Chapter Text
Martin shivers cheerfully as the early November wind sends goosebumps up his arms. He’s a little disappointed that it rained while he was studying in the library since it means the leaves on the walkway aren’t crunchy enough to enjoy stepping on, but that doesn’t lower his mood as he unlocks his bicycle from the rack.
Very few things could bring him down from his soaring happiness. He’s just had a satisfying day of coursework, and one of his professors had left a long and complimentary comment at the end of the last analysis he’d turned in. He knows, objectively, that he has interesting things to say about the poetry he’s dedicated the next two years to studying, but there’s something thrilling about having that confirmed, about knowing that someone else has looked at something he cares about through his eyes and found his vision valuable.
It’s not something he’s used to, being valued, being understood. But it’s something he’s growing used to, thanks to the friends he’s found at the Magnus Library and, most of all, Jon.
Jon, who had used an emoji in his good morning text today.
Jon, whom he’d traded smiles with across the library all afternoon.
Jon, who would be following him to his flat within an hour.
That’s the main reason he’s so buoyant as he mounts his bicycle and lets himself coast down the slight decline from the library to the main road. It’s a Tuesday, which means it’s his weekly night in with Jon in his own flat. Not to be confused, of course, with Friday date nights or Sunday nights at Jon’s or any of the days in between when one of them finds himself in the other’s space without quite having planned it.
But it’s Tuesday, and it’s special, and Martin has bought Scrabble, and Jon is going to be insufferable when he wins, and Martin is going to laugh and maybe kiss the top of his head, and they’ll smile breathlessly at each other in the flickering light of his living room, and Martin will feel even happier than he does right now in the deliciously cold air.
Martin loves autumn. He loves the cool breezes and the rainy evenings. He loves the drifting, colorful leaves, and he makes a point to find a few perfect ones to press in his old journal each year. He loves pulling out his soft jumpers, burying himself in cozy layers. But mostly, he’s learning, he loves the way the chill of autumn lends an extra ease of domesticity to his relationship with Jon. He loves the way Jon pads around in absurdly thick socks, the way he looks with bits of leaves stuck in his messy hair, the way he snuggles drowsily into him, murmuring don’t gos and you’re warm s. It makes something in Martin’s chest swell and tremble. He loves Jon, and he loves autumn.
He lets himself into his flat and drops his messenger bag by the shoe rack just inside the door before crossing the room to flick on his oven. Frozen pizza certainly isn’t the most romantic dinner, but it’s hot and affordable and has extra cheese like Jon secretly loves.
While he waits for the oven to heat, Martin goes into his bedroom to change. There isn’t much of a point in changing from one jumper to another, especially after Jon has seen him all afternoon, but there’s something about the act that makes the evening feel special, like he’s dividing the day into work-time and Jon-time simply by swapping the blue jumper for a green one.
It certainly doesn’t hurt that he knows this one is Jon’s favorite, or that he knows Jon likes rubbing his face against the thicker cords of yarn like a sleepy cat. Jon doesn’t necessarily need encouragement to initiate cuddling - Martin has been delighted to learn how tactile he is when he’s relaxed - but that’s never stopped Martin from laying the groundwork.
Martin manages to time things correctly so that Jon is knocking on his door just as he pulls the pizza from the oven. “It’s open,” he calls over his shoulder.
He hears the familiar sounds of Jon propping his cane in the corner by the entrance and slipping his shoes onto the rack a few seconds before he feels a small body bump into him from behind.
“I missed you,” Jon says plaintively, stretching his arms around Martin’s back and stomach.
Martin is glad he’s already deposited the pizza on the countertop because he can’t stop himself from flapping excitedly. “You just saw me,” he says with wonder. He never gets used to this, to being wanted, being missed.
“And?” Jon’s voice is muffled against Martin’s back. His hands are moving, searching for something along Martin’s sides.
“How did you have time to - whoa , Jon!” Martin jumps slightly when Jon’s hands slip under the hem of his jumper and brush against the soft curve of his belly. “Christ, your hands are freezing!”
“It’s cold out there,” Jon says. He manages to sound more petulant with every word.
“Hang on, let me help.” Martin turns to face him and takes his hands in his own. “I can blow on them,” he adds mischievously.
“Don’t tell me I have to put up with this from you too. It’s not my fault I have poor circulation. I can’t help it that I get cold easily. Why should I be targeted for - for something I can’t control?” Jon stares at his hands mournfully, but he tosses a smile up at Martin to assure him that he’s teasing before any worry can creep in.
“Too?” Martin echoes. “Who else..?”
“Who doesn’t ,” Jon says. “Tim, Sasha, Georgie… Nikola, especially. She’s a bully, you know. I don’t know why I put up with her.”
Martin knows that it’s because Jon is as fond of Nikola as she is of him, and that neither of them are quite sure how to show that outside of the theatrical banter constantly running between them, but he doesn’t call Jon out on it now. “I promise not to bully you for your cold hands, Jon.”
“Thank you,” Jon says solemnly.
Martin presses a gentle kiss into Jon’s fingertips. “Let me get you a nice mug of tea, hm? That’ll warm you right up.”
Jon reluctantly releases him and leans against the wall to watch as Martin sets a kettle on to boil and excavates Jon’s favorite mug from beneath the plates stacked haphazardly in the dish rack. Martin doesn’t tell him that he uses the mug every morning just because it makes him think of Jon. He also doesn’t tell him that he only keeps black tea because Jon likes it, or that the sugar cubes in the jar on his countertop are the same brand as the box he’d seen in Jon’s trash the first time he’d visited.
Jon doesn’t know how curated Martin’s tea making supplies are to his benefit, but that’s okay because Martin knows. It’s his secret, his special gift for Jon every Tuesday, one of the little ways he can take care of him without him noticing. .
He’s always liked making tea, especially when it’s for someone else. There’s something soothing about the ritual; it’s an attainable way to care, to show love - to offer warmth. He presses the mug into Jon’s hands like a kiss and wonders if Jon feels it like one too.
Jon takes the mug and holds it without drinking. He smiles softly, tiredly. “Thank you.”
“Any time,” Martin says, and he hopes Jon knows all the ways he means that.
Jon blinks slowly, looking from Martin down to the mug and then to the pizza, which is steaming faintly on the countertop. “Dinner?”
“Dinner!” Martin jolts, the pizza half-forgotten in his haze of caring, and begins the familiar steps of setting out plates, of cutting even slices.
They eat on the couch - Martin has apologized several times for not having a table, but Jon always brushes it off with a smile. He’s thought about buying one now that he doesn’t eat every meal alone; there’s room for one again since his mother’s medical equipment is gone, but with his university costs stacked on top of his usual bills, he’s not sure he can afford one yet. Besides, Jon isn’t shy about sitting as close as possible to him on the couch, and it’s been a long time since Martin has felt so wanted . He doesn’t complain about eating side by side and neither does Jon.
After, Martin fetches Scrabble from his bedroom and drags his side table around to the front of the couch. Jon promptly throws his arms around Martin’s middle again once he’s sat back down.
A quick laugh spills out of Martin before he can stop himself. “Jon! You’ll see my letters.”
“We could play on a team,” Jon says into his jumper, voice huffy with his own laughter.
“Against who?”
Jon groans dramatically and peels himself off of Martin again. He picks his mug up once more and peers into it as if he hasn’t already drunk most of the tea.
“Would you like another?” Martin watches him and thinks he might explode from fondness. How could he ever have been content watching Jon from far away, living without these little moments of softness that Jon is so eager to let him see?
Jon nods wordlessly and smiles at him when he stands to take the mug back into the kitchen. There’s a hint of that same fondness in his own eyes and it makes Martin clutch the mug against his chest with one hand so he can shake the other quickly, grinning into the open cabinet before he pulls out the supplies for the second time.
Jon pushes his face into the steam rising from the mug when Martin returns and sighs happily. “I should pick up a travel mug sometime,” he says. “Maybe having tea on my way to and from work would keep my hands from getting so damn cold.”
“Smart,” Martin says with a nod. He finishes setting up the game and bounces slightly on the couch cushion. “I’ve never played like this,” he confesses, “only the online versions.”
“Why not?” Jon blinks up at him.
Martin shrugs. “Never had anyone to play with? My mum wasn’t much for games.”
“Oh.” Jon watches him consideringly for a moment before carefully setting his mug down beside the board and wrapping Martin in another hug.
Martin buries his face in his hair briefly before poking his ribs gently. “Now come on, I want to find out what kind of words rattle around in that librarian brain.”
“I told you, one’s career does not indicate any - ”
“Yeah, yeah, just make a word.” Martin bumps his shoulder lightly and revels in the fact that he gets to do this, be this comfortable with another person, feel sure enough in his place with Jon that he can touch and tease and exist without hiding and apologizing for his every move. A couple of months ago the idea of having this would have made him cry.
Sometimes it still does.
But tonight, the only tears are tears of laughter over the frankly ridiculous words Jon gets hung up on.
“Rumpus is a real word,” Martin insists between gasps.
“It sounds like a word my grandmother would use so she didn’t have to say ass ,” Jon says, wrinkling his nose.
“Oh my God - Jon, come on! And now let the wild rumpus start! It’s - it’s iconic - ”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Jon!” Martin stares at him. “You know, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’? Jon, you’re a librarian - ”
“Not that again!” Jon throws up his hands. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, look, look.” Martin pulls out his phone and types into google before triumphantly showing Jon the results. “It’s - it’s a ridiculously popular children’s book, Jon, it’s a famous quote.”
“I never was much for picture books,” Jon says, looking down at the screen.
“Well, you see right here, rumpus. It’s a real word.”
“Fine, fine, I surrender.” Jon rolls his eyes and kisses Martin’s shoulder. “I’m still winning anyway.”
“I’m aware .” Martin grins and flops against the back of the couch. “Go ahead then, your bloody turn. Rub it in a little more for good measure.”
“I think I will,” Jon says with a haughty sniff, but he tugs Martin down to place a second kiss on his cheek before turning his attention to the board again. “Ha! Sage. Like me. I’m very sage .”
“Because - ”
“Because I’m a librarian.” Jon raises his eyebrows triumphantly at Martin. “A wise old librarian.”
“I was going to say because you’re useful in clearing out negative energy, but that’s fine too,” Martin says.
That pulls a sharp, delighted laugh from deep in Jon’s chest, and he shakes his head lovingly at Martin as he lifts his mug to his lips again. “Cheers to that.”
Martin has to fight down the urge to pull him in for another hug, but if he does that every time the desire strikes they’ll never finish the game.
But an hour later, when the pieces have all been packed away, he holds Jon to his heart’s content; and when Jon pushes his cold hands under his jumper again, Martin remembers how much he loves autumn and how deliriously glad he is to finally be as warm as he’s always wanted.