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...love’s like the wind unseen, unknown
I see the trees bending where it’s been
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown
I really don’t know what I love you means
I think it means don’t leave me here alone.
Neil Gaiman
The night sky above London is, more often than not, a starless one. Sometimes Martin peers up, craning his neck back to see a single, twinkling light. He’d studied Physics in secondary school - been pretty crap at it, all things considered - but he remembers in one lesson the teacher had said that when you looked at the stars, you were looking into the past. He had liked that idea, the way it made him feel so very small. After that, when events in his life seemed too much - when his mother got sick, when he gave up on his A Levels, after the whole thing with Jane Prentiss - he often found his eyes turning upwards, searching the sky for that feeling of insignificance. What did qualifications matter in comparison with the whole unending and incomprehensible universe? It steadied him, the night sky, even when the stars themselves were obscured by pollution or clouds or light.
Maybe that’s why he heads out of the archives that particular evening. It’s been, as Jon would say, a hell of a week. It's hot, the days humid and warm, making London stifling and the air taste thick in his throat. It's the worst down in the archives; there’s no windows that can be opened, no functioning air conditioning to cool them down. As the heat rises, the tensions have as well, unspoken words simmering close to the surface as everyone - everyone bar Martin and Melanie that is - prepares to stop an apocalypse.
Martin needs a break, he needs to get out of the stacks and away from the stuffy, windowless rooms - just for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. He’s just tired, that’s the thing: tired of being sniped at by Melanie, tired of sneaking around Elias. Quite frankly, he’s terrified of Daisy. (And he can’t even look at Tim: his face is all wrong. The man Martin used to know is unrecognisable - twisted and angry. Just passing this familiar stranger in the corridors is enough to crush Martin in waves of guilt and grief). So he needs fresh air. He needs to stretch his legs. He’ll come back to help the others finish preparing, promise. He just has to be alone for a while. (The disapproval on Basira’s face is clear, but the decision has already been made. He’ll be back).
As soon as he’s out of the institute, he heads for the river. London is so fucking claustrophobic sometimes, and he just needs some space to breath. There’s a park he knows, not far away. It’s small, but it's quiet. They used to have lunches there before, back when Sasha was still Sasha and Tim was still Tim. It’s about as pleasant as parks by the river tend to be - there's a muddy lawn and a few trees and bushes that do little to mask the adjacent road. A couple of concrete benches and an overflowing bin overlook the grey-brown water of the Thames. It’s nothing special, but at least he’ll be able to see the sky there. He’ll watch the sunset, wait until twilight sets in before he has to go back to the archives. Maybe try to loosen the tension that’s built up in his chest.
As he rounds the corner into the park, stepping through the small gate that separates it from the road, Martin’s heart falls. There’s someone else already there. Really, he should have foreseen this - it is central London after all. He can’t see much of the other person - they’re silhouetted against the pale sky, leaning up against the railings gazing out to the Thames. A glowing cigarette hangs loosely from their fingers and they occasionally take a long drag, smoke billowing around them in clouds. Disappointment curls in Martin’s stomach, but regardless he goes to the bench set furthest back from the river. Perhaps he can pretend he’s alone. He sits, feels the cooling air on his face. Eyes closed, he breathes in deeply: imagines he can’t smell the pollution in the air, imagines he works a normal job and doesn’t know anything about impending apocalypses, imagines-
“Martin?”
Martin’s eyes snap open. “J- Jon?”
Jon’s leaning on the railing, barely ten meters away, staring right at him, wide-eyed. How had Martin not recognised him? Greying hair loosely tied back, his over-large shirt rolled up to his elbows - Martin had seen Jon earlier that day. He should have realised who the figure was immediately. To his dismay, he can feel his cheeks turning red - has he interrupted something? Jon doesn’t exactly look pleased to see him. He bites back an apology - he hasn’t done anything wrong after all - but starts to stammer out “I- I’ll go, I’ll-” when Jon speaks over him.
“It’s fine, Martin.” His voice is- it’s soft. Gentle. Martin doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jon say his name quite like that before. (He’s heard the tapes, listened to them all shame-faced and watery-eyed. I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything , Jon had said. Due diligence, Martin . How did you complete a degree in Parapsychology without even a basic understanding of Latin terminology, Martin . And even when he could hear the disdain in Jon’s voice, even when Jon openly criticised his work, his pathetic, wasted heart ached for him. He’d been infatuated with Jon since- well, since day one if he’s honest.)
When Jon says his name, something in Martin melts. The tension in his chest and shoulders is forgotten. The argument he’d had with Basira before he left the institute is wiped from his brain. He’d come to the river to see the sky and the sunset and the stars, but now he’s just happy he’s seen Jon.
He walks forward. Leans against the railing. Their elbows brush and his nostrils fill with the acrid smell of smoke.
“Oh. Um. Sorry.” Jon’s ears are flushed as he drops the cigarette on the ground, grinds it with his heel. His mouth twists upwards in an approximation of a rueful smile. “You caught me.” When Martin doesn’t reply, he continues awkwardly. “I, er, I’d given them up. Five years, then…” His voice trails off and they stand in silence for a minute or so.
When was the last time they’d talked, just the two of them? Before Jon went to China? And when had they last spoken without the presence of a whirring tape recorder? Even longer ago, Martin reckons. He suddenly feels clumsy and too large compared to the slight man standing next to him. Does he even know how to talk to Jon anymore? (Did he ever know?)
The quiet between them is pressing on his ears, so he says “I had to get away for a bit, you know…”
And Jon says “Yes- yes, I understand.” And then they’re standing in silence again.
Martin bites the inside of his cheek, tries to ground himself. They used to- to chat, didn’t they? Before worms and fears and apocalypses.
“I-.” He stops and then tries again. “I don’t really know what to say,” he admits, heavily. The weight of tomorrow sits on his shoulders, holds him down. Even if Jon- even if the others come back, nothing will ever be quite the same again.
Jon’s staring out at the river. The sun is setting now, pale blue and orange reflecting onto his glasses. He frowns as Martin speaks, then looks over. Their eyes meet, just for a second. Martin shivers (just the cool evening air, nothing more).
“I- I don’t know either,” murmurs Jon. Then, “I- I, I- well, I- I wanted to a-ask you about something, actually.” Maybe he doesn’t realise it, but he’s shifted closer to Martin until they’re almost standing shoulder to shoulder, still leaning against the railings.
“Er, yes?” Martin replies, softly. He’s not sure he can trust his voice right now.
Jon’s clearly struggling too. “It’s just, um, I-I don’t want to, er, accidentally compel you. I’d like you to- I’d rather you answered of your own, er, free will.” He tries not to ask questions anymore; Martin’s noticed. Doesn’t want to force any of them without meaning to. The others don’t seem to appreciate that - Melanie and Tim are blindly angry and Daisy and Basira exist in a terrifying world of their own. But Martin’s noticed; noticed him struggling to phrase requests without questions, just in case.
“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Just- just ask me. Yeah.”
Behind his glasses, Jon blinks, owlishly. “Alright.” And then he pauses. Looks uncomfortable. His ears are definitely flushed now, and he’s studiously avoiding Martin’s gaze, looking down into the river of the Thames like it’s a scrying pool. “It’s just-” he says, haltingly. “It’s just, I listen to all the tapes, Martin.”
Martin’s stomach drops.
“I listen to all the tapes,” Jon barrels onwards, apparently not noticing how Martin has gone still next to him. “And I hear… things. And I- I heard something about y-you. That you might have-” he stops here again and visibly swallows. Martin thinks he can see Jon’s hands shaking but the blood is rushing in his ears and he feels sick so he could be mistaken. “I heard you might have feelings for me.”
The world might end tomorrow, Martin thinks, but at least Jonathan Sims found the time to break his heart before then. Just in time. Fantastic. Great news. He lets his head fall backwards, stares at the sky (tries to stop the tears that are threatening to spill).
Jon reaches out a hand, tentatively. Hovers, just above Martin’s fingers. Then, lowers it. Takes Martin’s hand in his.
The world drops away. Martin can no longer hear the rush of the traffic, can’t see the rushing grey water of the river. The park around them fades. All of his senses focus on himself and Jon, standing in the twilight.
His fingers are cold on Martin’s skin and he’s very gently, hesitantly, stroking his thumb across Martin’s. Martin wants to look down, to see their hands entwined, but Jon is staring intently at him and he’s unable to tear his eyes away. He’s never seen Jon look quite as unsure as he does now, as he opens his mouth to continue to speak. “I- I wanted you to know that I, er, I reciprocate those feelings.” He speaks so seriously, so formally that Martin almost wants to laugh. “If- if you’d have me, that is,” he adds, hurriedly, the mask cracking and anxiety bleeding through.
Martin feels a smile spread across his face, “Wow, Jon, I- wow”. He can see Jon relax a little, but the hand gripping his tightens.
Quietly, so it’s almost a whisper, Jon says “It’s just, I wanted you to know before… I might not come back, Martin.”
Martin sighs, a shuddering breath. His mind should be racing the way his pulse is, but his thoughts feel like they are pushing through treacle. “I know- that’s why- that’s why I think-“.
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Never finishes his justification. He changes it instead. “Could I- can I kiss you?”
He leans forward, then stops, meeting Jon’s eyes and waiting for him to answer. Jon nods, the movement so slight Martin would have thought he might have imagined it if Jon hadn’t also shifted closer towards him, his eyelids fluttering closed.
Martin has imagined kissing Jon more than he would ever admit. It’s been years since he first fell in love with Jonathan Sims. In his daydreams, Jon’s movements are sharp and hurried. He’s pushy and bossy and smells like bergamot and old books and tastes of tea. Martin always thought they’d maybe go for dinner or get coffee first. Take their time.
But there is no time. The world might end tomorrow. Jon is nervous, shy. As he gently cups Jon’s face in his hand, Martin can feel his pulse beating fast, matching his own. Jon is cautious, his hands brushing softly against the wool of Martin’s jumper, barely there. His stubble scratches Martin’s face as their lips - chapped and dry - softly brush together. He smells like burnt leather and old sweat and he tastes faintly of cigarettes. The kiss is short and chaste, over almost as soon as it began.
And Martin loves him so very much.
If he could pause time, he would stop it now. The moment when Jon sinks into his arms and leans his head upon his shoulder. Everything would freeze, and he would feel the warmth of Jon’s skin beneath his shirt, the softness of his hair against his neck, for eternity. There’s a poem he loves by Keats and he wants to whisper it to Jon, Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— , but he suppresses it. He can tell him another day.
“What if I don’t come back, Martin?” Jon breaths, arms still wrapped around him. “What if the Archivist comes back and Jonathan Sims doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, Jon,” Martin says as gently as he can. He doesn’t want to- he can’t think about that right now. “We can talk - when you get back. Okay?”
Jon’s face is unreadable as he nods. “Yes… when I come back.”
In the days and weeks (and months) afterwards, it’ll hurt to remember those words. (He doesn’t come back. Not for a really long time).
They hold each other. And they look up at the stars, glistening over London on the cooling August night. And Martin thinks about Keats and he thinks about seeing history in the sky but mostly he thinks about the way Jon’s fingers feel in his and the warmth between their bodies as they stand next to each other. He considers asking Jon not to leave, but- that’s not fair. He just has to hold steadfastly onto his hope, onto his love for the man standing next to him. For now, all he has is this moment, under the London sky. The rest will come later.