Work Text:
“Looks like it’s up to us to paint the town then!”
“Huh?” Martin glances up, half-attending the conversation, not really in the mood for Tim’s hi-jinks. He doesn’t want to admit he’s been frowning over this statement follow-up for about forty minutes, eyes gone gritty and squinted, because Jon sent it back, covered in corrections, again. It’s getting on late on a Friday evening and he should be at home, hitting the top of his brick of a TV to encourage the signal, not sitting here because his boss has some sort of hard-on for proper 'academic referencing' protocol, whatever the hell that is. Martin’s brain’s decided to clock out from the working week, and from all concepts related to work altogether about two hours ago, so if Tim’s been talking, Martin’s not heard a word.
Tim playfully throws a rubber-band ball over to him. Martin fumbles but manages to catch it two-handed, attempting to play it cool.
“Sasha’s got ‘plans'” Tim makes exaggerated finger quotes, smile crooked and cheeky, and gives Martin a wink like he’s in on a joke. “And it’s not like Jon’s going to come out with us, is he. So that means you and me, buddy! Two stunning single bachelors, us against the world!”
Tim grins even wider at the idea, showing all of his teeth and Martin automatically smiles back despite his poor mood and the ache starting to make itself known in his back and shoulders, warmed by Tim wanting to spend actual time with him.
“O-ok!” he says, bolstered by Tim’s enthusiasm. “That’s… yeah, great, cool! Where are we going?”
He hasn’t been out in ages. He’s struggling to remember when he last did.
“Was thinking some food first,” Tim replies like he's mulling over a great puzzle, catching with ease when Martin lobs the ball back. He throws it from hand to hand thoughtfully before popping it down on the desk, spinning his chair fully round and stroking an imaginary beard.
His eyes light up as he snags on a thought. “Let’s make a night of it! Head into Soho, what d'you reckon? Bit of a walk, mind, but it’ll be a nice night for it. I’ll take you to G-A-Y, see if we can’t set you up with some strapping lad who finds Star Wars t-shirts sexy.”
Martin’s hands suddenly twitch. That headache that's been settling in behind his eyes gives a warning throb.
“I – ah, I’m s-sorry. I – er. What?”
Tim leans back on his chair, disregarding both gravity and Martin’s panicked expression that’s slammed the brakes down on his previous bubbling excitement.
“I know, I know it can get packed on a Friday. And yeah, it's overpriced and full of bloody teenagers and the music's shite, but it's not about that! And if it’s too busy, we can always try for the Admiral Duncan or somewhere else. The bartender at Ku Bar is really fit, might even be your type, so we could head over there…”
“I – ” There’s a lot of words in Martin’s throat, and he’s not sure how to work with the stiff material they’re formed of, making them into something sensible and not cowering. “I… I’ve… I mean…”
It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s not the word he’d use anyway. Even if there’s defensiveness in his posture, like he's waiting for the trap to spring, insecurity in his constant omissions, and he’s strung up in a reaction that scratches up him like fight or flight. He’s wondering, despairingly, does everyone know?
Tim must notice something wrong, because he’s knocking the legs of his chair back onto the ground with a soft 'put'.
“We don’t have to,” he says, with a crinkle of a frown disrupting his smile, holding up his hands as though backtracking. “If you’ve got some secret fella on the go, hey, you’re allowed to keep the mystery man a secret. Just thought it might be a good night out, that’s all.”
“I don’t… I don’t have a secret….!” Martin can’t even say the word, splutters and swallows it bitterly, painfully aware of how high and over-pitched his voice has gone. “How did you…?” he stops again, miserable and irate at his own inability, embarrassed that he’s nearly thirty and this is so hard, worrying about what gave him away.
He’s always been so careful.
“Ah,” Tim’s face clears from the clouds of his confusion, and it’s abruptly replaced by the weather front of something heavier, a sad kind of comprehension. He adjusts his cap a bit further back from his face. “Let me guess, and tell me if I’m barking up the wrong tree here. You’ve not been to G-A-Y before, have you?”
Martin gives a little stiff shake of his head and wishes Tim would stop talking.
“You’ve – and again, I might be wrong – but you’ve never actually been to a gay bar before.”
Another shake of the head.
“But you like blokes, right?”
Martin’s throat is dry. He feels overwhelmingly looked at, and he hates it, he wants to shrink away, he wants Tim to just shut up, and leave it, forget they even started this whole thing.
Tim is his friend. Tim won't care. Tim's so much braver than he is.
It takes a lot for him to nod.
Tim’s expression blooms into a kind-hearted sympathy.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, Martin,” he says, and the air in the room is a little less tight at that earnest promise. “If that’s what you’re…. No one here would bat an eyelid, you know that right? But I, I won’t say anything that you don’t want me to, ok? I promise. ”
“I don’t…” Martin says falteringly, following the line of the wood grain of his desk. He fidgets with the stapler, prods at a biro. “I don’t really... I don't exactly, well, tell people. About. About it.”
There’s a lot in that. Tim knows not to push.
“We don’t have to go,” Tim finally replies quietly. “Not if you don’t want to. If it’s too much…”
“No!” Martin surprises himself with the force of his response, and colours violently, feeling his entire face heat up. “I mean – I've never a-and it would be... having someone to go with I mean, I– I’d like to. If you – if you still want.”
Tim's grin returns, a brilliant boisterous sun from behind cloud, and his cocksure manner is on display like a theatre curtain lifted. He stands up, doing a stupid little bow like he’s trying to make Martin laugh.
“t'would be my honour to lead you astray, Master Blackwood,” he puts on the snobbiest toff voice, and Martin can’t help but unwind a little with a snort at how daft he sounds, how at ease he looks.
It could be, he thinks to himself, maybe it could be this easy.
They get pub-grub in a Wetherspoons near Camden Lock, and they talk about things that aren’t work. Films and sport and TV, and it’s deliberately breezy and surface-skimming, and Tim's got questions, obviously he has, but he keeps them tucked behind his tongue and Martin’s so so appreciative.
After a couple of pints – I can't in good conscience take you into such a den of depravity sober, Martin! – Tim starts teasingly pointing out people around them like he’s some sort of cold war spy, asking Martin under his voice to give them a score out of ten – hey, he defends himself when Martin gets flustered, reddens under his poorly shaved scruff of a beard, and half-heartedly objects, as your wingman I need to know what I’m working with. And there’s a giddy delirium to how suddenly all very simple it is to talk about things like this with someone who gets it, the cider lubricating his thoughts and his easily tied-up tongue, and soon they’re a good few pints, and one over-sugared cocktail down, and Martin’s burbling a laugh and arguing with Tim about his taste in men, because apparently their opinions and interests vary wildly. The debate only ends when Tim points his fork at him, mock haughtily, replying that at least he’s got the common sense to not fancy the boss, and that sends Martin choking on his drink for a good minute, eyes streaming and face burning.
Finally, downing the end of his drink with a tacky wince, Tim stands up and claps his hands together as though it’s a moment of great grandeur.
“And now!” he declares. “It’s time we got this young cub a boyfriend!”
“Would you – Tim! Would you, shush! I’m only a year younger than you, you absolute pillock.”
“No one cares! Best thing about London, everyone’s too wrapped up in their own bollocks to care about ours. Now, are we going or what?”
It’s… it’s a really good night. They get in easily, Martin looking a little in awe at the little ill-formed stamp on his hand, and Tim apparently knows the bouncers at the door because he picks up some banter with them easily before giving them a waving ciao and steering Martin inside.
Martin looks around at the lights and the people while Tim buys the first round. It’s not as scary as he’d imagined. It’s, well, it’s a normal night club, and it’s not late enough to be packed just yet, so people are milling around in groups, sitting on the faux-leather sofas in the shadowed corners where the lights don't illuminate, drinking from plastic cups, some early birds half-dancing to Lady Gaga. The floor is sticky with spilled drink and the music is a little too loud for conversation to be heard, but Martin finds his feet tapping along to the music regardless, and when Tim hands him his plastic glass and holds his own drink up for a cheers, Martin’s smile is wide and genuine, the knotted sensation in his chest gone slack.
He’d entertained the worry that Tim might ditch him as soon as he got a hint of attention. Tim certainly gets appraising looks and a few flirty glances which he coquettishly returns, but he sticks to Martin’s side, eager and excited for the both of them, pulling him onto the dance floor and woot-ing with delight when a song comes on that he likes.
They buy more drinks. Martin’s round, then Tim’s round, and then it’s someone’s round but Tim’s had the grand idea of shots. It must be after midnight, after one, and the music has dissolved into thumping chart-toppers, and Martin is buzzing. Dancing in his own artless way to the music, his shoes stained with some drink he knocked earlier, sing-shouting to the words he knows in the songs. He’s danced with people, people who were interested, interested in him, and he hasn’t felt the urge to step back, not once, to make sure no-one is watching, no-one else will find out, to make sure no one gets the wrong idea.
Tim’s nudged him forward with a eyebrow raise and a tipsy go on Casanova, strut your stuff! towards a short blond man, dancing flat-footed and bone-less and throwing himself into the music following his own off-tempo groove, who has been giving Martin impressed, slightly wowed side-eyes all evening. A short blond man, who beams like a shy lightbulb, when Martin joins his dance space and draws him into a complicated dance move which Martin stumbles over but tries his best, the two of them laugh-snort-giggling as they both fail to manage anything cool. The man is trying to shout something complimentary in his ear but the music is too loud to hear, so Martin just grins and allows himself to move a bit closer, their spaces a little less distinct.
They’re both sweaty and half-deaf but the other man is giving him such a look, and Martin feels like an uncorked bottle of champagne, and he finds himself smiling consciously back as the song merges into something louder and more energetic.
He doesn’t notice his mobile vibrating. Can’t hear it over the music. He pulls his phone out of his pocket almost absent-mindedly, intent on checking the time, figuring he’ll have to get the night bus back if they stay here much later, and he blinks as the blurry words and shapes realise themselves into multiple missed calls.
He is suddenly, shockingly sober.
He pushes his way through the dancing throngs, throwing out apologies like scattering seeds, and he clatters back down the stairs, bumping to a few people queuing for the toilets, and then he shoulders his way inexpertly through the downstairs bar and its clusters of people, and then he’s out the front door. His breathing is too fast, too strung up in his chest. He’s returning the call with a panic, clearing his throat, hoping desperately he doesn’t sound too drunk, that he’s not slurring his words, because what if something’s happened, something bad, and what’s his excuse, really, fuck what was he thinking? He should have been there, he’s just been out, getting pissed, and what’s she going to say when she realises….
“Martin?” comes a hollered song-hoarse shout, and Tim’s tumbling out of the doors, holding both their jackets and an expression of such concern. “Martin, what…?”
Martin desperately shushes him with an expression.
“Hey,” he croaks down the phone line, and he turns his head away. “I got your….No, m-my phone was…. No, n-no honestly, it wasn’t, I wasn’t ignoring……. I-I know, I know, I’m………… yeah……….. yeah, I know, but…………….. J-just some people from work, I just lost track of time, I’ll………….. I know…… I’ll get a taxi, I can be there in…… Ok. I-I know. Sorry, I’ll…… Ok. Ok. Bye, Mum.”
He ends the call. Rubs at his face. He feels wound up in his chest again.
“I have to go,” he says, his voice quieter than expected after the thump of the music, and he refuses to meet Tim’s eyes. He has the strong suspicion his own eyes are shinier than he wants them to be. “My – My mum, she’s not well. She had an episode earlier, and I…. I just need to go. Make sure she’s ok.”
“She doesn’t know, does she?” Tim’s voice is rough from singing, from drinking, but his expression is hard and dark and Martin can't do this now.
“It doesn’t matter,” Martin replies shortly.
“Of course it matters!” Tim says, almost with disbelief. “Martin, I know it’s your….. but this isn’t, this isn’t ok! You can’t let people tell you what to do with your life!”
“What are you doing then?” Martin snaps back. Because Christ, he’s tired and the night’s drawn on too late, and his skin feels sticky and hot and uncomfortable in the cooling night chill, and his mum, she sounded bad, sick under the snapping annoyance at the bother he’s caused her yet again. He wasn’t there, wasn’t there to check up on her, and she’ll know he’s been drinking, and she'll have something to say like always, and he doesn’t need this, not now. He can’t do this now.
“That’s unfair,” Tim replies curtly. There’s something like anger on his face before it dissipates into something Martin can’t read. “Martin, you can’t keep… one of these days you’re going to have to be honest with yourself.”
“You say that like it’s easy!” Martin responds, almost enraged, his voice cracking. “I can’t be – I can’t be like you! I can’t – it’s all so easy for you, a-and I just… I can’t. I’m, I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Martin breathes out a tear-stifled breath. He thinks there’s a taxi rank a few streets away that he saw on the way over. The lights and loud music are pulsing away, and it’s distant, like a bubble he’s had to walk away from.
“Thank you for… for trying,” he says hoarsely. “I did…. I had a really nice night, you know.”
Tim pauses and then nods wretchedly, a weight to his shoulders. He walks up to Martin, a little wobbly from the shots, the skin of his exposed arms beginning to get chilly, signposting his intentions so Martin has the chance to move away.
Martin doesn’t. Tim’s arms come crushing around him, and he slumps into it, bringing his arms around to tighten his own grip, full of emotions he doesn’t have the ability to name, he doesn’t have the bravery to face up to yet.
“We’ll do this again sometime, yeah?” Tim mumbles encouragingly into his sweaty hair.
“I’d like that,” Martin replies faintly, mumbling before he pulls away, taking his jacket back. Gives Tim a worn-down little wave before he turns away to the taxi rank.
The music takes a long time to fade from his ears.