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Martin always loves when Jon steals his jumpers, but especially when he steals the hooded Aran jumper. He’s never especially liked it on himself - he’d knitted it in a creamy white wool because that seemed like the thing to do, but it always makes him feel a bit like a big bobbly snowball. It’s like he made it years ago anticipating that it’d be just right on Jon - his skin glows against the white, and the dark wood toggles are perfect for his restless fidgeting hands, and with the hood up and the sleeves bagging down to his knuckles he looks so small and soft and sweet, and Martin gets to look at him and think I made this happen, me, I did this and it’s the best thing ever .
He’s working on a fiddly little cable when he hears movement behind him, followed by a croak of “tea” like some horrible English-stereotype zombie.
“On the counter,” Martin says, not looking up from his needles. “Good morning Jon, I’m well and yourself?”
“Mmm.” Sockfeet shuffling toward the kitchen, then back behind him, and Jon leans over the back of the sofa to press a soft and tea-scented kiss to Martin’s cheek. “Martin,” he hums, like it’s the best news he’s heard all week. He smiles, and his stubble scratches against Martin’s jaw in the most wonderful way. “Good morning, how are you, thank you for the tea,” he says obediently.
Martin slips the last stitch of the cable into its proper place, then turns his head to return the kiss. “You’re welcome.” Jon’s wearing The Aran Jumper, the knitting is going well, nothing is actively trying to kill either of them, this is the best day of Martin’s life.
He turns his attention back to his needles as Jon and his tea settle beside him on the couch, apparently debating the merits of being upright and conscious. A decision gets made at some point, because when Jon finishes the tea he sets the cup down and then curls up on his side, head pillowed on Martin’s leg.
“... twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.” Martin slides his stitches over and then looks down. “Hi.”
Jon smiles, soft and relaxed in that way that makes Martin’s chest overflow with tenderness. “Hi. Don’t mind me.” Which is impossible, and he apparently doesn’t mean it, because a few minutes later he asks “What are you making?”
“Gloves. For Basira, all last winter she was complaining about her terrible storebought ones, I thought I’d make her something better.” Damn, he’s back at that tricky little cable. “Don’t talk for a moment, please.”
Jon stays obediently silent until Martin reaches the end of the section and breathes a sigh of relief. “So that’s how you do the twisty-stitches thing,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yep. Easy as that.”
Jon shifts to trace the cables on one of his sleeves with his fingertips, and they lapse into silence again. It’s Martin who breaks it this time.
“What are you thinking about?” Because Jon very clearly has a Thinking Face on.
Jon smiles ruefully. “The Web. But it’s not, really, except in the most superficial sense, isn’t it. I suppose it might be, if you were using silk…?”
Martin shudders. “No one knits with spider silk, the amount of work to produce it is absolutely insane. Silk like you’re thinking of comes from worms.”
“Oh, ew .”
“Yeah.” He hasn’t been able to touch the stuff since Jane Prentiss. He gifted the last silk-containing yarns in his stash to some stitch-and-bitch friends, on the condition that they never work with it when he’s present. “It could be a bit Spirally, I suppose, there are some interesting fractal patterns out there. But honestly I think of knitting as sort of… the anti-Entities.” Jon hums in an interrogative sort of way, and Martin feels emboldened to be a little sappy. “It’s the creativity, the effort to make something really nice, and at the end either you wear it and get to feel accomplished because it’s exactly how you wanted it, or someone you care about wears it and you know they’re all cozy and warm because of this thing you did.”
He looks down then, which is a mistake, because Jon’s snuggled down into the jumper and his whole face is wide open and smiling and Martin feels like his entire head is going to catch fire. “Oh, that sounded so dumb, ignore me-”
“No, it’s sweet, you’re sweet.” Jon shifts to wrap his arms around Martin’s waist, squirming more firmly into his lap to do so. “Is that why you started knitting? Like the wool equivalent of making people tea?” he asks, turning his head so he’s not speaking directly into Martin’s belly.
Somehow that comparison makes it better and worse at the same time. “Well, that and I like the process. The hand movements, following the pattern, it’s like - like fidgeting, except no one thinks you’re annoying or tells you to stop, they just think you’re really productive and clever. And if you want to get left alone, you can just pretend to drop a stitch and get real quiet and focused on fixing it.”
Jon snickers, and turns again (he really is a bit of a cat, making his way ever-so-casually further into Martin’s lap, not that Martin’s complaining) to watch Martin knit some more. After a few minutes he asks, very casually, “Can you teach me?”
“What?” Martin nearly drops a stitch for real. “Me? Really?”
“Really. It looks relaxing.” Martin looks down again, which is really beginning to be a bad habit, because Jon’s eyes are very big and brown and it’s very distracting and he must be doing it on purpose. Jon doesn’t exactly bat his lashes, but it’s a near thing. “Please?”
Martin chews the corner of one lip. “I didn’t bring anything I could really teach you with,” he begins, but before Jon looks too crestfallen he reaches down to press their hands together. “But it’s a good thing we’re in Scotland. There’s a wool shop in the village, round the corner from the market, I’ve been thinking about visiting-” and really, that smile is too radiant not to kiss.
So that’s where they go that afternoon, Jon in his (Martin’s) Aran jumper, Martin in a proper coat that he’ll probably end up slipping over Jon’s shoulders when the jumper proves insufficient against the autumn chill, and they round the corner from the market and step into Kitty’s Knits and Crafts.
It’s a small space, but the draped afghans and cubbies of wool arranged in rainbow colors give it an impression of being more cozy than claustrophobic. The girl at the counter looks up at the bell and gives them a practiced smile. She’s got very short hair and an enormous colorwork shawl that Martin immediately needs to know everything about. “Hi, welcome to Kitty’s, are you looking for anything in particular or just browsing?”
“ My boyfriend is going to teach me to knit,” Jon announces proudly, and Martin’s face catches on fire again but the girl giggles, losing the customer-service face a bit.
“Aw, that’s lovely,” she says, and Martin vainly tries to will the blood back out of his face and mutters “D’you have any recommendations?”
She nods and leans over the counter to point. “You’ll want to look along the left-hand wall here, dear, that’s the worsted and chunky-weight. Stick with something that’s got a smooth texture and not too dark a color, it’ll be easier to see what you’re doing. And please, touch everything!”
Jon squeezes Martin’s hand and then heads in the indicated direction, and Martin ends up browsing the sock yarn rack and talking to the girl, who is not Kitty but Kitty’s great-niece Sarah, and who is delighted to show off her shawl, which was a test knit for this mad genius German designer, the construction is unusual but brilliant once Martin sees why it’s done that way-
“I think I want this one,” Jon interrupts.
Martin looks up. “Oh - I like that color!” He really does, Jon’s found a skein of something in a lovely warm heathery olive-green. But he’s a little surprised - it’s not what he’d think Jon would go for.
But Jon smiles and holds the skein up to Martin’s face, tilting his head and affecting a critical expression. “I certainly hope so, it’s going to be for you.”
Sarah visibly restrains herself from cooing, and helps Jon pick out a suitable pair of needles, and while she’s winding Jon’s yarn Martin gives in and picks out a ball of sock yarn for when Basira’s gloves get too twisty for his brain. Not exactly the sort of essentials they should be budgeting for, but Jon takes the little shopping bag in one hand and Martin’s hand in his other, and the moment is so very nearly perfect that Martin can’t bring himself to worry.
The actually really perfect moment, the one Martin will look back on in later years with a warm little sigh, comes that evening in the cottage. A fire in the little woodstove, two cups of tea on the table, and Jon nestled between Martin’s knees on the sofa, his back pressed warm to Martin’s chest. Martin has his hands over Jon’s, guiding his first few stitches in the soft green wool.
“In - around - through - off,” he murmurs into Jon’s hair.
Jon nods. “In - around - through -” The yarn slips off the tip of his needle, and he makes a little disappointed huff.
Martin chuckles and kisses the top of his head. “It’s alright, try again. Try to angle the needle like…” He gestures, then lets Jon repeat the motion without his guidance.
“In - around - th… through - off!” The stitch slides neatly into place on the right needle, and Jon looks up with a grin. “I did it!”
Martin laughs and hugs him, he can’t help it, he’s so happy and proud. “You did! Now do it to the end of the row. And then do it a million more times until you have a scarf.”
Even at this point he half-expects Jon to scoff at that. To toss the yarn and needles aside and say “that’s mental, this is taking too long, this whole hobby is ridiculous, and you’re ridiculous for liking it.” But Jon just nods and focuses back in on his needles. “In - around - through - off. In - around - through - off.”
Martin could probably pull away at this point. Pick up his own knitting, they could work in companionable quiet like the elderly couple they apparently are. But he stays right where he is, arms looped loose around Jon’s waist, nose buried in Jon’s hair, and (he’s sure) the most embarrassingly tender look in his eyes.
There’s nowhere else he could possibly imagine wanting to be right now, ever again.