Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s easy to begin, but… it’s hard to end,” Jon says in a voice tight with frustration.

“It’s really not,” Sasha says. “It’s just a job. You can literally just quit.” She passes down another book. 

Jon slides it into the bottom shelf from where he kneels beside it and shakes his head. “It’s fine. You don’t have to understand, but I… I just can’t leave the library after all the work I’ve put into it.”

“Work for who?” Sasha presses. “Gertrude? You know she doesn’t give a -” She pauses to glance around for any nearby patrons before continuing even more softly, “a single shit.”

“She’s tired,” Jon argues.

“And you aren’t? Yet you still manage to care.” 

“Jon? Care? Good Lord, who are you and what have you done with my boss?” Tim pokes his head around the corner of the shelf, wearing his typical up-to-no-good grin. 

Jon levels a weary stare at him to no effect. “Aren’t you supposed to be working in circulation? Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned Melanie already.”

Tim waves a hand dismissively. “Let the new girl breathe, Jon. Some people here are actually capable of functioning without your constant supervision.”

“As opposed to you, apparently,” Sasha says, but her easy smile, as always, holds no malice. 

“You wound me, Sasha.”

“ Tim, ” Jon says. 

“Fine, fine. Really, I just came to show you these.” Tim waves a stack of papers. “Apparently that Fairchild man finally emailed the flyers to Gertrude for the event tonight.”

Jon sighs deeply and steadies himself on the shelf before struggling to his feet. He stifles a groan at the deep pain in his knees. Sasha shoots him a concerned glance, but he ignores her in favor of patting carpet dust off his trousers and taking a flyer off of the stack in Tim’s hands. Then he groans again, far more loudly. “ Sky Blue ? Really? You write an entire poetry anthology and can’t come up with a more creative title than Sky Blue ?”

Tim snickers, but Sasha forces out a far-too-cheerful smile. “It can’t be that bad, surely,” she says. 

“I fail to see how any friend of Jonah Magnus can have any real creative potential,” Tim says wryly. 

“Mr. Magnus is a connoisseur of the arts,” Sasha begins in a teasingly pompous tone, lifting a single finger to complete her signature Gertrude impression.

“You mean he’s a rich old man who wants to pretend he has taste,” Tim interrupts.

Jon finally looks up from the flyer, torn between reprimanding his assistants for speaking ill of the library’s most faithful and generous donor and joining in with his own deep seated hatred for the man. 

“You know I’m right, Jon.” Tim flashes another grin. 

Jon doesn’t answer but instead returns the flyer to the stack. “You can put these on the entry table,” he says, gesturing to the more open section of the library, which he had spent the previous hour arranging for the event. He checks his watch. “Mr. Fairchild should be here at 4:30. I still have time for my break before then.”

“Tim will make sure to have the shelving finished before you get back,” Sasha assures him. 

“Oh, will he?” Tim’s eyes glint with mischief, but Jon is fairly certain he and Sasha both know he’d bend over backward for her, if not for Jon himself.

If this place actually functioned as it should, Jon would have a team of pages to do this work rather than relying on the library assistants to pick up the slack. But the Magnus Library has been, for the ten years he’s worked here, distinctly dysfunctional. There haven’t been more than four pages spread throughout the entire library since his own days in the entry level position. He gives Tim and Sasha a grateful look and heads toward the break room. 

His knees protest again at his quick pace, and he can’t quite hide his wince. Jon knows he needs to wear his braces to work, but the fear of concerned questions from his coworkers and of not being able to manage the surprising range of motions required in his day to day duties continue to prevent him from following his doctor’s advice. Still, it’s getting a little harder to ignore the pain as it creeps up on him more and more throughout the day. He’s eager to spend a full hour sitting still, resting, and is relieved to find the break room almost empty. The only other person is Agnes, by far the quietest and most tolerable of the library technicians, who barely spares him a single glance before returning to whatever she’s watching on her phone.

Jon settles into a chair on the opposite end of the table and huffs out a breath as he tenderly stretches out his aching legs. Then he closes his eyes.

Sky Blue, he thinks again. Honestly. Once again, his frustration about the entire situation dominates his thoughts. He spent the first half of the year trying to convince Gertrude to allow him more room in the budget and schedule to plan library events. After all, as he’s pitched countless times, what was a library for if not bringing people together through accessible entertainment and education? And his ideas were good , he knows they were. Some had even been specifically requested by patrons, yet Gertrude had shot them all down. Jon isn’t even surprised that it took a complaint from Jonah Magnus himself about the lack of community engagement to open up the stony library director to the possibility of a new event. He’s less surprised that she latched onto Magnus’ suggestion rather than any of Jon’s. Even the sacred library isn’t free of capitalism’s control. Isn't it enough that the town had renamed the library after him when he funded its renovation all those decades ago? Jon scowls bitterly at his lap. 

He can’t even comfort himself with the possibility that Magnus’ apparent “old friend and business partner”’s poetry would be any good. Jon has been accused of many things but never of being a groundless optimist. No, his hopes for the success of tonight’s event are miniscule. And when this is a disaster, Gertrude will look at the numbers and reject any ideas I bring up for the next quarter, at least, Jon thinks, not for the first time. 

“Why so dejected, Sims?” 

Jon startles, not having noticed the new arrival to the breakroom. “Gerry, I - sorry, I was… lost in thought.”

“And?” The other librarian slams the door of the microwave on whatever carefully prepped meal he’s brought today - Sasha’s work of course; she always brings their lunches in matching cooler bags to emphasize just how well she’s got her shit together - and punches a few buttons on the keypad. “Haven’t seen you around much this week. Sasha tells me you’re really that busy with the Fairchild thing...?”

Jon shrugs. It’s not like he typically spends much time in Gerry’s domain, the young adult section on the other side of the building. “I guess.”

“Ah, come on, Sims, don’t spill all your secrets at once.” Gerry plops into the chair beside Jon and rests his chin on fingers coated in messy black polish. 

Jon tries to smile at the other man, he really does, but he’s so very tired. “You know me.”

“An open book, as always,” Gerry says. Thankfully, he doesn’t press Jon further and launches into some explanation of whatever new release he’s sure the local teenagers will rave over. 

Jon half-listens, but he can feel that familiar brain fog creeping over him and making concentration on spoken words very difficult. He offers the occasional hum or nod where it seems appropriate and otherwise sits in tired blankness for the remainder of his break. When his watch beeps, he slowly pushes himself to his feet - unsurprised that his stillness has worsened the stiffness rather than soothed it - and shuffles to check on the event space. 

The metal chairs are arranged in three rows of four, facing a narrow podium beside which now stands an easel that had not been there before. It bears a sign boasting a picture of a bald man in a suit that looks appropriate for a Victorian era cosplay and the words that continue to irritate Jon more and more with each passing moment: Sky Blue . The sign proclaims, “Local author and poet Simon Fairchild presents his newest work, Sky Blue , an anthology of poetry about the freedom and confinement within nature!” followed by a list of suspiciously glowing reviews. On closer look, the first one was attributed to Jonah Magnus.

“Of course,” Jon mutters.

“You like it?” comes a booming voice just behind him.

Jon can’t stop his full body flinch. “Mr. Magnus, ah…” he says, pointedly quiet. 

Jonah doesn’t take the hint. He never does. “I designed this for the Facebook, but it was too good not to have made up for your event.” He surveys the sign smugly.

“How thoughtful,” Jon grinds out. 

“Yes, yes. And here’s the old devil himself!” Jonah turns to face the man approaching them.

Somehow, Simon Fairchild manages to look even more ridiculously out of place in person than he does in his author’s photograph. Jon, once again, can’t quite muster a smile.

“Simon, this is Jonathan Sims. I told you about him, didn’t I?” Jonah claps a firm hand onto Jon’s shoulder. “I’ve had my eye on this boy since he first showed up here as a scraggly young student! I knew he was destined for greatness, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you so?” He turns his gaze onto Jon.

“I, ah - ”

“And look at him now!” Jonah continues without giving him a chance to finish. “All grown up and practically in charge of the place!”

His hand is heavy and is awakening soreness in Jon’s neck. He tries to side step out from under his grip as politely as possible. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fairchild,” he says with what little sincerity he can scrape together. “I didn’t expect you here for another half hour. Would you like some tea from the break room, or -”

Jonah interrupts once again. “Actually, Simon and I have some things to discuss. We’ll be here until the crowd shows up.” He gestures toward the first row of seats.

Jon is more than willing to let the two old men entertain one another, and takes the opportunity to slip away to his desk.

Sasha is waiting for him with the now-empty shelving cart. “I’m sorry, I wanted to give you a heads up.”

“It’s fine.” Jon waves her off and resists the urge to sink into his comfortable, padded chair. He likely wouldn’t be able to force himself to stand again once he got off his feet for the second time. “Has Gertrude spoken to them?”

“Yes, she saw them before she left for the day.”

“I thought she’d want to stick around to show support for Magnus,” Jon says with just a fraction of bitterness. 

“No, um, Mr. Leitner called to say he was attending the event, so…” Sasha trails off.

Of course. Gertrude’s desire to keep Jonah Magnus’ donor status intact was only surpassed by her distaste for her predecessor in the library director role, Jurgen Leitner. Jon lifts his gaze as if beseeching some unseen force for strength. 

“So,” Sasha begins again, “it’s just you to wrangle the eager masses.”

“Ah yes, the inevitable horde of local-poetry fanatics.”

“Jon Sims, was that a joke?” Daisy, the library’s faithful security guard, mimes shock as she strolls past. “Write it down, Sasha, it may never happen again!”

Jon doesn’t even have the energy to be grateful Daisy’s attention is more playful than spiteful today. He rests his hands on his desk and closes his eyes briefly.

Sasha scrutinizes him, the full force of her concern zooming in on him once again. “Jon, are you… all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Jon straightens. “I forgot to check if Tim put those flyers out. You’ll be here until after the event?”

“I’m here as long as you need me,” Sasha answers, because of course she is. Reliable Sasha. Where would he be without Sasha?

Jon heads back toward the event section, hovering beside a shelf to avoid attracting Jonah’s attention again as he confirms that Tim did, in fact, leave the flyers where requested. He lingers there, trying to gather all of his strength and goodwill to carry him through the rest of the day.

“Um, ex-excuse me,” comes a nervous whisper from just to his left. “Do you work here?”

Jon turns to face the inquirer, gesturing habitually at his name tag.

“Oh, um, sorry.” Though the man is over a head taller and almost twice as broad as Jon, he somehow has the look of someone very small. Perhaps it's because of the boyishly fluffy, ginger-tinted hair that almost covers his anxiously darting eyes. “I’m, um, looking for the poetry thing? Um. I think I might be early?”

Jon points past the shelf to the rows of chairs. “The event doesn’t start until 5, but you can have a seat there if you want to wait,” he says, his exhaustion and frustration putting more brusqueness into his tone than he usually likes to use with patrons.

The man nods hastily, wringing his hands. “Thanks, sorry. Thanks.”

Jon schools his face into something vaguely gentler. The library is supposed to be a welcoming place, and it’s important to him that he represents that, no matter how he feels. “My pleasure. Let me know if I can help with anything else, okay? There are flyers on the table there.” He points again.

“Thanks,” the man repeats, and walks in that direction.

Well, at least that’s one attendee, Jon thinks begrudgingly as he turns back toward his desk. As he does so, he sees Jurgen Leitner striding through the main doors. He grimaces. Two attendees .

-------

Martin sits on the bench outside the store for a full twenty minutes after his shift ends, staring at the pavement between his feet with absolutely no productive thoughts to justify this. It’s a month to the day since his mother’s funeral, and he doesn’t have to close his eyes for the memory to play on a constant loop in his mind. It’s not even sadness that keeps her and her death ever present. More like… like disbelief, or numbness maybe.

But the numbness had begun far, far before her passing.

Sure, his routine has become less busy this past month, but it has always been dull. Monotonous. Empty. He’s been running on muscle memory for eight years now. Wake up early for his opening shift in the generic grocery store bakery, ride his wobbly bicycle back to the flat he grew up in, handle chores, fall asleep to the droning voice of a documentary narrator. The moments in between had once been filled with caring for his mother but were now just like this one - blank and mindless. 

Look at yourself. Martin presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Pathetic. Is the voice his or hers? Does it matter when it’s true?

There’s no escape from it here anymore than there is in the now empty flat, but somehow it takes him longer and longer to begin the journey back each afternoon. After all, it’s not like there’s anything better to do at home. Most of his personal belongings were long gone, sold or donated to make space for his mother’s medical equipment. There is nothing but cooking - too close to his work duties to offer any appeal - watering his plants - delightful, of course, but not nearly as time consuming an activity as he wishes - and television for him there. 

“I should get a new hobby,” Martin says aloud, startling a customer who’s chosen that moment to exit the doors beside his bench. He offers a nervous, apologetic half-smile which is not returned. 

It’s been a long time since anyone smiled at him.

Martin hisses softly between his teeth and shakes his hands as if to banish the thought. A hobby. God. What kind of hobby would I even pick up?

A quick run through of his interests is as fruitless as it was when he had the same mental conversation with himself last night. There’s always gardening; plants have always been one of the focal points of his life, but the flat offers very little indoor space and even less outdoor space to tend them. He can’t afford to buy an instrument, his social anxiety runs far too rampant for him to try to join a club of any sort, and video games and the like never keep his attention. He slumps further on the bench. He can barely remember how he passed time before his mother’s diagnosis. Well… There were those two, shining years away from her, but he hadn’t exactly been pursuing hobbies then. He’d been studying furiously, every waking moment consumed by university coursework. 

God, he thinks again. There is a trickle of despair making its way through his emptiness, corrupting it as it always eventually did. He grabs his phone from where it rests on the bench beside him and opens it, not thinking about which app he will open to drive away his emotions until his finger has selected one. He scrolls. Facebook has never been his forte, and the names and faces he sees are but distantly connected to childhood memories. Someone has tagged him in a flowery image about loss. He squints at it for a half second before continuing to scroll. He spends several minutes this way, barely stopping to read anything, watching one video of a cat without clicking on it for sound.

He hesitates over an image of a man in a ridiculously outdated suit. For a few seconds, Martin thinks the man is in costume, but the post itself gives no indication that it's anything less than a serious advertisement about… a poetry anthology. He shifts his shoulders slightly. He’d once considered himself something of a casual poetry nerd. He’d even taken a course on the subject back in his last term before the fateful phone call from his mother. Martin continues to read the post. 

The man, Simon Fairchild, is apparently a local writer, and he’s doing a reading tonight from his newest work - Sky Blue , a title which offers very little helpful information about the contents of the anthology - at the Magnus Library. Martin halfway remembers from the library from his childhood. He glances at the time at the top of his phone screen. If he hasn’t forgotten the location of the library, he can easily bike there before the event begins.

A twinge of anxiety commands his chest to tighten. He hasn’t spent time around strangers outside of work and his mother’s funeral in years, and for good reason. He has always been hopelessly uncomfortable around others, and the idea of willingly placing himself into even the most vaguely social scenarios makes him want to return to his bed and never leave. He shakes his free hand slightly, letting his mind narrow in on the sensation to distract from the nervousness pulsing through it. 

“I need to do… something,” he whispers. “I need this.” Even if the reading only offers him an hour’s distraction from the emptiness of his flat, his mind, and his life, he knows that he has to do something other than continuing the same cycle that has drug him further and further from himself for so long. 

And so, before his anxiety can convince him otherwise, Martin stands, unlocks his bicycle from the nearby rack, and pedals in the direction of the library.

Not only does he arrive before the event begins, he arrives almost a full hour early. He follows the sign over the front desk to the adult section on the left hand side of the building. Before he’s taken a dozen steps, he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia. The scent of dust and books and worn furniture wraps around him like an embrace. It almost manages to dislodge some of the panic that’s trying to settle itself in the back of his throat, and he takes a deep breath to welcome more of the comforting smell into his lungs. His feet scuff on faded blue carpet as he enters the library proper. It's objectively hideous, but it fills him with the closest thing to happiness he’s felt in a long while. The feeling of being in a safe place combats his anxiety at being in a new environment, but both of those feelings are immediately overshadowed by a traitorous jolt of Martin’s queer little heart. The culprit? An unjustly pretty man with dark hair in a hasty updo, wearing a library t-shirt.  Stop that, Martin warns himself. I know what you’re like . 

He doesn’t listen. When does he ever? For once his social ineptitude takes charge before his nervousness can fully kick in, and he opens his mouth. “Um, ex-excuse me,” he stutters out in a choked whisper, “do you work here?”

The man shifts to fully face him. His eyes are the same bright green of his t-shirt - or maybe the shirt makes them look brighter than they are? He points to the badge on his shirt. Martin can’t bring himself to look at it. His anxiety has spread its wings and soared into full flight. Oh God, he’s absurd, he’s ridiculous, he’s so stupid , God - “Oh, um, sorry.” Now Martin is looking anywhere but at the man, whom he has clearly annoyed. Of course he bloody works here, Martin, you saw his bloody shirt! You hate it when customers do this to you at work, why would you turn around and do the same bloody thing? 

“I’m, um, looking for the poetry thing? Um. I think I might be early?” His words rush out almost as quickly as his racing thoughts.

The man gestures around the shelf he’d been leaning against, and Martin now notices a handful of chairs grouped before a speaker’s stand. He cringes at his own obtuseness. If only he’d taken half a minute to look for himself rather than bothering this cruelly attractive man, oh God he should never have come, he should have known what happens when he steps out of his comfort zone, and God the man is talking now, explaining that he is, indeed, early.

Martin holds his own hand to keep from shaking it, nodding quickly. “Thanks, sorry,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

The man’s stern expression softens slightly, and his voice is softer too when he speaks again. “My pleasure. Let me know if I can help with anything else, okay? There are flyers on the table there.” He indicates the table in question, which also seems to boast some sort of sign-in sheet. 

Martin manages to squeak out another “thanks” before scurrying to the table. He adds his name and email to the top of the paper, grabs a flyer without looking at it, and drops as quickly as possible into the chair farthest from the podium. Two old men are seated by it, one clearly the same strangely-dressed one from the Facebook post, but both are too distracted by a third man approaching them to glance his way. Small favors.

Martin spends the next hour staring alternately between his phone and the flyer crumpling in his hands, silently cursing himself for being so anxious and so gay. He finally manages to calm himself into a more regulated level of nervousness by the time a handful of other people begin to find seats among the dozen or so folding chairs. Thankfully, none of them sit beside him - he’s nowhere near ready for that kind of social interaction. He sits on his hands as the poet, Simon Fairchild, is introduced by one of the other old men, takes his place behind the podium, and begins to speak.

He offers a few anecdotes about the writing process and his inspiration before spending about twenty minutes reading rather predictably mediocre excerpts from his anthology. It almost reminds Martin of being in a university lecture, which is strangely soothing. At some point during the event, Martin’s eyes find the pretty librarian again. He’s leaning against the same shelf and watching Simon with a tired and distant expression. Martin notices now that his shirt is far more wrinkled than any item of clothing has a right to be, which would be almost laughable if it didn’t somehow showcase the altogether strained and rumpled look of the man himself. Martin is surprised to feel a twinge of… pity? Empathy? Hm. He can’t quite place it, but there is something painfully familiar about the worn way the man holds himself. 

Then the man’s intensely green eyes land on him, and Martin swallows back a noise of distress as he quickly faces Simon once more. The poet is winding down, explaining where the few attendees can purchase his anthology.

“But,” he assures them, “I have donated two copies to the library.”

His two companions offer a hushed smatter of applause, which a few of the other guests echo. Martin does not. He doesn’t think he can move at all, because the librarian is now approaching the podium with a slow and slightly uneven gait.

“Thanks, Mr. Fairchild,” he says, “and thank you to everyone who came out this evening. And, of course, thank you to Mr. Magnus and the rest of the donors who make events like this possible.” He almost sounds sincere. Almost. “If you’re interested in coming to another event, you can subscribe to the library newsletter by adding your name to the sheet at the table there to get monthly updates, or you can email in suggestions to myself or the library director. Our information is on the handouts at the front desk. Thank you all again.” He clears his throat uncomfortably and steps away from the podium.

Simon Fairchild and the other two men in the front row immediately strike up conversation again and head toward the door without speaking to the librarian, and the rest of the guests disappear within the next couple of minutes. Martin is the only one who remains, once again staring down at the floor as he tries to gather the willpower to return home. The library is now almost as silent as his flat, but it’s a warm and restful quiet rather than the tense emptiness awaiting him. He breathes in deeply through his nose as if to absorb as much of the nostalgic smell he can claim.

The librarian begins to collect the first row of folding chairs. Realizing that he’ll soon be in the way, Martin stands and wrings his hands. “Um. Can I help?”

“No need,” the man says without looking at him, then hesitates. “What did you think, then? Did you enjoy the reading?”

Martin can’t tell if he genuinely wants to know or if he’s simply being polite. He manages to offer an eloquent answer through the knot swiftly rising in his throat. “Um.” He shakes out his hands quickly and shoves them into his pockets. “Yes, thank you. The, uh, the poetry was… nice? And,” he adds, quickly and truthfully, “I like it in here. The library. I forgot how, um, cozy? Libraries are.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” the man says with more ease than Martin’s heard from him so far, finally looking over at him. His lips twitch into what could, in the flickering artificial light, be construed as the barest of smiles.

Oh.

 “To be fair,” he goes on, “poetry has never really spoken to me, but I am glad someone got some enjoyment out of it all.”

“What, seriously? But you’re, you know!” Martin looks around at the surrounding shelves, instantly regretting the way the words fell so quickly from his mouth. Either he can’t speak at all or he has no filter, this is his burden to bear in life.

“A librarian?” the man says dryly. “You know, one’s career doesn’t have to replace their personality.”

“N-no, of course not.” Martin digs his nails into the palms of his hands as he forces himself to take a step toward the exit. “Um. Well. Thanks. For the, um, poetry.” Then he’s fleeing the space as quickly as he dares. 

The entire ride home, he berates himself for his lack of social skills, anxiety continuing to assault him long after he’s let himself into his flat and burrowed into his bed. Even with his head under the blankets, he still shivers with nervousness as he replays his stumbling conversation - and he only attributes some of those shivers to the clenching in his chest when he thinks about the way the librarian’s green eyes shone in that tiny moment of friendliness.

Chapter Text

It’s something like a week after the poetry night, and Martin is spending his lunch break scrolling mindlessly through his phone as always when he gets an email alert. “Summer Reading Ideas! - July News [Magnus Library Monthly Updates]” reads the subject line. Martin clicks the banner out of habit. He’s forgotten about leaving his information on the sign-in sheet, but he won’t complain about the diversion from another depressing news article. A tinge of warmth awakes in his chest as he recalls the poetry night again, and it’s hard to say whether its residual embarrassment about his display of awkwardness or another spark of that confused, flushed happiness that’s tied to his memory of bright green eyes and an almost imperceptible smile. He wiggles a little in his chair. 

The email is fairly standard. It begins with the promised list of summer reading inspiration, followed by a snapshot of a carefully arranged display of what appears to be some of the recommended books. There’s the briefest of paragraphs about the employee of the month - one Sasha James, apparently - and, finally, a calendar. It’s mostly empty; there’s a senior chess club meeting every other Saturday afternoon, a typing skills class on the second Tuesday of the month, and a children’s read-aloud on the upcoming Thursday morning. Martin has a sudden image of the pretty librarian reading a picture book to a gaggle of children and bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, glancing furtively around to make sure none of his coworkers are looking at him. They aren’t, of course. 

Martin Blackwood, you are hopeless, he tells himself without any real conviction. Honestly. He speaks to one attractive man and is reduced to this absurd caricature of a besotted primary school child. 

He returns his attention to the email. He’s toyed with the idea of returning to the library for the past few days, not to get another glimpse of the librarian of course , but for the calming atmosphere and the possibility of a distraction from his soul-sucking routine. 

There had been a time, too many years ago, when Martin had been consumed by his desire to read any and every book laid before him. He’d devoured poetry and prose alike, addicted to the way written words could pull him out of his own head and into a world where the outcast could become someone special and where every emotion, no matter how overwhelming or insignificant, might be valued. Where someone’s inner life could be recognized as beautiful even when Martin was the only one allowed into it. It made him want to be understood and treasured too, made him wish so desperately that he knew how to take the richness of his mind and show it to others in the ways that seemed to come so easily to everyone but him. 

Of course, that was when he’d had any thoughts or feelings worth sharing.

Martin shifts in his chair again, this time uncomfortably, as he is reminded once more of the void his life has become. He’s so very tired of it all. It’s this frustration with his own numbness that pushes him to look at the email once again. Maybe he can take this small step, maybe he can begin to rebuild by remembering that love of stories from so long ago. In an instant, he’s made up his mind. After work, he’ll return to the library and he won’t leave until he’s found something beautiful to read.

Martin’s newfound determination carries him throughout the rest of his shift and all along the bike ride to the Magnus Library. He falters slightly as he secures his bike to the rack outside the inviting building. He is not thinking about the pretty librarian. No. Absolutely not. In fact, he’s thinking so hard about not thinking about the pretty librarian that he almost collides with someone standing just inside the doors as he enters the library.

“Sorry,” he gasps at the woman, who is almost as tall as he is.

She folds her arms across the chest of her uniform - oh God she’s security - did libraries usually have security? - and stares at him silently. 

“Good afternoon! Is there anything I can help you with today?” calls a friendly voice from the front desk.

Martin is so grateful for the distraction he forgets just how anxious he is about speaking to a new person. The woman smiles encouragingly at him as he approaches. Her name badge reads “Sasha” - employee of the month Sasha, probably. Good for her , Martin thinks. “Um,” he says instead, “hi, I was, um, hoping to check out some books today. I don’t have a library card though.”

“No problem!” Sasha says. “If you have your photo id on hand I can set you up an account in just a few minutes!”

Martin fumbles with his wallet to produce the id in question. Then he turns the wallet over and over in his hands while Sasha types information from the card into her computer. That familiar smell he remembers from last week settles into his lungs with ease and loosens some of the tightness of his shoulders. 

“Okay, Mr. Blackwood,” Sasha says as she slides his id back toward him. “Your card will be mailed to you within the week, but you can use your id again to check out any books you find today.” Her smile is so easy and assuring that Martin can’t help smiling back. 

“Thanks,” he answers softly, slipping his id into his wallet and returning it to his back pocket before heading toward the carpet that marks the beginning of the adult section. 

The library thrums with a kind of muffled white noise, the distant clattering of a keyboard and the occasional flap of a turning page, muted voices filtering through the tall, faded cherrywood shelves. It presses in gently and Martin is reminded once again of being embraced. He doesn’t feel alone here, even though there’s no one so much as looking his way - it’s a companionable quietness and it slowly eases more of his anxious tension away. He wanders the first few rows of shelves slowly, pausing every few steps to look over the book titles. He recognizes some of them and realizes he’s found the library’s collection of an old favorite author. One title he distantly recalls having owned but never gotten around to reading; he gently dislodges it from its row and flips it over to read the synopsis. Yes, this one seems like a good start. He can’t stop himself from turning the first page and quickly reading the opening paragraph, and he feels a little smile nudging the corners of his lips at the familiar cadence of a once loved author. 

He’s interrupted by the gentle squeak of rolling wheels and looks up just in time to meet the bright green eyes of the pretty librarian as he turns into the row with a shelving cart. 

“Oh! Um, sorry, I’m in the way,” Martin stammers, quickly backing away.

“No, you’re fine,” the librarian assures him. He glances between Martin’s face and the book in his hands. “Finding everything all right?”

Martin nods hastily and holds up the book as if the librarian can’t already see it.

“I was sad to see that series end,” the librarian says conversationally, taking a book from his cart and placing it on the shelf. 

“I, um, I haven’t finished it,” Martin says. His heart is beginning to race again, and he has to swallow hard to keep the knot of anxiety from rising back up in his throat.

The librarian makes a small noise of acknowledgment and reaches for another book from his shelf. He frowns slightly as he looks upward, then strains on the tips of his toes to reach the book’s apparent home. 

Martin catches the twisting of discomfort on the librarian’s face as he stretches and steps forward quickly. “Oh, let me!” he offers before he can second guess himself. 

“No, it’s fine, I’m -” The librarian cuts himself off with a slight gasp.

Martin frowns. “I can reach it for you.”

The other man seems to enter into a brief war with himself, but he steps back and hands the book to Martin with the curtest of nods. Martin, almost a full  foot taller than the librarian, has no trouble returning it to its proper place. 

“Thanks.” The man’s voice is rough and clipped like the first time he’d spoken to Martin last week, and Martin feels himself drawing away with a wince. 

Boundaries, much? he berates himself. He always has to step in where he’s not wanted, always has to somehow do the wrong bloody thing, never can tell what’s expected and appropriate -

“Hey, I’m sorry. Thank you, really,” the librarian says. There’s something like guilt in his face now. “Did you, ah, did you need help finding anything else?”

Martin shakes his head, hugging the book to his chest. 

The man keeps going, as if overcompensating for his brusqueness with too much politeness. “Well, if you want any recommendations when you finish that one, I’m happy to help. I don’t know if you enjoy older literature, but some people compared that series’ style to some Victorian works like -”

“Oh, I love Victorian literature,” Martin blurts out, cutting off the librarian’s awkward rambling. “I, um, I did a course on it back in university.” 

“Really?” The librarian offers a more genuine half smile. “Did you do a literature degree too?”

“Well.” Martin looks down at his feet as embarrassment curls up in his chest. “I, um, didn’t exactly finish the degree.”

“Ah.”

“N-not because I didn’t want to,” Martin rushes to explain, mortified at the idea of this beautiful, academic man thinking he’s the sort of person who didn’t care about his education or who was too stupid to get through a course. “I, um, I got interrupted. Family things… um, I just never got to go back and now it’s, it’s too late… y’know?” he finishes in a whisper. 

The librarian is considering him with yet another expression on his face, though this one is far more unreadable. “I don’t think it’s ever really too late,” he says slowly.

Martin tightens his grip on the book. “I guess.” 

The librarian resumes his work, placing another book from the cart into the shelf. “You were at the poetry reading, right?”

“Yes,” Martin says quietly. 

“I was thinking I hadn’t seen you around here before that.”

“No.” Words are hard sometimes. Martin studies the shelf past the librarian's head. 

“Well… thank you for coming to the event. I was afraid no one would turn up at all.” The librarian isn’t looking at him either.

“Oh, s-sure, yeah,” Martin says in a rush of breath. “I, um, I needed to get out, y’know?”

“Right.” The librarian falls back into silence. 

Martin stands there for a handful of seconds before shaking one of his hands slightly and backing away. “Um. Thanks again.” 

He manages to bumble his way back to the front desk, through another quick exchange with Sasha as she checks out his book, past the security guard, and out the door again before his cursed panic can cause him to freeze up again. 

He’s back at the library two days later to return the finished book. This time he leaves with a small stack of books, and he finds himself so absorbed in them that it’s hard to break away each day long enough to go to work. It’s been a long time since Martin’s found himself lost in the excitement of something new, but the reawakening of joy and interest sets him into a giddy high that overshadows the monotony his life has become.

He forgot how he thrives on this. He lost that churning of energy and passion that had once driven him to learn about and exult in the things that mattered to him. But as he spends the next few weeks rediscovering what it means to care about something, the pretty librarian’s words echo relentlessly in his mind. I don’t think it’s ever really too late .

Martin opens his laptop late one night after setting aside another finished book. He shakes his hands animatedly as he waits for it to boot up, then searches his university and literature degrees online. 

-------

Jon yawns widely and tries to ease the stiffness in his hands by slowly flexing his fingers as far as he can before wrapping them around the too-warm mug of tea waiting on the table top. It’s always worse in the mornings. He stares blearily out of the narrow kitchen window.

“Really? You’re heading into work already, after the long night you pulled?” His flatmate Georgie squeezes past him to retrieve her bagels from the toaster. “Honestly, Jon, it’s like you actually like the place.” She pops open a jar of peanut butter, watching him closely.

Jon has to work for a moment to get coherent words out of his mouth. “I… do.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Georgie says, pointing at him with a knife covered in peanut butter. “According to Melanie, according to Tim, you’re one argument with Gertrude away from jumping ship.”

“Okay, firstly, Tim has never been a credible source in his life. And secondly, this is how you repay me for getting your girlfriend a job?” Jon rolls his eyes. “Not safe from workplace gossip even in my own home.”

“I have to stay in the know somehow, Jon! It’s not like you’d ever volunteer information yourself. I have to resort to unsavory tactics.” Georgie grins at him, then pauses for a beat before continuing more gently. “Really, Jon, I just want you to be… okay. Be happy. Are you sure the library is - ”

“I’m not going to quit the library,” Jon snaps. “First Sasha, now you? It’s like you all want me out of that place.”

“Jon,” Georgie says quietly, “all we want is the best for you. If that’s the library, fine, I support you. I guess I just see how much stress it’s caused you lately, and, well, you don’t seem as… fulfilled anymore.”

Jon stares down into his mug of tea without drinking from it. “I just… I can’t give up on it. Not yet. Gertrude… she’s overwhelmed. It’s been a hard year. But I know it can get better, and I know I can help make it better. People need the library. Remember how we needed it, growing up?”

“I remember,” Georgie says, and Jon knows she’s thinking back to their teen years, when they’d first met, skittish and closeted, two out of a half dozen misfits in an awkward huddle, looking for a place they could drop the mask and simply be . 

The library had been that place. Its tucked away corner of queer literature, its kind staff who were prepared with resources when Jon first spoke the word “transition” with a shaking and hopeful voice, its promise of acceptance and welcome and safety - it had been their haven.

“I still need it,” Jon says with a note of desperation. “There are other people who still need it. I can’t abandon it now, just because it’s changed. I have to bring it back, Georgie, I have to keep it safe for people who don’t have safe places.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” Georgie says, “you have to take care of yourself too. You know I worry about you.” She takes a bite out of her bagel.

Jon fidgets. Shrugs. “I am taking care of myself.”

Georgie raises a skeptical eyebrow. “When’s the last time you got more than five hours of sleep in a night? When’s the last time you ate more than one meal in a day? When’s the last time you wore your braces? When’s - ”

“Fine! Point taken! I surrender!” Jon tries to maintain his grumpy tone but fails, taking a slow sip from his mug instead. “I just… I get busy. I don’t have time, always.”

Georgie grabs her phone from her pocket, grinning again. “I can always text Nikola, have her swing round to check up on you -”

Jon blanches. “That won’t be necessary.” He pauses, then adds, “Um… thanks, Georgie. I… appreciate... ” He trails off with a grimace.

“All right, all right, don’t strain yourself. I know you appreciate me, you love me, you’re unendingly grateful for my guiding presence in your life,” Georgie chirps, ruffling his hair as she passes him on her way out of the kitchen. “But you really had better be home by 8 tonight, I’m making lasagna and I will kill you if you’re not here to praise me for it.”

It’s a brief commute to the library, and Jon isn’t surprised to be one of the first employees in the door. Of course Gertrude is already here, holed away in her office, but the only other person in sight is Jane, the senior library technician. 

“Oh, Jon, I’m glad I caught you,” she says, following him to his desk. She sounds like she has a cold - she has for the ten years Jon’s known her. 

Jon drapes his cardigan over the back of his chair with a sigh. “Yes?”

“I’ve just about finished cataloging Mr. Fairchild’s donations, and - ”

“What? He already sent in the copies of his anthology.”

“Oh, these are new. Apparently he found our poetry section lacking and brought in… quite the assortment.”

Jon wipes a hand over his face. “How many?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Christ! Where are we supposed to put thirty-seven new volumes of poetry?” Jon groans. 

“In the poetry section, I presume,” Jane says primly. “Or wherever else you find room for them that isn’t in my work space. I’d like them out of the way by the end of the day.”

It truly takes every ounce of patience within Jon’s admittedly small body to keep the worst of his frustration contained. Jane is insufferable on the best of days, but never more so than when she acts like Jon is somehow failing in his work duties. “I’ll do what I can, Jane.”

She drifts away without another word, and Jon drops into his desk chair with another heaving sigh. His knees are already loudly protesting every movement, and his morning brain fog hasn’t cleared enough to allow him to think productively without great struggle. He tries to concentrate, to reorder the tasks he’d hoped to accomplish today now that they’ve been completely derailed.

Why does Simon Fairchild care about our poetry section? Honestly, Jon had expected never to see or hear about the eccentric old man again after his reading several weeks ago. 

“Morning, boss!” Tim’s booming voice breaks through Jon’s thoughts.

“After how long,” Jon asks through gritted teeth, “will you finally learn to use your quiet voice ?”

“Oh, you know me! Absolutely useless, can’t be taught a thing!” Tim is far too cheerful for a Wednesday morning. “What’s got you so tense today?”

Jon explains the situation and finishes with, “We might as well get started now so we don’t fall too far behind -”

Tim throws back his head with a dramatic groan. “Now Jon, my badge may read ‘happy to help,’ but it's a bloody liar and I’d really like you to go away.”

“What are we helping Jon with?” Sasha calls as she walks through the front doors. She’s hand in hand with Gerry, of course, though she releases him as they part by the circulation desk to head to their respective domains for the work day. She’s holding their matching lunch bags as always and looks, much like Tim, completely too awake .

Tim makes a stiff little noise in the back of his throat. “Dealing with more Fairchild bullshit, apparently.”

“Tim,” Jon says, exasperated. 

“Sorry, boss, sorry.” Tim holds up his hand with a placating smile, though the way his eyes dart toward Sasha make Jon question for whose benefit the good behavior really was.

“Melanie should be fine on circulation,” Sasha says after hearing the dilemma. “Tim and I can handle this, Jon, so you can focus on whatever you had planned for the day.”

Jon looks slowly between them. Tim offers an agreeable shrug, and Sasha is already heading toward the break room with her two lunch bags, so he relents with a quick, hushed exhale. “Fine, all right, just - just let me know if you need help.”

“Of course, boss.” Tim swaggers off in the direction of the cataloging room.

Jon lets out another low breath and leans back carefully in his chair. He takes a moment to survey the desk’s somewhat navigable state of disarray before awakening his computer with a click. He pulls up the document he’d put together so carefully, which he’d only finished hours after the library’s doors had been locked the night before, and stares at it with eyes still burning from exhaustion. 

Trans Support Group Proposal reads the document’s header. It’s followed by an extensive list of details, from suggested meeting dates and times to a budget outline to conversation starter ideas to resources to potential local speakers… everything Jon could think to include in the proposal was there. He’d put so much into this. Hours of research and drafting until he was finally satisfied - but that was only the first part. Probably the easiest part too, if history were to repeat itself. Now he has to convince Gertrude that this is something worth doing.

Jon knows it is. He knows the gap that exists in the community - God, he’s floated in that gap for as long as he can remember. He’s all too aware of the hunger, the desperation for safety, for shelter, for a gathering point. Truthfully the proposal is as much for himself as it is for the greater community, but they are what drives him. As always. He takes a deep, steadying breath and begins to draft an email to Gertrude.

It’s nearly 4 pm before he remembers to check in on Tim and Sasha’s project in the poetry section. He stretches, barely suppressing an audible wince at the jolt of pain that accompanies sudden movement, before shuffling toward the far corner of the library. The assistants are nowhere in sight, but the narrow row of shelves is occupied by a newly familiar face.

Jon’s yet to catch the man’s name, but since Simon Fairchild’s predictably mediocre reading night, he’s been appearing with increasing frequency. He’s painfully nervous, though he seems vaguely less so the more time he spends in the library, but he seems to have been avoiding Jon since their second meeting. Jon bites his lip ruefully. He probably deserves that; he knows better than to let his pain translate into snappishness with patrons and he’s felt a twinge of guilt each time he’s seen the other man since. He wants to apologize, prove that he can be kind and helpful and welcoming, but every time he’s seen the man his soft eyes widen into an anxiousness that always precedes him ducking away. 

Now, however, those eyes are bright with something new - pure, glowing excitement. He’s staring at the shelf before him, and it takes Jon only a second to realize he’s found the new volumes of poetry. He bounces on his toes and moves fluttering hands between the spines as if he can’t decide which to touch.

“Those were just put out today,” Jon offers, taking a hesitant step closer.

The man visibly flinches, whipping toward Jon like a startled deer. “Oh - oh - ” he stammers.

Jon draws back apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The man blinks those wide eyes down at him, his hands now moving more jerkily in front of him for a quick second before he clasps them together. “Oh - it’s fine, sorry, I, um -”

Off to a great start, he’s nailing the welcoming thing. Jon kicks himself mentally. “You really do like poetry, then?” he tries again. Honestly, what is wrong with him? He has two standards for himself, be professional and be welcoming, and yet he manages to fall short every time he talks to this one patron? 

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” The man is as hesitant as ever, but he does manage the smallest of smiles.

Jon is eager to return it. See, he can be friendly! “Good! I mean, I’m glad someone will appreciate all these donations. They’re from - well, you remember Mr. Fairchild, I’m sure, from the poetry reading?”

“I do.”

“I guess he thought we were… shortcoming in the poetry department.” Jon glances over the shelves, noting a few of the titles Simon had deemed necessary for their collection. The other man follows his gaze, hands still twisting together slowly. “Ah, well, I’ll let you browse. Let me know if I can help you find anything… My name is Jon,” he adds quickly, pointing to the badge on his shirt.

The man pauses for a moment, expression cloudy, before answering quietly, “Jon. Okay, I will. Um. I’m… Martin.” 

“Martin!” Jon repeats. The name is comfortable and soft in his mouth. Another genuine smile tugs across his face. 

Martin’s breath catches slightly, and he looks for a moment as if he’s trying to decide whether to say something before he blurts, “Thank you, by the way. For your advice.”

“Advice?”

“Oh, um. About it never being too late and all that… University.” Martin casts his eyes between Jon and the shelves in quick succession. “I’ve actually decided to finish my degree. Online… can’t afford to move back into London now, but… well, I guess I remembered how important it was to me. And I’m going to finish now. I start in just a few weeks, actually. So… thanks. For prompting me. I, I don’t know if you meant to do that, but - well, yeah.”

Jon is speechless for a few beats. “Wow, that’s - that’s wonderful. Congratulations, Martin.”

Martin flushes deeply. “Thanks,” he says again.

“You know, if you ever need a place to do your work, someplace quiet or someplace with wifi, you’re welcome here any time,” Jon says quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he’s had a chance to determine if this is Jon-the-librarian or Jon-the-person speaking. “The desks over by nonfiction don’t get a lot of traffic, and I know how hard it can be to focus on online coursework from home.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, thank you! Um.” Martin peers around in the direction of the desks. “Wouldn’t I, um, would I be in the way?”

“Of course not, that’s what they’re here for,” Jon says with all the warmth he can fit into his voice. 

“O-okay.” Martin is still blushing, and his eyes are still dancing everywhere but at Jon’s, but there’s a gentle happiness floating over his usual spiky anxiety. 

Jon would like to see that quiet joy again. He would like Martin to feel comfortable here, to know that this library is a safe place as long as he’s here to protect its sanctity.

He blinks hard at that thought and takes the slightest of steps backward. “Well, like I said, let me know if I can help you with anything else, all right? See you around.”

“See you around,” Martin echoes in a whisper, and Jon isn’t sure if he imagines the grin that breaks across his face just as he steps out of sight, but he can feel a mirrored one forming on his own mouth.

It’s a strange sensation, awkward in its newness, but it’s nice. Something in his stomach shifts, like a cat twisting round itself before finding a comfortable place to lie down and claim, and Jon wonders briefly if he shouldn’t give poetry another chance.

Chapter Text

By the standards Jon has learned to live with, today is a Good Day. He wakes with hands that flex without resistance and enough energy to roll out of bed without cringing. He doesn’t even have the usual heavy fibro fog that tends to dominate his mind first thing in the morning, which is why he’s optimistic enough to reply to the text Nikola’s sent him overnight.

Nikola

hey asshole, remember how u owe me for my years of free bodyguard service ?? 

Jon

To what are you referring?

She responds almost immediately.

Nikola

tiny high school nerd boy always bothering ppl to read dumb books and care about politics ?? size of an actual rat ?? bby the bullies took one look at u and said Free Real Estate, honey i saved u

Jon spends the time it takes him to drink his morning tea debating the merits of pointing out that his version of events looks less like a rescue and more like ‘terrified nerd forcibly adopted by school riot lesbian’ and involves a fair amount of bullying from Nikola herself. He settles on another tactic.

Jon

I believe we’ve been on equal footing since I secured library employment for your pet disaster.

Nikola

tim isn’t my pet disaster bby he’ll never replace u in my heart

Jon sputters. “I’m not a disaster!”

Jon

Regardless, I put up with him every day for you. What more do you want from me?

Nikola

i just want to spend time with youuu jonny, i miss u 

Jon sighs. It’s not that he’s avoiding Nikola, just that he’s always so busy and so tired, and she’s... well, she’s Nikola. 

Nikola

georgie promised to hang out with me next week. be like georgie, jon. follow her good influence

Jon

Fine, I’ll come along. 

Nikola

u won’t regret it!

Historically, that is debatable, but Jon tries to hold out hope. He puts away his phone and quickly dresses for work.

Once he’s at the library, he falls into a focus so intense that he barely registers the passage of time until, at some point after noon, his pen runs out of ink two words into the sentence he’s scratching onto a sticky note.

 “What? Ugh.” He shakes it and tries again hopefully, but it’s really and truly given its all in the line of duty. He drops it into the bin by his desk with a sigh. 

“Need a pen?”

Jon looks up in surprise at Martin’s voice. The taller man offers him a nervous smile as he rummages in his bag, then extends a pen toward him with a hand that’s shaking slightly less than usual. 

“Oh… Thank you.” Jon accepts it as graciously as he can manage. Looks back down at the sticky note. What was he writing again? He’s not sure if his thoughts have been derailed by the interruption of the pen’s failure or by the sudden presence of Martin. When he opens his mouth again, it’s with the sort of anxious laugh far more common from Martin than from himself. “Er, looking for anything in particular today?”

“No, just here to study.” Martin pats the bag slung over his shoulder.

Jon’s eyes widen with realization. “Your coursework! It’s started?”

“Yeah, yesterday.” Martin smiles shyly. “But… it’s never too early to get ahead, right? Figured I’d get a few hours of study in after work… Not like I’ve got anything else to do at home.” He drops his eyes and scuffs his shoe into the faded blue carpet.

There’s something deeper there, little suggestions of loneliness and sadness poking out of Martin’s voice like threads from a jumper. Jon wants to tug, unravel, learn why Martin walks around wearing forlornness like a veil, but he stops himself. It would probably be inappropriate, and he already finds it unreasonably difficult to keep up his professional attitude around Martin. So instead he only says, “You’re welcome here as long as you like.”

“Thanks,” Martin begins, but his eyes catch on the flyer sitting beside Jon’s hands on their way back up to his face and his entire demeanor changes. “Trans support group?”

Jon resists the temptation to cover the flyer. Martin doesn’t strike him as the sort to hate anybody , but wariness is a hard trait to unlearn after years of harsh reactions. He nods slowly. “Yes. I’m working on putting one together.”

“Oh… oh, I wish I were brave enough to go to something like that,” Martin says in a rush, then slaps a hand over his mouth as if shocked at himself.

“To a support group? A trans support group?” Jon can’t hold himself back from pushing further, his urge to learn about Martin overwhelming his promise to himself to mind his own goddamn business. 

Martin answers with the tiniest of nods. His usual aggressive anxiety is clearly taking over whatever ease he’d had before.

Jon hesitates, then points to the small print on his badge beneath his name. He/Him. “Um… you too?”

What might be the full range of human emotions passes over Martin’s face before he squeaks out, “Oh. You too.”

He’s queer, Jon thinks, jolted with a new energy, and actually beams at Martin. “You know, you’d be welcome in the group whenever. You wouldn’t have to talk. I’d even, I’d sit with you, if it helped, to know someone.”

“Y-you would?” Martin shifts his grip on the strap of his bag. 

“Of course I would, Martin.” Jon hesitates. “Well, if the group gets approved at all. The director here is… notoriously hesitant to commit to any new events.”

“Except for read alouds and the like?”

He keeps up with the library schedule? 

“Do you do those?” Martin asks, shy curiosity lilting in his voice. 

“Oh no, that’s the children’s librarian, Michael.”

“Right. Hm.” Martin shuffles a bit, his face flushing before he even gets out the next few words. “You’d be nice, though, your, um, voice. Reading. Out loud.” 

Jon is so taken aback that he loses his entire mental catalogue of appropriate responses to compliments. Instead he stammers out, “Well, so would you, probably. Read nicely.”

“In my voice,” Martin says slowly.

“Yes, I’d… I’d hope so.”

They stare at each other in silence for a few moments, and Jon realizes his narrow frame is literally rocking with the force of his heartbeat. He didn’t know it could do that. He wraps his arms around himself quickly and leans back in his chair as if to hide in the folds of the cardigan draped there. “Well, um, good luck with the studying.”

“Studying. Right…. Thanks.” Martin trails away from Jon’s desk.

“What’s this, Sims?” Daisy demands, suddenly crowding into the space Martin had just occupied. Her eyes glint dangerously with a smile that is not malicious but is, nonetheless, terrifying. 

“What’s what?” He knows there’s a petulant edge to his voice and doesn’t care. He squints down at the sticky note once again. 

“You’re awfully flustered for a man with no feelings.” Daisy prowls around the desk to peer over Jon’s shoulder. 

“I - I have feelings,” he protests. “Look at me, I’m feeling right now! I’m indignant.”

“You’re appearing to have a lot of feelings for a man with the emotional expression of a brick,” Daisy revises.

“That’s rude.” Jon sniffs. He finishes writing his note deliberately, not gracing Daisy with another glance. 

“Hm. Bold coming from you,” Daisy says, but she finally takes the hint and continues her lap around the library. 

Jon watches her go, then stretches himself carefully and checks the time. He’s trying to be better about remembering lunch, and he’s fairly sure Tim should be back from his break by now. He should take the opportunity before he gets sucked into another string of emails.

Tim, however, is still in the break room, and so is Gerry. They’re leaning incredibly close together - Tim is holding his phone, and his face is practically in Gerry’s long, loose hair as he shows him something that’s making both of them grin as they look up at him.

“Oh, sorry,” Jon says. He suddenly gets the impression that he’s missing some important piece of information. “I thought you were back from lunch already.”

Tim jerks away from Gerry and onto his feet, tossing the remainder of his food away in a quick motion. He mutters an apology and sweeps past Jon.

Huh. Jon glances back toward Gerry, who’s munching cheerfully with a distant gleam in his eyes. Jon’s spent months thinking Tim was battling some sort of crush on Sasha, but maybe he’d been misinterpreting jealousy for her boyfriend all along. 

Gerry does not seem interested in elaborating in whatever just happened, so Jon restrains his more nosy desires in favor of focusing on heating his canned soup to the perfect temperature. It’s an impossible task. 

He’s too distracted by thoughts of Martin maybe possibly coming to the maybe possible trans support group to mind.

He’s queer! his mind pipes up again. 

He’s trans, Jon tells himself firmly, but that could be it. He might be straight. Then, Hang on, why do you care?

That’s not a thought to unpack over lunch, so Jon deliberately puts it away for another time.

The problem with good days is that they’re too easy to take advantage of.

The rest of the week is surprisingly decent, with no flares and only a low buzz of pain in the back of his mind. It’s been nice. Jon’s been trying to get as much done as possible, pushing himself to be especially productive while he can be.

Only by Friday night he’s used up all of his extra energy and then some, and suddenly his knees are buckling as he tries to rise from returning books from a bottom shelf. It’s like one moment they’re stiff, sore but usable, and the next they’re nothing but putty. Except if putty were holding a razor to his nerves. He gasps softly, the heels of his hands scraping the carpet painfully as he catches himself mid tumble.

“Jon.” Georgie’s voice is sharp, mostly with concern.

Jon looks up with the wide eyes of a child caught sneaking their confiscated toy out of a parent’s room. “Georgie, what are you - ?”

“Jon, I told you to be careful.” Georgie crouches and offers him a supporting arm. “Can you get up?”

“I can, I’m -” He cuts himself off as his throat clenches. Okay, not fine, but he will be. Pain lances through his legs from the ankles up and lodges more firmly in his knees. “What are you doing here?” He tries to let go of her once he’s in a standing position, but finds that he doesn’t have the balance to release his steadying grip. 

“I’m here to pick up Melanie, and I thought I’d see if you wanted a ride to the flat as well.” Georgie purses her lips. “Good thing, huh?”

“I’ll be okay,” Jon says. “Really, I felt perfectly fine or I wouldn’t have been -”

“Jon, when you feel fine you take the opportunity to rest and feel great by not beating yourself into the ground!”

Jon winces and waves his free hand for her to lower her voice. “Okay, okay!”

“No, it’s not. This conversation isn’t over.” Georgie tries to glower at him, but there’s too much genuine worry in her face to be intimidating.

That doesn’t stop the swirl of misery that passes through Jon like a chill. “Okay,” he says again, this time in a very small voice.

“Georgie?” Melanie peeks around the corner. “I’m ready if - oh, Jon, are you coming too?”

“He is.” 

Jon tries not to lean into Georgie too much as they leave the library. The last thing he wants is for someone to notice, to ask if he’s all right, to worry about him like Georgie is. Really, he feels lucky that the flare didn’t kick in until the end of the day. It’s strong and spreading rapidly, and there’s a prickle of dread telling him he wouldn’t have been able to hide it long enough to escape if she hadn’t swooped in to rescue him like always. 

The drive back to their flat is quiet. Melanie’s an expert at picking up on Georgie’s moods, and she seems to recognize the tension in the air. When they arrive at the flat, Jon waves off Georgie’s offer of support and limps heavily to his bedroom, closing the door and collapsing onto his mattress with a barely suppressed groan. 

He’s tempted to never move again. As the pain washes through him eagerly, settling into every muscle, turning his limbs into dead weight, he knows he’s truly screwed himself. Good days don’t always mean he gets extra batteries to use; too often it’s like he’s been given an advance on the next day’s battery. It’s not a regulated, replenishing ration - he’s borrowing against himself, racking up a debt that his body may cash in at any time. It’s been years since he accepted his chronic illness, but every time he forgets how this works.

No, that’s not true. He knows. He just doesn’t accept it, because accepting would mean he’d have to resign himself to never reaching his potential, never giving or doing enough, choosing himself over others, and that’s something he can’t submit to. So the cycle continues - battling through mediocre days, frenzying through good days, then being knocked flat by bad days until he can pick himself up again and keep going.

Jon whimpers slightly as he drags himself into a semi more comfortable position, letting his head fall against his pillows and curling protesting limbs around himself as best as he can. He won’t feel sorry for himself. He won’t wallow. He is strong, he is .

Georgie knocks on his door sometime later. “Jon? We ordered pizza, do you want some?”

“No,” Jon says, as clearly as he can manage. He can’t sit up right now, probably can’t hold a plate either, and he won’t make Georgie worry further by seeing him struggle. 

He hears Melanie calling to Georgie, hears the television turn on a few moments later. Hopefully Georgie will be preoccupied enough that she won’t come back to check on him tonight.

She does, but he pretends to be asleep.

-------

The determined whirring of Martin’s multiple electric fans almost drowns out the beeping of his alarm. He mumbles blearily, snatching his phone off the bedside table and shutting off the alarm before burrowing back under his mountain of blankets. He likes the fans because they keep the room cold enough that the blankets are tolerable, and he likes the blankets because they crowd him and weigh him down. It helps to pretend they’re cradling him, holding him, to pretend that he’s not still alone in an empty flat. It’s a fleeting fantasy, but he’s learned to grasp at whatever straws his mind offers him for comfort.

His second alarm rings out a few minutes later, and Martin reluctantly stumbles out of bed and through the rest of his morning routine. 

It’s still dark out when he begins his bike ride to work, the first paint strokes of dawn barely touching the sky. The streets are always quiet this early in the morning. It’s not uncommon for him to make the entire twenty minute ride without seeing another person’s face.

It’s quiet in the store, too. There’s only Martin and the other bakery opener and a handful of stockers moving silently, automatically, through the half-lit building. 

Martin’s companion’s name is Conrad, but he doubts he knows Martin’s name. He’s not sure they’ve ever spoken - well, he’s not sure Conrad has ever answered anything Martin’s said to him. By now, Martin knows better than to try, and sets to work silently. There are a few birthday cake orders scheduled for today, and Martin is content to focus on those while Conrad takes up his usual post as far away from him as the store bakery’s kitchen will allow.

Martin used to feel hurt by it all, used to wonder what he’d done wrong to make everyone collectively decide he wasn’t worth getting to know - or if maybe it wasn’t anything he’d done but something he hadn’t done, something he lacked inherently that made him so easily dismissable. Now, though, it’s just another part of his mindless routine. He can’t stop himself from offering a hopeful smile - some habits die hard - but it almost doesn’t bother him at all when Conrad refuses even to make eye contact with him.

The silence doesn’t feel as harsh anymore; he’s had years to grow accustomed to it. He falls easily into his own thoughts which, finally, at least have some variety.

There’s his coursework, of course. He’s a full week into it now, and it’s been easier than he imagined to throw himself into the routine of studying, reading, scribbling notes. Maybe there aren’t many things that come naturally to him, but one thing he’s always known how to do is care, and he rarely struggles to put effort into the things he cares about. And right now, he cares about learning as many details about the Romantic poets as he can cram into his brain. 

His mind churns over snippets from the reading he’d done in the library yesterday - Who is he whose flinty heart / Hath not felt the flying dart? - and suddenly he’s blushing furiously, hands fluttering quickly before he can school them into stillness. 

Martin doesn’t want to admit that reading a poem about Cupid while in eyesight of the pretty librarian - Jon, Jon - made him feel furtive, like he had a secret to keep. He doesn’t want to admit that he’d felt his cheeks rush with warmth and that he’d hunched small over his book, as if anyone who saw what he was reading would instantly look straight at Jon and somehow make a connection between the two. He really doesn’t want to think about why his own mind made that assumption.

He doesn’t have to think about it because he knows himself and his foolish, decidedly homoerotic tendencies. It’s one of the many curses he’s decided were placed upon him at birth.

  I curse you with crippling social anxiety!

 And I curse you to eternally catch feelings for every emotionally unavailable man who glances your way!

 And I, cruelest of all faeries, proclaim that my cohorts’ curses will feed off each other, creating an endless cycle which will doom you to a life of perpetual queer agony!

Something like that, probably.

Martin sighs deeply and very much does not think about the way the wisps of hair too short to fit in Jon’s usual updo fall around his pensive face. He especially does not think about the way he brushes those strands out of his face with the back of one of his very small and holdable hands. What’s more, he doesn’t even think about the startled eye contact they’d made when Martin had looked up from his notes to find Jon watching him with a dazed expression.

He is absolutely in no way thinking these or other gay thoughts about the librarian. 

Jon isn’t at the library today. Martin knows this, not because he wandered around the entirety of this half of the building in hopes of running into him, but because there is no cardigan draped over the back of his desk chair.

It’s not cause for concern, probably. Jon must have a life that includes days off. Come to think of it, Martin’s not sure he’s ever spent a day here without Jon’s presence. That, he reasons, must be why it feels so unnaturally quiet - okay, it’s a library, but still. He settles into his usual spot by nonfiction and busies himself by taking out his old, worn laptop and his small tower of books. After all, it’s not like he comes here just to look at Jon. He comes here because it’s nice and has a cozy atmosphere and helps him focus and doesn’t feel as cloying as his flat. 

“Martin? Oh my god, Martin Blackwood?”

Martin freezes, unexplained panic keeping his eyes firmly on his books instead of up at whoever’s walking up to him. People don’t know him, people don’t approach him.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” the voice says with a new hesitancy, and now Martin has no choice but to look up at the slender, smiling woman in a pale blue hijab.

“Basira!” He gapes at her, brain now rushing to reconcile how his old university roommate can be standing in front of him here of all places.

“Oh my god, it really is you. Wow.” She stands there for a moment, watching him struggle to string together any series of coherent words, then pulls out the chair across from him and sits. “It’s been - what, eight years? More? Honestly I kind of thought you’d died or something.”

“Um,” Martin says weakly. He clasps his hands tightly in his lap, focusing on the sensation of fingernails squeezing into skin to ground himself, stay present, understand the words Basira is still speaking.

“So, what are you doing here? Do you live in the area?” Basira pauses. “Are you all right?”

“Um,” he repeats, then manages the tiniest of nods. “Y-yeah, I am, and I do. Um. What are you …?”

“Oh, my wife works here.” She gestures toward the door at the security guard who still terrifies Martin. “Wow, Martin, honestly, I never expected to see you again, much less here! You just disappeared over the summer and no one knew what happened to you.”

“Huh.” Martin, still grappling with her unexpected appearance, now gets to try to come to terms with the idea that someone apparently… noticed him? Or at least noticed his absence. It’s a shocking thought, and it probably wouldn’t be unpleasant if he weren’t teetering on the edge of completely shutting down in the face of sudden social interaction. “Um. Family emergency.”

“Oh, damn, I’m sorry, Martin. Is everything… are you… okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He blinks. 

Basira looks at him expectantly for a few moments, and he gets the impression that probably he should offer more, say bloody something , but at this point his anxiety’s got its claws into him so deeply that his best bet is to play dead until he’s released. Basira tilts her head slightly. “Okayyy. Well.” She stands. “It’s… it’s good to see you, Martin. Good to know you’re not dead or anything. See you around, maybe.”

“Right, maybe,” he whispers, grateful for the chance to stare down at his books again.

Basira walks away, but Martin keeps looking blankly at the page before him for a few moments before he scoops his belongings up in a rush and flees the building like he had the first time he’d visited.

Even the soothing embrace of the library isn’t enough to combat his panic today. If he’s going to shut down or, worse, break down, it’s best to do that in his flat where no one can see.

It’s a strange paradox to live in, utterly convinced both that no one in the entire world sees or cares about you and that you’re under constant, judging observation - like simultaneously no one knows you exist and also is waiting with bated breath for you to trip up so they can pounce. Martin vaguely knows that probably his mother is to blame for instilling in him this particular brand of brain fuckery, but somehow that knowledge only makes it worse. 

He doesn’t miss her. He truly doesn’t. But he’s still glad of the distraction the library offers when the second month’s marker of her funeral rolls around. 

As sternly as he’s lectured himself in the three days since his last visit, he can’t help the tiny leap in his chest when he sees Jon’s familiar mess of dark hair in one of the rows of shelves.

He doesn’t approach him, of course. But the knowledge that he’s there is incredibly comforting. Martin hums softly as he returns to his spot and spreads out his books once again. He’s quickly immersed in his work, so focused that he wouldn’t register the passage of time at all if he wasn’t slowly filling page after page with notes. He’s barely aware of anything else happening in the library until he’s suddenly jerked out of his own headspace by an incredibly high, incredibly loud voice.

“Jon, my dearest!”

Martin looks up, startled by the noise. The speaker is a woman with violently red hair and red winged eyeliner - literally, it’s drawn to look like some sort of feathery wings. She is positively stalking across the library floor in what Martin assumes are very expensive stiletto boots toward Jon, who’s sitting at his desk with the shock-wide eyes of someone who’s just realized they’re prey. 

Martin watches Jon stumble, struggle to stand, and his brows draw together tightly at the way he sways and leans heavily against the desk, like he can’t support his own weight. Martin’s chest pinches slightly. Is he hurt? Maybe that’s why he wasn’t in the other day - oh God, what if he’s been in an accident or something? Martin grips his pen so hard he’s afraid it’ll crack apart. 

Jon is waving one hand, hissing at the woman as if trying to quiet her, but she is undeterred. She crowds into his space, trilling off a string of sentences that Martin can barely decipher. She grabs a piece of paper off of Jon’s desk - the trans support group flyer, Martin recognizes. Jon shakes his head and grabs her arm, whispering urgently. 

“Sounds like somebody isn’t respecting trans rights!” the woman crows, spinning impressively on one heel and marching past Martin toward the back wall, where Martin knows there are a few doors with signs like ‘office’ and ‘staff only.’

“Nikola - Nikola!” Jon calls in a strained, hushed voice, starting after her. He’s limping hard.

Martin watches with wide eyes, torn between worry for Jon and worry over whatever trouble the woman seems bent on instigating. 

“Not in my library, Jon,” the woman sings back.

“This isn’t - ” Jon stops and sighs, casting a hopeless look at Martin as he comes up beside the table. He shrugs. “What’s the point in telling her that?”

Martin blinks. Nikola lets herself into the door marked ‘library director.’ The library is very quiet.

“Did I hear Nikky ?” One of the library staff, a tall man in with wildly messy hair, hurries across the floor toward Jon. He’s grinning. “Oh my god, Gertrude doesn’t stand a chance.”

“This isn’t funny, Tim,” Jon grits out.

“What? Gertrude deserves to be bullied, and Nikky is absolutely the woman for the job.”

Martin sits very still, trying to hide how intently he’s observing whatever shenanigan is going down in the usually calm library. 

Jon starts moving again. “I’m going to - ”

“No!” Tim grabs Jon’s arm. “I want to see how this plays out. Pleaaase.”

Jon looks miserably at the office door. Martin thinks he can hear raised voices behind it now. “Well. If anyone can intimidate Gertrude into changing her mind, it’s Nikola.”

“That’s the spirit,” Tim says enthusiastically. 

No one has to wait long to see the outcome of whatever altercation is happening in the library director’s office. Within another minute, Nikola bursts out, flourishing the flyer that’s still in her hand and grinning wickedly. Martin suddenly recalls every terrifying clown movie he’s ever seen. She pauses only long enough to plant a dramatic kiss on each of Tim’s cheeks before turning back to Jon.

“You’re getting your support group, Jonny. And now you’re really in my debt. You already owe me another dinner!”

Jon appears to be engaged in some internal war between surprised excitement and fear. It ends with what can only be described as utter resignation as he says, “I already promised to come tonight.”

“Yes, and now you have to see me next week too!” Nikola captures Jon in a hug that makes even Martin cringe from its forcefulness, then presses the flyer into his hands. “See you soon, my love! And Tim - ” She turns to the other man again, who’s still watching in pure delight. “Don’t be a stranger, dear. You still owe me that long chat about You Know Who.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before striding away.

Martin very carefully turns his eyes back down to his notebook, hoping he looks unobtrusive and not like he’s been gaping at whatever the hell just took place in this unassuming old library. Tim doesn’t even seem to have noticed him, wandering off as he chuckles to himself. Jon, however, looks back to Martin with that same helpless expression.

“Er - uh, sorry about that, Martin, I’m sure that was horribly distracting. We don’t - I don’t usually - er.” He looks down at the flyer. “Heh.”

“Um, no worries, I’m sure it’s not your fault.” Martin offers a hopeful smile, then pauses. “Are you… okay? You’re not hurt or anything?”

“No, no.” Jon draws himself up, looking embarrassed. Even standing straight like this, he’s very small. 

Martin sternly redirects his mind away from that thought.

“I’m - fine, I’m fine,” Jon continues, not very convincingly. “Hm. I guess the trans support group is on, then. Well. I should probably talk to Gertrude, see what, uh, see what Nikola said. Christ.” He shudders. “But it’s good news, it’s good, we need this.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound. 

Jon clears his throat, takes an unsteady step toward the director’s office, then stops and turns back to face Martin. “You’ll come? I mean, will you come?”

“To your group?” Martin asks in a voice barely more than a squeak. His heart thuds, with anxiousness and excitement both. 

“You don’t have to, of course, I don’t - I don’t want to pressure you, you’re not obligated!” Jon says quickly. “Just, it’d be nice, and you wouldn’t have to say anything if you didn’t want to, but I would - you wouldn’t have to sit alone, you’d know me… well, I guess you know me, we’re not strangers , um.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. You’re welcome to come. If you want. I’ll, er, I’ll leave you to studying now. Sorry again for the noise.” 

Martin watches him limp his way back toward the director’s office, then looks to his books once again. But he doesn’t get any more work done. No, his thoughts are decidedly occupied by the fact that someone wants him somewhere, and with the contemplation of whether sitting with Jon at the support group meeting might be enticing enough to overcome his fear of organized human interaction. 

Chapter Text

As he had promised Nikola and Georgie, Jon leaves the library before dark to meet them for dinner at the pub two blocks over from his and Georgie’s flat. They’re already waiting for him in a corner booth. He can hear Nikola, speaking at a near squeal as always, before he sees either of them, and he picks his way over with a limp that’s only gotten harder to hide as the day’s gone on. His flare has eased enough that he can move around, but the residual tightness hasn’t released its grip on his sore muscles and stiff joints just yet. 

Georgie watches him approach with furrowed brows, concern etching lines in her face as always. 

Jon tries to expel it with as much cheer as he can fit into his voice. “I’m not late am I?” He winces immediately; even he can hear the strain. 

“Right on time, darling,” Nikola trills. She scoots over in the booth, patting the empty space beside her with one hand and gesturing to the contents of the table with the other. “We ordered for you.” 

Jon hesitates, casts a longing look at the opposite side of the booth - history has proven that sitting with Georgie is far safer - and then decides that he doesn’t have the energy to do anything less than comply. He sighs softly as he sits. He’s always been Nikola’s puppet, really, eventually caving to her desires despite his show of protesting. This knowledge does not make him any more excited about whatever she has in store for tonight.

“Perfect.” Nikola is practically purring. She props her elbows on the table and leans into her hands, grinning. “So? Where’s the gratitude?” 

Jon picks at his fingernails. “I’m not sure how much gratitude is in order for you - oh, what was it? Calling my boss a ‘sour old bitch?’”

 Georgie, unhelpful bastard, almost chokes on her drink in her attempts to cover her laughter.

“Oh, was that what stuck with her?” Nikola blinks innocently. “Huh. I really thought ‘performative ally’ or ‘hypocrite’ would’ve been the one. And you can’t be mad at me for that one, Jon, you know I’m right!”

“Be that as it may, she’s my boss, Nikola! She could have - I don’t know, fired me or something.” He leans forward to inspect whatever they’ve ordered for him. 

Georgie looks at him fondly. “Jon, you know Gertrude can’t fire you. She relies on you too much.”

“It’s true.” Nikola nudges Jon lightly. “You’re the backbone of that damned place. The least she can do for you is let you have this. And now you’ve got it! So… when’s the big day?”

Jon pauses, then lets out a deep breath and finds himself smiling hesitantly. “Well, it’ll take some work to get up enough advertisement in time, but the original date on the proposal is a little less than a month from now.”

“And it’ll be a recurring thing, right?” Georgie leans back in the booth.

“Yeah, um, monthly, hopefully. You’ll both come, won’t you? At least to the first one?” He looks between them pleadingly.

“Of course,” Georgie promises.

“It’ll be like the good old days,” Nikola croons. “The original gender bending trio, wreaking havoc on the Magnus Library!”

Jon splutters. “Excuse me, I have not once in my life wreaked any kind of havoc! Anywhere. You , on the other hand - ”

“Ah yes, I have a long and glorious history of mayhem in that godforsaken place.” Nikola’s eyes glint with what might be a happy tear. 

Georgie laughs again, and for a few moments they fall into companionable silence as they eat. When she speaks again, though, her voice is much more serious. “Jon,” she begins, “we need to talk about something else.”

Oh.

Instantly, Jon can feel himself shutting down, eyes dropping to his hands as his appetite vanishes. Why does she have to sound so… so solemn? 

“I only say this out of love for you, so please don’t be mad at me. But… you can’t keep running yourself down like this. You have to take care of yourself.”

“We only have one rat friend,” Nikola pipes up, though for once her absurdly cheerful persona only thinly covers earnestness. That’s never a good sign. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

Jon hunches further down into the booth. “I’m trying,” he says weakly.

“Are you, Jon?” He can feel Georgie staring at him. “How are you trying? What steps are you taking to take care of yourself?”

He really doesn’t have an answer for that. Goddamn, but he hates when she’s right. 

“Have you considered using your cane?” Georgie presses gently.

Jon thinks of the narrow, black stick shoved deep in his closet, bought in a moment of hope and then hidden in a moment of fear, and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Nikola asks.

“Because - because people will see it and want to know what’s wrong with me, and they’ll think I’m not capable of doing my job, or they’ll think I’m faking because I don’t need it to walk.” The words tumble out of him faster than he can hold them back. “It’ll ruin my credibility! Either they’ll think I’m looking for attention or they’ll think I’m some poor helpless cripple who needs his hand held just to get through a day at work.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but one glance up at Nikola and Georgie wipes it away and replaces it with a clenching anxiety that chokes around the end of his sentence. They’re staring at him with a kind of fierceness that’s warped enough he can’t tell whether it stems from anger or protectiveness. Probably both. “Besides,” he finishes, voice pitching higher with nervousness, “I don’t need it. I don’t really deserve to use it when I don’t have to.”

“So,” Georgie says after a few beats of silence, “exactly who decides at what point you’ve earned the right to help?”

Jon squirms and opens his mouth, but Georgie pushes on resolutely.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Jon. Everyone in that library knows you. Everyone knows that you’re intelligent and devoted and - and fuck all else, Jon, no one is going to think less of you for using something that makes your life easier.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Nikola adds. “You don’t have to hide part of yourself to be valued. There or anywhere else.”

They’re right and Jon knows it. He hates that he knows it, wants to resist their words and cling to the excuses he’s been giving himself for so long now - why is that?

Georgie reaches across the table to brush gentle fingers over his hand. “I know it’s scary, Jon. It’s hard to be vulnerable. It’s hard to let all of yourself be seen by others when you can’t control how they’re going to perceive you. But, Jon, that’s who you are. You’ve been open and honest about so much of yourself even when it’s terrifying . You can do this thing too.”

Jon shivers and meets her eyes. “It is... hard.” 

“And you’re brave,” Nikola says. “You always have been.” She leans into him, her sweet tone more kind and authentic than Jon’s heard in a long time. 

“At least try?” Georgie asks. “See if it helps. You deserve to at least try out your options.”

“All right,” Jon whispers. But he’s afraid.

Being open about his disability isn’t like being open about being gay or trans. It’s not like coming out, knowing he’s revealing a part of himself that he’s accepted and is proud of. He knows the right response people should have to that. He knows he deserves respect and kindness about those parts of his identity. But with a disability… with a disability, people want to pity and repair . His body isn’t a thing to be valued as is when there are parts of him that don’t work. And that’s the scary thing. No one he cares about will ask him to change or think less of him for being queer, but they might for him being… broken. 

Because that’s what he is, right? 

He doesn’t say this to Georgie and Nikola, doesn’t want to see them rush to convince him that’s not the truth. He just nods, hunches into himself, and tries not to think too hard about how the library staff will react when he shows up with a bloody cane tomorrow. 

As it turns out, no one has any sort of grand reaction. He’s fairly sure Georgie’s told Melanie about the situation, and he wonders if she passed on a warning to the rest of the staff because, other than a few quick double takes, no one behaves any differently. Well, maybe Tim and Sasha are a bit too cheerful. They seem to be trading quite a lot of smiles. But Jon tries not to read too much into it and spends as much of the day at his desk, cane tucked away, as he can. When he does have to move around, he must begrudgingly admit that the cane does help. He doesn’t have to limp as hard, and by the time his lunch break rolls around he’s not so exhausted that he wants to spend the hour in mindless recovery. 

All things considered, he feels something like relief as he makes his way out of the staff room. Maybe using the cane won’t be so horrible.

He’s barely allowing himself to entertain the thought as he makes his way around the first bookshelf between the break room and his desk when the cane makes contact with something midair rather than coming down safely on the carpet, throwing him dangerously off balance.

“Whoa, careful - I mean, I’m sorry!” Martin grabs his shoulder to steady him.

“Oh, I - ” Shit, that was Martin’s shin he’d just whacked with the end of his cane. Jon wobbles slightly and then takes a quick, stumbling step backward. “ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t see you - Ah, are you hurt?”

“Am I hurt? Are you hurt?” Martin is looking down at him with those perpetually round, almost-frightened eyes, and it seems to take him a moment to realize he hasn’t let go of Jon’s shoulder. He scrambles backward as well. 

“No, I’m fine, I just, I’m sorry, your leg,” Jon stammers. 

“It’s fine, it’s really fine,” Martin assures him. He looks him over quickly, and Jon doesn’t miss the way his gaze catches on the cane. His brows pull together with pointed concern.

Jon draws into himself, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he repeats as he continues moving away. He really, really doesn’t want to have to give an explanation to a patron, no matter how well-intentioned Martin typically appears to be. 

But Martin doesn’t ask. He only offers one of his anxious smiles, the one that looks so uncertain but so hopeful that Jon always wants to find a smile to return to him. And when he does, the almost-fear in Martin’s eyes shifts to almost-surprise before transforming into pure warmth, like he can’t believe… what, that Jon is smiling at him? Jon feels a deep clenching in his chest. He’s been trying to do better about staying polite, welcoming, but maybe in the haze of his flare lately he’s slipped back into his gruff tendencies? The thought that he might be doing something to make Martin - anyone, really - feel anything less than safe and wanted in the library almost gives him a stomach ache. 

He makes his way back to his desk and awakens his computer with a click before stashing his cane out of sight. After a few minutes he risks a glance toward the desk where Martin has taken up his usual residence. Their eyes meet and Jon flushes, looking away again. His heartbeat is so strong it’s nearly jarring. He’s not sure if it’s from shame or from the dread of facing questions about his cane, questions he saw in Martin’s face, questions he knows someone will eventually ask. 

But why focus on a problem for future Jon, when present Jon has things like cataloguing reports to go over? He buries himself in his work and tries to forget about the way Martin had looked at him and his cane.

-------

Boundaries are not Martin’s strength. He is all too aware of this, has borne years of being lashed out at when he steps across a line he didn’t know existed, and he truly works hard to keep an extra layer of distance between himself and others to avoid making those mistakes again. At least, he tries . But sometimes the little urge deep inside, the traitorous need to be useful, the ceaseless drive to make others happy, is stronger than the voice telling him to mind his own business, stay out of the way. Sometimes it fights to push him to take just one more step closer.

That’s the battle he’s currently engaged in as he stands outside the Magnus Library with a small and slightly rumpled pastry box in his hands.

At the bakery, this had seemed like a good idea. There was a surplus of cinnamon buns, his pretty - no, stop that, he’s not your anything - the librarian, Jon, has been looking sadder and more drawn into himself for several days, and what could be more cheering than a cinnamon bun? It might be a nice distraction, Martin had thought, from whatever was making Jon look so harrowed lately. 

Now, looking toward the library’s heavy glass doors, Martin thinks how inappropriate it probably is to bring desserts to someone who barely knows your name at their workplace. Pushy, overbearing, his mother’s voice drones in his head. What, do you think you can earn the time of day by crowding into someone’s life? 

He cringes. His hands tighten around the pastry box, which is looking quite battered by now. That’s not his intention - is it? No! He only wants to do something kind for Jon after how patient he’s been with him. His only motivation is to bring a smile to his face, give him maybe a few minutes’ distraction from the stress he’s so clearly under. Right?

But maybe it won’t look that way to Jon. Maybe he’ll look desperate, or demanding, asking for attention that he doesn’t deserve from anyone, much less someone so busy. Maybe he’ll read it as flirtatious - and, okay, maybe there is a tiny part of Martin’s brain that wants it to be flirtatious, but after seeing how affectionate the woman with red eyeliner had been with Jon, he doubts Jon is the sort of person who’s available or willing to be flirted with. Certainly not by Martin. Not that his motivation is flirtation. Because it isn’t. 

Martin decides that he won’t give Jon the pastry. He’ll save it for his own dinner, maybe, or just toss it tonight if he doesn’t eat it. With that, he shoulders through the door and tries to make it to his usual desk without making eye contact with anyone, feeling a little more hunched in than usual. 

Of course, the very object of his thoughts is directly in his path.

Jon is walking toward his own desk, leaning into the support of the cane that’s accompanied him for most of the week. His face is, as usual, tense - tight with frustration and pain. But when his eyes land on Martin, they relax into a soft tiredness that borders on fondness , and god damn it the ache in Martin’s chest drops straight into his gut. He can barely manage a friendly smile through the rushing of blood in his head. I’m in danger .

“Good afternoon, Martin!” Jon lifts his free hand in pleasant greeting.

Martin falters. Whether it's the surprise of being greeted, or the burst of confused happiness at the smile Jon offers, he can’t be sure, but he’s startled into waving back with the same hand holding the pastry box. “O-oh, hi, Jon! Um. I actually, uh, I brought this for you,” he says before he can stop himself. All the arguments against giving Jon the cinnamon bun die violent, screaming deaths.

“For… me?” Jon blinks.

“Yeah,” Martin says, moving to close the gap between them before panic can freeze him in place. “It’s, um, from my work. We had extra and I didn’t want it to go to waste - you don’t have to take it if you don’t want,” he continues hurriedly, hoping not to sound like he’s actually gone out of the way for Jon - make it casual, don’t let it be weird.

“Oh, I… thank you, Martin.” Jon accepts the worn little box, head tilted slightly in confusion but the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth. “You didn’t have to - um. Thanks. I didn’t know you were a baker.” He shifts a little. Feeds a little more weight into his cane.

“Oh, I’m not really, it’s nothing special,” Martin assures him. He resists the temptation to shake the tension out through his hands

“Well. It’s very… kind of you,” Jon says in a rather strangled voice. 

Don’t get excited, he’s just trying to be polite, to hide how absurd this is, how absurd Martin is, the voice in his head warns. Martin bites his lip and drops his eyes to his feet, not wanting to look too closely at Jon’s face to confirm what he already suspects. “No problem,” he mumbles. 

“Martin,” Jon starts hesitantly. 

Martin risks a glance up at him and is shocked to see that he looks distressed. Martin’s heart plummets; he was right; he’s fucked up, he’s barreled through another boundary, he’s made Jon uncomfortable, stupid, stupid -

“I’m - I just - I wanted to apologize. If I’ve ever made you feel… unwelcome here. It’s never my intention, I get overwhelmed and I - well, I struggle to control my tone, but that’s no excuse. I can find it difficult to… express myself properly, so I’m truly sorry for that. I really do appreciate this.” He looks so earnest, so concerned, that Martin almost wants to laugh.

“Wait, you - you’re sorry to me ?” he asks incredulously. “You don’t, you have nothing to apologize for.”

Jon’s eyebrows draw together. “Don’t I? I’ve been very snappish with you.”

“Okay, maybe a little, but I deserved it, and besides you’ve been nothing, nothing but lovely to me these past few weeks.” Martin’s hands flutter anxiously. 

“Um.” Jon blinks slowly. He looks so small, Martin thinks for the hundredth time, with his cardigan falling off his shoulders, one sleeve pooled around the handle of his cane, silver flyaways standing out against his otherwise black hair, peering up at Martin as if trying to understand him.

Martin’s breath hitches. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Jon,” he repeats. 

Jon inhales deeply before saying, “You don’t deserve to be snapped at. Ever. For anything. So I do apologize for that. And I thank you again for…” He raises the pastry box, which by now looks as if it’s run through a gauntlet, and smiles hesitantly.. “You’re… you’re very kind, Martin.”

Oh. Huh. Martin spends several seconds trying to speak, but it’s hard to talk around his wildly thumping heart, which has just taken up residence somewhere in his throat. He finally manages, “Th-thank you?”

He isn’t sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse that another random library patron chooses this moment to approach Jon with a question, but he takes the opportunity to duck away to one of the desks by nonfiction before he can completely shut down in front of Jon.

After gathering himself for a few minutes, unmoving except for his fluttering hands, Martin unzips his backpack and begins the careful process of unloading and organizing his materials. He places his laptop squarely in front of him and arranges his notebook and pens to one side, his books to the other. It’s comforting. It feels like a routine, to stack his things here and open his laptop and delve into beautiful words like he had all those years ago. He’s even almost started to think of it as his desk after all the time he’s spent here. He’s memorized the grooves in the worn wood, knows there’s a dip toward the center that’ll cause his pen to swerve if his paper sits atop it, knows there’s a constellation of black marker stars decorating the corner closest to his left hand. Most of all, he knows the angle that affords him the best view of Jon’s desk.

He dares a peek across the room and allows himself to think back on what Jon had said. You’re very kind, Martin .

When’s the last time someone called him kind? Or thanked him, or noticed his efforts at all?

He can’t remember. But instead of filling him with sorrow, the thought sends tiny sparks of joy throughout his body. Jon thanked him. This new sensation, this new memory to cling to, of being seen and appreciated, belongs to Jon . 

Martin wants to cradle this feeling in his hands like a seedling, wants to plant it carefully where it can grow and blossom, wants to tend to it, return to it, nurture it. He wants more. He wants to make Jon happy again.

Jon sits at his desk, fully in Martin’s range of vision, cardigan now draped over his chair. He leans on his desk with both elbows. He always looks so absorbed in his work, all furrowed brows and bitten lip and eyes narrowed in concentration. 

He’s so pretty .

Martin makes a soft noise in his throat, overwhelmed, and shoves his hands beneath his own desk so he can shake them without fear of attracting attention. He’s already thinking about what he can do for Jon next. How he can make him smile again. Deep in the back of his mind, his mother’s voice is hissing about his overbearing tendencies, but in this moment of brightness it barely hurts him at all.

Several hours later, once darkness has completely fallen and the library is almost silent save the quiet conversation of the staff at the front desk, Martin packs up his things once more. He’s been shamefully unproductive, unable to dive too deep into his studying without being interrupted by unbidden replays of Jon’s smile, but the glow of his happiness keeps him from caring much. He slips the strap of his bag over one shoulder and heads toward the doors.

He is distracted, however, by the bulletin board on the wall in the foyer. The trans support group flyer has been hung. Martin steps closer to it, leaning in to read the details now that he knows the event will definitely be happening.

Beneath the pastel stripes of the trans flag is a list of bullet points. They explain the date and time, and promise light snacks and an optional conversation starter. The idea of talking makes Martin’s stomach coil, but Jon had said he wouldn’t have to speak if he didn’t want to. Martin remembers how hopeful Jon was about the group, thinks about how hard he must’ve worked to put this all together for people who’re usually left out. People like Martin.

Martin takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone to snap a picture of the flyer. 

“Are you going to that?” Basira asks at his elbow, and Martin nearly falls over from shock.

“Wh - Oh - You - ” he stammers, clutching his chest with a suddenly trembling hand.

“Shit, Martin, I’m sorry.” She looks up at him contritely, almost reaching for him before apparently thinking better of it. 

“N-no, it’s okay,” he says. He’s breathing a little too hard. “I just, I didn’t hear you.”

“I can see that. I’m sorry,” she repeats. Then, “I heard someone had to intimidate the library director into letting them have that.”

Martin nods jerkily. “Yeah. I, uhh, heard.”

“Still, I’m glad it’s happening. Are you… Are you going?” she asks again.

Martin swallows. “I think. Maybe.”

Basira smiles at him, a warm and genuine thing. “I’m glad. Didn’t you go to one sometimes in uni?”

“Sometimes,” Martin says quietly. He has a brief recollection of hunching in a corner, terrified and overstimulated, and then of months of longing to return combined with seizing anxiety.

Basira looks like she wants to put her hand on him again, but she doesn’t. Martin is grateful for that. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since last week,” she says. “I was… really glad to see you, Martin. I’m glad you’re doing all right.”

“It was good to see you too,” he mumbles back. That’s not a lie. Basira was always lovely to him. In fact, now that he thinks about it, she may have been the first person he’d verbally come out to. Huh. He finds the courage to meet her eyes for the briefest of moments. There is nothing but warmth there. 

“You know, if you’d - if you wanted,” she begins, “I’d love to catch up sometime. Maybe sometime we could sit and chat, if you’re around here regularly? I pick my wife up a few nights a week.” She pauses to look at whatever expression is on his face. “I mean, I know you’re busy here, you’ve obviously got things to do, so no pressure.”

“We can talk sometime,” Martin hears himself saying. “Um, sure.” 

Basira gives him a small smile. “All right. Cool.”

Martin shifts, gripping the strap of his bag. “Cool,” he echoes. He studies the ground at his feet. 

“There you are,” comes the low, warm voice of the security guard, and Martin takes a small step closer to the wall as if to take up as little space as possible as she approaches. She glances his way but mostly has eyes for Basira. 

“Daisy,” Basira says happily. “All ready?”

Daisy makes an affirmative noise, then gives Martin a once over that makes him feel as if he’s possibly in danger of breaking some rule he doesn’t know exists. 

“Oh, this is Martin,” Basira hurries to explain. “Remember I told you about my old uni roommate? Imagine meeting up all these years later, here of all places.”

“Now I know you knew her in uni, I’m going to beg for stories of her,” Daisy says. She immediately looks ten times friendlier. Still terrifying though.

Martin swallows hard, imagining Daisy cornering him to demand university anecdotes. “Uhh…”

“Martin, I will pay you money to stay quiet,” Basira says, laughing. 

“Two can play that game, love,” Daisy says. She wraps an arm around Basira, and Basira melts into her side easily, a hand coming to rest on Daisy’s hip without hesitation. 

Martin looks at them, at the way they touch each other so smoothly and naturally. He touches his own hip softly. He looks at the height difference between Basira and Daisy, at the way Basira’s head looks like it could tilt to lie on Daisy’s shoulder so simply. He wonders if Jon’s head could reach his own shoulder while standing or if it would come to rest against his chest instead. 

Fuck. 

“...see you soon, okay, Martin,” Basira is saying. Daisy is gently tugging - or herding - her toward the door, already talking to her without looking at Martin. 

Martin stands in place for too many more minutes, staring down at his hand on his hip, before slowly making his own way outside. 

What would it be like to move so fluidly, so comfortably, with another person? To feel so sure of your welcome in their space, to want them in your own space? To simply exist with them with such surety that touching and being came so naturally?

Tomorrow, Martin decides as he frees his bike from the rack, he’ll bring Jon a raspberry tart.

Chapter Text

“I, um, I hope you like chocolate,” Martin says shyly.

Jon looks up from his computer in surprise as Martin places a small box with a newly familiar bakery logo on his desk. He thinks it’s the fifth such box Martin’s brought him in the past week and a half - as many baked gifts as visits to the library.

Jon peeks into the box. It’s a cupcake with, predictably, chocolate icing. He glances at Martin’s hands - broad hands that would probably dwarf his own - and wonders if Martin had been the one to swirl it so carefully atop the little cake. Then he quickly banishes the thought of the kind of gentleness that would require and raises his eyes to meet Martin’s.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, and he smiles at him. He’s finding that he can’t help smiling every time Martin appears; this would probably alarm him if he weren’t still fighting to keep from looking back at Martin’s hands.

Martin blushes softly and returns the smile with his usual eagerness. “Sorry to interrupt you,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jon says, and then adds, again, for good measure, “Thank you.” He’s still smiling as Martin ducks his head and turns away.

“I have a theory that what we’re seeing here is Jon experiencing his first positive emotion.”

Jon’s smile vanishes as he looks sharply at Tim, who’s ambling over from the front desk with Sasha on his heels, both wearing suggestive grins. Jon scowls. “What?”

“Jon Sims. Smiling. Looking - how would you describe it, Sash?”

Sasha leans against Jon’s desk and strokes her chin thoughtfully. “If it were anyone else, I’d say he looked happy .”

“Very bold words,” Tim says, “but I don’t think I can argue.” He folds his arms over his chest, that infuriating grin still firmly in place. “So what has your admirer brought today?”

“What do you - that’s not - admirer?” Jon splutters.

“Oh, don’t think we haven’t noticed,” Sasha says.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, boss, but it’s true.” Tim looks down at the bakery box. “I can’t say I would ever be guilty of such performative romance, but I’d like to shake the hand of whichever man looked at you and decided you were the one to pine after.”

Jon isn’t sure which flares hotter, his face or his chest. “Don’t be absurd, Tim. Martin is just - he’s a very thoughtful person, but he’s not - ”

“He knows his name,” Sasha says to Tim. “That’s a sure sign. I’m not convinced he knows the names of half the people who work here.”

“Not true - ” Jon tries to interject.

“Listen,” Tim interrupts, leaning closer. “I have devoted an impressive portion of my life to such behavior as pining and wooing , and I’m one hundred percent correct in my assessment that our beloved - what was it again? Martin? - Martin is currently engaged in both activities.”

Jon makes an urgent hushing motion. “Need I remind you that we are in a library , Tim? Be quiet , people are trying to focus here.”

“Oh yes, Martin does look very focused,” Sasha muses. As one, she, Tim, and Jon turn to face Martin, who is carefully arranging his little piles of books and notebooks at his usual desk. Jon’s chest does that strange, warm wrenching again. “That’s definitely a poetry anthology… I wonder if he ever needs any help with it.”

“Oh yes,” Tim agrees. “With his studying! Poetry. The Romantics, by the look of it.”

Jon casts his assistants his most withering stare. “I hate poetry.”

“No you don’t, Jon,” Tim says patiently. 

“I do! It’s pointless. Why waste time trying to say something with a dozen pretty words when a few simple words will do?”

“It’s about the feeling, Jon!”

“Oh, Tim - ” Sasha starts suddenly.

“You can adequately feel through prose,” Jon protests. “And it’s far less confusing!”

“I’m sorry, Jon, but with your emotional intelligence feelings are going to be confusing no matter how - ”

“Tim… Jon,” Sasha says again.

“I fail to see,” Jon replies flatly, “what my emotional intelligence has to do with anything.”

“It has to do with everything!” Tim says, voice rising again as he gestures from the little bakery package to Martin.

“Tim! Jon!” Sasha hisses.

“Jon,” echoes Jonah Magnus at approximately double Sasha’s volume, “I’m glad we caught you today!”

Jon and Tim freeze as they finally follow Sasha’s gaze. Jonah is striding up to Jon’s desk, followed closely by Simon Fairchild. Jon reflects briefly that he’s spent far too much time feeling like prey at his desk before he schools his face into what he can only hope is polite composure. “Mr. Magnus,” he says. “What brings you in today?”

“I’m here to see dear Gertrude,” Jonah says. “But Simon had a few questions for you, I believe.”

Tim and Sasha evidently take that as their cue to scatter, disloyal cowards as they are. 

Jon sighs. “I’m - I’m a bit busy today, actually…”

“It won’t take long!” Simon says. “See, I noticed in the newsletter this month that you’re starting a support group. That’s wonderful, so exciting - ”

“Our little activist,” Jonah says.

Jon’s hands clench around nothing, eyes narrowing.

“...and I hope it’s a sign that you’re open to expanding your calendar further! I was thinking, since you have so many new volumes of poetry - ” Simon laughs pointedly “ - that you might be excited to hear this proposition. How do you feel about a monthly poetry reading? Time donated, of course, by yours truly.”

Jon coughs. “Er, well…”

“You saw how people loved the first one,” Jonah says in what he probably thinks is an encouraging voice. “I think it could be something fantastic for the Magnus Library.” The emphasis he puts on his own last name is gratingly unmissable.

“You should, ah, that’s a subject to bring up with Gertrude,” Jon says quietly.

“Oh, of course, of course,” Jonah says. “But you’ll back us up, won’t you?”

“It’s not hard to notice the kind of influence you have around here,” Simon adds with a wink. “I think between the three of us we can convince lovely Ms. Robinson to work with us on this.”

Jon makes a noncommittal sound. 

“And I wanted to ask,” Simon continues, “whether your budget will support that - what was it? Gay group?”

“Transgender,” Jonah offers.

“I really love what you’re doing for the community, Jon, but I’d hate to see it fall apart due to funding. I’m sure I can arrange additional donations with Ms. Robinson?” Simon smiles.

“She would be the one to speak to,” Jon says through gritted teeth.

“Perfect. Well - shall we?” Simon turns to Jonah, and they stroll toward Gertrude’s office together. 

Jon drops his head into his hands with a quiet groan. He knows what this is. He’s seen it play out time and time again in the near-decade that he’s worked in the library. There are a revolting amount of politics at play within the library’s upper ranks - which is to say, between the head staff and the library’s donors. Sure, the library receives funding from other sources, but the repeated gifts from Jonah Magnus have always been large enough to give him plenty of sway over library decisions. Jon had watched it happen with Jurgen Leitner and now with Gertrude. They simply relied on his donations too much not to allow him the kind of power he so obviously angled for - and now, it seems, Simon Fairchild is searching for a taste of that same power. In exchange for - what, a platform to practice his reading skills? Jon squeezes his eyes shut. Shitty capitalist bastards . Even his support group, his group that he’s worked so long and hard to bring to life, can’t escape their prodding manipulation.

When Jon finally looks up, bleary eyed, he meets the concerned stare of Martin across the room. They both flinch and turn away quickly, but when Jon’s gaze darts back a moment later he can see Martin watching him from beneath lowered lashes, brows furrowed in worry.

Great. Even when Jon isn’t snapping at Martin he manages to make him anxious. He sighs heavily and picks up a pen to continue working.

It’s out of ink. Because of course it is. Jon throws it into the bin with a bit more resentfulness than is necessary and rummages in his desk drawer for a new one before forcing himself into as much focus as he can muster. 

When he looks up again, it’s only because he’s jolted out of concentration by the dimming of the main overhead lights. He blinks and rubs his eyes, then checks the time. Shit. He’d promised Georgie he’d be home in time for dinner, had said he’d catch the bus so she wouldn’t have to pick him up, and now it’s over an hour too late to catch the one that runs closest to the flat. He groans and spends a moment wondering whether it’s worth paying for a cab or if he should just brave the forty minute walk. 

“Are you locking up or am I?” calls one of the library technicians - Helen, he’s almost certain is her name - from across the building. “I just chased out the last patron, but if you still have work - ”

“I’ll get the doors,” Jon says. Alone and almost in full darkness now, he slowly saves his files and shuts down his computer before pushing to his feet. His knees are stiffer than they were earlier today, but with the support of the cane it’s not unbearable. He really doesn’t want to pay cab fare. He pats his pockets to be sure his few belongings are still in place, slings his cardigan over one arm, makes his way to the front entrance, and fumbles with his keys for a moment before stepping through the doors and locking them. 

Though the night isn’t quite silent, the noise filtering through the shadows is muffled and distant, the road devoid of any immediate traffic. Perhaps that’s why Jon flinches so violently at the sudden metallic clang nearby.

“Oh - Jon! Sorry!” A familiar voice follows the noise.

“Martin?” Jon blinks into the darkness. He can make out the shape of the taller man now, hunching apologetically by the library’s bike rack. “You’re… You’re here late.”

“So are you,” Martin observes. He steps forward slightly, one hand on his bicycle and the other still holding the lock which, Jon presumes, had made the offending noise, light from the only working lamppost casting him in a soft, washed out glow. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jon grips the handle of his cane. “It’s fine… You, ah, you aren’t usually out this late.” 

“No, I suppose not. I usually leave before you do, anyway.” Martin offers a hesitant smile that’s barely discernible in the dim light.

Jon isn’t sure why he’s so surprised at that, the idea of Martin noticing his presence, but his mind darts back to Tim and Sasha’s earlier teasing. 

“Just got caught up in writing,” Martin continues. His words come in gentle bursts, like he’s pausing to deliberate them before they gush out of him, like he needs to gather his courage before offering each new tidbit. “You know, focused on work, lost track of time. I, um. I hope I didn’t keep you in too late - God, I don’t even know the closing time, I just realized, I’m… I’m sorry, Jon.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jon says quickly. “You didn’t.” He shuffles his feet slightly and leans further into the support of his cane when his knees protest the movement. “How’s the coursework coming along then?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Martin says, beaming suddenly. “I’m - I’m really glad… I’m happy to be back at it.”

“I miss it, sometimes,” Jon says without meaning to. 

“Yeah?” Martin moves a little closer, tentative but still smiling that hopeful smile.

Jon hums. “Though sometimes it feels like I’m still there, buried under a mountain of work, always worried about what kind of marks I’ll receive this time…. God, I’m sorry, you didn’t need to - I don’t know why I said that.” He stares at his feet. Professionalism, Jon. Jesus.

But Martin doesn’t seem put off. He makes a quiet, sympathetic noise and fiddles with the bike lock in his hand. “You seem busy.”

“That’s… yeah. Busy.” 

“I, um, I saw Mr. Fairchild again. And that other man - from the reading. Is that your… boss?” Martin watches him, and maybe it’s the genuine kindness and concern in his voice or maybe it’s the mountain of stress weighing Jon down lately, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“No. Well.” He laughs bitterly. “Sometimes it feels that way. That’s Jonah Magnus. He’s… He’s been the library’s biggest donor for years. He’s basically got the library director under his thumb.”

“Gross,” Martin says. 

Jon laughs again, this time with marginally less sourness. “Capitalism.”

“Hm. That must be… frustrating.” Martin shifts his weight, watching Jon closely. 

Jon rolls his shoulders as he looks up at him. “It is. I really dislike him. Honestly, it keeps me up at night.”

Now it’s Martin’s turn to laugh. It’s a warm, resonant sound without any hints of hidden motives, and Jon almost holds his breath to hear it linger in the air as long as possible. His expression must have changed, because Martin pauses and looks at him uncertainly. Jon hurries to smile up at him. 

“Well,” Martin says, “maybe your, ah… maybe your girlfriend can come bully him like she did the director?”

“My…?” Jon snorts. “Nikola?”

“Um.”

“No, she’s an old friend. Tormentor. Both, I don’t know. From high school.” Jon smiles wryly. “I can’t ever let her find out anyone thought that - she puts a lot of effort into upholding her… what does she call it? Riot lesbian? Whatever, she works hard to maintain her aesthetic . She’d probably rather kill a man than let anyone assume she was attracted to one.”

“Oh.” Martin chuckles awkwardly. He’s blushing.

Jon looks away, toward the road. He thinks about the walk home, but he can feel the stiffness in his legs giving way to weakness, and he sighs quietly in resignation as he admits he’s just not up for it tonight. Georgie would probably be proud of him. Ah, shit, Georgie . He cringes slightly as he digs through  his pockets, searching for his phone. A quick glance at it confirms that she is, in fact, pissed at him for missing dinner. He shoots her a brief, apologetic text, then looks up to see Martin still looking at him.

“Sorry,” Jon says, “I, uh, I need to call a cab.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - Sorry.” Martin takes a step back, turning away slightly as he shoves his bike lock into his bag.

“For what?” Jon blinks up at him.

“Um. I… don’t know? Being distracting, taking up your time?”

“You aren’t taking anything that I’m not happy to give,” Jon says. “Can you just - hang on, you don’t have to leave, just let me - ” He gestures to his phone.

Martin nods silently, his face twisting with a series of emotions Jon can’t quite decipher in the shadows.

Jon makes the call as quickly as possible, though he doesn’t look away from Martin as he does so, watching as the taller man scuffs his feet and fusses with the hem of his shirt, eyes darting around everywhere but at Jon. When Jon puts his phone away again, he clears his throat. “I didn’t mean you had to stay, of course, I just… I meant I wasn’t dismissing you.”

“I want to stay,” Martin blurts out. He grimaces. “Sorry. Um. I’d like to stay and wait with you, if that’s okay?”

“It’s okay.” Jon smiles at him again, a bit carefully. The work part of his brain is throwing a tantrum about professionalism and appropriate relationships with patrons, but the soft, tired, Jon part of his brain wants nothing more than to give in to his drive to learn more about Martin, to understand his shyness and sadness and the strange eagerness that binds it all together. “I’m going to sit,” he adds, gesturing at the little stone bench by the walkway leading from the library’s main doors. 

Martin follows him hesitantly, propping his bike against its stand before lowering himself to the bench beside Jon as if he’s not sure he’s allowed. “So… are you usually out this late?”

Jon nods regretfully. “I don’t mean to, I just… I get carried away. There’s always something more to do, another email to write, a note to follow up on.”

“Seems a bit less… I don’t know, fun? Than I thought being a librarian would be.” 

“Me too,” Jon says with just a touch of grimness. “Well, I don’t know. I’d worked here long enough to know what I was getting into when I went for my Master’s, but I… I guess I thought I could make it different, somehow. I thought I could make a difference.”

Martin shoots him a curious glance. “You don’t think you are?”

Jon shakes his head. “I try, I really do, but… No. Nothing I do ever seems to make a real impact.”

Martin is quiet for a few moments, and Jon kicks himself mentally. He must seem like such a dramatist, all woe and resignation. But Martin finally says, “Not that it’s worth anything, but it has… you have… er. Well. To me.”

“Sorry, what?”

Martin winces. “The library… it’s nice. I like it. Being there. It feels… It feels like a safe place, like I can just enjoy existing there and not worry about… god, it’s so stupid, I don’t know, the great wide world? It’s just. Comforting. And I can see you work hard to make it that way, I can tell you care about it and you want to make it a nice place for people - like with the support group, no one else around here is doing things like that, and I can just… I think you’re making a difference.” He stops short and swallows hard. “Sorry. That was rambly. I… Um.” He starts to shake his hands, but freezes and wrings them together instead.

Jon isn’t quite sure why his throat is burning. He coughs softly. “Martin… Thank you.”

Martin squeaks something Jon can’t understand.

“I think I needed to hear that,” Jon whispers.

“I think… I think it’s nice to hear a new perspective, sometimes,” Martin says. He’s staring somewhere in the shadows, but Jon can see the flush creeping up the side of his face. “I know I need it from time to time.”

“Like with the university thing?” Jon asks before he can consider how rude that might be.

Martin only nods. “Yeah.” His hands jerk again, and he shakes them once, hard, before shoving them beneath his legs.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jon says. “Hide it, I mean. It’s okay.”

“What?” Martin’s head jerks to look at him now, eyes wide. Sitting beside each other like they are, Jon realizes, he doesn't have to look up nearly as far to meet his gaze.

Jon points to his hands. “I just meant… God, I’m sorry. I just meant you didn’t have to not… Jesus. I’m a disaster. I don’t want to be rude. But it’s safe here, to… stim. If that’s what you need.”

Martin bites down on his lip, eyes searching Jon’s for a moment longer before dropping away. His shoulders lose a little of their tension. He slowly brings his hands out from under his legs and rests them, fingers twitching and tapping, on his lap. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “Sometimes… some people don’t like it.”

“Some people should fuck off,” Jon observes, perhaps a bit more fiercely than is necessary. Whatever measure of professionalism he may have managed to protect around Martin until now has clearly crawled into a hole to die, but by now he’s too exhausted and too overwhelmed with emotions he can’t name to care.

Martin laughs again. “That’s the attitude that will help you defeat your capitalists once and for all.”

“If only,” Jon says wryly. 

Martin ducks his head and flutters his hands. He’s radiating that gentle happiness again, and it makes Jon’s chest hurt. Before either of them can open their mouths again, the shadows surrounding the library are broken apart by the headlights of a cab pulling up by the walkway.

“That’s me, I guess,” Jon says. He grips his cane and leans into it as he pushes himself to his feet. Martin rises beside him. “Um… thanks for the company. And for what you said.”

“Likewise.” Martin smiles softly. 

Jon takes a few steps toward the cab before Martin speaks again.

“Oh, Jon! Um. Do you like lemon?”

Jon tilts his head, confused. “Yes?”

“Okay. Good.” Martin swings a leg over his bicycle seat, beaming. “See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Martin can’t quite explain why he wakes up on the morning of the trans support group’s first meeting feeling so utterly jarred. The creeping anxiety running its tendrils through his chest is to be expected, though it’s not the same cloying dread he usually feels before a social encounter. It’s almost laced with something like excitement. And maybe that’s what’s so uncanny, what’s throwing him off balance in a way that has him blinking hard at his reflection in the mirror like he has to reorient himself, remind himself of who he is. He runs his fingers through his unruly mess of strawberry-tinted curls, tugs on them, then walks in a few tight circles in his tiny bedroom, flapping his hands hard. 

The action immediately jolts him back to that night over a week ago outside the library, sitting on a bench in the dark with Jon, heart thudding so loudly he was sure Jon would hear it and ask what was wrong.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought anything was wrong with Martin, not even his silly, halting words or his jittery hands. Martin feels himself blushing here in his own home just like he had then. The little sprout of affection he’d felt back when he’d first offered a pastry box to Jon has bloomed into a small garden now, all curling vines and unfurling petals of warmth and joy taking up the empty space in Martin’s heart. 

Somehow, though he’d always been conscious of the emptiness, he’s more conscious now of the space being filled .

He’s gone so long unnoticed that he’d almost convinced himself he was okay passing through his days on the outskirts of everyone else’s lives, but now that he’s tasted kindness, now that he’s felt the slow, flickering comfort of a returned smile, he finds himself leaning into it more and more each day. He wants to think of new ways to have that smile turned on him, wants to learn how to fill Jon’s days with enough happiness that the weight he so clearly struggles under loses a little more of its power. Maybe it’s a selfish want, maybe Martin’s desire to be seen and appreciated overpowers his desire to be helpful, but maybe he doesn’t care all that much anymore.

Maybe that’s why there’s that unfamiliar anticipation holding hands with his anxiety today.

Once Martin has paced and flapped enough of his bounding energy away, he returns to the mirror. His hair, of course, is hopeless - it’s going to fly about no matter how much time he spends trying to comb it down - so he turns his attention to the rest of himself. It’s still too warm out for the kind of cozy jumper he prefers to wear, so he settles for his softest yellow shirt instead. Then he hesitates, considering. He opens a narrow drawer and rustles about for the small enamel pin he knows is buried deep inside. His fingers close around its cool surface, and he pulls it out into the light to look at it carefully.

It’s nothing flashy, only a simple heart striped diagonally with the colors of the rainbow. He remembers the day he’d bought it, his breath choking tight in his throat as he’d fumbled through the purchase, afraid to meet the cashier’s eyes lest he see something frightening. It had taken him weeks to build up the courage to wear it even around the flat. His mother, of course, had taken one look at it and pursed her lips in the way Martin knew meant “I’m choosing not to verbally express my displeasure because it isn’t worth my time.” He’d managed to wear it a few times at uni, especially once Basira had seen it and encouraged him - he has a fleeting memory of her showing him a similar pin on her backpack, promising him that it was an easy way to meet other queer students - but once he’d returned home to a sick mother who shouted at him for his short hair and deepening voice, he’d never worn it again.

He wasn’t ashamed. But he was afraid, after that, of the judging looks and the words that might follow.

But the library was safe . Jon had promised, and Martin believes him.

He fashions the pin to the front of his shirt before he can think about it any further and doesn’t look at it in the mirror.

Martin arrives at the library earlier than usual; it’s his day off from work, and he knows he can focus on his coursework in the soft hum of the library far better than he can in the complete silence of his flat. This does, of course, mean that he can’t seek out Jon to give him a pastry, which is slightly disappointing. Instead he waves at Sasha, who isn’t at the front desk today but is bustling around with a full shelving cart, and even manages a small smile at Daisy, who’s loitering by Jon’s unattended desk with a restless expression. He likes that he recognizes the faces and habits of the employees. He feels like he fits into the slow movements here. The routine of finding his desk, arranging his belongings, and opening his laptop soothes a little more of his anxiety about the event later in the evening away. 

He buries himself in his notes, humming softly deep in his throat and tapping the capped end of his pen against his lap to the beat of the poem he’d spent the past day poring over ( Unmask’d, and being seen - without a blot! ) the tapping growing faster and faster the more he immerses himself in the work.

“Keats today?” 

Jon’s voice is gentle and soft behind him, but Martin still jumps slightly as he turns to look at him. “Uh - yes!” 

Jon smiles apologetically and moves closer, coming up beside the desk so Martin doesn’t have to twist his neck to see his face. “You always look so - you make it look enjoyable.”

“Er, I… right, I forgot, not a poetry person,” Martin says, wrinkling his nose.

“Not for lack of trying,” Jon says. He blinks down at the open book beside Martin, bending in slightly to see it better. “I suppose I prefer more directness. I just don’t like spending hours searching for the meaning of something.”

“I mean - you don’t have to. Sometimes the answers are on the surface too,” Martin says. He uses his pen to point to the next line of the poem, too caught up in the momentum of something he loves to decide on his words before they spill out. “ Let me have thee whole, - all - all - be mine … That’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? You can find more in it, you can pick it apart and understand it in lots of different ways, but  - well, you can appreciate it on its own too, let it just be… honest.” He glances up to find Jon’s sharp green eyes looking directly at him - not at his face, but at his shirt. Martin blinks and looks down, then realizes that he’s staring at the rainbow pin there. He nearly chokes on his own breath, mouth audibly snapping shut as he looks back up at Jon. He doesn’t understand Jon’s expression, twisting in on itself too quickly to comprehend.

Jon is silent for a split second longer before answering, very quietly, “I suppose you can.”

Martin opens his mouth to apologize, then realizes Jon will want to know why and he doesn’t have an answer for that, so he bites down on his lip instead and plants his gaze firmly on his notebook.

Which means Jon is the one to mutter, “Sorry,” before backing away and adding, “I should, ah… I won’t distract you from your work.”

“It’s fine,” Martin assures him in a whisper. He doesn’t look up again until Jon has left his peripheral vision, but he does turn his head a little to watch him disappear through the rows of shelves. 

Did I do something wrong? Oh God, he had started rambling again, words pouring out of him too fast to catch, and about something he knows Jon doesn’t like. Martin resists the urge to thump his forehead against the desk. No. No, it’s fine, Jon had asked about it, and Martin hadn’t gotten far enough to consider infodumping - it’s fine, Martin didn’t do anything wrong, it’s… fine. He forces himself to take several deep, calming breaths, even allows himself to shake his hands out beneath the table for a few moments to steady himself once again. Nothing to panic about .

But did it have to be bloody Keats ?

The next time Martin looks up from his work, it’s because he’s jolted out of concentration by a high, theatrical voice, which he recognizes mostly because of its utter disregard for conventional social rules regarding libraries and noise. He peeks up in time to see Nikola - Jon’s friend - dragging another woman with dark skin and braided hair toward Jon’s desk. He watches Jon stand to meet them only to be crushed into a tight hug by each woman in turn. Jon has to look up at both of them, especially at Nikola in her platform boots, but he’s smiling at them. Martin’s chest twinges a little to see the way his eyes crinkle, his heart fluttering as if that look was turned on him.

The shorter of the two women says something to Jon and points to his head, and Martin sees Jon’s hand fly to his dark hair, which is piled, as usual, in what Martin generously considers a bun. The woman laughs and tugs at the tie keeping his hair in place, releasing it. It tumbles down past his shoulders in waves and tangles.

Martin never realized how long Jon’s hair is; it hits the top of his chest, and there’s a streak of silver wider than the ones around his temples that was hidden in the updo. He looks away very quickly, but he can’t manage to focus on the words on the page before him anymore. After a few minutes he realizes Jon is leading his friends toward him, but he doesn’t look up until they’re close enough to speak to him.

“Are you… coming to the group?” Jon asks as he steps in close to his desk. 

Martin swallows hard and nods. A quick glance at him reveals that his friend has left his hair in a braid that’s probably very respectable, really, despite what it does to Martin’s chest.

At least now he can blame his pounding heart on something other than the idea of how many more people he’s going to be around tonight. 

Something like relief passes over Jon’s face. “It doesn’t start for a half hour, but I’ll be inside to greet people.” He points to one of the meeting rooms along the back wall. “You don’t have to come yet, but…”

As much as the idea of moving from his safe spot terrifies Martin, the idea of walking into a room of people he doesn’t know alone is worse. He quickly begins to gather his things. “I’ll, um, I’ll come with you now, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Jon smiles at him again - why does he look so nervous? - and turns to the two women. “Oh, um, this is Nikola and Georgie, my friends. This is Martin.”

Martin squeaks.

“Nice to meet you, Martin,” Georgie says. Her voice is warm and soothing in a way that eases some of the panic trying to crawl up Martin’s throat.

“So he is capable of making friends without us,” Nikola says in that overly earnest tone. “Shocking!”

Now there’s something different choking Martin from the inside out. Friends? Is that what he is to Jon? Are they friends now? Does Jon think they’re friends?

“Of course I am.” Jon casts her a look that’s probably meant to be grumpy but lands closer to fond exasperation before turning to walk toward the meeting room.

Martin scrambles to put the last of his things in the bag and stand, not wanting to be left behind but afraid of following too closely.

“So, Martin,” Nikola says, interrupting his thoughts before they can spiral too quickly. “Pronouns?”

“Oh, um, he/him for me,” Martin stammers.

“She for me,” Nikola offers.

“And for me,” Georgie pipes up as Jon opens the door to the meeting room.

Inside is a long conference table surrounded by rolling chairs with thick, leather cushions. Nikola lets out a squeal that’s entirely inappropriate for a library and throws herself into one, letting the force of her body roll it away from the table. “I’m sitting at the head,” she declares. 

Jon sighs longsufferingly and busies himself at another, much smaller table immediately inside the door. Its set up is much like the welcome table from the poetry night, Martin recognizes, with a short stack of flyers and a sign-in sheet. Beside it is a small plastic bin. Georgie wanders over and prods at its contents.

“Pronoun pins?” she says, surprised. “Gertrude really brought out the big coins for this.”

“Oh, um, I bought them, actually,” Jon says. He looks almost embarrassed. “I thought… I thought maybe it’d be a nice touch, help people feel at home.”

“Good idea,” Georgie says. She rummages in the bin and grabs a couple of pins, one for herself and one that she holds out toward Martin. “Here’s yours!” The smile she offers him is so wide and easy that Martin has no trouble smiling back, though he blushes as he takes it from her outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” he says, looking at the pin. It’s simple enough, just a white circle with the word HE printed in bold black letters. He takes a deep breath and adds it to the front of his shirt, beside his rainbow, and when he glances up again he sees Jon turning away quickly, as if he’d been watching. His face heats up another few degrees. 

Nikola leaps up from her chair to grab a pin for herself, then wrangles Jon slightly to add one to his shirt. Jon grumbles at her, swatting her hands halfheartedly.

Martin’s mind is crowded again with thoughts of the ease with which people who aren’t him can interact with each other. He finds a seat at one end of the table and stashes his bag out of the way. 

“Right, so I’ve got coke and biscuits like you asked,” declares a new voice from the doorway, “but they were out that chocolate one you like, Jon, so I just grabbed an extra pack of shortbreads.” 

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says, moving to take the grocery bag from the taller man.

Nikola peeks over Jon’s head as he sets the soft drinks at one end of the table and the packages of biscuits convenient intervals between chairs. “Light snacks, as promised,” she says cheerfully.

“Don’t be difficult,” Georgie scolds, poking her. “I’m going to say hi to Melanie before it gets busy.”

She disappears through the door once more, Tim following her after checking that Jon has everything he needs, and then Martin is left alone in the room with Jon and Nikola. The former fusses with the biscuits a little longer before turning back to the entry table. He seems tense, his nervousness as visible as Martin thinks his own probably is. He wants to say something to assure Jon that the event will be wonderful, that his hard work is going to pay off, but he can’t think of how to say that in any way that will be comforting or sensical, so he just fidgets with his pins and avoids making eye contact.

It isn’t long before a few more people start trickling into the room. Most stop to grab one of the pins or speak to Jon, and Nikola’s soon caught two of them in a conversation about their respective makeup skills. Martin stays quiet.

It’s like he can feel the presence of strangers pushing in against his skin. Even though he knows, objectively, that no one here will judge him for who he is, that this is a welcoming space, the idea of having to speak, of being expected to open his mouth and of the confusion that will follow when he can’t, makes him shrink into himself. It’s fine, it’s fine, you won’t have to talk, he reminds himself. This is safe. You can enjoy yourself .

He keeps this mantra going until he’s interrupted by Jon clearing his throat. He glances up to see Jon standing awkwardly by the now-closed door, an almost shy smile contrasting with intensely focused eyes. 

“Hi everyone, I’m Jon Sims, he/him, and I’m the head librarian here at the Magnus Library,” he starts.

Martin listens to his evidently prepared speech with interest, noting how despite Jon’s anxiety he’s able to speak so clearly. He envies that. Jon explains that the support group will be a monthly event and that there will be structured conversational topics and perhaps guest speakers in the near future, but that tonight is focused simply on building community at everyone’s pace of comfort. 

“I’m going to pass around these conversation starter ideas,” Jon continues, holding up a few sheets of paper, “for anyone who wants to use them. No pressure, of course.”

Martin doesn’t think many of the other people need the help of Jon’s icebreakers; most of them seem comfortable enough striking up conversation with each other, though he supposes some of them may already know each other. It’s only a matter of time before he’s the only one not speaking to someone. That’s mostly fine with him. He grabs a biscuit from the package closest to him and curls in on himself as much as he dares, his heart rate calming just slightly as he resigns himself, not unhappily, to simply existing in this room full of strangers. It’s a good first step, he thinks. If he can make it through tonight, maybe another time he could try introducing himself to someone… maybe. He won’t get too hopeful, though.

“Holding up okay?”

Martin blinks; he hadn’t noticed Jon taking the unoccupied chair beside him. “Um… yeah.”

Jon looks relieved. “Not too overwhelming, I hope?”

Martin shakes his head silently.

Jon sits quietly for a moment as well, watching the various conversations unfold around the room. He looks so fond and hopeful, Martin realizes. He doesn’t think he can fully understand how important this is to Jon, but he’s suddenly very glad that he came, if only to show support for something that Jon wants so badly. 

“Um,” Jon says after a few minutes. “You can say no - but… did you want to try… Um.” He waves one of the papers left in his hand.

Martin gulps. “M-maybe?”

“You can say no,” Jon says again.

Martin takes one of the papers and looks over, but there is nothing here that he thinks he can ask without his voice sticking in his throat. It all seems so formal , which might be nice if he were talking to anyone else, if he weren’t so desperate to find the ease that had hung between him and Jon that night outside the library. So instead, what he blurts out is, “It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like this.” 

“Something like…?”

Martin gestures weakly to the room. “Queer spaces,” he mumbles. 

“Ah. They’re not as common here, not like they are in London,” Jon says. 

Even there I was too afraid, Martin thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He clutches the paper in his hands, scanning it again frantically for something he can ask. Once again, what finally comes out of his mouth isn’t from Jon’s list. “Um. How did you meet your friends?”

Jon doesn’t seem bothered. He taps his fingertips on the handle of his cane where it leans against his leg. “It was in high school,” he says. 

Martin cringes slightly, remembering now that Jon has mentioned this before. But Jon doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’d just moved to the area,” he says, not looking at Martin, “It was… hard, trying to learn a new place, trying to find my place, with - well, trying to learn who I was. Nikola kind of forced me into this group she was in. All of the queer kids would meet up here at the library after school - it’s not far from there, actually. Georgie was there, too. They…” He pauses, lips turning upward in a wry smile. “They were like my family. Still are, really. They helped me through it all, especially back when I first transitioned.”

“That…” Martin swallows. That sounds beautiful, that’s everything I’ve ever wanted, that’s what you deserved and I’m only a little jealous I didn’t get that too . “That’s nice,” he says, and he wonders if Jon can hear the thickness in his voice. 

Jon nods, still smiling, though the dart of his eyes suggests that he does, in fact, notice. “Daisy mentioned that you knew Basira - are you friends?” 

“Um.” Martin shrugs. “I don’t … I don’t think so. Not that I wouldn’t want to be,” he adds quickly, “just that we were never… really close, I guess.” He folds the paper in half, then unfolds it, staring at the crease so he doesn’t have to look at Jon’s face. “She was the first person I came out to, though.”

Jon makes a soft, encouraging sound. Martin thinks he’s staring at him, but he can’t be sure without taking his eyes off the paper.

“I, um, I didn’t start transitioning until university. My mum… she wasn’t hateful, but… I didn’t think she’d want me… doing that, in her house.” He scoffs quietly. “And I was right. When I had to move back in, be her caretaker once she got sick, she - I mean, don’t get me wrong, she never stopped me, but she wasn’t exactly… She didn’t like it much.” His eyes prickle and he swallows hard, suddenly embarrassed as the words dry uncomfortably on his tongue.

“I think… I think it takes a lot of bravery,” Jon says, so soft and slow Martin can barely hear him over the chatter in the room, “to keep choosing yourself in a place that wants to choose for you. I admire you for that.”

Martin flicks his gaze toward Jon in shock. His lips part but he finds that he has nothing to say to that. Jon, admire him ? Jon, who can argue with his boss and stand up in front of a room full of people and bring them together with a few words, calling Martin brave? This more than anything makes Martin’s face flush hot and his eyes blur with something he can’t name. 

Jon’s hand reaches out slightly, hovering over Martin’s arm as if he wants to touch him but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “Martin? Are you - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - ”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Martin stammers. He blinks hard. “Thank you.”

Jon watches him, hesitating before nodding.

Is he brave? The question tumbles about in his mind as he sits back in the chair, folding and unfolding the paper over and over again. He’s never felt brave before. Usually he just feels silly, like he’s never stopped being a frightened child hovering in the corners of every space he’s existed in. 

Jon doesn’t make him feel silly, though.

He just makes him feel… safe. Like the fact that he’s here at all - in this room, in the library, in the world - is important, no matter how much anxiety he has to push through to be here. 

Martin shakes his hands, paper still clutched in one, and smiles at Jon without reservation.

Chapter Text

Jon makes sure to thank each person as they leave the library’s meeting room and reminds them all to add their email address to the list so they can receive information about the next gathering of the support group. His mind is already full of excitement; Georgie thinks she can convince her university friend Oliver to come speak in a month or two, and she’s sure that having a Twitter-verified presence will do wonders for the group’s success. Though Jon cares about social media prowess even less than he understands it, her hope is contagious. Between this thought and the buzz of joy at the turnout to the event, Jon has no trouble finding smiles for everyone he speaks to. 

Martin is the last person to leave.

Jon isn’t very surprised by this; he’s kept an eye on him to make sure he was all right, that he didn’t appear too overstimulated as the conversation around them grew louder, but he seems - content, at least, if not fully comfortable. Jon thinks he sits so still in the corner because he doesn’t want to call attention to himself. But once it’s only the two of them in the room, Martin’s shoulders lose a little of their tension, and he leans forward slightly as he begins to flutter his hands over the arms of his chair. He offers Jon another one of those soft, glowing smiles that make Jon’s thoughts stutter to a halt.

“So, um,” Jon says, looking away after a moment, “what did you think?” He props his cane against the small entry table so he can use both his hands to collect the empty packages of biscuits.

Martin jumps to his feet and begins to gather the trash on his end of the conference table. “It was nice, Jon. People looked happy.”

“And you?” Jon glances at him quickly.

Martin is quiet for a few beats before he answers. “I’m really glad you asked me to come.” Then, “Thank you.”

Jon can’t imagine not inviting him, can’t imagine a world where Martin is ever anything less than welcome and wanted, but he’s starting to understand that Martin has been made to believe that he does live in that sort of world. It makes something dark twist inside Jon’s chest and his hands throb with an ache that he can’t quite blame on his illness. He’s still riding this wave of confused emotions that he thinks are bound up in protectiveness when he blurts out, “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“What?” Martin stares at him, arm still outstretched to reach another empty biscuit package.

Ah, there goes his professionalism again. Jon winces but pushes bravely onward. “It’s - well, it’s kind of late, and neither of us have had dinner, and the biscuits really weren’t all that filling… I was thinking about stopping somewhere to eat, and - do you want to come with?”

Martin gapes at him long enough that Jon is ready to take it back, afraid he’s crossed a line, before he stutters, “Y-yes, I’d like - yeah.”

“All right.” Jon smiles at him, though he suspects it may look more like a grimace through the onslaught of panic now crowding his head. Maybe Martin is only agreeing because he feels like he can’t say no, maybe he’s already overstimulated from the long day he’s had, maybe Jon is stepping all over his boundaries and ruining whatever gentle friendliness had been growing between them. Then these thoughts are interrupted by his brain’s helpful reminder of Martin’s tiny rainbow pin - soft and unobtrusive, like Martin himself - and Jon manages to short circuit his own mind into stunned silence as he finishes tidying the meeting room. 

Martin alternates between wringing and shaking his hands as he watches Jon collect the remaining flyers and pins before turning off the lights in the room and stepping outside. He follows Jon back to his desk, where Jon spends under a minute stashing them out of sight in one of his many cluttered drawers, and then toward the door. All the while, Martin hangs back a few paces, his uncertainty billowing out around him as he moves. 

The only other people in sight are Georgie and Melanie; Georgie is leaning across the circulation desk, talking animatedly, while Melanie, sitting behind it, listens with the wide grin Jon has only ever seen her direct at Georgie. As he walks toward the door, Martin still trailing behind him, Georgie turns to face them.

“Jon, that was so, so wonderful. I’m proud.”

Jon can feel his cheeks heating, and he looks away quickly. “I’m… I’m proud too,” he admits.

Georgie pulls him into a hug, which he accepts without resistance until she presses a teasing kiss atop his head. He grunts in protest and squirms away. “Really, Jon, I’m happy for you. You deserved this,” she says.

Jon clears his throat. It’s one thing to accept Georgie’s affection in the privacy of their flat, but frankly it’s quite another to do so in his place of work, and in front of Martin, no less. He has a reputation to uphold - probably. He pointedly does not look at anyone as he mutters his thanks and makes a beeline for the door. 

“It was great to meet you, Martin,” he hears Georgie saying behind him. “You’ll come next month?”

“Y-yeah, I think so,” Martin says in his choked, shy voice. 

Jon hesitates in the doorway, one hand holding it open as he glances back to see whether Martin is following.

“Oh - sorry,” Martin says, and hurries to catch up after throwing a nervous smile and the tiniest of waves Georgie and Melanie’s way.

Jon smiles reassuringly at Martin and has just enough time to see Georgie and Melanie exchanging pointed looks before the door falls shut behind them. He hunches his shoulders slightly at the thought of whatever that means.

It’s a problem for future Jon, though, he decides, as he waits for Martin to free his bike from the rack. If Georgie decides to enlighten him, he knows he’ll hear all about it eventually; no need to drive himself out of his mind with curiosity when he has plenty to overthink standing right in front of him.

“Um, so, where to?” Martin asks.

“There’s a sandwich shop a couple of blocks down,” Jon suggests.

“O-okay,” Martin says. He pauses for a moment before adding, “Did you want to call a cab?”

“No, I can walk.” 

“Oh, I just - I wasn’t sure.” Martin’s eyes flicker briefly to Jon’s cane before landing somewhere near his own shoes.

They walk for a moment without speaking, the only sound the tapping of Jon’s cane and the slight squeak of Martin’s bicycle.

Martin’s never asked about the cane, Jon realizes. He’s barely given it any recognition at all, and Jon is… grateful. Though most of the people in the immediacy of his day-to-day life either already know about his fibromyalgia or have the grace not to bring up the cane around him, he’s had plenty of encounters that have taught him just how callous people can be when they think they deserve to know something about him. It’s nice not to have to explain, not to have to ward off unwanted sympathy or stories about the healing powers of yoga or whatever it was that cured somebody’s second cousin’s neighbor of their sprained ankle. 

Still, after a few minutes of silence, Jon offers, “It’s more of a precaution than anything, usually.”

Martin’s head whips toward him, but he doesn’t say anything as Jon continues.

“I mean - well, sometimes I do need it, but sometimes it’s just - it’s nice for balance. And saving energy.” 

When Martin seems to realize that this is all Jon is going to volunteer, he gives a tentative smile that Jon barely sees from the corner of his eye. “Makes sense to me.”

Hm. No further prodding, no questions, just… acceptance. It’s not that Martin has ever given indication that he would respond any differently, but it still loosens something in Jon’s stomach that he hadn’t realized was there until it wasn’t . 

He doesn’t feel like Martin sees brokenness in him.

Jon smiles in response, though whether it's to Martin’s words or the sudden flood of emotions at this new revelation is anyone’s guess, and allows the gentle late summer breeze to fill in the gaps between them until they’ve reached the little shop tucked into a corner near the bus stop. Martin secures his bike at the rack nearby, then opens the door for Jon with a little murmur Jon can’t quite understand.

They place their orders at the counter, and when Martin reaches for his wallet, Jon shakes his head and hands his card to the employee as Martin protests.

“Consider it repayment,” he says, “for all the pastries.”

“Oh,” Martin says, flushing. “But they were gifts.”

“Then this is a gift too,” Jon says stubbornly. He turns away before Martin can say anything else.

He leads them to a worn booth by a window, stashing his cane down at his feet as Martin carefully adjusts his bag from where he sits across the table. Jon watches him for a moment, taking in the way he ducks his head and brushes fluttering hands through his gingery hair, noting how the loose curls have managed to become even fluffier from the heat of the outdoors. He looks like he usually does when he comes into the library in the mid-afternoon. He looks flustered, like he’s not sure what to do with himself, like he wants to say something but hasn’t formed the words. Jon has become familiar with this version of Martin. It’s the version that has stood beside his desk, small cardboard box in hand, more times than he can count now. Not for the first time, Jon is overwhelmed with a need to know , to understand who Martin is, why he is. 

So he says, “I never asked why you brought the pastries.”

“Oh.” Martin’s hands twist together before disappearing beneath the table. “I don’t know… No, that’s not true.” He makes a quiet scoffing noise; it’s not directed at Jon, though Jon isn’t sure why he would direct it at himself. “I just… um. You always look so tired, and - busy, and stressed, I guess. And you were so kind to me - patient with me - and I wanted to do something back. I thought…” He makes the scoffing noise again, more quietly. “I thought maybe, if I could distract you for a few minutes with a dessert, that you’d have a little break from it all. It’s stupid, I know.”

“Martin,” Jon says, and he isn’t sure why his voice comes out all strangled. “It isn’t stupid. I… thank you.”

The idea has presented itself to him before, both in the form of Tim and Sasha’s teasing and in his own occasional pondering, but now that it’s staring at him so blatantly - Martin notices you, Martin sees you, Martin thinks about you - he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart beats a little faster. Why is that? 

“It did help,” he hears himself saying, and he has to dig his fingernails into his palms to orient his mind back onto the words falling from his mouth, to reign in whatever spiral his thoughts are straying into before they slip into the open too. “Thank you,” he repeats.

 When Martin finally meets his gaze, Jon manages a small smile at him. Martin returns it with a little less than his usual shyness and a little more than usual happiness. It’s gentle and warm, and Jon reflects briefly that in his yellow shirt, Martin looks a bit like a soft patch of sun, like a safe place to linger.

He must still be staring as their plates are set before them, because after a moment Martin frowns in confusion, looks down at himself, and jolts, one hand flying up to cover the pins attached to his shirt. “Oh,” he whispers, “I forgot.” 

Jon blinks, jarred out of his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

“I - I don’t usually, um, I didn’t think I’d be anywhere except the library today so I - ” Martin fiddles with the pins.

“I don’t understand,” Jon says.

Martin bites his lip and stares down at the table. “I just don’t usually… wear it?”
“Why?” Jon asks before he can stop himself. He grits his teeth. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.” 

“No, it’s - it’s okay, just… I guess I’m afraid of someone saying - something, I don’t know.” Martin looks properly embarrassed now, hunching in on himself in the booth.

Jon wants to kick himself. “I’m sorry.” He hesitates, then adds, “For what it’s worth, I won’t… I won’t let anyone say anything - or, or do anything. To you.” He doesn’t know why he says that, what force is pulling these words out of his mouth before he’s even processed the feeling of them, and he almost wants to apologize again, but the way Martin looks up at him, slow and uncertain but so damned hopeful - why, why does he look like that? - makes him freeze.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice hushed and shaking.

Jon nods curtly and, for lack of ideas about followup remarks, tucks into his sandwich before he has to think too closely about - anything.

Martin pokes at his own food, but he doesn’t seem inclined to eat it. After a full minute, he says, words fumbling, “Um, I’ve never seen you wear any. Pins, I mean. Pride pins. Do you? Ever wear them?”

Jon’s brows shoot up. “Sure, sometimes.”

“Right.” Martin takes a deep, fortifying breath and pushes on. “Er… what pins do you wear?”

Ah. Jon sets his sandwich down carefully. “The trans flag, obviously.”

Martin nods. He isn’t looking at him.

“And the, the pan one, too.” He pauses. “And - do you know the asexual flag?”

“It’s pretty,” Martin says, nodding again.

“Yeah. That one. Those three. When I wear pins.” Jon observes his plate. “My trifecta, as Georgie says.”

Martin chuckles breathlessly, and he seems to lose a little of his tension, shaking his hands briefly before finally picking up his sandwich and taking a bite from it. 

Jon sips from his drink and chews on the inside of his mouth. “Maybe I should try to wear them more often,” he considers aloud. “For visibility.”

Martin hums softly. “I want to be… braver about it.” He takes another bite from his sandwich and swallows it before adding, “It always makes me feel - safe, maybe? Not alone, at least - when I see someone else with a pin or - or something. It’s nice to know I’m not the only queer person around, anyway. I always thought I was, growing up.”

Jon makes a small, thoughtful noise. “I think we all tend to feel that way for a while.”

He remembers what it was like, realizing that he wasn’t the person he’d been told he was, moving to a new place and feeling so lost in more ways than he’d ever imagined possible. He remembers how it felt to slowly find the pieces, both within himself and within the group of people who’d become the family he’d never realized he was missing.

Is that how Martin feels? 

Jon’s mind flashes back to Martin’s stammering words during the support group, his almost shamed admission to transitioning under the disapproving gaze of his mother even after waiting until university to begin at all. He remembers his confession that he’d first come out to Basira, who Jon knows was little more than an amiable flatmate. 

Something harsh seizes in Jon’s chest, something that hurts as it tears through him with realization. Martin, with his softness, his kindness, his warm eyes and uncertain hands, hovering on the edges of every space he tiptoes around because he’s never had a space of his own to be in. All the little fragments that have nudged into Jon’s consciousness pull together now into a jagged understanding, an awareness at last of what makes Martin Martin .

 It’s all the beautiful little aspects of caring and shyness, yes, but it’s the pain and loneliness too. It’s the shaking hands shoved under legs and cracking voice fading into silence just as much as it is the little gifts and brave smiles and messy hair. And Jon knows without a doubt that Martin does not deserve that, that he should never have to feel out of place, unwanted, unaccepted. 

He looks up into Martin’s face, which is open and honest and unsure, and sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

Fuck .

Jon does not know what to do with this, does not know where to put his emotions for sorting, or how to hold them while he’s still here so close to Martin. And so he does what he does best - he very deliberately puts them into a little box and shoves them as far back into the recesses of his mind as he can so that he can survive until he’s alone again.

Martin picks at his sandwich, watching Jon through his lashes as he alternates between staring across the table at him and then down at his own food. His heart is pounding in the way that makes him wonder if Jon notices again. There’s something thrilling about being here, about being invited into Jon’s life even in this smallest of ways. Objectively, of course, Martin knows that it's meaningless - people eat together all the time. It’s not a big thing, really. At least, he’s sure that to Jon it isn’t. But to him…

He wishes that it wasn’t so hard for him to read people, that he could look into Jon’s eyes and understand whatever is lurking there. He wishes he knew whether, when Jon promised that he wouldn’t let anyone say anything cruel to Martin, that was just his usual protectiveness or whether maybe, just maybe, it was an extra thing, a special thing directed at Martin.

It’s wishful thinking, of course. It’s his constant selfish craving to be wanted, amplified by the desperation of how much he wants to be wanted by Jon . 

Still, it gave him the courage to ask about the pins, as if knowing whether Jon might be attracted to men would help him understand whether Jon might be attracted to Martin - but that’s so very silly, of course. Martin tries to keep his hopefulness at bay, but there’s a part of him that wants to cling to it just a little longer. As if this moment in a dingy sandwich shop is a scene from a novel and he’s trying to keep the emotions it sparks intact by not turning the page just yet. 

“So,” Jon says. His voice is tight and stiff, and he isn’t looking at Martin anymore. “The pastries. You said you brought them from your work? How… how is that?”

Oh. Okay. Martin blinks, internally scrambling to catch up to whatever change in atmosphere has prompted Jon’s abruptness. “Um. It’s fine, I guess? I don’t hate it.”

“But you don’t love it.” It’s not a question.

“No, not… not really.” Martin picks up his napkin and then puts it down again. “When I - when I had to move back in with my mum, when she got sick, I just needed… anything to pay the bills. It was all a coincidence, really, I never imagined myself as a… baker.”

“I can see it,” Jon says thoughtfully, then pauses and glares down at his sandwich.

“Um…” What does that mean?

“You, ah, you must be busy, then,” Jon says after the briefest moment of awkward silence. 

“Not really? Well, I guess, kind of. But I don’t mind it, honestly. I prefer it, having studying to do every day, over just… sitting around.” 

“Right.” Jon looks up at him now, meeting his eyes quickly. “I - I’m the same, I think. I never really learned how to not be busy all the time, after university.”

Martin picks at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt. “Yeah. It’s - nice, to have something to work on, to work toward. Like I’m actually doing something with my life for once.”

“Exactly!” Jon says, maybe a bit too loudly. “Like - like if I’m working on something, I know I’m contributing something to the world, but if I’m not, I - oh, I don’t know.” He falters suddenly, and his eyebrows draw together in an expression that Martin doesn’t understand.

What he does understand, or at least what he’s starting to piece together, is that perhaps Jon’s constant harriedness isn’t just because of his boss’ demands. Martin frowns a little at this. Something about Jon’s wording needles at the back of his mind, sparking something he can’t name but doesn’t like. He huffs out a breath. He can relate, at least. So he nods, muttering, “Yeah,” as he picks up his sandwich again.

They finish their meal in a relative silence that Martin hopes is companionable but worries is uncomfortable. Jon is the first to stand, leaning into his cane a bit harder than he had before. Martin follows him outside, watching him closely, but he gives no other sign that he’s in pain beyond a tired sigh as he checks his phone.

“Are you, um, do you want me to wait with you while you call a cab?” Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head. “My bus should be here in a few minutes. I’ll be fine.” He gestures to the bus stop bench only a few paces away.

“Oh, all - all right, then.” Martin fumbles with the lock on his bike for a moment. “Um. Thank you, Jon, for… everything. The sandwich and the - back there.” He nods vaguely in the direction of the library.

Jon peers up at him in the darkness, expression unreadable for a moment before he breaks into a tentative smile. “Any time, Martin.”

Martin hopes the shadows hide the blush he knows is shooting back up his cheeks and straddles his bike.

The next day is cool and damp, and Martin is glad he remembered to bring his raincoat so he isn’t soaked by the time he reaches the library. Jon isn’t at his desk, so Martin places the danish he’s brought today by his keyboard before settling down in his usual spot. He barely has time to open his laptop, however, before someone drops into the chair across the table from him.

“There’s a rumor going around,” Daisy says, apparently unaware of just how much she’s startled Martin, “that Jon Sims might be happy . What do you know about it?”

“Ah - ah - what ?” Martin places one hand over his chest as if to wrestle his heart back into place. 

“That’s what I said!” She glances around with narrowed, glinting eyes. “But my sources are rarely wrong.”

“Sources?” Martin looks around too, searching for something - anything - to help him make sense of what she’s saying. 

Daisy grunts in affirmation. “I was even told he was spotted smiling yesterday, and that you were in the vicinity at the time. So. What do you know?”

“I’m - I’m sorry, I don’t…” 

“Daisy! You’re not tormenting poor Martin, are you?” Tim swoops in from behind a bookshelf. Had he been eavesdropping? And how does he know Martin’s name?

“I’m just collecting eyewitness accounts,” Daisy says.

“Eyewitness?” Martin looks between the two, feeling more lost by the moment.

Tim, however, nods wisely. “Good idea. Melanie’s generally pretty trustworthy, but it can’t hurt to ask around.”

“Um.” Martin wrings his hands helplessly.

“Sorry, Marto - can I call you Marto? Look, don’t let Daisy intimidate you. It’s just that there’s some pretty intense workplace gossip flying around these parts lately, especially after last night.” Tim winks conspiratorially at Martin.

“I don’t… understand.” Martin drops his eyes quickly.

“Oh my god, why have you cornered Martin?”

Martin looks up again as a third person approaches the table. This time it’s Basira, ever the picture of calmness. She pulls out the chair beside her wife and sits, still talking. “They’re not bothering you, are they?”

“Um. No..? I just… I’m… confused?” Martin squeaks out. 

“Okay, okay, here’s the thing.” Tim braces one hand on the table as he leans in. “Daisy and I have both noticed Jon experiencing emotions lately. At least for the past - hm. Probably almost three months now.”

“I’ve known him for four years, and up until now his emotional range ran from grouchy to exhausted ,” Daisy adds. 

Tim nods sadly. “Even on library family outings! It’s not my fault he got banned from trivia for being so insufferably full of facts , and I’ve told him he’s not obligated to come if he’s going to sit and pout the whole time - though of course he is obligated. You know how it is, right?” He looks to Martin as if waiting for agreement, but when he doesn’t get it he plows onward. “Anyway, the man is basically an emotional brick. Until suddenly he’s doing things like staring dreamily into the distance - without frowning, I’ll add - and smiling in the breakroom!”

“Scandalous,” Basira says dryly.

“Sh!” Tim says suddenly.

Martin follows his gaze in time to see Jon slipping into his desk chair. He picks up the pastry Martin had left for him, lips quirking upward briefly before he glances up and sees the cluster of people staring at him. He tilts his head quizzically, then scowls and ducks his head down as he turns his attention on his keyboard.

“See?” Tim hisses. “Did you see that? It was a smile!”

“Wow,” Daisy says, sounding impressed. She surveys Martin with a new light in her eyes. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

“What?” Martin laughs nervously, feeling himself teetering on the edge of what might be panic. He’s still not sure what they want from him, why they’ve singled him out over something that he’s never realized was uncommon from Jon. Well, to be fair, he had been rather prickly the first few times they’d spoken, but that was just because Jon was so tired and stressed all the time! He was really very lovely, and he always had plenty of softness waiting to share if you just gave him a minute or two to find it. 

“Listen,” Tim says. He holds up his hands as if not to frighten off a small animal. “We’re just - we’re his friends, and we were getting a little worried about Jon’s ability to experience, um, positive emotions. After all,” he adds darkly, “in this line of work you’ll go insane if you don’t have a little fun from time to time.”

“He doesn’t look like he ever has fun,” Basira observes, still watching Jon.

“Exactly!” Tim straightens. “Until recently. And as Daisy so wisely pointed out, you’re at least mostly responsible.”

Martin draws in on himself, squeezing his hands together in his lap. “N-no, I don’t - ”

“Look, it’s not a bad thing,” Daisy says quickly. “We’re happy to see it - ”

“Oh, back off him, Daisy,” Basira says. She sounds fond but firm, and her eyes shift to watch Martin carefully. “You know they’re only teasing you, right?”

But Martin doesn’t want them to be teasing. That selfish part of him is exulting, practically doing kickflips in his stomach at the idea that he might be bringing Jon just a fraction of the happiness he deserves - that maybe he’s doing something special for Jon.

He looks back across the room at Jon, who has peeked up at them again with an expression of abject confusion and worry. Their eyes meet briefly, and Jon’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly before he looks away.

Martin’s heart twinges as the library staff continue bickering lightly around him. Maybe they are only teasing, maybe none of this means anything more than that Jon gets excited over pastries and needs more diversions from his workload - but maybe, just maybe, it’s a step toward something more. 

And even if it isn’t, even if this is as much as he ever gets to be a part of Jon’s life - maybe it’s enough just to be responsible for a few of Jon’s smiles. 

Martin may be a selfish man, but he is easily satisfied, after all. He’s very experienced at being happy with whatever is offered to him, and right now, the idea of being something good in Jon’s life sounds like the greatest gift he could have imagined.

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Jon says to himself as he paces along the length of his bed, gait stiff thanks to the confines of his knee braces. “I need to consider the facts. Yes. All of the facts. I should - I should make a list. That’s a good idea. Lists are always useful.”

After all, there’s no sense in having a crisis without having all the details in order. There’s plenty of time for spiralling after he’s compiled his data.

“Right. Okay. Number one. Martin… Martin brings me pastries. Yes. Okay.” Jon scrambles in the drawer of his bedside table for a notepad and pen, quickly scribbling out his first bullet point. “Good. Number two. Martin.” He freezes, staring at the name on the paper. “Oh god. Focus. Martin… is gay.” Yes, good, very important. He writes that down. “Number three. Martin knows I exist.” That’s too general, perhaps, and certainly too obvious. He revises, “Martin pays attention to details about me and remembers them.”

It’s too much. He throws the notepad and pen on the bed and resumes pacing. Maybe he’s thinking too much about Martin when he should be thinking about himself, about his own thoughts and feelings. Those have always been more difficult for him to catalogue, much less understand. But he’s growing desperate, so he forces himself to sit on the bed once more and undergo some brutal self-reflection. After a moment, he turns to a fresh page on the notepad and starts a new list.

• I care about Martin’s wellbeing

• I feel happy around Martin

• I want to be happy around Martin more often

• I want Martin to be happy around me (and always, of course)

He pauses. Why is it so hard for him to admit these most basic ideas to himself? His heartbeat comes louder and faster with every breath, body tensing around a heavy stomach as if he’s watching a horror film - is that it? Is he afraid?

Why?

He’s not afraid of Martin. So why is he reacting like this, shaking and breathing hard over, what, the idea that he enjoys someone’s presence?

“People enjoy the company of other people all the time , ” he mutters to himself, glaring at the pen that’s now trembling slightly. No, no his hand is the trembling thing. Great. “ I enjoy the company of other people all the time! This isn’t a big deal. Why am I making it into…” 

He groans softly and shoves the notepad back into the drawer, unwilling to look at the words he’s written any longer.

“It’s… fine.” He takes a deep breath and rubs his palms against his eyes. When he opens them again, an image of Martin, cautious but smiling, painfully hopeful, flits across his blurred vision. Something in Jon’s chest seizes, hard. 

He wants Martin to know that he doesn’t have to hope for kindness. He wants Martin to know that he deserves it, and that no matter how difficult it is for Jon to show gentleness Martin will always, always find it in him. He wants to tear through every layer of past hurt and worry and loneliness and fear that has woven itself around Martin - he wants to stretch his hands up to take Martin by the shoulders, make him look him in the eyes so he’ll see just how intently Jon needs him to know that he’s wanted. He wants Martin to understand how beautiful he is. He wants him to know that he’s a gentle thing worth protecting, worth nurturing, and -

Jon wants to know how to protect and nurture Martin himself. 

The thought breaks into Jon’s mind like the first flickering ray of sun after a thunderstorm - harsh against the chaos of its background but warm and healing in its touch.

Oh. Jon folds his hands in his lap, nervous energy drained away in an instant. 

Having the words for the emotions clustering in his chest for so long now isn’t as terrifying as it probably should be. At first he thinks it's numbness, shock maybe, that stills him so completely, but no, it’s not that either. It’s… peace. 

He doesn’t know what to do with this realization, but for now he can sit quietly in the embrace of understanding. For a few minutes, it’s enough to have labeled his thoughts. He can decide how to handle them once he’s gotten used to looking at them.

Georgie barges into his room too early the next morning. Jon blinks up at her, already wide awake but still cocooned in his pile of blankets.

“Get dressed,” she commands. “We’re meeting Nikola in an hour.”

“Why?” Jon knows his pouting voice isn’t effective against her, but even after all these years he can’t help but try. “It’s my day off.”

“Yes, and we’re going to make sure it stays that way.” She grins at him from the foot of his bed. 

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” he grumbles.

“Jon, you and I both know that if I don’t stop you, you’ll end up working from home all day. You haven’t had a break from the library in almost two weeks now - don’t even try to argue with me, I’ve been keeping notes - and by god you are going to do something fun today!”

Jon glares half-heartedly at her, but that only earns him a laugh as Georgie whips the blankets off him. “You’re a menace,” he says as he struggles into a sitting position. He winces a little when he tries to push himself up with his hands - a low throb pulses through his wrists and into his fingers, but that seems to be the worst of his pain so far. Sleeping in his braces certainly isn’t comfortable, but at least it’s proved helpful enough that he’s still managed to avoid wearing them to work.

“Of course I am, that’s why we’re friends.” Georgie’s eyes twinkle, but Jon doesn’t miss the concern there.

He smiles resolutely to hide any further signs of discomfort. No sense worrying her over so small a thing. “Fine. Where are we going?”

Barely more than an hour later, Nikola is pushing a steaming cup of coffee toward Jon and guiding them to a small table outside the cafe she’d chosen. 

“Sit, darlings, sit, I already ordered for us!” She is, as always, infuriatingly chipper. “Jon, my love, how are you today?”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” he says stiffly.

Nikola looks affronted. “That’s all I get? I’ve been pining after you, Jon! I spend my days wondering when I’ll be graced with your presence again, and on the day you finally deem me worthy of your attention, I get ‘fine?’’ She heaves out a long sigh and starts to bury her face in her hands but pauses, apparently thinking better of it. Given the bulk of the false lashes she’s wearing today, Jon thinks that’s probably wise. 

“Be nice to Nikola, Jon,” Georgie says flatly and reaches across him for the sugar. 

“I’m always nice,” Jon mutters petulantly. He pretends not to notice the knowing glance his friends share over his head. The arrival of their food is a convenient distraction.

Nikola’s ordered a parfait for herself, an omelette for Georgie, and a trio of pastries for Jon. He tries very hard not to think of Martin as he takes the first bite, but he can’t help thinking mournfully that it isn’t quite as nice as the ones he’s grown accustomed to. He sighs.

“All right, Jon, spill,” Nikola says, leaning in close.

“Hm?” He blinks up at her.

“You’re being strange, ” Georgie starts.

“More than usual,” Nikola amends.

“And we’re your best friends in the entire world, and, well - ”

Nikola interrupts, rising briefly from her chair to t-pose at Jon. “This is an intervention.”

Jon tosses a pouting glance at Georgie.

She only smiles and shrugs as Nikola plops down again. “Come on, Jon, talk to us! What’s going on?”

Jon takes a small, steadying breath, resigned. “I’m… I’ve been working through some feelings lately.”

“Mhmmmm,” Nikola singsongs.

“Yes. Er, regarding… someone.” Jon pauses, trying and failing to arrange the words in his mind before speaking. “Yes. I think that, ah, I think maybe I’ve developed feelings for a person.”

“Just say it,” Nikola says. “Say you’re gay for someone.”

“Nikola,” Georgie says in a gentle but warning tone.

Nikola rolls her eyes before clasping her hands beneath her chin and turning a wide grin on Jon. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“In so many words, fine, yes.” Jon glowers at her.

“That’s our boy,” Georgie says encouragingly. She pats his arm. “All grown up and having feelings! So, come on, tell us more.”

“Tell us everything, Jon,” Nikola says, “and we’ll know if you don’t! You met through the library?”

“How..?”

“Jon, please. It’s you. Where else?” Georgie smiles at him and takes a prim bite from her omelette.

Jon is beginning to wonder if Georgie’s that good or if he really is so predictable. He leaves off defending the variety of his potential meet cute locations in favor of giving her a coherent answer. “Um, so, he was at the trans support group - ”

“I knew it!” Nikola crows. “Soft boy, anxious boy, absolutely huggable boy?”

Ah shit. Martin does look pretty huggable, doesn’t he? Jon makes a small noise in the back of his throat and tries to hide it with a too-quick gulp of his coffee.

“I told you it was him,” Georgie says smugly. “I had my suspicions immediately, but I knew without a doubt after I had to listen to you playing ‘Strawberry Blond’ last night.”

Jon shoots Georgie another look that he hopes conveys just how cutting a betrayal this is. 

“So, Martin,” Georgie says, ignoring his look. “When are you going to ask him out?”

“Wh- ask him out?” Jon splutters. “I’m not going to do that!”

“Why on earth not , Jon?” Nikola asks, her voice rising in pitch with each word. 

“Because - because - ”

“Because it’s the obvious solution, and you know Jon can’t ever go for the obvious solution.” Georgie pats Jon’s arm again, lovingly this time.”That would be too easy.”

“Oh, just once, Jon, use those deductive reasoning skills you’re always on about!” Nikola begs. “You like Martin! Martin likes you! You go out together and live happily ever after!”

“It’s not that simple,” Jon says, more sharply than he meant. His tone sobers Georgie and Nikola, though, and he takes a deep breath. “Firstly, I don’t know how Martin feels about me. It feels frankly unfair to assume that he’d be interested in going ‘out’” - he makes air quotes - “with me.”

“What makes you say that?” Georgie asks.

“Look at me,” he bites out, gesturing unnecessarily down at himself.

“But the rat look is finally in, silly,” Nikola says. Her wicked grin is coming back. “Rats are memes now.”

Jon levels her with a withering stare. She, rudely, is not intimidated. “Can you be serious for one day of your life?”

“I only check the suggestion box on weekends,” she says.

“Besides,” Jon continues grimly, choosing not to acknowledge Nikola any longer, “while Martin has been more than lovely to me, he’s given no indication that he’s interested in anything other than friendship.”

“Jon, you beautiful disaster.” Georgie shakes her head slowly. 

“I - I mean, sure, Tim and Sasha like to tease me about him, but it’s just… okay, it’s not just pastries, but it’s just pastries! Just because it’s an… incredibly kind and thoughtful gesture, it doesn’t have to mean anything like - like…” Jon falters, suddenly out of breath from how quickly he’d been speaking. 

Georgie and Nikola look at each other for a long moment before looking back at him. Jon ducks his head, frowning. 

“I think,” Georgie begins, “that we’re not talking about the real issue here.”

“Which is?” Nikola urges.

“Jon knows that if he asks Martin out, and Martin says yes, then Jon has to continue dealing with his feelings. And that is very scary, isn’t it, Jon?” Georgie says.

“Oh, Jon, you’re really in it now.” Nikola sighs and shakes her head. 

“I’m not!” He looks up at them defiantly. “Yes, I care about Martin! I’ve accepted that! But Martin - Martin hasn’t had it like we have, he’s never had friends or support or any of the things that people need to survive when they’re like us . And I think, maybe, I’m starting to be that for him, or… I don’t know, at least the library is. He’s been more and more at ease every time he comes in, and I’m not going to ruin that for him by pushing for more than he wants. He doesn’t deserve that. So yes, fine, maybe I am scared, but not of whatever you think I am. I’m only afraid of knocking whatever this is for Martin out from under his feet when he’s only just beginning to stand up!”

Georgie and Nikola are quiet now, and Jon can’t bring himself to look at them again. His heart is pounding from the force of his words. He’d lain awake nearly the entire night, turning his thoughts over and over in his head, looking at his feelings and the memories of Martin until he’d finally come to a conclusion that only made his stomach twist a tiny bit. In the end, it had been very simple. He cared for Martin. He wanted to take care of Martin. And the best way he could do that was by doing what he’d already promised himself he’d do - protect the sanctity of the library, preserve its safety for Martin, be the kind face and words Martin so clearly hungers after. 

This isn’t a time to be selfish.

Jon is very good at being selfless.

Jon is exceptionally glad to go back to work the next morning, both to escape the needless circling of his thoughts and to (he hopes) see Martin. Even though it’s only been one day away from the library, he’s greeted by a long list of notifications on his desktop.

“Good morning, boss,” Tim calls roughly half an hour after Jon settled in behind his desk.

He glances up to return the greeting and manages not to startle too violently when he sees that Tim is holding hands with both Gerry and Sasha, grinning madly from between them as they enter the building. “Ah… good morning,” he says in what he thinks is passable as a normal voice.

“Jesus, Jon, you don’t look like you slept at all while you were out,” Sasha says. She releases Tim’s hand and blows a kiss at Gerry as the black-haired man saunters toward the young adult section on the opposite side of the circulation desk. Tim and Sasha make their way toward Jon. They both look very well rested. Sasha is holding three lunch bags today.

“Your observational skills never disappoint,” Jon says. 

“Neither do yours, boss,” Tim says gleefully as Sasha disappears toward the break room. 

“Do you want me to ask,” Jon says, “or are you going to tell me regardless?”

Tim shrugs. “See, Jon, when three adults care about each other very much - ”

“Tim…”

“ - they communicate with each other. What did you think I was going to say?”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t get prissy just because you’re jealous,” Tim says, his voice light and playful. “Maybe you’ll feel inspired to do some communicating yourself.”

“I’m attempting to communicate with my boss, but I’m being subjected to a distracting environment.” Jon squints at his screen, trying to gauge the contents of his most recent email from Gertrude via the subject line alone. It is, as he might have known from years of working with Gertrude, an impossible task.

“I’m surprised you never noticed before, really,” Tim continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “But I guess you’re always wrapped up in - ”

“What? How long has..?”

Tim laughs. “A while, boss. A while.”

Jon scowls. “Congratulations.”

“I’m touched,” Tim says, touching his own chest. “Truly.”

“Don’t push your luck, Tim,” Jon says without malice. Then he groans loudly as he opens Gertrude’s email. 

“That bad?” Tim winces in sympathy.

“Simon Fairchild is coming in today to discuss arrangements for his next poetry reading.” The words leave a sour taste in Jon’s mouth. He wonders how much Simon had donated - he wonders how much Jonah had threatened to take away.

“Disgusting. I claim circulation today.”

“And leave Sasha to face down capitalism on her own?” Jon does his best to smile, but he thinks he fails.

“Sasha is perfectly capable of dismantling the system without my help, thank you very much,” Tim says. He claps Jon on the shoulder. “I wish you nothing but the best in your endeavors, boss.”

Jon rolls his eyes as the other man walks away, then slowly and bitterly types out a response to Gertrude.

Martin arrives at the library an hour later than he intended. He’d gotten caught up in a flow of customers, and once he’d finally left the bakery he’d had to stop at a nearby cafe for some tea to calm himself down. By the time he’s securing his bike at the rack and walking in through the heavy glass doors, he feels the weight of tiredness pressing in on him like a physical burden. He feels like he’s moved through the past couple of days in a haze, working on autopilot while his brain churned detached words and images in a relentless and unproductive cycle.

Still, he feels a little lighter when he sees Jon between two rows of shelves. He’s talking to a patron, his back to Martin; his hair is in a low ponytail today, and Martin wonders if it had started that way or if it had slowly slipped further and further down throughout the day. He’s a little disappointed at not being able to give today’s baked gift - another cupcake, red velvet this time - to him in person, but he tries not to let it bother him too much. After all, the point is to make Jon’s day better, not gather attention to himself, and the little dessert will serve its purpose just as well no matter if Martin puts it in Jon’s hand or leaves it for him to find.

But his desk is… cluttered. Incredibly so, with books and notepads and pens and loose sheets of papers stacked and sliding across every inch of the desk’s surface. There is nowhere to tuck the small box where it isn’t in danger of falling or damaging something else. Martin bites his lip and looks from the desk to Jon, who is still deep in conversation and appears not to have noticed him. He’ll just hold onto the cupcake a little longer, then. He smiles at the idea of having an excuse to approach Jon later and thrums the fingers of his free hand against his palm as he walks to his own unofficial desk.

As always, there is something settling about pulling out his things and booting up his laptop, as if with every passing day he gets closer and closer to something like belonging in the routine he’s created for himself. He’s moved from Keats to Shelley, and he opens his notes to the page he’d left half-finished the day before. Martin blushes now, looking at the lines he’d copied out three times, almost doodling the words onto his notebook as he’d turned them over in his mind. He’d been grateful, yesterday, that Jon wasn’t around the library to see him - he felt sure that he’d have blipped out of existence if Jon had tried to speak to him while he stared down at the words “ And the sunlight clasps the earth, / And the moonbeams kiss the sea - / What is all this sweet work worth / If thou kiss not me? ” written in his own handwriting.

The words stay with him, though. Which is silly, honestly, because they serve no purpose but to torment his already restless and unfocused thoughts. Martin glances at the cupcake in its box, perched on the table beside his laptop. What is all this sweet work worth … 

That is not his motive, Martin tells himself again, sternly. It’s not. So if his brain could just kindly return to the coursework at hand…

Martin wonders briefly if he might be more productive in his Romanticism work if he weren’t distracted by the relative immediacy of Jon’s presence in the building, but decides it really isn't worth considering. There’s no point in lying to himself that he’d give up any chance to earn another smile.

Once Martin’s wrestled himself into some measure of focus, he’s able to work quite quickly. He moves from his notebook to his laptop as he works on an outline for a paper, and he’s surprised to notice, when he glances down at the little clock in the bottom corner of the screen, that almost two hours have passed. He takes the opportunity to stretch his hands, shaking them out before rubbing his wrists, easing out their tension. As he does so, he becomes aware of a vaguely familiar voice.

“... hoping for a larger turnout this time, so make sure to have plenty of chairs.”

“Of course,” answers Jon.

Martin can’t see Jon from where he’s sitting, but he can hear the tightness in his voice. Oh no. Martin peers around, trying to locate him.

“And you’re putting it in your newsletter, yes?”

“Yes, it’s ready to send out tomorrow.”

“Do you think that’s enough time? That’s less than a week.”

“Mr. Fairchild, unfortunately I do not have the ability to turn back time. Perhaps if the date had been decided earlier, I - ”

“Yes, yes,” the other voice says dismissively.

Martin wrinkles his nose. So Jon is under siege from the capitalists again. Martin remembers how worn he had looked the last time he’d spoken about them and digs his nails into his lap. As if Jon doesn’t have enough to stress himself over without Simon Fairchild and the other donor piling more onto him. Martin’s distaste only increases when Jon and Mr. Fairchild finally step into view. Jon does not have his cane; he moves unsteadily, slowly, each step measured and his face paler than usual. Fairchild is speaking to him, gesturing around, seemingly oblivious to Jon’s state.

Martin wants to rush over and guide Jon to a chair, and maybe tell Fairchild off while he’s doing it, but he can’t imagine Jon would appreciate him hovering over him. So he just watches and wrings his hands as Jon nods wearily in response to Fairchild’s monologue before the wiry old man finally disengages and heads toward the library’s doors.

Jon sighs, the rise and fall of his narrow shoulders visible from Martin’s viewpoint. He rubs one hand over his eyes and starts to turn away, but before he does he notices Martin watching him and lifts the hand in a small wave. “Martin,” he says.

“H-hey, Jon,” Martin says, waving back. 

Jon makes his way over to Martin’s desk. “How are you today?” he asks, his voice oddly stiff.

“Um, fine.” Martin points to the cupcake still sitting by his laptop. “I brought this for you. I would have left it on your desk, but it seemed, um, full.”

Jon laughs wryly at that. “That’s one way to describe it. Thank you, Martin.” He hesitates. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment?”

“Oh, not at all, please!” Martin can’t stop himself from grinning.

Jon pulls out the chair opposite him and lowers himself down carefully. He’s cradling one arm to his chest. “Sorry, I’m a bit… tired today. But no matter. How’s the coursework?”

“Oh, it’s…” Martin glances down and closes both the notebook and the poetry textbook hastily. “It’s great, honestly. I’m happy with it. Are you okay?”

Jon nods, maybe a bit too quickly. “Just tired, like I said.”

“What was Mr. Fairchild on about?” Martin asks, voice halting slightly.

“You heard him? I’m sorry, I try to remind him that the library is meant to be a quiet place, but I don’t think that man has heard a word he didn’t want to in at least a decade.” Jon frowns. “He’s doing another reading this weekend, from his poetry anthology. It’s all very last minute, and I don’t know how he expects to have anyone show up for it at such late notice, but he says he has… friends or something who plan to come.” He sighs. “It’s just a lot of unexpected work… but I’m sorry, I shouldn’t complain.” He looks down and lowers his hand to his lap gingerly.

“Can I help?” Martin blurts out.

“Sorry, what?” 

“Um, I mean, does the library take volunteers?” Martin pushes on before he can panic himself out of it. “I - I don’t know that much about how these things work, but I’d be glad to help you with the event, put up chairs or whatnot… anything to make it easier for you.”

Jon looks at him for a long moment, eyes searching. “You don’t have to do that, Martin. I didn’t mean to make it sound like - I didn’t mean to complain.”

“Oh, but I’d enjoy it, actually,” Martin insists. “And really, it’d be the least I could do after everything you’ve done for me. Letting me take up space here, take up your time and all… I could, it could be like I’m paying you back!”

“Martin, you don’t have to ‘pay back’ anything, this isn’t a transactional thing.” The corner of Jon’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. 

“But I want to!” The words come more quickly now, spilling out before Martin has a chance to filter them. Unbidden, his mum’s face flickers in his mind. Earn your place. “It would make me feel better, honestly, to do something for you. Be helpful, you know, contribute something worthwhile for once. Heh.”

Jon blinks and sits back heavily, then surges to lean forward again, the hand not in his lap reaching across the table as if to touch Martin. “You don’t have to… Martin, you are worthwhile. You don’t have to do anything to be worthwhile. You deserve to be here and you don’t need to - prove it, or pay back, or anything. You have…” He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is breathless. “You have value just by being . It’s… inherent.”

Martin feels air leaving him as if he’s been punched in the gut. He opens his mouth soundlessly, then closes it again. It’s too much, he can’t look at Jon anymore, he has to stare down at the hands wringing violently in his lap before he gives in to how desperately he wants to believe Jon - how desperately he wants it to be true, even if just for the small and earnest man sitting across from him. He thinks he might cry, only he’s too thoroughly shocked to find even that relief from the overwhelming flood of emotions. 

“Martin?” Jon is still leaning across the table. When Martin dares to peek up at him again, he sees an urgent energy that he’s slowly grown to recognize. “I’m sorry, was that too much?”

Martin almost laughs. Yes, Jon, you wonderful man, it’s too much - it’s too much to believe, too much to process. The idea that someone could find worth in him, that he doesn’t have to scramble and beg for it - he can barely hold the thought in his mind. The idea that Jon looks at him and finds value - his words, value - is so thoroughly absurd that he’s half-sure it’s a joke. He can’t - he can’t think about it now, not under Jon’s worried gaze. So he swallows the incredulous, panicked giggle bubbling up in his throat and shakes his head. He can’t acknowledge it, but he has to respond. He swallows again and says, “Then consider it a favor? I want to help you.”

Jon withdraws his hand and tilts his head. “Ah… all right, I suppose.”

Martin manages to smile at him.

“Hm. Okay. I, ah, I guess I’ll leave you to your work.” Jon stands slowly, picking up the cupcake in its box as he does, and takes a hesitant, limping step back from the table. “Um, thanks for this.” 

“Wait,” Martin says suddenly. He stares at the ground by Jon’s feet. 

“Yes?”

“What you said.” Martin inhales deeply. “You know that… you know it goes for you too? You don’t have to - um, work yourself into the ground. You’re doing… so much. Here. For everyone.” For me. “You’re… you’re worthwhile, too, Jon.”

It’s not enough. It’s too stammering and weak, and it pales in comparison to the great, bursting heat of love and admiration that Martin holds in his chest - but he doesn’t know how to show it. He can only offer this and hope, somehow, that Jon understands. 

“You are… very kind, Martin,” Jon says in a strangled voice. 

Martin hunches in on himself and does not look at him and does not answer.

But when Jon walks away, Martin opens his notebook and writes down everything he’d said so that he can look at them again and again, so that when his brain inevitably tries to erase them under the tide of past lessons he will have the memory. The reminder that someone believes differently. 

When he’s finished, Jon’s words crowd into the lines beneath the scrawling, copied poetry like an answer. 

Chapter Text

Jon yawns deeply and stumbles into the kitchen, where the single overhead light is the only relief from the deep grey of early morning in the flat. “If you’re going to take up all the space, you’d better be making me a mug too,” he mumbles at Georgie.

She turns to look at him in vague surprise, but pulls out another tea bag from the box she’d set on the countertop. “You know, I’m starting to think you get up sooner and sooner just to spend time with me.” She tosses him a teasing grin. “Or maybe you’ve finally decided to come to the gym with me.”

Jon slumps down into one of the chairs at the small table. “The Fairchild reading is today, and of course it’s lined up on the same day as the seniors’ chess meeting. I need the extra time at work.”

“Just once, could you pretend you want to see me?” Georgie ruffles his hair as she places a steaming mug, tea bag floating lazily inside, by his hands. 

“I see you every day.” Jon scowls and tugs the mug closer, then adds more softly, “And you know I always want to see you.”

“Of course I know.” She slides out the other chair and sits while they wait for the tea to steep. “I don’t suppose you’ll be home in time for dinner? It’s your last chance for anything other than takeout for a few days; I’m spending tomorrow and the next at Melanie’s.”

Jon shrugs. “Probably not.” He briefly considers pointing out that he could very well cook for himself, but he isn’t quite willing to face her laughter at this hour.

“Hm. At least try to eat something before the reading tonight, then?”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise and takes a sip of the tea. His tongue bumps the tea bag, but he ignores Georgie’s look of vague disgust in favor of gulping down the caffeine as quickly as possible.

“You’re a disaster,” she says conversationally.

He stands and brushes her arm lightly on his way to place the mug in the sink. “See you later, Georgie.”

As he’d anticipated, even arriving nearly two hours before anyone else did little to help him keep up with the pile of responsibilities he faces today. Jane had sent him a long cataloging report just before he’d gone home the night before, Gertrude has filled his inbox with a string of emails that probably could have been condensed into one, he has to approve vacation time for one of the technicians, and Mr. Lukas, the volunteer who runs the chess club, is due to show up at the time Jon usually takes lunch to get the meeting room prepared for their event. Jon is beginning to wish that he’d had coffee instead of tea this morning.

“You have to take time to eat,” Sasha insists after he refuses to take his break earlier.

“I don’t,” he says stubbornly. “I’ll eat later.”

“When?”

“After the reading.”

Sasha looks scandalized, although Jon reflects that she’s worked with him long enough that she should be used to it by now. “Jon, you can’t wait all day!”

“I’ll be fine.” He frowns at his computer screen.

“You’re hopeless - oh, perfect, here’s someone who might be able to talk some sense into you. Martin!” She calls the last word out a little louder.

Jon’s head jerks up just in time to see Martin turning with a roughly equal amount of surprise as he walks past the circulation desk.

Sasha waves at him. “Help me bully Jon.”

“Um… bully…?” Martin wrings his hands, looking lost as he approaches them.

“Martin would never torment me like you do,” Jon says solemnly, though he manages to give Martin a small smile to assure him that Sasha is only teasing.

Martin flushes and grins back at him, suddenly full of brightness. Something in Jon’s stomach lurches. He wants to look away, but finds that he can’t. Has that little chip in his tooth always been there, or has he never smiled wide enough for Jon to notice before?

“This man,” Sasha says, gesturing to Jon like he’s a museum exhibit and jolting him out of his brief mental plummet, “is refusing to take time to eat!”

“I don’t have time to leave my work,” Jon argues. “I have too much to finish.”

“Oh, um.” Martin blushes more deeply. “I - I didn’t work today, else I’d have brought something you could eat at your desk, but - I could go get something for you?”

“Thank you, Martin, but that won’t be necessary,” Jon says.

At the same time, Sasha says, “Thank you, Martin, you’re a delight.”

“No!” Jon shakes his head. 

“I - I don’t mind.” Martin smiles again. He actually looks hopeful, gripping the strap of the bag slung over his arm like he’s preparing to embark on a quest. “I can get you something from that sandwich shop, Jon, so you can eat it while you work.”

Jon’s heart flickers a little at the memory of the meal they’d shared at the shop in question.

“Perfect,” Sasha says, as if it’s been decided. “Martin’s first official duty as a volunteer at the Magnus Library: sandwich acquisition.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Jon says, more hesitantly. 

“It’s no trouble at all!” Martin insists. He’s beaming. It’s devastating.

“Wait, wait, before you go!” Sasha holds up a hand. “Don’t move.” She hurries away, back toward the circulation desk where Tim can be seen watching with great interest.

Jon looks down at his computer screen again. “I’m sorry you’re… well, I’m sorry for taking time away from your studying.”

“I said it’s no trouble, Jon,” Martin assures.

Sasha returns, holding up something with great triumph. “Here we are! I now dub thee Sir Martin, volunteer extraordinaire.” She hands him a green lanyard with the word ‘volunteer’ stamped around it. At the bottom is attached a laminated, makeshift name tag, upon which is printed Martin’s name and pronouns. A doodled smiley face in blue marker decorates its lower corner.  “I made it for you when I found out you were helping with the Fairchild thing.”

Every visible inch of Martin’s skin is flushed by now, and he smiles dazedly as he drapes it around his neck. “Th-thanks, Sasha.”

Jon feels another odd fluttering in his chest at the sight. He’s vaguely reminded of the days he’d spent volunteering here in his pre and early university days, before Gertrude had offered him a job as a page. He smiles absentmindedly at Martin, then grapples in his pocket for his card. “Here you go. And, ah, thanks again, Martin.”

Martin flashes him another smile and turns to disappear through the main doors.

Sasha smirks as she looks back at Jon. “Wow. I don’t know who has it worse.”

“I,” Jon says in a prim voice that barely shakes at all, “have no idea what you’re implying.”

Martin returns with the sandwich with plenty of time for Jon to finish it before Mr. Lukas is scheduled to arrive. For a moment, Jon thinks Martin is going to take his duties too seriously and stand over him while he eats, but after making sure Jon is settled with napkins and a drink from the break room, he heads to his usual table to, presumably, study until it’s time to prepare for the reading. Jon begrudgingly admits that Sasha had the right idea when he realizes how hungry he is.

Mr. Lukas shows up an hour later, looming in front of Jon’s desk suddenly without having made any sound to announce his arrival. He’s hefting a wide, canvas bag filled with various chess sets and wearing a coat that’s definitely too heavy for early autumn.

“Ah, Mr. Lukas,” Jon says in his usual, threadbare customer service voice. “Let me get the meeting room unlocked for you.” He stands, fumbling for a moment to get his cane from where it's stashed half-beneath the desk.

“Still using that thing.” It’s not a question.

Jon purses his lips. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Mr. Lukas shrugs and is painfully silent for the duration of the time it takes Jon to open the meeting room’s door and flick on its lights. 

Luckily Mr. Lukas prefers to set up for the club’s meetings alone, and Jon is more than grateful to leave him to his work.

“He’s a delight,” Melanie observes when Jon passes her on the way back to his desk.

“Oh yeah, a real charmer.” Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Tim says he’s been leading the club for years but barely speaks to any of the staff at all.” Melanie pauses. “Tim also said he only keeps coming back because he’s hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Magnus… Said they used to be toge- ”

“I’d really rather not hear any more of Tim’s theories,” Jon interrupts. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another email to finish before I have to prepare for Fairchild.”

Melanie shrugs and leaves him be, but Jon notices her whispering to Tim at the circulation desk later and briefly wonders what other sorts of gossip they’re spreading. 

It’s nice, Jon has to admit, to have Martin’s help setting up for the reading. He’s strong enough to lift and move the chairs with an ease that none of the rest of them have, and his soft eagerness is like an anchor of gentleness where Jon would normally be taut with stress and irritation. He wonders if his coworkers notice. They keep tossing knowing smiles between Jon, Martin, and each other. Jon wishes they would stop; what if Martin picks up on it, realizes there’s something more here, is frightened away?

Jon doesn’t know if he’s more scared of what that would mean for Martin or for himself.

Finally, the flyers are in place, the sign-in sheet is smoothed out on its clipboard, pens clustered beside it. The narrow podium faces the chairs, which Martin has adjusted again and again until they’re arranged in perfectly neat rows. He startles and then grins nervously when Tim loudly high fives Sasha and then faces him with a raised hand, inviting him into their huddle of light teasing. He’s bashful, Jon sees, and his hands shake and jerk and twist endlessly, but he’s smiling.

Jon wants to look away. He doesn’t want to look at anything else. 

Whatever playfulness is in the air vanishes immediately, however, when Simon Fairchild storms into the library, a deep frown in place of his usual obnoxious smile. 

“Where’s the easel?” he snaps as he approaches.

“Oh, ah, that’ll be in the storage room,” Jon says, quickly stepping into the familiarity of professionalism. “Tim, could you fetch it for us?”

Tim nods and disappears toward the back of the building. Jon thinks he spots him rolling his eyes dramatically at Sasha and Martin as he goes.

“I thought you said everything would be set up by the time I arrived.” Simon surveys the event space, still frowning.

“I said it would be ready by 5:30,” Jon says, as politely as he can. He doesn’t point out that Simon has, once again, shown up nearly a half hour early. He turns away and almost bumps into Martin, who is hovering close to his elbow. “Excuse me, Martin,” he says, more gently.

Martin blushes and takes a half step backward, but he stays close to Jon as he looks over the chairs one final time. He’s wringing his hands in the way that Jon has learned means he’s trying hard not to stim. Jon’s brows draw together in annoyance at Simon for bringing Martin’s anxiety back, but he doesn’t know how to reassure Martin without making him more uncomfortable.

“What’s this, your personal assistant?” Simon sounds amused, but in the lofty way of a person who knows they’re in control of the situation.

“Martin is a volunteer,” Jon says tersely. “You can thank him for the time he’s put into making your event a success.”

Martin gives a nervous laugh, but Simon doesn’t respond other than to graze his eyes up Martin’s height and shrug.

Tim returns then, carrying the easel braced against one shoulder. “Here we go - it’s still got your poster on it from last time.” He sets it down beside the podium. “Give me a hand, Martin?”

Martin hurries forward and helps Tim open the easel, undoing the clasp keeping its three legs together and rotating it so the poster faces the chairs. Jon tries to keep his expression neutral - the glowing reviews of Simon’s anthology are even harder to take seriously after having heard the reading the first time. 

“Tea, Mr. Fairchild?” Sasha asks graciously, breaking Jon’s attention away from Martin and the easel.

“Green, if you have it,” he says. “No sugar.”

“Oh, I, I can get it,” Martin says quickly. “I found the tea earlier when I was - ” His eyes flit between Jon, who smiles, and Simon, who frowns. “Er, yeah. I’ll get it.” He turns to walk toward the break room.

“Eager,” Simon observes.

Jon’s smile fades and he shoots Simon an annoyed look. Something inside him is bristling, a resentful awareness that Simon is, at best, unappreciative of Martin. Jon can’t imagine looking up into Martin’s gentle, hopeful eyes and feeling anything but warmth, but, well… he also can’t imagine Simon feeling warmth toward anyone. Yet another reason to hate him. 

Jon busies himself at the sign-in table, straightening the clipboard unnecessarily. Simon drifts over to look down at the flyers. 

“I’m glad dear Gertrude was so easily convinced of the merits of a monthly reading,” Simon says. “Of course, I won’t be reading excerpts from Sky Blue every month - no, no, best to leave some mystery, intrigue the audience into reading it for themselves, eh?” When Jon doesn’t answer, he continues. “Still, I think it’ll be good for you - introduce some culture back into the library. After all, these places were once devoted to the expansion of the mind. It’s a shame, really, to see libraries dwindling away… I’m sure you’re very grateful to Mr. Magnus, aren’t you, Sims? From the way I understand it, he’s practically saved this old place - isn’t that right?”

“One could say that,” Jon says quietly. 

“Tea!” Martin announces, hurrying up to the table with a plain white mug gripped in both hands. He pushes it toward Simon.

“Good heavens.” Simon takes it, raking his eyes appraisingly over Martin again.

Martin flushes and steps closer to Jon, although Jon can’t tell if it’s a conscious decision, glancing around and twisting his now-empty hands as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“As I was saying, Mr. Magnus has done good work here. There’s still a great deal to be desired, of course, but you’re doing… what you can, certainly.” Simon darts those calculating eyes at Jon’s cane now, and Jon grits his teeth.

Mr. Lukas chooses this moment to step out of the meeting room. Jon hadn’t noticed the club’s attendees leaving, but the room inside is dark so he assumes the event must have already wrapped up. 

“Is that - is that Peter Lukas ?” Simon exclaims. “Why, I haven’t seen him since - ” He moves to walk around the table toward the other man, but Martin moves at the same time, trying to clear a path but instead stepping just in time for Simon to collide with his arm. 

“Sorry,” Martin stammers, eyes down, shuffling in the awkward way of someone who isn’t sure which direction the other person is going. 

“Can you give us some space?” Simon’s voice is sharp and far, far too loud. “There’s no need to crowd a man.”

“Sorry, I didn’t - ”

Simon’s voice raises again, trampling over Martin’s apology as he shoves around him. “Oh, come off it, haven’t you learned how to back off when you aren’t wanted? Didn’t your parents teach you not to stay underfoot?”

For a split second, Jon is frozen in shock. Simon’s words hang heavy in the air, pressing in on him so hard that for a moment he can think and feel nothing but their weight. 

Then the shuddering jerk of Martin’s hands up to his own face drag Jon’s gaze up with them and his entire vision is constricted to the stricken expression he finds there. The hopeful eagerness that’s been lighting Martin from within is gone; his face is struggling to go blank, but his eyes are huge. “S-sorry,” Martin gasps out. His voice breaks so hard Jon can barely understand him.

That’s what snaps him out of his shock-stillness. Martin should never have to sound so hurt and he should never, never have to look so anxious. Not here. Jon had promised.

He tears his eyes away from Martin and pushes himself forward, between Martin and Simon, before he recognizes his own movements. “Get out,” he says. His voice is hot and low and almost vibrating with the same anger now bubbling in his chest.

“I beg your pardon?” Simon scoffs.

“I said,” Jon repeats through clenching teeth, “get out. You will not treat anyone in my library with such disrespect.”

Simon blinks. He looks baffled, though whether that’s because Jon is commanding him to do something or because anyone is commanding him to do something isn’t clear. “Don’t be hasty now, Sims. Look, I’m sorry if I - ”

“Your apology is not accepted.” Jon jabs a finger toward the door. “Out.”

“Jon - ” Martin squeaks.

“So, what, you’re going to cancel my event with no warning?” Simon’s eyes narrow.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Jon says firmly. “This is a safe, community space, and you’ve violated that. You aren’t welcome here anymore.” He doesn’t look away from Simon’s face, but from the corner of his eye he sees Martin turning and walking away, his movements jerky. He wants to stop him, wants to comfort him, wants to make sure he’s okay, but he can’t move until Simon backs down.

“You heard him,” Daisy says, stalking up beside Jon. She folds her arms over her chest and stares down at Simon.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, now, Sims,” Simon warns, the surprise on his face slowly fading to grimness.

“I haven’t. Yet.” 

Simon blusters for a moment before muttering, “I have never been treated so - ”

“I would not make this about the way you’ve been treated,” Jon says quietly.

“Mr. Magnus will be hearing about this,” Simon says, jabbing a finger at Jon.

“He most certainly will.” Jon grips the handle of his cane with both hands, leaning forward into its support without taking his eyes off Simon.

Finally, the old man makes a scoffing noise and turns away, ranting under his breath as he heads for the main doors.

Jon slumps slightly once his back is turned, heaving out a deep breath. He feels hands on his shoulders immediately.

“Good for you, Jon,” Sasha says softly.

“You told him off, huh?” Tim grins, sounding impressed. “I can’t believe there’s a backbone in you after all!”

Jon blinks, suddenly feeling very tired. “Where’s Martin?” he asks, looking around. He has to check on him, make sure he’s all right. The image of his wide eyes, face as open and horrified as if Simon had physically hit him, is painfully clear in Jon’s mind.

“He left,” Daisy says. 

“What?” Jon spins around, searching the library quickly, but she’s right - there’s no sign of him. His bag is still where he’d left it earlier, though. Jon hopes that means he hasn’t gone far.

As if reading his mind, Sasha pats his arm and says, “Go find him. We’ll handle the rest of this.”

Jon nods, trusting her to take care of anyone who actually shows up for the reading, and grabs Martin’s bag on his way outside. He hopes, rather frantically, that Martin hasn’t gone far.

He hopes, only a little desperately, that he’s not too late to salvage the safety Martin has found in the library.

Fuck, fuck, fuck . Martin drags shaking hands through his hair and pulls, desperately trying to ground himself, reorient himself, bring himself back down to earth before he’s drifted too far to operate his own body. He’s walking, stumbling, and he doesn’t know he’s going to leave the building until the heavy glass door collides with his elbow on his way outside. It’s a little better here - there are no people, and no voices, and there’s plenty of open air for him to pull through his teeth and into his constricting lungs. 

The colors here are wrong though. The grey-blue of the overcast sky, the orange of the setting sun, and the green of the bushes lining the space between the library and the walkway blur together, but when Martin rubs his eyes to clear his vision it only warps further. He hisses softly and shakes his hands hard. 

If he could think clearly, he’d probably be replaying Simon’s words. He’d dissect them, find all the little bits of truth in them - or maybe he’d try to reason with himself, convince his sinking heart that they weren’t true. As it is, though, he can barely remember what was spoken; all he knows is the assault of the feelings they’d sent through him. 

He’s been doing so good lately. He’s felt calmer, steadier, in the past few months than he can ever remember, so why did it only take one raised voice to send him spiralling right back down into his old, familiar panic? 

He knows, though. 

He’s been lying to himself, pretending that just because he’s found a place where people tolerate his clumsiness and overbearing neediness that those things don’t still mark him, set him firmly apart. His mother’s words leap up in his mind. Stupid, useless, obnoxious. If you really want to be useful so bloody badly, why can’t you just do it? I’ll bet you don’t even want to be helpful. You just like being in the way, don’t you? For God’s sake, you’re so pointless!

Martin can hear them as clearly as if they’re being spoken right in his ear, but suddenly he isn’t sure if it’s really her voice at all. He thinks it might be his own.

God, what must the library staff think of him now? Are they just realizing the truth of Martin, finally seeing him for who he is, or will this be nothing more than their excuse to stop pretending to tolerate him? Are they laughing at him? He imagines Tim and Sasha’s open, friendly faces turning stony and tense with annoyance, Daisy’s casual intensity turning pointed and sharp, Jon’s softness -

Jon.

Oh, fuck, Jon.

He’d put himself between Martin and Simon, he’d argued with the man keeping his support group afloat and demanded he leave the library. Jon, Jon, what have you done?

Martin stumbles to the stone bench where he’d once sat in the dark with Jon and slumps, elbows hitting thighs and face hitting palms in a rush of horrified realization. Jon is going to lose the support group. He might even lose his job - the thing he cares about more than anything in the world, the thing he’s built his life around - snatched away from him because of Martin. Of course he’d stand up for Martin. It’s what he does. He’s so fierce and protective and Martin knows, understands with the only bit of clarity in the midst of the storm taking over his mind, that he does not deserve that.

Jon probably knows that too. 

Will he still allow Martin in the library after this? Now that he knows what kind of trouble Martin is capable of causing, now that he’s had to throw away all his hard work because he felt compelled to defend Martin over something he shouldn’t have been defended over - will he want to speak to him anymore? Will he even look at him? Will it matter at all, if Jon has to leave the library because Mr. Fairchild demanded his job in retribution?

Martin rocks in place urgently. He’s vaguely aware that there are tears slipping down his cheeks and between his fingers, and he tries to hunch in around himself a little more, hide himself from anyone who might happen by and see him coming undone so selfishly. Why should he be crying when he’s the one who’s caused the problem? 

“Oh, Martin,” someone says above him.

Martin makes a small, panicked noise as he looks up. It takes him a moment to realize who it is, his brain too overwhelmed to process it clearly, but after a few beats he can make out Jon’s face, twisted with something like worry.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Martin says in a rush, jerking away. He hits the back of the bench with a thud that seems to echo through his bones.

“... nothing to be sorry for,” Jon is saying. He looks so concerned, and that tears another quiet sound out of Martin’s chest. “Can I… is it okay if I sit with you?”

Martin should say no. It’ll be easier if Jon walks away now, leaves before Martin causes him - or himself - anymore damage. But Martin is so very selfish, and if he can wring a few more minutes out of his friendship with Jon, he will. He nods and scrubs his hands against his face roughly, then begins to shake them close to his chest as Jon carefully perches on the other end of the bench.

“I - I’m so sorry he spoke to you that way,” Jon says quietly. “He had no right. You won’t have to see him again, I promise.”

“Shouldn’t have,” Martin mumbles, closing his eyes.

“You’re right, he should never have said - ”

“No,” Martin says, distress clear in his voice. “You shouldn’t have sent him away. I’m - I’m sorry I - ”

“Martin,” Jon says. He sounds pained. Martin cringes. “I promised. The library is a safe place. I want you to be safe - I told you I wouldn’t let anyone speak cruelly to you. I won’t allow it.”

“But if I wasn’t… I made him - ”

“Don’t,” Jon says softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re going to lose your job,” Martin blurts. “Because of me.”

“I’m - I’m not, Martin.” Jon scoots in a little closer, leaning toward Martin with his entire body. “It’ll be fine. No one has the right to speak to any of my patrons that way - much less my - ” His voice tightens, and Martin wonders if he’s crying too. “- one of my friends.” He hesitates, then continues, “I, I promised , Martin. You’re safe here. With… me.”

Martin finally dares to glance over at him. Jon looks so earnest, the mottled light of a cloud-muted sunset catching his eyes like something out of a dream.

“And if - if Gertrude decides that Simon is more important than - than the safety of the library, then I don’t want to be here anyway,” Jon goes on. “I’d rather start over, make a new place that could really, truly be safe - for the community, for you - than be somewhere I can’t… stand up for what matters.”

Martin shivers and looks away again quickly. He can’t , he can’t look at Jon, he can’t see the emotion on his face, because if he looks for much longer he might start to believe that he might matter to Jon. 

Isn’t that the implication? He wants it to be - he wants it more than he’s wanted anything before, and that’s why he must be misunderstanding, because nothing Martin’s ever wanted has come true.

Still… for as long as Jon lets him hold onto the fantasy, he might as well cling to it. So when Jon reaches out a hand, Martin leans into it for the briefest moment and imagines a world where he gets to do this, have this.

“Are you… are you okay?” Jon asks softly after a few minutes.

Martin realizes suddenly that he hasn’t spoken in too long, so caught up in processing his emotions that he’s forgotten how to let them out. He nods quickly. “Y-yes. Sorry. I - I will be.”

“Let me call you a cab,” Jon says gently. 

“But - my bicycle - ” Martin protests.

“It’ll be safe here overnight,” Jon says, “and I can give you cab fare for a ride back tomorrow.”

Martin knows he should refuse, knows he shouldn’t continue taking advantage of Jon’s kindness, but he nods anyway. Besides, he doesn’t think he can make it home on the bicycle right now. He’s too… drained, too shaky. “Fine.”

Jon squeezes his wrist and pulls out his phone. He doesn’t lift his hand when he makes the call, and it’s very easy for Martin to let his awareness zoom in to the barely-there weight of Jon’s small fingers against his skin. It’s a grounding thing. The idea of losing Jon’s touch when the cab arrives makes him suck in a sharp breath, and he tries to savor it as long as he can.

He wonders if Jon knows, because he doesn’t move until the cab actually does pull up in front of the library. They both stare at it. Martin doesn’t want to stand. He doesn’t want to walk away, as if the moment they break contact, the moment Martin leaves, Jon will drift out of his life just like he fears. 

Martin grabs Jon’s hand and opens his mouth suddenly. “Could you come with me?” he asks, at the same time as Jon turns to face him.

“Can I come along to make sure you get home safely - oh.” Jon blushes and looks away again quickly. “If you don’t - if you won’t mind, I’d like to, ah, make sure you’re… alright.”

“Please,” Martin whispers. He doesn’t care how selfish this is, doesn’t care how needy he’s being. The longer he can keep Jon by his side, the better.

Jon doesn’t pull his hand free from Martin’s as he stands. He points to Martin’s bag, which is sitting by his feet - he must have brought it when he left the library. Martin picks it up with his free hand as Jon grabs his cane from where it’s leaning against the bench.

They walk to the cab together, and as difficult as it is to get inside without letting go of Jon’s hand, Martin manages it. 

He’s afraid that when he lets go, Jon will never allow it again.

Martin is too lost in his own mind to care about the state of his flat until they actually arrive, but he does wonder, as they step through the door, what it looks like through Jon’s eyes. It’s not much - the main room is a cramped thing with little more than a narrow pathway between the faded couch and the squat table where a dated television sits. His mother had hated it, especially once she could no longer walk unsupported - there were too many corners too close together. Martin glances down at Jon’s cane, realizing how difficult it must be to navigate the room with it, but Jon only props it in the corner by the door and doesn’t say anything about it. 

Martin feels a surge of guilt. “I - I’m sorry for dragging you all the way here. You don’t have to - you can leave, if you want.”

Jon peers up at him. “Is that what you want?”

Martin bites his lip and looks away. No . Of course it isn’t. He would let Jon stay here forever if it meant he didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts - if it meant he could stay close to Jon - but, as tempting as the idea is, he’s terrified of draining Jon’s kindness away. “I don’t… want to be a bother,” he whispers. 

“Martin.” Jon steps in closer, reaches up on tiptoes to hold Martin by the shoulders. “You aren’t.”

Martin closes his eyes. “But I - ”

“Does it help if I…” Jon pauses. “Can I just… say it?”

“Say what?” Martin hunches his shoulders inward, but Jon’s hands don’t lose their grip.

“I want to be here,” Jon says. “I want to know you’re okay, and if you aren’t okay I want to know how to help you get there.” There’s a little strain of desperation and what Martin thinks might be fear in his voice. “If you don’t want me here, then please tell me, because otherwise I’m not going to leave - not until I know you’re alright.”

Martin swallows, and oh, great , there are tears leaking out of his eyes again. I’m sorry, he wants to say, I’m sorry you’re worried, I’m sorry I’m such a burden - but Jon still hasn’t called him that. He wants to be here, he said so, and that - well, maybe Martin can’t quite believe it, but he wants to. “Can I hug you?” he whispers.

Jon nods and slides his hands down from Martin’s shoulders to his middle.

Martin chokes out a sharp sob and wraps his arms around Jon, pulling him closer. He’s so small, and his head comes to rest against Martin’s chest just like he had imagined it would all those weeks ago, and he feels like the sturdiest thing that’s ever kept Martin upright. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’re not a bother,” Jon says firmly, voice muffled into Martin’s shirt. “You’re not. You’re not.”

“Sometimes I am,” Martin says. 

“Never to me.” Jon shakes his head and it bumps against Martin’s chest. 

Say it again, Martin wants to beg. Convince me. 

But even he isn’t that selfish. So he stands there, still, and holds Jon close for as long as he’s allowed to.

Chapter Text

Martin’s hug is exactly as warm as Jon had hoped. He wants to burrow closer, wrap himself around Martin like a cat, but he’s afraid of pushing too far, taking too much instead of giving whatever Martin needs. So he stands still, bracketed in Martin’s arms, ear against his chest, and listens to Martin’s shaky, teary breaths gradually slow into steadiness. He can hear Martin’s heart like this.

Jon suspects that, should Martin hear his heart instead, he would notice its pounding. His entire chest feels like it’s stretching, bursting with Martin, Martin, Martin. As it is, he’s just grateful it isn’t beating hard enough to rock his body. The last thing he wants is to make Martin uncomfortable, not when he’s trying so urgently to bring Martin down from his choking panic. Safe, he thinks fiercely, you’re safe. He tightens his arms around Martin’s waist as if he can convey reassurances through touch alone - and maybe he can, maybe it’s working, because Martin eventually, several minutes later, grows quiet.

They stand there a moment longer, Jon unwilling to let go, before Martin finally breaks the silence. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Of course,” Jon says against his shirt. It smells like lavender and clove - not as sugar-sweet as he might’ve expected on a baker, but exactly as warm and soothing as he expected on Martin . Should he let go now? He doesn’t want to - he wants to cling tighter, stay tucked in close as if he can protect Martin’s mind through sheer proximity. 

“I - um, are you okay?” Martin asks softly. 

“Me?” Jon blinks. “Yes?”

“Oh - okay, good, I was - ” Martin hesitates, and his embrace loosens slightly.

Jon swallows, taking that as his cue to step back. He looks up, peering through the dim light to read whatever mix of emotions is hiding in Martin’s eyes. “You’re not going to apologize again, are you?”

Martin laughs, a small, forced thing, and looks away. “I guess not.”

“Good.” Jon wants to hug him again. “Good.”

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“... thank you.” Martin blinks, and his eyes are still wet with tears. “No one’s ever - I’ve never had - ”

“I know,” Jon says quietly. 

Martin looks down, and he seems almost as surprised as Jon is to realize that they’re holding hands. When did that happen? Jon tenses, prepared to back off again and apologize, but Martin only brings up his other hand and lays it atop Jon’s, holding him from wrist to fingertip as carefully as if he’s cupping a baby animal. 

“Is this… okay?” Martin whispers, not taking his gaze off their hands.

Jon nods speechlessly, then realizes Martin might not have seen and says, “You can - ” He cuts himself off. You can hold my hand, you can do whatever you want, you can, you can . But Jon can’t, can’t say anything that might give himself away. Will Martin hear it in the wavering of his voice? Will he know? Don’t make this about you. “You can.” 

They fall into silence again. They’re standing close enough that each of Martin’s shaky breaths puffs across the top of Jon’s head. Jon stares at his hand in Martin’s. He’s here to take care of Martin, but he can’t help feeling that he’s just as safe here as he wants Martin to be around him . 

Jon would like this to last far, far longer than it does. He would be happy to stand here as a point of contact for Martin for hours if necessary, but his body, traitorous as it so often is, begins to protest after a few minutes. He feels it first in the twinging that darts from his calves upward, then in the odd pressure in his chest and ribs. Then his knees sway uncertainly, and he grabs Martin’s hands with his free one to steady himself.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice pitches upward. 

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Just, could I maybe sit down for a minute?”

Martin nods and turns to the rather worn looking couch. “Here. Sorry, I shouldn’t have - ”

“Martin, you don’t have to.” Jon squeezes his hands gently before lowering himself down onto the couch. It’s not firm enough to offer much support, but it’s nice to get off his feet, take the weight off his legs. He sighs.

Now unoccupied, Martin’s hands flutter up to his chest as he stands looking down at Jon. “Do you, um, do you need anything?”

“No, nothing, just… a rest, for a moment.” 

Martin hesitates, then carefully sits on the couch. He leaves half a cushion between them, though he keeps glancing from Jon to the empty space as if he wishes it weren’t there. 

Maybe he still needs contact, Jon realizes. Touch can be such a grounding thing. And, well, if it's helping Martin, he’s not exactly going to complain. He shifts over slightly until the side of his leg brushes against Martin’s and looks over searchingly. 

Martin immediately looks away, but his shoulders loosen and he draws his own legs up onto the couch without breaking the contact. He hugs his knees to his chest. 

It’s amazing, Jon thinks, how Martin can be twice as broad and so much taller than he and yet manage to look smaller than Jon has ever felt. 

“Jon?”

Jon presses his leg a little more firmly against Martin’s and waits for him to continue.

“I just… thank you.”

“Martin, it’s no probl -”

“Please let me finish?” Martin’s voice is soft and strained. “I don’t… whether it was a problem or not… you didn’t have to. Any of it. What you - did at the library, or, or here, or what you said, I…” He pauses and makes a pained sound deep in his throat. He hugs his knees harder. Jon wants to crawl into his lap, be the thing held tight against his chest again, but he only chews on the inside of his lip and listens. “No one’s ever… done that for me. So thank you. For all of it. And I am sorry that I made you… feel like you had to do it, I am. But I’m… yeah. Thank you.”

“Martin,” Jon says quietly. Slowly, carefully, he moves his hand over Martin’s knee. “ I’m sorry that you’ve been made to feel that you deserve anything less.”

Martin shakes his head, but Jon cuts him off.

“It’s my turn, okay? Listen to me.” Jon takes a deep breath. There are so many things he wants to say, so many words churning in his mind, and this is too fast, he hasn’t had time to sort through them, find the bits of truth he can reveal without exposing more than he wants, find the ones that will reassure Martin without burdening him with the depth of Jon’s feelings. How can he show Martin the truth of his worth, his importance, without giving away how important he is to Jon ? “I didn’t ‘feel like I had to do’ anything. But I - you - you deserve to feel safe, and I promised you’d be safe around me - in the library - and I meant that. What Simon said wasn’t true. You’re not in the way. You never are. And you are wanted, always - always , Martin. You - matter,” he finishes, the last words falling limply from his tongue. It’s not enough, but he’s terrified of saying more.

Martin’s eyes are closed. His eyelashes are wet against the tops of his cheeks - they’re darkened, like this, and for the first time Jon realizes how long they are. “Do you - do you mean that?” he asks. His voice is high and unsteady. It sounds like the floating sensation in Jon’s chest. “You’re not just… saying things to be… nice or something?”

“If you’re concerned about me saying anything for the sake of niceness I’m afraid we’re dealing with an entirely different problem.” Jon tries to say it dryly, but his throat closes around the last word. 

“No one’s ever…” Martin starts again.

“I know.” Jon squeezes Martin’s knee gently. “That isn’t fair, and I’m sorry. But… I will. I still promise. You’re safe and you’re valued and you matter, and I’ll - I’ll keep reminding you, if you need it.”

Martin nods. “I might,” he whispers. 

“That’s fine.”

“Can I…?” Martin twists to face him, dropping his legs and opening his arms.

Jon moves closer and leans against him. His throat aches with the threat of tears, eyes prickly and hot with sadness and a hint of the anger that had burst in him at the library. He wants more than just to protect Martin, more than to reassure him - he wants to look into the eyes of everyone who’s ever neglected him, ever hurt him, and he wants to tear them down with the same viciousness he knows it must take to be cruel to Martin Blackwood. You’re so good, so easy to love - how could anyone have made you feel any differently? I don’t understand -

“J-Jon?” Martin whispers against his hair. He sounds… stunned. 

Jon looks up, confused, lips parting to ask what was wrong before he realizes, with a sudden seizing in his chest, that he’s been murmuring into Martin’s shirt like he’s offering a secret. Shit .

“Oh, Martin, I’m sorry, I - ”

“No, no, hang on.” Martin sits up straighter, leaning back to look into Jon’s eyes more easily. “What did you say?”

Jon pulls back slightly, arms dropping into his own lap. His breath hitches, hard. “I’m sorry, Martin, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t mean to say that, I didn’t want to… make you feel like…” He groans. “You don’t have to - I don’t have any expectations, I’m not trying to, to take - I don’t know, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut miserably. He feels so heavy, suddenly, weighted down into the couch like he’ll never be able to move again. Don’t make it about yourself, don’t scare him away, don’t ruin this. “Please don’t take it the… the wrong way - ”

“The wrong way,” Martin repeats. His voice has dropped low again.

Jon fidgets helplessly, mouth open but no words coming through. His entire mind is static, a low grade panic clawing its way through him. 

“I - I won’t,” Martin says softly. Stiffly. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Jon stares down at his hands in his lap. He thinks he’s ruined it after all, let his feelings overwhelm Martin’s needs, pushed too far, taken comfort and demanded more of it, and now - now he feels sick. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry .

Martin doesn’t open his arms up to him again.

Hope, Martin considers, is a terrible and treacherous thing. For one glimmering second, Jon’s hushed words - You’re so good, so easy to love - had cut through the storm of his mind like a lighthouse promising safe harbor. 

But of course he didn’t mean it that way. His horrified face had made it instantly, wretchedly clear that Martin’s hope was invasive, asking for more than Jon had to give, daring to think for the briefest of moments that maybe, just maybe, there was more to Jon’s promises than a casual investment in the wellbeing of another. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. Jon doesn’t lean into him for another hug, so Martin wraps his arms around himself. “I shouldn’t have - I always ask for too much. I’m sorry.”

“What do you - what?” Jon blinks up at him.

Martin shrugs. “It’s no excuse, I know, but… I guess I never know where I stand with someone, so I cross the line, ask for too much - but I won’t, Jon, I promise, I’ll… I’ll respect your, your boundaries.”

“My… boundaries.” It isn’t a question; Jon holds the words in his mouth like he’s trying them out for the first time.

“You - you may have to spell them out for me, sometimes, if you - if you don’t mind, because I’m not great at… figuring them out myself.” Martin gives a small, sad laugh. “I always did have the habit of - of taking too much, but I won’t, for you, if you just… let me know where to stop…”

“Martin, I have no idea what’s happening,” Jon says. “Why are we talking about - about my boundaries when…?”

“Because I don’t know where they are!” Martin hunches his shoulders, gripping the sides of his own arms as if he can hold himself together. “And I know I’ll - I’ll trample all over them if you don’t point them out.”

“You… haven’t? You haven’t done that, Martin.” Jon looks bewildered now, staring up at Martin with wide eyes and furrowed brows. “Where is this coming from? I’m the one who should be asking about boundaries, you’ve never - you haven’t done anything - ”

“Why should you ask about boundaries?” Martin says incredulously. “You’re - you’re wonderful, you’re here - risking your job for me, comforting me, being my… friend, and I know you said you think I deserve it, but I don’t understand how that can be when all I do is take and take and take from you!”

“What have you ever taken from me?” Jon asks. 

“Your - your time, your energy, your… care.” Martin looks away. He thinks he’s crying again - of course he is, selfish man. “I show up to your place of work nearly every day and just… throw myself at you.”

When Jon finally speaks again, it’s with a slow deliberation that punches each word into Martin’s chest. “You come to a community space to use it as it's intended and bring me gifts. How exactly is that you throwing yourself at me?”

“Because it’s selfish,” Martin says. 

“How is it selfish, Martin?”

“It just… it just is.” Is it possible to feel any more miserable? Surely there’s only so much a human body can take before it implodes with the weight of it all. “It’s just another way for me to demand attention, another way to be underfoot. And I, I know that it’s horrible of me to try to put myself in your life as if I can just… I don’t know, earn the time of day, win a little affection by making myself useful - I just… It makes me feel so good when I do something helpful or get a smile out of you, so I keep plowing on, wedging myself into your day over and over again. I guess I don’t know how to care about people without asking them to care about me back, and I should’ve learned the lesson long ago, god knows I’ve had every opportunity, but I’m so bloody selfish !”

“Martin!” Jon’s hands scrabble for his frantically. “Martin, I’ve told you, that’s - that’s not true. You aren’t selfish, and you deserve to be cared for, and you are cared for, and you don’t have to do anything to - to earn that, Martin, you already have it - from me.”

Martin lets Jon slide his hands into his own, slender fingers weaving between Martin’s wider ones with a squeezing urgency. “But it’s never enough for me, is it?” he says bitterly. “You’ve said and done more for me - to me - than I should dare ask for, and yet I still want more, don’t I?”

“ What do you want?” Jon asks, pressing closer. “I don’t understand.”

“I want you , Jon.” The words fall out of his mouth like shards of glass from a shattered window, cutting through him before they crumble apart. “I want all of you - all of your smiles, every day. I want to have a place in your life, not just in your library. I want this - ” He holds up their intertwined hands and shakes them. “I want all of this. I always, always want more. You tell me I deserve kindness and I want it from you , you tell me I’m - I’m valuable and I want to be valuable to you , you tell me I’m easy to love and I want to be loved by you , so - so you can’t keep giving to me, Jon, you have to stop letting me have these little pieces because I’ll just keep taking . I told you, I’m selfish. You have to tell me where the line is, Jon, I won’t find it on my own.”

Jon is so quiet and so still that after a few heartbeats, Martin whips his head over to make sure he hasn’t disappeared. But no - Jon is curled up on his couch, one small hand resting loosely in Martin’s, bright eyes wide and staring at some point on Martin’s chest. 

“Martin,” Jon finally says, his voice just shy of breathless. “Martin, what exactly made you think there was a line?”

“What?” 

“All of those things - Martin, you already have them. You are valuable to me, you’re… you’re so important to me.” Jon raises his eyes to meet Martin’s. “There isn’t a - a stopping point for me, Martin. There’s no line. I don’t think…” He huffs softly. “I don’t think you can take more than I want to give. In fact I - I rather thought the issue was the other way around.” 

Martin isn’t sure when Jon’s hand had come to rest against the side of his face; he is suddenly and completely leaning into it, pressing against the warmth of Jon’s skin like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Something in his chest is clenching down, but for the first time he can remember it doesn’t hurt. “But you said - you said not to take it the wrong way - ” he stammers. 

The sound Jon makes is more exhale than laugh, but it’s tense with self-deprecation all the same. “I was - I was afraid you’d be upset. I didn’t want you to think that my care was conditional, that you had to do something, be something for me, to deserve it.”

“Sorry, what ?” Martin grabs the wrist by his face, holding it in place before Jon can pull away again. “How could I ever be upset about you - you caring , Jon?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you away from the library,” Jon says hesitantly. “You - you need it, don’t you? The safety there, you said you’d not had anything like that before - I didn’t want to make you feel like - like my feelings for you would get in the way of that.”

“Jon!” Martin stares at him. “Don’t you - wasn’t it obvious that you were the safe thing there? I mean, yeah, the library is lovely, but you, you were what made me come back over and over, you were what made me - makes me - feel safe. You. Because - ” He pauses, but he’s said so much already, revealed so many things he’s tried to keep hidden all this time, that there’s no point in holding anything back now. “I was drawn to you from the beginning, Jon. The library became important to me along the way, but I never would have loved it like I do if I hadn’t loved you first.”

Jon opens his mouth and then closes it again, cutting off a high, wordless sound in the back of his throat before he pitches forward and throws his arms around Martin’s neck. “I’ve been very stupid, then,” he says, muffled.

“You haven’t,” Martin says weakly, wrapping his arms around Jon’s torso. “You didn’t know. I - I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why not?” Jon asks. He’s pressed in so closely that his lips move against Martin’s skin.

It takes Martin nearly a full minute to recover enough from the sensation to answer. “I didn’t want you to send me away. I didn’t want to be a bother - I couldn’t bear either.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Jon says. “Never.” Then he adds, “I won’t, and you aren’t.”

“You’ve said.” Martin tries to chuckle but it sounds a bit more watery than he would have liked.

“I’ll keep saying it until you believe it,” Jon says. “I won’t stop. I haven’t wanted to stop.”

“I think I might believe it,” Martin says, fingers gripping the back of Jon’s shirt, “if you keep hugging me like this.”

And Jon keeps holding him, and for the first time, Martin isn’t angry with himself for wanting it.

They don’t move, not for hours. Not even when Jon eventually calls in for delivery, although Martin does have to stand to answer the door when it arrives and they have to sit upright to eat. Jon finds his way back into Martin’s arms afterward, though, and they both look a little surprised about it. Finally, it seems, Martin has expended all his tears and finds himself grinning, beaming uncontrollably every time Jon shifts against him. 

I get this is followed by Jon wants this and we get this . They talk, fumbling and stuttering through explanations of thoughts and feelings, laughing ruefully at the ways their own brains have fought them, and hesitantly, joyfully confirming again and again that, yes, this is something, we both want this, we can be a we after all.

“I guess we’ve both been a little silly,” Jon says. “I’m sorry you had to be so anxious.”

“It’s not your fault.” Martin ducks his head, smiling shyly. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to hide anything to make me comfortable. You don’t have to do that anymore - you know that, right? I’m not - I’m not exactly easy to scare away.”

“I suppose not, if you managed not to be warned off from the beginning.” Jon traces a fingertip through the freckles on Martin’s forearm, looking at them contemplatively before giving a little shiver that Martin recognizes as a repressed yawn.

“Oh - it’s getting late, isn’t it? You must be tired.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn’t have - shouldn’t have kept you up like this.”

“Martin, I’m fairly capable of making decisions for myself, you know. I can be responsible for my own sleeping schedule.” Jon turns to smile at him, but it’s cut off by another yawn.

There is an unbearable ache of affection deep in Martin’s stomach. “You should - you should get some rest, though.” 

“Mhm. I should.” Jon makes no move to indicate that he plans to extract himself from Martin’s couch anytime soon.

Martin sits quietly for a few moments. He’s not going to complain - no amount of time spent so close to Jon could satisfy the great yearning that’s consumed him for so long - but there is a little twinge of guilt, a prickle of his constant awareness of his own neediness. He swallows it down, a compromise presenting itself in his mind. “What if you - what if you stayed the night?”

Jon twists slightly to look up at him, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you could sleep here.” Martin tries not to look hopeful.

Jon hesitates, something like nervousness darkening his eyes. “You… ah, you remember when I mentioned that I’m asexual? I don’t - I don’t really do - ”

“No, no, I know! I’m not asking for that,” Martin says quickly. “I don’t even want it, honestly, it’s not something I really… think about. I mean, I don’t mind the idea, but I could take it or leave it - it’s not that important.” He stops, taking a deep breath to keep himself from rambling.

“Okay.” Jon smiles softly. “That’s fine, then.”

“So… you’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.” Jon resumes his exploration of Martin’s freckles with a sleepy hum, then pauses again. “Although… I don’t know how pleasant it’ll be to sleep in…” He gestures down at his clothes. His trousers and plain button down are already wrinkled beyond the help of any mortal, but Martin agrees that they are not fit for sleeping.

“You could, um, you could borrow something of mine?” he suggests.

“Hm, sure, that - that seems logical.” Jon yawns. 

Martin squirms. “Budge over, then, and I’ll show you the options.”

The options, as he knows even before he brought up the idea, are all far too big for Jon, but he can’t deny that there’s a secret and incredibly gay part of his mind that is ready to implode at the idea of Jon in his clothes. He shows Jon the drawer and then vanishes to the bathroom to change and rush through his bedtime routine.

“Martin?” Jon calls through the door a few minutes later. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

“Er, yeah, probably. Hang on.” Martin rummages under the sink and then opens the door, toothbrush triumphantly in hand. “Here you go.”

Then he immediately has to stop and wrangle his heart rate back under control. Jon is, as he expected, positively swimming in one of Martin’s old t-shirts. What he had not expected was the delicate curve of his clavicle, or the way the shirt would slide over the top of his shoulder, or the way the hem would drag across the fronts of his knees. 

There are so many new, kissable expanses of skin. It’s devastating. 

“Martin?” Jon squints up at him.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I’ll just - ” Martin flattens himself against the wall as he skirts around him, thrusting the toothbrush out as he goes. “Um. I’ll be… yeah.” He retreats to the bedroom as quickly as he dares and spends every second that Jon is in the bathroom talking himself down from a familiar, if incapacitating, queer panic.

Oh Christ, Jon is in my house, he’s in my clothes, he’s going to be in my bed - how did I get here? How did this happen? Martin considers pinching himself, mostly for dramatic effect, but finds that he is incapable of moving from where he’s laid down atop his mattress. 

Jon has spent the better part of the evening promising Martin that he won’t ask for too much, that he won’t bother him or drive him away, that he wants Martin just as much as Martin wants him, but… 

Martin is no expert on relationships. Certainly not healthy ones, anyway - and certainly not successful ones. He wants, more than anything he can imagine in the world at this moment, for this thing he and Jon have begun to put together over the past few hours to be both of those things. It is so, so important that he not fuck up now. 

I’ll just… I’ll not touch him, he decides. So he doesn’t get any wrong ideas, doesn’t think I’m going to ask for more than he’s giving after all. 

He keeps his hands resolutely to himself when Jon slips back into the room, crawling into the other side of the bed slowly and carefully. He keeps his eyes to himself too, for good measure, staring upward so as not to make Jon uncomfortable as he arranges himself beneath the many blankets. This does not prevent him from noticing that Jon’s taken down his hair and that it is tumbling messily over the single, bared shoulder, which in turn does prevent him from breathing for a few seconds. 

“It’s cold in here,” Jon observes.

Oh, shit . Martin’s forgotten about his army of fans, their determined whirring faded far into the background of his mind. “I can turn them off,” he starts.

“No need.” Jon shifts a little closer. “Body heat,” he says in an explanatory tone. “I’ll be fine in just a minute.”

“Okay for me to turn out the light?” Martin asks. When Jon hums encouragingly, he reaches over to his lamp, clicking the knob once before returning to his position flat on his back.

From the corner of his eye, he can see that Jon is lying on his side, facing him. He wonders if he can hear his heartbeat. 

They’ve been close all evening, practically wrapped around each other on the couch, but this - this is different. There is something sacred, Martin thinks, about sharing a bed - he can’t think of many greater testaments of trust than to fall asleep beside another person, knowing you will awake safely. He won’t mess this up. He will show Jon that he is right to trust him like this, that he’ll treat him with reverence and respect here just as he will in every moment of every day he gets to spend with him.

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon whispers.

“Goodnight, Jon,” Martin murmurs back.

Martin wakes up several hours later, before the sky has committed to dawn. There is no light splashing through the windows and his room is cast in the faint, misty grey of fading night. Jon is pressed into his side, face hidden in Martin’s pillow, knees drawn up high in the loose curl of sleep. At some point in the night, Martin has thrown his arm around Jon’s narrow shoulders, and Jon has not shrugged him away.

Maybe that’s because he’s asleep, maybe he hasn’t realized. Martin twitches, wondering if he should pull away, but Jon grumbles softly and wiggles closer. “Stay,” he mumbles petulantly. 

And, well - that’s all Martin has ever wanted to do anyway.

Chapter Text

When Jon wakes for the second time, he is aware before his eyes have opened that he is still slotted between Martin’s arm and chest. It is a warmer place to be than he had dared hope. He sighs, reluctant to move, but his knees are protesting their position - that’s what pulled him into consciousness, he thinks, the dull ache that comes from his habit of curling them upward when he doesn’t sleep in his braces - and he needs to stretch them before they’re too stiff to walk on. 

He opens his eyes slowly. The first thing he sees is Martin’s neck and a few inches of the top of his chest, fair skin washed in soft, morning light where his stretched collar has sagged. There are faint freckles beneath his clavicle like the ones on his arms, like the artist who designed the beautiful whole of Martin had flung a paintbrush above his skin at the last minute, speckling it as if with fading stardust. One day, he decides, he will embark on an adventure to kiss each freckle.

When he lifts his gaze, he sees Martin’s barely parted lips and then, finally, his eyes. They’re the color of honey - warmer than the brown he’d assumed in less gentle light - and they’re watching him.

“You’re so pretty,” Martin says before Jon can speak. Then he blushes. “Sorry.”

“No - no sorry,” Jon mumbles. Christ, he’s groggy. He must’ve woken from a deeper sleep than he’d realized. 

Martin huffs out an almost silent laugh. 

“How… how long have you been awake?” Jon rubs his eyes and slowly uncurls his legs, hiding a wince at the dart of pain that the movement sparks.

“Oh, I - I never went back to sleep.” Martin shifts in a way that might be an attempt at a shrug. “I’m used to getting up pretty early for work.”

Jon blinks. “Oh - oh, you’re not going to be late because of me, are you?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, I’m off yesterday and today.”

“Mm.” Thus reassured, Jon presses his face down into the pillow again. A thick strand of hair slips over his cheek. 

There is an ease to this, he realizes, a rightness that he’d barely dared imagine when he was trying to stave off his feelings before. The few daydreams he’d allowed himself were nothing compared to the reality of lying buried beneath Martin’s blankets, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest and to smell the detergent on his sleeping clothes. Until the minute he’d fallen asleep last night, his entire mind had been consumed with Martin, Martin, and he wants me, and he’s not afraid of me . Now, the sharp, jolting excitement has soothed into a gentle hum of happiness. It’s peaceful. Jon thinks he can get used to peace.

“I think you got a phone call,” Martin says after a moment. “Your phone was buzzing, but I couldn’t turn it off without waking you.”

Jon grumbles. The phone is somewhere behind him, which means he has to roll over to pick it up, which means he has to break contact with Martin. It’s very unfair. His brief pout is quickly replaced by a cringe when he sees his phone screen, though. “Ah, I… I forgot to tell Georgie where I was, it seems.”

“What?”

“Georgie? You met her at the trans support group, I think?” When Martin nods but still looks confused, Jon adds, “She’s my flatmate.”

“That’s nice,” Martin says.

“She usually is.” Jon flips the phone around to show Martin his five missed calls and nearly twenty text messages. They aren’t all from Georgie, though. He scrolls through his notifications.

Georgie

Melanie told me what happened at the library. I’m proud. Are you okay though?

Georgie

Let me know when you’re on your way home please

Georgie

It’s late… Mel said you left the library before she did?

Georgie

Jon?

Georgie (missed call)

Georgie

I’m sure you’re with Martin and that’s fine, but can you let me know when you’ll be back home?

Nikola

hey little piss baby 

Nikola

good job telling the old man to fuck off i am wiping away tears of pride my little boy is all grown up now

Nikola

but also pls tell georgie ur fine before she cries

Georgie

Mel and I drove by the library and it looks like Martin’s bicycle is still there? Are you with him? 

Georgie (missed call)

Nikola

i know ur phone isn’t dead bc u have no friends to text 

Nikola

except me ofc, u have to know i’m ur friend in case ur dead and this is the last thing i ever say to u lol

Nikola

i know ur not dead but georgie doesnt and she wont stop texting me so pls for the love of fuck text her back

Georgie (missed call)

Georgie

Jon it’s 2 am and I’m worried about you. Please call me

Nikola

oh shit maybe you are dead. jon pls dont be dead i have so much to teach u about proper anti-capitalism activities there’s a whole world beyond yelling at old men pls be alive also pls text georgie before she drives me out of my mind

Georgie

Jon I’m really, really worried. Just let me know where you are?

Tim

nikola keeps texting me that simon fairchild’s gang (?) has possibly killed you ?? should i be concerned ??

Georgie (missed call)

Georgie

Jon?

Georgie (missed call)

The last missed call has a time stamp of almost an hour ago. Jon bites his lip, embarrassment heating his cheeks. “I should, ah, I should probably let her know I’m okay.”

“Simon Fairchild has a gang?” Martin peeks over his shoulder for a better look at his screen.

“He does not,” Jon says wearily. Then he opens his text history with Georgie.

Jon

I’m so sorry, I fell asleep. I’m alright. I’m at Martin’s.

For good measure, he copies the same message and sends it to Nikola. Then he drops the phone onto his lap and falls back against the pillows. “My friends are ridiculous.”

Martin laughs quietly. “They care about you.”

“Yeah. They do.” Jon offers a half-smile as he turns to face Martin. 

Martin smiles back, eyes wide and gentle. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else, but he’s interrupted by Jon’s phone vibrating.

“Oh, it’s - Georgie’s calling me,” he says. He looks at the screen consideringly, then sighs and taps accept call . “Hello?”

“Jonathan fucking Sims,” she shouts.

“Er…” Jon cringes and looks over at Martin apologetically.

“I’ll just… uh, I’ll go start some tea,” Martin says, quickly sliding off the bed and leaving the room. That’s definitely a wise choice, as Georgie is launching into a heated and possibly tearful lecture.

“You could have been fucking eaten for all I knew, Jon! You don’t just - just disappear like that!” 

“I’m - I’m sorry, Georgie,” Jon says when he’s able to fit the words between her shouting. “But in my defense, I was a little busy?”

“Busy doing what ?”

Jon pushes his hair behind one ear with his free hand, smirking slightly though he knows she can’t see. “Hugging, mostly,” he says primly, “and conversing.”

“Jonathan Sims, I’m going to murder you myself.”

“Sorry, Georgie, you’ll have to get through my boyfriend first.” If there’s a little too much self-satisfaction in his voice, well, he thinks Georgie deserves that. 

“...You never.”

“Like I said, I was busy.”

He pads out of the bedroom a few minutes later, after he’s talked Georgie down and promised to tell her everything when they see each other in person. The rest of Martin’s small flat isn’t as cool as his bedroom with its truly astonishing number of electric fans, but he still shivers slightly at the air against his legs.

Martin is standing in the kitchen, which is visible from the hallway outside the bedroom door. He’s busying himself with something in an upper cabinet, and as Jon moves closer, he can see that his shirt has risen up a few inches, revealing a fascinating roll of soft skin and a pair of dimples dividing the wideness of his lower back. He is staggeringly beautiful. Though Jon has already confirmed that he is very comfortable to lie against, he notes to himself that he’ll have to conduct further research about the potential coziness of draping himself over Martin’s back. Perhaps that should wait until he isn’t pulling mugs from a high shelf, though.

“Um,” Martin says once he’s placed the mugs on the counter top. “Boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Jon echoes, blinking out of his brief stupor. 

“You said. To Georgie.” Martin hasn’t turned to face him, but his head is tilted slightly to one side.

Jon steps in closer, peering over to meet Martin’s eyes. “I… I did, didn’t I? Is that - is that okay? If it’s not, that’s fine too, I shouldn’t have assumed - I didn’t mean to - ”

“I liked it.” Martin blushes.

Jon smiles. “So did I.”

“Cool,” Martin says, and darts one arm around Jon in the quickest, gentlest hug he’s ever received. Then Martin returns to bustling around his kitchen. “Um, I don’t have much in the way of breakfast foods, but - ”

“That’s fine,” Jon says, “I don’t usually eat much in the mornings.”

“Or ever, apparently.” Martin raises an eyebrow at him.

“I try! I’m just - I stay busy!” Jon tries to pout, but he finds that he’s incapable of not smiling at Martin. 

Martin laughs softly. “Right. Well, I think I’ve got some yoghurt if you’d like?”

“Only if it doesn’t have bits of fruit in it,” Jon says.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Martin says, aghast. “What sort of person do you take me for?”

There is no table in Martin’s kitchen, so they return to the worn couch to eat. Jon doesn’t mind this as much as he might’ve under other circumstances as it means he can experiment with how best to find himself snuggled against Martin without appearing to try to snuggle Martin. He’s satisfied with his results, and from the gentle eagerness with which Martin wraps his arms around him after the yoghurt has been appropriately dealt with, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Regrettably, however, he can’t spend the entire day like this. He does still have a job to go to. 

He thinks he does, anyway. 

For Martin’s sake, Jon is careful not to show any signs of worry as they call and later climb into a cab. He meant what he’d told Martin - he doubts Gertrude will fire him for kicking Simon out of the library; after all, Simon is a new donor and not even one of their most generous. Besides, Jon has worked at the library for a decade by now, and he’s good at his job, he knows he is. Gertrude won’t choose Simon over him. He thinks. 

Would she choose Jonah Magnus, though? Simon and Jonah are friends. There’s a prickle of anxiety in Jon’s mind over what Jonah might do, demand, after hearing what Jon had done. 

The anxiety is mostly overshadowed by preemptive anger at the idea of Gertrude choosing money over the safety of a community space. She has a history of prioritizing finances, after all - but Jon knows that if that’s the case, if she does fire him over this, it might finally be confirmation that Georgie and Sasha have been right, that it’s time for him to move on anyway.

He doesn’t want to leave. The library has been the single most foundational aspect of his life, his identity, has been the core of him for so long that he doesn’t know who he’d be without it.

Martin squeezes his hand gently as the cab pulls up outside the library, bringing Jon out of his mental spiral. They walk through the glass doors together, and Jon has just enough time to see Tim, Sasha, and Daisy huddled together by his desk before Tim points at them and breaks into a grin. 

“I called it,” he crows.

Martin blushes and looks helplessly down at Jon as the library employees burst into a frenzy of soft exclamations and questions, and Jon smiles up at him easily.

With or without the library, he’d be someone who is loved by Martin Blackwood. 

That thought is enough to chase away the sharper pangs of worry in his stomach. Martin smiles back at him, a beacon and a reminder that the library is only a physical symbol of what Jon truly holds dear - safety, community, love.

With or without the library, Jon has found those things, will always fight for them and chase them and build them with his own hands when necessary. Even if Simon does somehow cost him his job, he can’t touch the things that make the job worth having. 

Martin can’t remember the last time he’d smiled long enough for his cheeks to ache, but he thinks he can get used to the feeling. Jon stays close to him in the flat, in the cab, even standing in the library, never far enough away that Martin can’t stretch out his arm and touch him if he wants. He does, occasionally. Slowly and carefully at first, fingertips just brushing against a sleeve or hand, light and quick and ready to pull away if Jon seems bothered by it. But he never does. Every time, he leans into the touch, leans into Martin, like petals unfurling toward sunlight. 

Martin likes the idea of being something warm for Jon. He likes to see the new pieces of him - the sleepy eyes and loose hair in bed, the curl of fingers around a mug in his home, around his hand in the cab. It feels like a gift. 

Even now, standing in the library surrounded by Jon’s friends, Martin sees new parts of him. He holds himself a little rigidly, as he always does, face reserved but attentive as he listens to Tim’s reenactment of Nikola’s play-by-play of Georgie’s breakdown. He’s familiar like this. But now, now Martin sees little hints of the Jon from his flat - the earnestness of his gaze, the way he leans just slightly toward the nearest person as if he wants to touch them but won’t, the way he makes sure to acknowledge everyone who speaks. He cares so much more than he lets the world see. How could anyone ever have been surprised at his smile? It’s here, in his stance, in his eyes, always, when you know where to look for it.

Martin wonders with a jolt how long Jon has been waiting for someone to find it.

“Jon.”

Everyone goes still and quiet for a split second before Jon turns to face the speaker. It’s an older woman Martin has never seen before, but since she’s standing in the open door of the library director’s office, he thinks he can guess who she is.

“Oh, ah, good morning, Gertrude,” Jon says. His voice is thicker than it had been a minute before.

“Do you have a moment?” She gestures into her office.

Jon’s eyes dart over to Martin briefly before he breaks away from the group and follows Gertrude into the room, the door closing firmly behind him.

Martin swallows hard. His anxiety from last night rolls over in his stomach, suddenly as fresh as if it had never been pushed aside.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Sasha says. She smiles bracingly at him. “He’ll be fine.”

“Gertrude won’t fire him.” Daisy shakes her head, shoving her hands into the pockets of her uniform. “She can’t afford to lose him. He’s held this place together for a lot longer than he’s had his position - she’s not stupid enough to get rid of him now.”

Tim claps a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Did you know that Gertrude knew Jon when he was a kid? That means she’s one of the few people who got to see him before, during, and after his alt phase.”

“A-alt phase?” Martin blinks, twisting his hands together, torn between staring at Tim and watching the door of Gertrude’s office.

“Oh yes.” Tim smirks. “Actually, Nikola has pictures, I could probably get her to send them to me.” He pulls out his phone and begins typing.

“Maybe another time, Tim?” Sasha says warningly. “Martin, how about some tea? I, for one, haven’t had nearly enough caffeine this morning.”

“Oh, um, sure.” Martin trails behind her to the breakroom.

“You’re welcome in here any time, you know,” she says as she rummages in one of the narrow cupboards. “Special volunteer privileges. Or special dating-Jon privileges. Either way, make yourself comfy, okay?”

Martin blushes. Dating Jon privileges . 

“Hey,” Sasha adds, turning to face him after she’s flicked on the electric kettle. “We’re all really happy about that, by the way. You and Jon. We’ve been taking bets on when it would happen, actually. Jon’s pretty oblivious, but we knew he’d get there in the end.” She grins at him.

Martin thinks back to all the times she’d greeted him so enthusiastically, all the times he’d noticed her or the others watching him with knowing smiles, and feels himself flushing harder. Christ, had he been that obvious?

She nods sympathetically, still smiling, as if she can read his thoughts. “So, tea. How does Earl Gray sound?”

“That’s… that’s fine.” He shakes his hands lightly at his sides as she drops the tea bag into one of the various mugs crowding the upper shelf. 

“Sasha,” Tim says, barging into the breakroom. “Sasha, I just had an idea.”

She glances at him longsufferingly. “Yes?”

“We can do double dates now! Martin, I know Jon will say yes if you ask him. Please ask him if he’ll go on a double date with us.” Tim clasps his hands prayerfully beneath his chin.

“With… you?” 

“And Gerry,” Tim and Sasha say in unison.

Tim bounces on his toes. “Oh my God , our first throuple friend! Wait, is it still throuple friends if we’re a throuple and they’re a couple? Ah, it doesn’t matter. We can do so many cute things together! I bet Jon hasn’t been to a movie theater in years , Martin, we can change that!”

“Have you considered,” asks Sasha as she hands Martin the mug, “that maybe Martin would like to take Jon on a few dates alone before you start planning group activities?”

Martin finds that his blush has not yet plateaued and tries to hide it by taking a long sip from the too-hot tea. “Erm.”

“Okay, fine,” Tim says. He sighs deeply. “But the offer is on the table, Martin. Think about it.”

“I - I will?” 

“Excellent.” 

“Come on, Tim, we’ve got shelving to do.” Sasha rolls her eyes and drags him out of the room by his sleeve.

Martin stands alone for a few minutes, sipping from the mug a few more times before setting it on the counter and shaking his hands hard. The stimming helps, letting him concentrate on the sensation of his hands long enough to slow his racing mind. Tim and Sasha move so easily around him. Within the span of minutes, they’d opened up a place for him in their lives, in their plans, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if he’s welcome here. 

Martin could get used to being welcome. 

He smiles and drains the last of the tea before rinsing out the mug and leaving the breakroom. Jon isn’t in sight - Martin looks longingly toward the library director’s office, wondering what’s happening inside - so he follows the familiar route through the poetry section, eyeing the spines of the books there out of habit rather than out of a desire to read one, before circling his way back around to the desk by nonfiction. He hesitates with his unopened bag in his lap. Should he try to study? If Jon has to leave the library after whatever conversation is taking place with Gertrude, he won’t stay. He’ll follow Jon if he’s allowed, or go home; the idea of being in the library without Jon holds no joy. 

He doesn’t have time to make a decision.

Gertrude’s office door swings open silently, and Jon walks through it, leaning heavily against his cane with an expression Martin can’t read. Martin wants to leap to his feet, to rush over and demand to know what happened, but he’s frozen in place. His heart is pounding again. 

Jon walks toward his own desk, but when he notices Martin he changes course and comes toward him instead. He pulls out the chair opposite Martin and lowers himself into it carefully, feeding his weight into his cane until he doesn’t need its support any longer.

Well? Martin wants to ask. He stares at Jon, his lips parted to say something, anything, but his voice seems to have abandoned him. What happened? 

Jon clears his throat quietly. “Um.” He looks at his hands before slowly raising his eyes toward Martin. “Gertrude… Gertrude apologized.”

“What?” Martin blinks. 

“To me. And - and to you, she sends her apologies to you as well.” Jon’s brows draw together thoughtfully. “She said… she said she regrets that Simon violated the safety of a community space and that we won’t accept future donations from him.”

“That’s - that’s it, that’s all she said?” Martin twists his hands together beneath the table. 

“No, she said more.” Jon shifts in his chair. “Sorry, I’m - I’m still trying to process it all, it was just - it was a surprise, and - ”

“You still have your job?” Martin blurts out, cutting him off.

“What? Oh - yes.” Jon smiles at him. “Yes, don’t worry, I still have my job. In fact… she gave me my review, rather unexpectedly, but she’s… she’s pleased. With me. And the work I’ve been doing, getting the cataloguing system up to date, starting the support group, keeping things running…” He trails off, still smiling, and ducks his head. “She’s approved the support group through the next six months, actually.”

“Wait, really? Even though Simon won’t be..?”

Jon nods. Christ, he’s beautiful like this, eyes bright and crinkled in a smile that keeps growing. “We have room for it in the budget without him. Actually, Gertrude went through the budget last night and made a - a few adjustments. Turns out quite a bit of Magnus’ donations were slotted for things like - like book restoration or building renovations - things we don’t really need right now. And since he never stated specifically what he wanted the donations used for - not on paper, anyway; he always gives little roundabout hints when he talks to you, but he’s never officially indicated - well. Anyway, there was a fair amount of the budget that could be rerouted for community outreach, so - so Gertrude’s sending me the spreadsheets and letting me take full responsibility for it.” He grins. “I can finally put together programs that will actually help, that people actually want, Martin. I - I haven’t looked through the numbers yet, obviously, but - I think I can fit at least two more per month. It’s what I’ve been asking for since - since I got this position, honestly. I can finally start to make the library the place it was when I was younger. A place that draws people in, where people want to come because they get something special from it - a real community space.”

Martin is speechless for a long time, stunned both by Jon’s news and the bubbling excitement in his voice. “So,” he says finally, “so it’s all right? Everything turned out fine?”

“More than fine.” Jon reaches across the table for his hands. The movement is smooth, with no trace of uncertainty, and the brush of his fingertips against Martin’s feels, at last, like the most natural thing he can imagine. “Better than before. I guess - I guess I have you to thank, really, for putting this all into motion, making Gertrude realize…”

Martin makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I - I can’t believe it. I really thought I’d - I don’t know, ruined things for you here.”

“Martin.” Jon shakes his head, and fondness in his voice sounds so vulnerable Martin suddenly thinks he might cry. “You’ve only ever made things better. Here, yes, and - and for me.”

Martin swallows and turns his hand over, letting his palm face upward so Jon can rest his fingers on it more easily.

“Really, Martin. I am so  - ” He pauses and takes a fortifying breath, clearly struggling to order his next words. “I am so glad you found your way here, and I am so grateful that you kept coming back. It’s been an honor to get to know you, and I hope I get the privilege of knowing you more and more for… for a long time.” He smiles again, and this time it’s a bit more wobbly. 

Martin drops his eyes, the emotions he finds on Jon’s face unbearable to look at while he tries to process his own thoughts. “Me too,” he says softly. “I - yeah. Me too, Jon.”

Jon squeezes his wrist gently. They sit silently for a moment, looking at their joined hands and listening to each others’ quiet breathing across the desk. 

Then Daisy lets out a low whistle as she strolls by and they both look up at her, startled, nervous laughs spilling into the library’s quietness.

“Well,” Jon says, sparks of excitement lighting in his eyes to match the little points of red on his cheekbones. “I should - I should see if Gertrude’s sent me those spreadsheets yet - see what I have to work with.” 

Martin nods and pulls his hand back. “Is ‘have fun’ the proper well wishes in this situation?” he asks, lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Perhaps not for a lesser man,” Jon shoots back. 

“Ah, I see.” Martin laughs again. This time the sound is full and uninhibited. 

Jon pushes himself up from the chair carefully, one hand on the table as the other grips his cane, but he doesn’t move away just yet. “Ah… Martin?”

“Yes?” Martin smiles at him. Even sitting, he barely has to look up to meet Jon’s gaze.

“Would you, ah… would you be interested in getting dinner with me? Tonight?” Jon looks more hopeful than nervous, but Martin doesn’t miss the way he braces himself against the table. 

“Is that - are you asking me on a date?” 

“I think - yes, I think I am. If that’s - if that’s something you’d like, we don’t have to of course, but I’d - I’d thought, maybe, after… you know.” Jon lifts an eyebrow.

“Then yes, I’d love to go on a date with you,” Martin says, and each word is tight with barely restrained joy. He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling breathless when Jon turns that wide, glowing smile on him.

“Okay. Okay, good. I’ll - I look forward to it.” Jon ducks his head almost bashfully and heads toward his own desk.

Martin watches him go. His cheeks ache again, and he decides that he’ll never complain about it if he keeps getting to witness Jon’s happiness. If he keeps getting to play some part in causing Jon’s happiness. And he will - he’ll trade the choking numbness for clawing, aching joy again and again, even if it doesn’t always feel as easy as it does in this moment. Even if he has to fight for it.

A life of loneliness, after all, is easy to begin but hard to end. And yet, Martin realizes with a jolt, somehow, at some point, between bookshelves and stammering conversations, it had begun to fade. Not all at once, not in some life changing moment, but, as slow and gentle as Jon’s smile, the loneliness is being replaced with a sense of belonging.

Martin has never belonged anywhere, but he thinks he can get used to it. It feels like enough . It feels like everything he’s ever wanted, and maybe everything he finally gets to be. It feels as right as being in the library, as being in love with Jon - because that’s what belonging is, in the end. Not a place, necessarily; a feeling.

When Jon reaches for his arm, later, as they walk out of the library together, Martin flutters his hand - freely, joyfully, unafraid - and it feels like the sensation blooming in his chest.