s just disgusting –
A square piece of fabric is shoved into Martin’s hands. A handkerchief.
“Ah,” Jon says. “Yes. Let it – let it out. I suppose.”
Martin unfolds the handkerchief and mops at his face. His hands are shaking so badly, he’s not sure he’s doing much good. At least Jon stops standing beside him looking uncomfortable – instead, yanking open several drawers until he uncovers one of Martin’s teas, a chamomile blend still in the cardboard box. Martin watches Jon place one bag in each mug and pour steaming water over them.
“There,” Jon says, finally, placing a mug at Martin’s elbow and settling into the opposite chair with his own in hand. He is back to watching Martin, and now contriving to look neutral rather than vaguely annoyed, probably because Martin’s keeping him from going home.
“Sorry,” Martin croaks after an impossibly long moment where they both just – watch one another.
“As though you’ve done anything wrong,” Jon says. He takes an experimental sip of his tea.
“For heaven’s sake,” Martin sputters, outraged. “Don’t drink it, let it – Christ, let it sit for a minute, Jon. It’s just hot water now.”
“Oh,” Jon says. He grimaces and sets the mug down on the table, turning the handle so that it mirrors the positioning of Martin’s own. “Right. I’m afraid I don’t – I’m not – right.”
“I’m fine,” Martin says. “You don’t have to sit here with me. You can go home.” He shoves the handkerchief, damp and no longer a pristine white, into the pocket of Tim’s gym shorts and strives not to feel a bit like a Jane Austin heroine. God, he thinks. Jon will never let me live this down.
But Jon doesn’t say anything else. He sits opposite Martin and after a few minutes have passed, he drinks his tea. Martin does, too, even though it’s really awful – hot, yes, but he likes milk and sugar, and things less herbal – and when they’re through Jon takes Martin’s mug from him and disposes of the teabags and rinses the mugs out and turns them upside down on the towel beside the sink to dry.
“If you want to, er, talk,” Jon says after, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder like nothing’s happened at all.
“Right,” Martin says, voice faint even to his own ears. “I- thanks. Thanks.”
Jon nods and turns on his heel, and he’s gone. The Institute is empty, and Martin is alone again.