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"I am a man with a heart that offends, with its lonely, and greedy demands."
— john my beloved, sufjan stevens
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It starts like this: there's a cup of tea on his desk that greets Jon as he comes back from grabbing files in the other room. He looks around and finds himself alone—he does not remember passing anyone as he re-entered the room, and he could've sworn Rosie was at her desk the whole time he'd been gone. Jon looks at the cup suspiciously. It's freshly brewed, he can see the steam wafting up and the smell harkens to both nostalgia and present day. He does not drink it.
The next day, he finds another mug on his desk, and the week after that, and the week after that and he wonders why the person dropping them off can't take a hint. They've all gone to waste—he can see the tea stains in the steel-bellied sink of their beige staff room. (He doesn't see any teabags in the cupboards though. Not that he's looking.)
It's not until the fourth week that the nostalgia gets to his head and the aroma to his belly. He's had a particularly rough day, and the tea really is beginning to smell like home (cardamom and cinnamon) even if it's been unasked for this entire time. Or, maybe rather, because it's been unasked for this entire time. At this point, he's decided the tea is most likely not tainted—and if the steam begins winding around him like a soft embrace, or like the trace of a smile that his lips find themselves forming, he makes sure to hide it. No one can call him out for something they're not able to see, afterall.
He had a cup of tea already today, this morning, but the indulgence of tannins doesn't feel molten down his throat—instead, it feels like a routine he could grow into (or one he already has). It's a sweet thing, the tea—a warm embrace infused into the sugar crystals that swirl at the bottom of his mug.
He'd really like to know who made it.
Jon has yet to see who's been dropping them off, even if he's not quite sure how the tea-deliverer has been managing that. He does have his suspicions, though. He knows it's not Rosie—he had asked her quietly and she'd shaken her head softly and told her she'd keep an eye out for his "tea-dealer.” So far she hasn't updated him on the situation.
Jon also knows that it's not Tim, as he'd also asked, but all the man responded with was laughter and what seemed to be a hint of a smirk. This leaves the possibility of Martin or Sasha and if he's honest, he would much prefer if it were the latter, even if his gut twinges when he tries to convince himself of it.
(She is not the type to continue to brew un-drunk tea. Martin, unfortunately, is.)
═══☆═══
In the end, it does turn out to be Martin who's been brewing him his tea.
(If Jon finds that he doesn't feel as put out about this fact as he expected, he tells no one. They do not need to know. Not even Tim, who keeps shooting him grins whenever Martin even comes near him.)
//
When Tim asks Jon out to lunch with him and Martin (Sasha, being, unfortunately busy) on the upcoming Saturday, Jon surprises everyone by saying yes. He frowns a little at how much his co-workers consider that out of character—although he supposes, if he's honest, the judgement isn't wrong. Crowds are not his preferred environment, and sue him if he wants to keep his professional relationships professional.
Those feelings, however, do not stop him from spending the rest of the week worrying about their reactions.
//
Two days later, they meet at a cafe.
Martin, surprisingly, is there first. Jon feels a little bad about this thought, but in all fairness, Martin's work ethics don’t exactly point to him being a strictly scheduled individual. He supposes it's nice though, not having to wait alone at the table for once.
Martin smiles. “Hi, Jon.”
“Hello,” he replies, pulling out a chair. “How’re you? The cafe seems nice, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.”
Martin shakes his head. “It’s no bother. It is a nice cafe, isn’t it? Sasha found it actually, the first time we came here was, well, it was—it was very loud. I honestly think they were ready to ask us to leave.” He chuckles fondly at the memory. “They didn’t end up doing that, obviously, otherwise we probably wouldn't be allowed to come back, but I’m rambling now aren't I? Sorry, you asked how my day was—”
“It’s alright, Martin,” he interjects, quickly. “I can imagine that pretty well actually, that sounds like it has Tim written all over it.”
“Ah, yeah it does, doesn't it? He was the one to smooth things over though, I think he’d said he went to school with one of the waiters that was staffed that day? And oh—speaking of, do you think he’ll be here soon? It’s a little late isn't it, even for him?”
“I… I’m not really sure, we don’t go out much. He’s probably just stuck in traffic.”
“Ah yeah, yeah, that's probably it?” he says, toying with the sleeve of his shirt and Jon wonders if he makes the man nervous—thinks he feels bad about it, “I’ll uh, I’ll call him, make sure he... remembered it was today even.”
Martin fishes out his phone, and Jon watches as he starts to dial Tim. He agrees with Martin; it is weird how late the other man is. It’s not exactly concerningly abnormal (he assumes Tim is still perfectly safe)—but being this late certainly isn’t something Tim tries to make a habit of. Martin doesn't seem to be having any luck on his phone though, with the small huff he makes—Jon’s looking at him now, and he thinks, he never noticed the freckle below the corner of his left ear before. It’s a nice freckle, as far as freckles go.
Martin makes a louder huff at his phone and shakes his head. “He’s not answering, just straight to voicemail. I guess we should just order our drinks then?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Jon agrees.
It’s a couple silent minutes, but as soon as their waiter comes over, they order. Jon knows what he wants already—he'd looked at the menu beforehand—and Martin doesn't seem interested in anything particularly fancy, opting instead for just water.
“Thanks for coming out here, I’m sorry it’s just me right now, I really don’t know what's up with Tim, ah—” he cuts himself short as his phone rings and Jon’s words (I don’t mind) die in his throat. Stopped by the bell? He chuckles to himself at the thought because he definitely hasn’t been saved.
Martin looks annoyed, and his free hand is moving even more rapidly now—“Seriously, Tim?”—and Jon wonders what he did. He doesn’t think Tim would’ve forgotten something like this. Jon doesn’t want to sound narcissistic, but Tim generally acts as if Jon agreeing to go out with the rest of the team is a particularly special occasion—he didn’t expect him to miss this time.
Although, there’s nothing wrong with him being busy or forgetting, he can’t blame Tim for being human. He just wishes the man would've said something ahead of time—Martin looks flustered now, though Jon can’t tell if his cheeks are flushed or not. He wonders why Martin is so nervous around him—he knows he’s not exactly charismatic or “warm” like Tim is, but he doesn’t imagine himself as particularly scary, or anything worth being anxious over. There's a slight ache settling in his chest, and he thinks it might hurt like a glass splinter or maybe like the truth.
Martin sets down his phone and says tightly, “Tim says he’s had plans that came up, and he ‘won’t be able to make it’ apparently.” The quotations are sharp enough to tear.
Ah. As Jon had thought. He gives a nod, “Shame. I hope you don't mind it just being the two of us then. It’s- it’s understandable if you’d rather we take a rain check though.”
“Ah, no no I’m good—I’d like to stay, as long as you’d like to?”
“Of course.”
“So... any plans for the weekend?" Martin asks, tentatively.
Jon tilts his head, thinking, “Ah, not exactly... just the normal I guess, chores, making dinner—all that. I’ve been thinking of trying a new recipe though, if that’s a plan,” he replies.
“Oh! You cook?”
“Yeah, my Grandmother taught me, we used to cook together on Wednesdays, when I was younger. Do you?”
“Ah, that must’ve been nice! That’s sweet of her...” he trails off, almost wistful. “I do cook. It’s peaceful isn’t it? It’s nice being able to make things.” Martin says, scratching the back of his ear.
“Oh hm, I think it’s become more of a chore to me, but I could see how it’d be relaxing. It is definitely convenient though, easier to personalize.”
“Right! Yeah, the market’s so nice these days too, if you’ve been? Pimlico road? I went last Saturday and their tomatoes were wonderful.”
“Really? I went last weekend too, we must’ve just missed each other.”
Martin lets out a small gasp, “Oh that would’ve been funny to have met—what’re the odds, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a good-natured huff, thinking that would’ve been interesting, certainly. “Oh, I think the waiter’s coming with out drinks, here.”
When their drinks have been set down—Martin's plain ice water and Jon's hot tea (earl grey, this time)—Jon takes a small sip and thinks: Martin could make this better. By the time he catches the thought though, it's already completed its course, and there can be no blinking it away—he's unsure of where it came from but he thinks that he dislikes it all the same. It's a professional cafe, and Martin is most definitely not a professional at brewing tea—that should not have been his first reaction.
“Anyways, did you have any plans for this weekend?” Jon asks.
“Oh! Yeah, I’ve been wanting to go to the library? There was a program they were doing that, sounded neat?”
“That’s nice,” he said, trying to remember the events the library had been planning to no avail—although, maybe they went to different libraries? “What’s it for?”
“Oh, ah, it’s a spoken word thing? For poetry. I’ve.. been trying to write more, it’s cathartic, I guess. Funny habit I picked up.” He chuckles awkwardly, fingers returning to the oversized sleeve of his sweater.
“I don’t think that sounds odd.” he tilts his head, “I could see how they’re fun. I’ve been to some spoken word events before, when I was in college,” he starts, omitting the fact that he was dragged to them, “I think it’s cool that you found one, Martin—I didn’t even realize there were any locally, I do hope it goes well.” he says, trying to sound as sincere as he is.
Martin smiles, warmly this time. “Ah, thanks Jon.”
Tea on his tongue, Jon thinks that maybe this might be starting to become one of his favorite languages. He hopes they continue their conversations past today, it’s been surprisingly enjoyable, given that awkward bit in the beginning. This however, ends up being the break at which they decide to order food, Jon settling with a tuna sandwich and Martin with an artisanal looking panini.
It’s quiet then, as their food arrives. Quiet after too, but it feels like a calm lull, without any of the worry. It’s just then that Jon notices the rain that has begun to patter softly outside—ambient on the concrete and muted inside the cafe. It’s not an outright downpour yet, but knowing his luck, it will be soon. Martin seems to notice the weather’s turn too, because he stares out the window for a few seconds before making to grab his coat.
“Hey, it was really nice chatting, Jon. Thanks again for staying, really. And thanks for the luck. I should probably get going before it’s too heavy though? I’ll see you at work?”
“Yes, it was nice talking to you too, Martin—have a good night.”
They wave, and Martin beams and brushes past Jon with a crescent moon mouth, his fingertips taking a quick drag of Jon's shoulder. Pressing, not fairy light—it doesn't make him jerk away.
Jon imagines there was a reason for the touch; perhaps Martin had found a fuzz and he was courteous enough to remove it for Jon, or perhaps he was smoothing a wrinkle he'd been too \polite to point out during their meal. Whatever the case though, whatever Martin meant to remove, he thinks Martin took a piece of him with him as he left because there's been a seedling ache in his chest ever since.
(Later, Jon will swear he imagined it, even though the feeling replays and replays and replays in his head for the rest of the night.)
//
If Martin is aware of the way his presence begins to pull Jon's gaze, he doesn't say anything.
═══☆═══
Astronomical beings must first enter each others’ orbits before they can collide—sometimes, this joining is the way a cup of tea migrates into one’s schedule, or how eyes are drawn to figures and lofi-charm voices and slightly too big sweaters. It is not, however, expressed with fonder gazes and mental excuses for professional blunders, even if those blunders come with quiet conversations and leave him with a pastry in hand.
It is not expressed by the memories that vaguely tug at his mind and are forgotten for remembering facts about another, or by inefficiency at his own job. After all, there are still piles of statements on his desk and an always plentiful stock of tape recorders littering his office, and work will not do itself and paper words cannot be read when ignored for laughter. There is a line to be drawn, between on-the-clock conversations and full on neglect of the hurricane that is archives.
Jon wishes once again that the former archivist had shown a shred of competence in her organizational skills. Instead, he continues to read far-fetched ghost stories to recorders, zoning out the existence of the office behind him.
//
He ends his post-statement commentary to the sound of Sasha calling him out into the office, empty except for her and with a wry smile on her face, “Willing to join us for drinks tonight? Tim’s treat, of course.” and, ah— this is what he forgot.
“Yes, of course. And happy birthday, Sasha.” he gives her a smile and hopes it sounds like an apology, like I know I should’ve said this sooner, forgive me .
Her eyes glimmer in response and she returns the smile with acceptance, “Wonderful! I’m glad you were so easy to convince, I told Tim you wouldn’t turn down free food on his dollar.” there’s a fondness though, and he laughs even if that’s nowhere near the reason for his agreeance.
“Certainly,” he hums, “Is Martin coming?”
“Oh, Martin? Always asking about Martin now Jon? I see how you guys talk now, after your little date.” her eyebrows raise as a challenge and mirth litters her tone.
There is no blush creeping at his neck. “It wasn’t a date Sasha, Tim was meant to be there too.”
“Yes, but you stayed after he couldn’t make it right?”
“Y-Yes but that doesn’t mean anything Sasha, wait—who told you that?”
“You! Just now, Jon.” she laughs.
“Sasha. That doesn’t count.”
“Alright, alright, Martin might’ve said something—he looked happy by the way! You two must’ve had fun then?”
“I— yes, yes we did. But, please stay out of my personal life Sasha, you’re beginning to sound like Tim.”
She raises her eyebrow again, “And we can’t have that, can we?”
“No. I actually enjoy your company.”
She chuckles into the air, “Glad for that, Jon, I like yours too, you know? You’re so fun to tease. Martin is coming by the way, if that helps to convince you further! Anyway, can you believe I’ll be 36? At least I’ll be ‘younger than you,’ hm?” she says the last part with air quotations, (Jon still can’t figure out how she found out he was lying.)
Instead, he just says: “Yes, you will. 36 was a good age. Don’t start feeling old here, Sasha.” joking to deviate from the break in his voice as he passed the word good , he was always a poor poker player—too obvious with his tells. Perhaps it’s no surprise Sasha found out. He hoped she hadn’t told Tim. Although, it’s likely they all know now.
“What would that make you? Ancient, Jon? Hmm, turn a little so I can see your grey streaks better—ah! Yes, that! I could definitely see it.”
“ Thanks , Sasha.” he says dryly, “I think I’ll be getting back to those statements now. I hope your research has been going alright.”
“Oh just peachy—google loves to give me results for ‘eldritch horror devours the stars,’ but that’s just typical—” she waves her hand flippantly, “Anyway, get back to your statements, bet your tape recorders are missing you.”
//
Jon heads to the pub at 7, although—it would’ve been directly after work if Tim’s joking had any say in it. Sasha, however, was relatively reasonable and agreed that alcohol at 4pm was, to put it lightly, early. So instead he takes a taxi under the slowly darkening sky and is dropped off in front of cobbled streets and an even older cobbled building at 7:08 sharp. The neon of the sign is faded and dying with batteries that are screaming to be replaced and a chalkboard sign, complete with a green dragon, sits in front of the pub’s entrance to advertise it’s daily specials: a kind of meat pie that almost sounds appetizing.
The bar isn’t very loud, or at least not from the street vantage, luckily, but he can hear the tinny music that blares from the speakers and the tell tale sound of cheering denoting what’s likely some sort of football game and resigns himself to a fate of hearing louds jeers and criticisms throughout the night.
He walks inside and immediately identifies Martin, Sasha and Tim both besides him—they seem to spot him right away too because Sasha’s face splits into a grin and she waves him over excitedly. (Tim grins too but his eyes only say mischief, so Jon makes a point to ignore him). He chooses instead to focus on the smile that Martin sends his way with a broad wave, as he reaches their booth. They don’t have drinks yet, and they seem to all have just been chatting so Jon slides in next to Martin and across from Sasha and lets himself be absorbed into the flow of conversation that Tim and Sasha are happy to monopolize, pausing later only to order.
Martin keeps bumping his shoulder while he laughs and there’s something about it that draws him in, reminds him of rainy cafe days and the way the sun shone through the Oxford spires. The lights cast him in carmine and blush, rose petals dusting the tips of ears and planes of foreheads, and it’s a crystalline distortion that makes him gasp like he’s seen the man for the first time, as if those sunset hues had only formed him just tonight.
Martin, ever the observant, hears him and Jon wishes embarrassment was something he could disappear in, “You alright, Jon?”
“Fine.” but there’s scarlet spreading under his skin and it’s certainly not something he can blame on the lights. He takes a sip of his drink instead.
//
When he invites Martin to his flat after their night out (because it's closer), he pointedly does not talk anymore than necessary. He is not very drunk and he imagines that he might actually have more of his wits around him than when he's sober, with as heightened as his senses are.
After they enter his flat with a click, shoes shucked off, Jon goes quickly to the kitchen and prepares two glasses of water next to a bottle of aspirin and leaves it on the counter for their impending hangover the next morning. He grabs a couple more glasses and fills them, handing one to Martin, just down fiddling with his own shoes, before downing his own. He knows he’ll thank himself for it in the morning. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach any food though, and he doubts Martin would be able to either so he doesn’t offer, just stumbles over to his room’s door before remembering—yes, Martin needs to sleep too. He really wishes he were fully sober for this.
Jon just shakes his head instead, brushing the hair out of his eyes and tries to blink himself into sobriety—he’ll just let Martin sleep in his room, he’d changed the sheets yesterday so it should be fine. He relays this to Martin, who stutters in agreeance with a hand scratching the back of his neck and Jon doesn’t bother to try and parse the reason for his nervousness—his bed is clean, it shouldn’t be a bother, so he heads over to his coach and lays down. It’ll do for the night, not the most comfortable, but better him than Martin. He’s out like a light.
The next morning, he wakes up to one of his blankets tucked over himself. His bed is made neatly and there’s a plate of toast (still vaguely warm) and a cup of tea next to a half-empty set of the two glasses and aspirin he’d set out last night.
He feels warm.
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It slowly but surely becomes a normal sight to see Martin in his flat, sometimes the man is bleary from walking, other times bright and chattering with all the energy and charisma of the sun.
Jon is not afraid of going blind from looking at him, rather, what’ll happen when he finds he no longer can look away.
//
It’s one of the sun-bright days and they’ve chatted their whole evening away and the moon is clear in the sky now and there’s no reason for Martin to leave when he could just stay the night and stay safer at the same time. Martin smiles when he offers and they continue to chatter: sharing favorite hobbies, fruits, and shows, and everything else they haven’t already learned (Martin has recently taken up crochet, and he loves peaches because his mother used to cut them for him when he was younger, and he cried during Totoro , and, “You really haven't seen that? We should definitely watch it together.” ) until their eyes droop and their voices deepen, drowning with drowsiness, and they call it a wrap and head to bed.
—If that night, Jon tells Martin he would be better off sleeping with Jon in his bed (it's big enough, afterall) and Martin possibly agrees and they spend the night drifting closer together until they're cuddling—they won't talk about it. And when Jon wakes in the morning to the smell of pine cologne he could place in a heartbeat, well, Martin is already gone.
(Even though Martin hates fires, the feeling of his arms wrapped over Jon's body in a way he imagines wings would feel—protective and freeing—is burned into his skin. He still feels like he could fly to the top of the world and be supported and he doubts he'll forget it anytime soon. Even if he's already crashed back down.)
-
A note sits upon his nightstand, identical to a text message Jon also has yet to read:
”Thank you a lot, Jon, that’s the funnest night I’ve had in a while. I’m sorry for leaving so soon, I need to go to my moms. Next time, we crash at mine?”
//
They make good on Martin’s offer a month later.
At this point they feel like permanent fixtures at each other's flats and lives. If you were to write a study of the geography of both homes, the migratory paths well worn between by their two owners would be most notable. Now, it is Jon who has come to Martin’s, jazz playing softly on a record player that Martin keeps next to his couch besides a wide array of albums. So far, he’s been picking a new one each time and even so, he doesn't think he’ll be at risk of running out of new options any time soon.
Minutes ago, he’d decided to braid Martin’s hair and the other man had been indulgent of his offer, and he can feel the work-day tension disperse from Martin as his fingers continue to gather strands of his hair—feel him lose the stress in his back as his neck nears a loll, resting against Jons knees. Lift and tuck, methodical and personal, soft, present. Jon thinks this is what people mean when they say magic is woven into hands, that here, he sees how calm seeps from his fingertips. He thinks his hands are a thing of beauty, of creation, offering, (adoration). (Priest to God—is there a statement here?). He hums softly as he listens to the sound of Martin breathing, in and out, eyes closed—a soft thank you whispered into the melodic air that elicits a small huff from Jon as the corners of his lips twitch upwards.
The braid is complete and he ties it off with a ponytail Martin managed to find lying around earlier, fingers trailing at the curled end. There’s a piece of hair he missed—short, luckily, ad he leans over to tuck it elsewhere but it only tickles his neck because Martin’s moved his head and now all he can focus on is lips on his—lavender chapstick and pastry they’d shared prior—and it’s so soft, even as they pull away. He stands up from the couch and sits next to Martin and they share a hum of contentment, he leans his head against Jon’s shoulder.
“Stay.”
//
("What are we, Jon?"
"Together? Boyfriends. If you want."
“If I- yes, I do! I really do."
"Come here, Jon.")
//
If Sasha and Tim notice that Jon begins smiling more publicly at the office—it's none of their business who or who may not be the cause.
═══☆═══
There are seven geraniums blooming outside his flat and spring tastes sweet under his tongue. New beginnings rest in the soil of his flowerbeds, and in the bloom of six letter names and the rest they leave in their wake. Today, he lets the Saturday sun sink into his skin while the wind cools him down as he sits at the kitchen bar next to his living room window and watches Martin cook. The kitchen is defined by two countertops: one between the stove and fridge, and the one he sits at—opposite, and doubling as an open window into the living room. The aromas in the kitchen mix nostalgic and present comforts: a pot of milk and chai steeps beside a bottle of heavy cream while the sinigang sits in the pot, stewing with a low rumble that bubbles all the words left unsaid and loved nontheless. There's a basket of siao pao steaming to the side and they're a little clumsy but they were made from hours of laughter and mutual work and that's all that matters to Jon. He's been running in and out of the kitchen to help Martin find certain ingredients, (or just pointing from the counter—and, he will admit, it’s nice not having to climb on his counters to grab the blender) or prep veggies as he stirs, but now he watches as Martin finishes the dishes with a garnish and whips the malai maar ke into cups before he goes back to help him bring everything to the table.
“Thank you, Martin.” he says softly.
“You’re welcome, I really hope it’s good. This is the first I’ve had time to cook for a while.”
“Well I bet it’s delicious, you’re a wonderful cook, Martin.” he says, taking a bite and relishing in the ambrosia resting on his tongue, “It tastes amazing, Martin, really, thank you again for taking the time to cook it.”
“Thanks, Jon.” Martin says, voice tender and genuine, before diving into his own meal and the atmosphere mellows into something suitable for candlelight romance.
//
When they finish dinner, the atmosphere follows, and they let the silence tuck them in, arms around waists and bodies sprawled against the couch. It’s homely, their embrace—Jon can feel the rise and fall of Martin’s breathing and he stares at the man, and the setting sun behind him and watches him shine.
He’s a breathtaking subject to the canvas sized sky behind him—curls glowing with the backlight of gold. There’s symbolism here, Jon knows—a year's worth of art history is swirling in the back of his mind. There’s a days worth of laughter and twinkling eyes painted into the orange and red hues—a surge here, as the sun mellows into the tide-controlling pull of the moon and Jon feels blue blue blue, there’s an ocean in his heart and a growing moon in Martin’s shoulders and hands and even though the windows's open to the night, he feels so warm, following the movement of his tides.
There's a bubbling thing in his chest and he's starting to think that some emotions are better left at the bottom of a ledger line, reverberating; what can be felt in the shivers of bones, clinging heavy to the air. There's an intimacy to the emotions you don't hear, he thinks, the ones that you only feel in the low rumbles of thunderstorm chests and the steady beat of hearts rested under heads. The growing feeling in his, he thinks, is the same one as that of the man he's curled into.
They say home is where the heart is and if this is who his heart wants to follow, Jon thinks he would devote himself to those foundations for eons. Comfort is an angel and it resides in wool fiber sweatshirts, black curls, galactic freckles, and a man so celestial his hugs feel like the skies embrace—and oh is this just the most tender myth of Atlas that Jon has ever written.
═══☆═══
There's a surefire way to how their fingers intertwine, his palm cradled in Martin's, supported in the tender way that the sky supports the sky and he thinks that this is what home feels like. A sturdy foundation that’s been four years in the making lies below him, its wood is well worn by the careful weather of gravitational footprints and bodies that sing like planets.
There's a pull in the air and it's his boyfriend's smile that's the magnet—a wide cheshire grin with creases around his eyes and oh Jon can't help but be pulled closer, his orbit is written from everything they share and no when can blame them when they collide.
This, Jon thinks, he will never tire of. This is the man he wants to memorialize.
He wonders who will listen when he writes his paper on how soft the collision of planets is, how their bodies kiss each other sweet like petals and how explosion is the truest description of their meeting—if only to explain the feeling in his core, the beat of his molten chest. His thesis will state that there is no kinder thing than to enter a state where two is one and numbers, time, (the world), grinds to a halt.
The giant impact hypothesis states that the moon was formed by the embrace of Theia, and Terra, and is there any reason that their own union cannot form the same poetry? There are hands clasped in his, and a poem long since written on his tongue whose formation is in a man not himself—whose origin is the shards exchanged at their point of impact, and nestles inside of him as a moon-imparted gift. There is a heart that does not sing completion, but companionship—a promise of unity in the vastness of the starry universe.
═══☆═══
There's a question in his heart and a word seven years heavy and square shaped in his right hand that he's pondering the best way to release, (will you marry me, he thinks).
The words are not quick to rise from his throat and he pauses instead, the hand in his coat pocket gripping tighter, (doesn't pressure always birth the best diamond?). He's not sure if he wants to test that theory on something that isn't coal.
Martin chooses this time to come out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and a new dessert.
"I made you a scone," he says, nodding at the saucer, "It's for your tea. I- I hope it tastes good." (ask him) , "I haven't made them in a while is all!" he laughs—and Jon can’t make Martin wait just for him to get the nerve to propose, and now it’ll be late, but the sound of his laughter (what Jon hopes his wedding bells resonate as) most definitely makes up for it.
(He does not register the nervous warble in it.)
"Thank you, Martin." he says, his chest is fluttering and the mug around his palm is helpful to calm his shakes, although his knee is energetic as always. He wonders if the bouncing of his leg gives him away. He hopes it doesn't.
He takes a bite of the scone. Strikes. It's sweet but he can't chew it and for a flash of a second he wonders if a sugar cube managed to remain whole in his scone before his tongue glides over ridges and metal and oh. Yes.
It feels like swallowing a star.
(Does Martin not consider this a choking hazard?)
He's blinking now, the rest of the scone is still in his hand—in the air—and he's not chewing anymore and he should probably say something, or gasp. Or remove the surprise ring in his mouth, but there's already one in his pocket that he still needs to give Martin because it'd be pointless to wear two engagement rings on his single person.
He swallows the scone quickly and sets the other half on the edge of the saucer, brushing his fingers off on his napkin before he digs his hand into his coat pocket and shuffles to grab the velvet box. His hand finds it’s gift and then he’s pushing it over to Martin and, ah, his expression is priceless. He lets out a startle gasp and then his grin goes so wide and Martin's saying his name and laughing but Jon can't focus because he's being pulled pulled pulled—the ring on his tongue singing to meet Martin's lips but he can't kiss Martin with a ring in his mouth can he, so out it comes onto his napkin, gleaming. (He thinks this will be the rare exception to his concept of gross.) He looks up at Martin, at eyes he wants to lose himself in and map at the same time, at a pinky that migrated itself to Jon’s fingers around the handle of his teacup, and thinks, this is what an angel looks like .
He kisses his husband.