Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I want to say something but shame
prevents me

yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful things
and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say,
shame would not hold down your eyes
but rather you would speak about what is just”
― Sappho,

1915, August 15th

It was funny how different it was up north.

England seemed so flat in comparison to the rocky highlands of Scotland – it seemed brighter up there, too. Though, maybe, that was only in comparison to the crowded streets of London where Martin Blackwood had previously resided, alongside his mother. 

Their train travelled through the valleys of the highlands, purple and green speckling the blurred landscape, occasionally splattered with the yellow gorse that was so common in those parts. It all seemed so vibrant, and Martin watched it all in awe, his face gently pressed against the cold glass of their carriage window. It all felt quite poetic, in the way things often felt with Martin – and his thoughts began to turn to stanza’s and prose, shifting the images before him into words.

He half considered reaching up into the overhead storage and retrieving his writing pad, though those thoughts were quickly shut down when he looked over at his sleeping mother, seated across from him. He didn’t dare risk waking her, not when it had taken her most of the trip to doze off. She looked almost peaceful asleep, her brow, so often furrowed, was slack. But the scars of her expression still sat deep across her pockmarked skin in a way that made Martin’s chest twist.

He wanted to smooth them away, to cup her face and tell her that things were going to get better, that she would get better. But she never much cared for him touching her, so his hands stayed splayed across his thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing indents into the stiff fabric of his slacks. They were new, and terribly uncomfortable.

He shifted where he sat, alternating which foot rested over the other, and clearing his throat gently as he did. The sound was lost under the low groan of the train, as it hurried down the tracks. He’d never been on a train before, and the sound had been quite frightening for him during the first moments of their journey. However, as the hours had passed, it had turned into quite a comforting white noise.

It was all so exciting, and he had expressed this fact to his mother; though, she did not seem to share the sentiment. He supposed she had to right to resent the move – it was due to her poor health that they were making it, and the physical reminder of her worsening condition had to weigh heavily on her. He worried his bottom lip as he watched his mother rest, her mouth sitting slight ajar, low murmurings of sleep sneaking through.

He supposed, if he was to be alert when meeting the esteemed Mr Peter Lukas, then he too should probably grab some rest whilst it was an option. Afterall, it had been made quite clear that Martin was to jump into his role in the kitchen upon arrival to the estate.

His stomach lurched at the thought.

It was for the best - it was for his mother. He wasn’t going to mess this up. He couldn’t.

A car waited for them outside the station, alongside a neatly dressed man who greeted them both with a gloved hand. He helped Martin move their suitcases into the car boot, and held the door open for his mother. He didn’t speak much, though, favouring tight smiles and sweeping gestures with his hands to articulate his orders.

Martin was okay with that, though – glad to be left in silence to admire the view as it rolled by them. It seemed that flat land was hard to come by in these parts, and the car lurched every meter as it traversed over the country roads. When the ground started to feel smoother under wheel, Martin knew that they had arrived. He leaned over to the window, his hand gripping the frame, his knuckles white with tension.

The estate was, as expected, stunningly grand. It was an edifice of baronial elegance, with warm brick towering towards the heavens, curving up into turrets with brass finials adorning the tips. The door, sat before a curving driveway, was bracketed by an intricately carved stone arch, with its organic tendrils looking too loose and stunning to have been taken from stone. Greenery sneaked up the building, knocking at the windows on the upper floor, and sneaking around corners. In some parts of the building, the vines were so thick as to completely cover the brick.

Martin felt that twist of nerves again in his stomach, now matched by an excited curve of his lips.

“Wow,” was all Martin could say, his words falling out of him in a breath.

“Do try to sound a tad more educated when you meet the man,” said his mother. “And none of your flouncy stuff, either – I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”

Martin nodded, loosening his grip on the window, and allowing his hands to fall back onto his lap, cupped gently. “Sorry, mother. I won’t.”

The car pulled to a halt, and the driver stepped out, opening the door for the two of them again. Martin helped his mother to her feet, whilst the driver retrieved their bags. The front doors opened before them, and a man and a woman both stepped out – dressed in smart, and neatly pressed clothing.

Martin felt his eyebrows furrow together in confusion – he had pegged Mr Peter Lukas as an older man, but the fellow before him looked to be in his thirties, as did the woman.

“Mr Blackwood,” said the man, an easy smile on his lips. He held his hand out to shake, and did so vigorously when Martin met his hand. Dropping it, he turned to Martin’s mother, and held out his hand again. She did not take it, and the man looked to Martin was a slight hesitancy, before falling back into his warm smile. “Miss Blackwood. It’s good to have you both here at the estate. My name is Tim Stoker, head of staff. This here is Sasha James.”

The woman, Sasha James, reached forward to shake Martin’s hand. Her hand was small and dainty in Martin’s. She smiled softly at him. “I run the kitchen,” she said. “It’ll be good to have another hand on deck.”

Martin nodded, offering back his own smile. “Martin Blackwood. Thank you for this, this is really quite the opportunity.”

Sasha waved her hand, letting out a small laugh as she did. “You’re welcome, but the gratitude is wasted on us. Mr Lukas deals with hiring.”

“Is Mr Lukas about?” asked Martin. “I would quite like to meet him, and thank him – personally.”

“Mr Lukas is currently out on his boat,” said Tim. “He won’t be back till sunset, I’m afraid. But,” and he gestured to Sasha as he spoke, “we’re here to help you both settle in.”

“His boat?” echoed Martin. “Are we – we’re near the ocean?”

Tim raised an eyebrow, a bemused smile tilting his lips upwards. “Near is an understatement – we’re about a five-minute walk from the coastal line, Mr Blackwood.”

“Oh,” breathed Martin. “I’ve – I’ve never seen the ocean before.”

“It’s quite the sight,” said Tim. “After you’ve helped finish dinner preparations, you’ll have ample time to explore the coast before lights out.”

“Ten prompt,” stated Sasha, clasping her hands behind her back. “Mr Lukas is quite strict about that fact.” She pointed towards the canvas bag that was beside Martin’s feet. “If you want to take your stuff, I’ll show you to our sleeping quarters.”

Nodding, Martin picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He faltered for a moment, turning to his mother. “You’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said curtly. “Go along now, Martin.”

“Mr Crew will escort your mother to her quarters,” said Tim. “It’s a good suite, she’ll be well suited there.”

“And looked after?”

Tim nodded. “Of course, Mr Blackwood.”

“Come along now,” said Sasha, taking a few steps back towards the wide door of the estate. Throwing one last look back towards his mother, Martin followed Sasha. His mother did not meet his eyes.

“We are not to use this entrance,” said Sasha as she led him over the threshold. “There is a staff entrance around the back, beside the west wing – you will use that one, do you understand?”

Martin nodded weakly, his throat suddenly feeling too tight to speak. The foyer of the building was as grand as the exterior would imply; with its garishly white marbled floors that clicked underfoot as the two walked. Sconces lined the walls, and Martin wondered naively how much it must cost to light a building this sprawling. He almost laughed out loud at the thought – as if a man who could afforded a gilded staircase would worry about such petty things as bills.

The luxurious interior faded away as they walked, the ceilings becoming lower, and the tiled floor turning to wood. The windows shrunk, turning to pin pricks as Sasha led the two through narrow corridors and hallways.

“How do you not get lost?” asked Martin, his voice sounding too strained to be his own.

Sasha just laughed. “You get used to it – trust me. You’ll be darting through this place in no time.”

Martin grimaced at those words; he had no intention of staying here for the long run – this was just until his mother could get better. She would be back on her feet in a matter of months, and the two would return to London.

“Well,” she said, opening a small wooden door, “here we are.”

He stepped past her and into the space. It was a large room, with a grand workbench that was placed in the middle of the room; scattered with bowls, knives, and open cookbooks. There was a singular window in the room, sat under it was a stove, logs stacked underneath it to keep it warm. A pan was bubbling on top of it, releasing a wonderful stream of aromas into the room. Martin took a deep breath, taking in the mixture of herbs and spices that overlaid the ingrained mustiness of the room.

There were other people in the room, too. Two women were bustling around the room, sliding past each other with practiced ease. One of them, a gruff looking woman, with short cropped hair eyed him up with a curious hunger. He shifted his weight under her scrutinizing gaze.

“I thought we were going to the sleeping quarters?” Martin looked to Sasha, who gave him a sympathetic look, her gaze falling down for a moment before looking back up at him. “Oh.”

“It’s not so bad, really. The oven keeps the place warm at night, and there are rugs on the ground. Better than nothing, eh?”

“It’s – ” He cut himself off with a smile, and a small nod. “Thank you.”

“Right,” she said, clapping her hands and rubbing them together. “Ladies, if you want to introduce yourself to Martin Blackwood. Mr Blackwood will be working here for the next few months.”

“It’s good to meet you.”

“You too,” said one of the women. She had dark skin, and angular features, yet her brown eyes were warm, and she looked at him with a kinder shade of curiosity than the other woman had. “I’m Basira Hussain,” she continued, and she jutted her thumb towards the other woman. “This is Alice Toner – we just call her Daisy, though.”

Alice – Daisy didn’t speak, just gave him a solid nod, before returning to dicing the carrots before her. Sasha continued to lead Martin through the kitchen, explaining the way things worked down there – when meals where served, when they needed prepared and when they tidied up for the night. She showed him where to place his bags, and fished out an apron for him – an old patterned thing, with a small yellow stain along the hem. He thumbed it curiously.

Martin tied it around his waist. He was pleased to see that it fit – he wasn’t the smallest man, nor did he have the tailoring skills required to alter the garment, if it didn’t fit. He wiped his hands down it once he had secured it, feeling immediately more at place now that he looked that part.

“Peel and dice,” said Sasha, placing a knife and bag of potatoes on the workbench before him.

She patted him on the shoulder, before vanishing back into the pantry, leaving him alone with the two other women. They didn’t talk as they worked, but Daisy would occasionally whistle a melody, and Martin would catch glimpses of Basira nodding along in time to it.

Martin fumbled through the potatoes; his knife feeling too large in his hands to easily carve away their muddied skin. His hand slipped on one of the larger spuds, and he felt the sharp bite of metal slicing into his thumb. He dropped the knife with a clatter on the table, quickly placing his thumb in his mouth to suck away the blood.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Ow.”

Basira looked over to him, one eyebrow raised. “Be careful,” she said.

Martin almost scoffed, yet he held his tongue. He wiped his bloody hand down on his apron, and decided against investigating the cut – those kind of things always freaked him out. He picked up the knife again, and was about to continue his work before Daisy spoke.

“Don’t cut into it,” she said, with a thick Welsh accent. “Use the edge of the blade to scrape it. You’re using too much force.”

Martin looked at her, blinking. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s – thank you.”

“How old are you?” she asked, looking up at him from her chopping board.

“Twenty-three,” he said. “Only just, though.”

“Right,” she said. “Old enough to know how to peel potatoes then.”

Martin felt his face warm, and he shot his gaze down at the board before him, in an attempt to hide it. Daisy must’ve noticed, however, if her laugh was anything to go by. He held the knife in his hand with a white-knuckle grip, and began to quickly drag it along the surface of the potatoes, watching the skin come off in swirling peels, falling onto the bench.

He diced them, and transferred them to a bowl – which was then taken by Basira who exchanged it with selection of tomatoes and an order to slice them.

“Very fine,” she said. “Mr Lukas likes them fine.”

He ate his dinner where he worked, leaning against the workbench, and tossing the leftovers into his mouth. It was a meagre meal, and he knew he would be hungry again later, but he supposed this was just another element to get used to. Sasha, Basira and Daisy were nowhere to be seen. After they had swept the kitchen clean, the three had vanished – without a word to Martin.

It was still light out, the Summer sun hadn’t even started to set, and it cast a golden glow through the small window. Martin moved over to it, feeling the residual heat of the oven mix with the sun’s warmth. When he looked through it, he almost gasped – before him, stretching as far as the eye could see, was the ocean.

It rolled with the light, glistening at the edges, and crashing into white horses that galloped across the surface. It looked so terrifyingly inviting, that Martin’s hand was on the handle of the backdoor before he could even realise what he was doing.

The air tasted like salt, and he took a deep gulp of it, feeling the taste hit him in the back of the throat. He would’ve laughed, or grinned, or danced had he not been fearful of looking like a fool. However, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, so he allowed himself a small smile as he moved towards the hill that led down to the beach.

It was a gentle slope, with thick grassy reeds that tickled at his hands as he waded through it. He broke through them, his pace falling short of a run, before his feet stumbled under the uneven ground. He fell forward, his hand catching him on the ground below. Though, it wasn’t ground, not like Martin had ever seen. It gave way under him, and felt like sugar between his fingers. He pushed his fingers into it, feeling the grains kiss his skin. He knew it was sand, had seen it in books and read about it, but he had never touched the stuff before, and it was so much softer than he had ever imagined.

He pushed himself back onto his feet, kicking off his shoes as he did, and holding them in his hands. The sand shifted as he walked, and it took a few steps for him to adjust to it. He followed the decline down towards where the sea met the land, feeling the texture of sand below him change – it got wetter, and denser, and stuck to his skin as he walked through it.

Tentatively, he dipped his toe into the sea, and let out a small squeal – it was painfully cold, but deliciously refreshing. He looked around the beach, and when certain that he was alone, rolled his slacks up to just above his knees, and ventured deeper into the water. Each step sent a thrilling shock through him, and he wriggled his toes in the sand. Once he had gotten deep enough that his slacks were at risk, he walked along the beach, following the curve through the water. The plain stretch of sand soon revealed that there were rocks at the end; big, sharp rocks, that jutted out of the water like knives. The tops were grassy, with white barnacles speckling the sides like paint splatter, and they were tucked against the side of the cliff face, gently sheltered from the wind. Martin moved in closer, before stopping suddenly, as he realised that he was not alone.

A man was sitting by the rocks, half obscured by them; but Martin could see his torso slumped forward, and his head in his hands. He was looking out at the sea, with an almost scrutinizing gaze, as if it had done something to offend him. Under the fading sun, his dark skin looked almost golden, and he tilted his face upwards into the warmth, dark eyes fluttering closed as he sighed. His hair, longer than Martin had ever known a man to have, was slicked back, wet with sea water, and running down his back like an ebony river.

He was the most beautiful man Martin had ever seen.

Admiration turned to guilt quickly, and Martin pulled his eyes away, turning his attention instead to the sea. He knew he wasn’t meant to have those thoughts; he wasn’t meant to look at other men and think those sort of things – want those sort of things. He knew the comments his mother made about him weren’t just out of cruelty, or teasing; they were out of knowing – of knowing what he wished he didn’t, what he wished he could just ignore.

People talked. He heard the things said in the street, things said about people like him – deviants, sinners, queers. Though they were never said to him directly, that fact didn’t change how much they stung and how much they haunted his thoughts at night.

He would never dare act on his desires, though – he knew what happened to those who did. He’d seen Rupert Fielding in the street the day after, beaten within an inch of his life, and for what? Looking at the wrong man, the wrong way.

Martin learned to keep his eyes down, focus on the ground below him, don’t look up, don’t look up – don’t risk it. Don’t -

Martin looked back.

The man, that man, was looking right back. He didn’t look disgusted though, in fact his expression looked curious – but not in the way Basira and Daisy had looked at him, like they were trying to pick him apart like tender meat. This man looked at him with an almost fascination, as if he was amazed to see another person down on that beach.

Martin found himself waving, or, less of a wave, and more of just holding his hands up. He couldn’t help but feeling like he was holding them up in surrender, rather than a greeting.

The man hesitated for a moment, his eyes falling on Martin’s hand. His brow furrowed for a moment, before he lifted his own hand, and held it up until Martin dropped his. He let out a laugh, a small breathy exclamation. The man wasn’t looking away, almost unblinking as he stared at Martin; it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Martin!”

Martin spun around at the sound of his name being called. Sasha was working her way down the bank, holding the fabric of her skirt in her hands so as to not trip over it.

“Sasha?” he said, as he moved out of the water and onto land. “Is everything alright?”

She landed beside him, the hill turning her pace into a stumbled run. She gave a breathy laugh. “You ran off, thought I better come make sure you hadn’t drowned.” She ran a hand through her hair, brushing out the kinks. “Were you down here alone?”

Martin shook his head. “No, I was – there was – ” He turned to gesture to the rocks, where he had seen the man. Empty rock greeted him. “There was a man.”

Sasha raised her eyebrows. “Hmm, hope not. This beach is private property.”

“It is?”

She waved her hand though the air. “You’re not going to get in trouble. You’re free to roam Mr Lukas’s estate. Within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Martin weakly, swallowing air that suddenly felt too thick. He turned back towards the rock, which still sat empty.

Strange, mused Martin, there hadn’t seemed like there had been another exit to the beach.

Chapter Text

1915, August 30th

Mr Lukas was not what Martin had expected. Looking at his home, an image of a polished, crisp man came to mind; with a silken handkerchief in the breast pocket of their perfectly tailored pinstripe suit. But Mr Lukas was not like that at all – in fact, he was quite the opposite. He was a gruff looking man, with a weather-beaten face, half obscured by a thick, wiry silver beard. He wore a long blue coat, that looked better suited for the long nights of winter, than the glorious Summer day they were experiencing. The golden buttons of the coat glinted like fire under the sun, as Mr Lukas sat out in the garden, overlooking the shimmering ocean.

“This is wonderful tea, Martin,” said Peter Lukas, placing the china mug back down in its saucer. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr Lukas,” said Martin, placing the teapot down on the table, in case he wanted a top up later.

Peter laughed, and the wrinkles in his eyes suggested humour but the sound was void. “You thanked me for thanking you? My, you are polite, aren’t you?”

“Apologies, Mr Lukas.”

Peter shook his head, waving his hand through the air. “Martin, it’s really okay. You mustn’t worry about this stuff so much.” Peter looked at Martin, raising one silver eyebrow. “And please, don’t apologise for that.”

Martin faltered, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably. He tucked his hands behind his back, hiding the nervous wringing of them away from his boss. Peter conceded that strain of  conversation with a smile, taking another sip of his tea.

“How is your mother finding the arrangements?” he asked. “I must admit, it’s been quite nice having some new faces around the grounds.”

“I haven’t seen her much,” answered Martin. “She’s been keeping herself busy, though.” He cleared his throat. “I assume so, anyway.”

“That makes you sad,” stated Peter, not looking up from his tea. He blew on it.

Martin blinked, taking in a long breath. “As long as she’s getting better, sir.”

“It’s okay to admit sadness, Martin,” said Peter, resting his hands on his lap. “Your mother – she doesn’t pay you much attention, does she?”

Martin swallowed. “She’s had a difficult life. With her getting sick, it’s – she had to focus on other things.”

He nodded. “My mother never paid me much mind, either. It can be quite lonely at times, cant it?”

“Is this a test?” asked Martin, before he could even realise what he was saying.

Peter laughed again, that same hollow evocation. “Why, Martin, I thought this was a conversation.”

Martin looked down at his feet. “Sorry – ”

“Martin, please,” he cut in. “We’ve talked about this.” Peter tucked his hand into the handle of the cup, and, with his other hand, ran his finger over the rim. “I’ll make sure you two find the time for each other. Family is important, after all.”

“Thank you, Mr Lukas.”

“Please,” he said, “call me Peter.”

Peter was a man true to his word, and, as promised, Martin was given an hour out of the kitchen in the evening to visit his mother in her room. He knocked on her door twice, a gentle rapt of his knuckles.

She didn’t reply, but she never did. Martin knew why – she hoped that he would think she wasn’t in, and leave her be. Despite knowing this, Martin opened the door and stepped in. His mother had her back to him, lounged in an armchair in front of the wide arched windows. It looked over the driveway of the estate, and the rushing water of the fountain could be heard through the open window.

He cleared his throat, but she didn’t look up. He knew that she knew it was him, he recognised that sigh of clear annoyance.

“Martin,” she drawled. “You came to visit. Took you long enough.”

“Sorry, mum,” he said weakly, slowly manoeuvring himself into the chair next to hers. “It’s just been – I’ve been busy, is all. I’m sorry.”

She let out a cold laugh. “Well, you’ve seen me now. You can take that weight off your conscience. Only reason you visit, anyway.”

“Mum, that’s not true.”

Her head rolled against the chair, meeting his eyes with a flat expression. “Yes, because you just adore my company, don’t you?” Another dead laugh. “Why don’t you bother someone else for your moral crusade?”

Martin swallowed, feeling moisture prick at the edges of his vision. “Don’t say that. That’s not what this is. You’re my mother, I love you – ”

“That’s meant to mean something?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips going tight. “You think I want your – your perverted form of love?”

The tears that began to roll down his face burned, the humiliation causing them to slice down his cheeks in a watery bloodshed of emotion. He looked away, turning his watery gaze to the window. The light streaked like smudged ink, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his tears to stop.

His mother scoffed, the sound holding more amusement than her laugh had. It made Martin’s chest turn cold. “I’m not – that’s not true, mum.”

“You think me an idiot then,” muttered his mother. “I don’t want to talk to you right now, Martin.”

Martin’s chest thawed into a burning anger, into a ferocious hate for the woman beside him. He swallowed the heat down, shakily pulling himself to his feet. “I’ll – I’ll talk to you in a few days, okay?”

She didn’t reply, just rolled her head away from him, her glassy eyes falling on some nondescript corner of the room. Martin wanted to scream, if just to make her look at him.

He sighed. “Goodbye, mum.”

She didn’t reply, and the door shut behind him with a weighted click.

His feet led him to the water, crashing down the grassy bank, throwing his shoes off and rushing in. He’d had the foresight to push his trousers up as he’d ran, but the rush of his sprint had sent splatters of water all up and along his clothes. The water was icy, and the rush of hot tears on his face faded amongst the chill. He leant forward, putting his hands on his knees, and resting forward on them. His warbled reflection sang back at him in the water, and his dishevelled mop of curls turned to ripples as he brushed it away with his hands, sending a spray of water to the side of him.

When the reflection returned, he straightened his back, and set his eyes on the horizon. What lay past that, he wondered – Europe, he supposed? Or maybe it was Canada, or Norway, or – well, Martin didn’t have the best grasp on Geography. It didn’t matter, though – it wasn’t like he would ever need to know, or ever have a chance to find out.

He turned his gaze back towards land, and towards the cluster of rocks were he had seen that strange man. He had no intention of going back toward the house, he didn’t want any of the staff to see him like this – looking this utterly broken, and completely pathetic. He supposed if that man had been sitting there, then maybe he could rest there for a while, and pull himself together.

He scrambled over the rocks, almost slipping on seaweed, but catching himself just in time. Rock pools littered the surfaces of the craigs, evidence of the high tide that had just receded. He found a patch of rock that looked dry enough, and fell down into it, pulling his knees up against his chest, and wrapping his arms around himself. Martin didn’t know if the salt he was tasting was the sea air, or his own tears, but he didn’t care; it was nice there, it was quiet, it was –

“Are you crying?”

Martin jolted at the sound, letting out an alarmed cry as he did. His head spun around, looking for the source of the voice. “Hello?”

“Hello,” echoed the voice, a tinge of confusion to the tone. The voice, Martin realised, was coming from down below him. He scrambled forward, leaning over the drop of the rock. Waves lapped against the side, and below him, Martin could only see midnight black water, slick like oil – and the face of that same man from before. He was submerged in the water, his head bobbing up and down with the waves. His warm skin glowed like a beacon against the mirrored surface.

“You,” said Martin in a breath, before shaking his head, and blinking. “This is private property.”

The man raised an eyebrow, and looked around him. “This is the ocean,” he said. “You can’t own that.”

Martin swallowed, feeling his cheeks warm. “Are you swimming right now?”

“I hope so. I’d be drowning otherwise,” he said in a dry tone.

 A laugh escaped Martin’s lips, though it came out crackled and wet from his crying. “Why are you swimming at this hour? It’s – it’s late.”

“I like it,” he replied, as simple as if Martin had just asked him how he took his tea. “You never answered my question.”

Martin blinked. “What question?”

The man gave him a flat look, and lifted one arm out of the water to gesture to him. “You’re crying. Why?”

“Oh,” sounded Martin, his hands coming up self consciously to his face to brush away the streaks of tears. “I’m fine.”

The man frowned at him, his lips twisting in a way that immediately struck Martin as endearing. “You don’t seem fine.”

“Well, I am.”

“You were crying,” said that man, cocking his head to the side. “People cry when they’re sad.”

“That’s not true,” said Martin. “Sometimes people cry when they’re happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“I – ” He cut himself off, pulling his gaze down towards his hands, they were tying knots with his fingers. “I’m fine.”

The man scoffed, splashing water up at Martin. Only a few specks of water hit his face, but he let out an exclaim, nonetheless. Then his shock turned into a laugh, and he looked at the odd man with a bemused expression. “What was that for?”

“You have a nice laugh,” he said, his tone almost wistful. “I wanted to hear it.”

Martin’s heart jumped into his throat, and he feared if he opened his mouth, the drumming of it would escape out of his mouth. He was grateful for the cover of nightfall to hide the blush he knew he was wearing. The man didn’t seem to notice, though, and his hand returned to dancing across the surface of the water, leaving ripples in their wake.

“What’s your name?” asked Martin, his voice sounding strained, and he wondered if the man could tell how thrillingly terrified he felt.

The man hesitated for a moment, his tongue peeking out momentarily to wet his lip. Then he gave a small nod, as if satisfied with whatever decision he had just come to.

“Jon,” he said, a small smile on his lips. “And you?”

“Martin.”

“Mah-tin,” he echoed, drawing his name out like a bow. Martin hid a small laugh behind his hand, before playing it off like he was just scratching his jaw. “Mahh-tin.”

“Mar-tin,” said Martin, stressing the first syllable.

“Mah-tin,” said Jon. He looked up at Martin. “I like it. It’s a nice name. It sounds like it belongs to a nice person.”

Martin didn’t try and correct Jon’s pronunciation that time; he found that he quite liked how he said it.

“Thank you,” said Martin, his voice almost a whisper. “I think you actually cheered me up.”

Jon smirked. “So you were sad.”

Martin barked out a laugh, as he readjusted his position. His legs were now dangling over the edge of the rock, his feet just skating over the surface of the water. He was still barefoot, and he could feel the whispers of the water against his skin. “You got me.”

“Will you tell me why?”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t tend to divulge this sort of stuff to strangers.”

“You know my name,” said Jon. “I know yours. Not strangers.”

Martin smiled at him weakly. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Jon.”

“It could be,” said Jon. Then he sighed, “Apologies. I shouldn’t force you to – to tell me anything.”

“You weren’t,” said Martin in a rush. “You weren’t,” he said again, slower this time. “I promise.”

Jon nodded, looking up at Martin with eyes almost as dark as the water. “Good. I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. ”

“You wouldn’t,” said Martin, without missing a beat. There was a moment of weighted silence between the two, before he coughed, clearing his throat. “Well, I don’t think you would. I mean, I did just meet you after all.”

“And we’re strangers,” said Jon.

“Er, right – that,” said Martin, running his hands along his thighs. “It’s late, I should probably – ” Martin gestured back towards the estate, that loomed overhead; a few pin pricks of warmth in the scattering of lit windows. “I have a curfew.”

“How boring,” said Jon. “Can I see you again?”

Martin swallowed, pressing his hands into his thighs, so as to feel it. “You want to see me again?”

Jon blinked, looking up at Martin with a black expression. “Yes, I think you’re quite lovely.”

Martin choked on his breath, and quickly looked around the beach – desperately checking that no one else had been around to hear that. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” whispered Martin.

“Why ever not?” asked Jon. “I thought honestly was valued.”

Martin pressed his fingers deeper, till he could feel his fingernails pressing into his skin. “Things like that … it could give people the wrong impression. You just shouldn’t.” He met Jon’s eyes. “Because I’m – I’m not, you know.”

Jon just smiled. “Martin, I’m sure I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about. But in case you haven’t noticed – ” Jon gestured to the secluded beach. “There’s no one around here to get this ‘wrong impression’.”

Martin swallowed, and took a long breath. It would be wrong to say yes, to agree to Jon’s request – it would be stupid, and foolish, and idiotic. But it also felt painfully easily to say yes to him.

“Maybe,” he decided on.

Jon grinned; his teeth bright against the night. “Wonderful.”

Martin laughed. “Hey, I said maybe, okay?”

“I know,” said Jon, his smile fading into something softer. “Goodnight, Martin.”

And then Jon’s head vanished with a pop as he broke the surface of the water. Martin’s brow furrowed, and he leant forward, trying to see where Jon had gone. He waited a moment for him to emerge, and then heard the sound of water breaking ahead of him. He looked up, and in the distance, he could see Jon, waving from the water – or, not waving, but just holding his hand up. He was nothing more than a spot on the horizon, and Martin found himself, dumbfoundedly, raising his own hand in a wave.

“Goodbye, Jon.”

Chapter Text

1915, September 14^th

“Martin,” came Tim’s voice, punctuated by a knock at the door. Martin looked up from where he was seated on the floor of the kitchen, back pressed against the wall, and writing pad sitting in his lap. He had been lazily drumming his pen against the page, leaving small flecks of black on the paper like ashes.

“Tim,” said Martin, smiling welcomingly at the other man. “Is everything okay?”

Tim nodded, moving into the kitchen. He leant against the wall beside Martin, tucking his hands against the small of his back as he did. “I have a message from Mr Lukas,” said Tim with a sigh. “He wants you to meet him down by the pier, tomorrow at 6am.”

“Oh.” Martin felt his brow furrow. “Is that – is that bad?”

Tim laughed, twisting his neck to look down at Martin. “It’s unusual.”

“Bad unusual?”

Tim just shrugged. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen that man invite a member of staff out to go sailing with him.”

“Sailing!” Martin jumped to his feet, his pen landing with a clatter against the stone floor. “I can’t – I can’t swim.”

Tim smiled; his expression easy. He clapped a hand down on Martin’s shoulder. “It’s sailing, Martin. If it goes well, you shouldn’t even end up in the water.”

“I don’t know if that’s as comforting as you think it is.”

He hummed. “You’ll be fine, Martin. Is that better?”

Martin sighed, pushing his hair away from his face. “Is this – this isn’t the sort of thing I can say no to, is it?”

Tim shook his head. “Mr Lukas isn’t the sort of man that we have the option of denying.”

“Right,” muttered Martin. He looked over at Tim, and gave him what he hoped was a grateful smile. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“It’ll be fine, Martin,” said Tim. “Honest.”

The sun was low in the sky when Martin ventured down to the pier. The light was bright and raw, and pushed away the velvet of the night was ease. Martin held his hand up against it as he made his way down to the shore, squinting against the cracks between his fingertips.

Mr Lukas – Peter, was waiting for him when he arrived. He was standing at the end of the jetty, turned towards the ocean, with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He looked over the water with a wide stance, as if he were a king looking over his kingdom, and his blue coat whipped around him like a cloak.

The wooden boards creaked as Martin walked over them, the rotting and old wood straining under his weight. The sound alerted Peter, who looked over his shoulder at Martin, and smiled, before turning his whole body towards him. He held his arms out as if to offer a hug, hands splayed wide in greeting.

“Martin,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming against the bitter chill of the morning air. “So glad that you made it.”

“Thank you, Mr Lukas,” said Martin. “Thank you for inviting me, sir.”

Peter smiled. “Martin, today I am not your boss – I am your fellow, I am your crew mate. Your friend. I hope you treat me as much.”

Martin nodded. “Of course Mr – Peter. Thank you.”

Peter nodded. “Have you ever been on the sea, Martin?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a smile. “I wanted to give you the opportunity – the chance to experience the wider world. And, forgive me for saying this, but you’ve seemed rather distracted these past weeks. I find whenever my mind starts to loosen it’s tethers, that spending a day on the water helps me get my thoughts into order – hm, back into perspective, let’s say.”

Martin swallowed, looking down at his feet. Through the cracks in the pier, he could see the water lapping below him, falling in and out of itself with a bubbling sound. Even in the cold wind, the water looked terribly inviting, and Martin wished that he could simply spend the day wading up to his knees; walk out to the rocks, and maybe Jon would –

Jon. That’s why he had been so distracted. He tried to keep his thoughts together, but like the tide, they faded away only to come back stronger – drowning him, and pressing down on him like the oppressive weight that they were. During menial tasks, Martin’s mind would wander to Jon’s eyes, reflecting the midnight black of the water, crinkled at the edges in a smile – a smile he had worn for Martin. When Martin poured tea for Peter, his thoughts would go to the way the water had pooled around Jon’s body, the water rippling like echoes of his touch along the surface. When he swept the kitchen clean, his hands wrapped tightly around the rough wood of the broom, he found himself wondering if Jon’s hands were soft, and how small they would feel in his own – his large, calloused and over worked hands.

Martin had hoped that he hadn’t been wearing his daydreaming on his sleeve – yet it was now apparent that he had been. It was fine, though. Mr Lukas had no way of reading Martin’s thoughts, no way of knowing where exactly it was that his mind drifted away to.

He hadn’t seen Jon since that night, two weeks ago now. Work had been plentiful, and there hadn’t seemed to have been enough hours in the day for Martin to venture down to the shore. Though, he often found himself wondering if Jon was waiting.

“Thank you,” said Martin. “I – I think that might do me some good.”

A small dingy was secured to the pier, and Peter assured him that they would be using this boat to traverse over to his fishing vessel – a boat better suited for rocky waves of Scotland. Peter cast them off, grasping the handles of the two wooden oars, and lifting them in and out of the water with practiced ease. He moved them away from the cove, where the clear water turned dark below them, so that nothing could be seen but the rippled reflection of their boat passing over.

A larger boat came into view; and it wasn’t one that Martin could say he recognised. A large sail protruded from the centre, though the fabric was wrapped around the shaft, held in place with fibrous knots. Large nets hung over the side of the boat, dripping with water from recent use, and flapping in the wind, slapping wetly against the side. A rope ladder dangled down, as well, and the metal bearings on it clacked noisily in the wind.

The bow of the ship curved upwards, silver railings standing to attention around it. In blue lettering, the name ‘The Tundra’ could be seen.

Peter navigated them to the side of the boat, and attached the small dingy to a hook. His hands worked quickly and methodically as he tied the knots, the rope blurring into a haze of brown as it swung into place.

“Can you climb well, Martin?” asked Peter, grabbing a hold of the ladder with his hands.

Martin had never climbed a ladder. He nodded. “Yes, sir – Peter.”

“Good.” Peter scaled up the ladder quickly, not stumbling or faltering on the rungs. When he clambered onto the top, he peered down at Martin. “Come along, son.”

Martin hesitated, worrying his lip between his teeth and pushing down the wave of anxiety that was rolling through him. Gingerly, he placed his hand on the first rung – it was wet, and slimy to the touch. He grimaced as he moved up it.

His speed was nothing on Peter’s, but when he clambered onto the deck of the ship, the other man clapped him on the back, and grinned at him – with a look akin to pride. Martin wiped his hands down his trousers, staining them with the brown muck of the ladder. He sighed at the sight – they had only just been laundered.

Peter must have seen his apprehension. “It’ll come out, Martin. Leave it.” Martin looked up at him, and held his hands behind his back. Peter smiled. “Now – allow me to show you the ropes.”

Martin was treated to a tour of the boat, where Peter showed him the mechanisms of the ship – how the sails used the wind to move them, and how the wheel moved the rudder, allowing them to steer. He sat with Martin on the deck, and talked him through the common knots, teaching him how to safely secure the nets to the boat.

After Martin had successfully secured the net, Peter told him to throw it overboard. Martin did as asked, dropping the net into the water, and he watched it billow out like a woven jellyfish.

“We’ll come back to that later,” said Peter, as he led Martin over towards the wheel. He referred to that space as his Captains quarters, and said it was the most luxurious part of the boat. Martin assumed nautical luxury was different from the luxury he had become used to with the estate, as it was a simple cockpit, with a glass window looking out at the sea, sheltering them from the northern winds. It was placed at the front of the boat, and raised slightly, so that Peter could look over the entire ship with a glance.

“I used to run a large crew,” said Peter. “That’s how I made my fortune. Sailing these seas, and selling what we caught. Of course,” and he laughed as he said that, “there were other factors in acquiring my fortune. The fish markets will only get you so far.”

It sounded like advice, but Martin couldn’t fathom how his words could be applied to his own life. Martin had no intentions of hoarding wealth, or leading a group of men. No, he just wanted to make enough to keep his mother safe and satisfied. Any fantasies past that were simply put – fantasies. And those sort of things weren’t worth thinking about.

“This life,” continued Peter, as he gestured out towards the boat, “it seemed pointless compared to the life I was building for myself on land.” Peter sighed, as he looked out across the water, a sad sort of melancholy on his face. “But the strangest thing happened. Do you know what that was, Martin?”

Martin shook his head.

Peter smiled. “I missed it, Martin. I missed being out on the water, I missed being with my crew. I, well, Martin – I got lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, as it was the only response he could think to give.

Peter shook his head, and looked at Martin, his brow low. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy, Martin. No, heavens no – I don’t need that. I’m telling you this because,” and he placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder again, and gave it a squeeze, “I see myself in you, Martin.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “There’s a fire in you, something wonderful. But you – you quell it, you put it out before it even has time to grow.”

“I do?” said Martin, though he wasn’t sure if it was a question, or his own statement. Peter just hummed, smiling softly towards the water.

“You didn’t volunteer for the army,” said Peter, eyes still set before him. “Didn’t see the appeal of laying down your life for king and country?”

Martin looked down, feeling a twist of shame curl in his gut. “I couldn’t do that to my mother – couldn’t leave her. We don’t have any family, no one who could look after her, and we can’t – I can’t  afford to pay for her care.”

“Rightly so. War’s a ghastly business,” said Peter. “I fought over in Africa, during the turn of the century.” Peter let out a slow breath. “I saw a lot of men die, Martin – a lot of good men, and a lot of bad ones. Though, out there, on the field – morality means very little.”

“My father fought over in Africa, too,” said Martin. “Caught a nasty fever whilst overseas. He didn’t make it.”

“You’ve got a solider in you, then,” said Peter, glancing over at him out of the corner of his eyes.

Martin scoffed. “Hardly. I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Good,” said Peter. “We’ve got enough of those.”

Overhead, rain began to drum down on the roof. It started as a slow beat, before turning into a rhythmic crescendo, and soon it was coming down in sheets, tin tacking the surface of the ocean, which rocked heavily under them. Martin looked to Peter with worry, but he didn’t seem phased by the change in weather. He smirked.

“It’s Scotland, Martin,” he said. “What were you expecting?”

Martin wrinkled his nose, pulling his duffle coat around him, and cupping his arms to retain his quickly dwindling heat. Pools of water were already beginning to form around his feet, and he cursed his idiocy for forgetting to put his wellington boots on. His low-cut leather shoes did nothing to protect his feet from the elements, and they squelched uncomfortably as he moved.

“Will you navigate for me, Martin?” asked Peter, his hands falling on the wheel. “There’s a compass just to my right.”

A map sat on the desk beside him, with an ornate compass placed on top. Martin looked at it with fascination. He had a brief knowledge of how to use them, thanks to reading Robert Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys guide. His mother had bought it for his birthday, and though he had been eighteen when it had been published, and by that point, far too old for it – he’d appreciated the thought. His mother didn’t make a habit of giving him gifts, or for remembering his birthday.

Besides, he had run out of reading material the month before, and it was that or nothing. Whilst Martin didn’t peg himself as the outdoorsy type, he still found the guide fascinating – and allowed his mind to wander to visions of himself exploring the great jungles, machete in hand and a desire for adventure. It was almost a laughable image.

Peter pointed to a spot on the map, and asked Martin if he could guide him there. With a note of nerves in his voice, Martin talked him across the map, guiding him through turns and advising him of upcoming shallow points.

An hour into their journey had them a few miles from the coast, turning the familiar beach into a blurred line of gold. Peter dispatched the anchor, and Martin felt the boat shake as it unspooled itself into the water. It was still raining, and when Peter ordered Martin to check the nets whilst he set a new course, he did so with reluctance.

Peter had told Martin of bigger fishing vessels, with cranes that lifted the nets out of the water – but this boat had no such feature, and so, Martin was set to pull the heaving nets up out of the water with his hands. Years of manual labour had left Martin with considerable strength, and though he could lug hefty bags of flour over his shoulder with ease, he found himself struggling to pull the net up onto the deck.

The water resisted as he tugged, and it felt as if he were trying to free it from syrup, or some other viscous liquid. He planted his feet wide on the ground, and pulled with his whole body, twisting the rope around his right hand, as his left fed it through. Peter had warned him that the nets could get heavy, but that they were small enough so as to not be impossible to lift with one person.

Martin half-debated asking Peter for a hand, as he felt the net slip downwards again, almost pulling him off his feet. But, as he looked over to Peter’s hunched form, back turned to him as his hands traced the map, Martin decided against it.

If there was one thing Martin was good for, it was his strength, and with a groan, he heaved the net onto the deck. He stumbled back, tripping over a coil of loose rope and his head hit the deck with a thud. He felt his vision bloom for a moment, before he squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed his body back up.

The net was brimming with silvery scales, and the gaping maws of fish as they spluttered and fluttered against their prison. Their wide and bulbous eyes stood alert, bulging violently. Martin walked over to the net, his hand coming up to the top to untie it, when he stopped.

There, amongst the flapping fins, was a hand – and it was moving. Martin stared at it, unblinking, his mouth hanging open in shock. When the hand wriggled out through the mass of fish, it shot out of the net, the slender fingers just barely fitting through the weave.

Martin’s senses suddenly kicked into gear, and he pulled out his pocket knife, and began to hack away at the fabric.

“Are you okay?” he was asking, his voice rushed and his tone frantic. “God, I am so sorry. This is – it’s going to be okay.” His blade cut through a segment of the weave, and the hand pushed through further. “I’m going to get you out, okay?”

He cut through more of the mesh, his tiny blade making slow work through the dense fabric. His hands were shaking, and he could feel his heart thudding erratically in his chest. With a curse, he threw his knife to the side, and started pulling at the slit with his hands. He could hear the net tear under the strain, and when the hole looked about as wide as Martin’s shoulders, he grabbed the man’s hand, and pulled. It wasn’t a clean pull, only managing to get the man’s head out of the net, his shoulders slipping through the slit.

The man gasped at the release, letting out a spluttering cough as he did, and he pressed his head against the deck of the boat, his chest rising and falling in rapid motion. Martin stared at the man in disbelief.

“Jon?”

Jon didn’t reply, and a new panic set in in Martin’s chest. Hurriedly, he hooked his hands under Jon’s armpits, and gave a sharp tug, yanking Jon towards him. Jon let out an exclaim as he did, something that sounded slightly like his name, and slightly like a curse. The two fell backwards, as the resistance gave way.

Jon landed on Martin, letting out a pained groan as he did. For such a seemingly slight man, he was remarkably heavy, crushing Martin’s legs as he lay atop him. Martin’s hands were still around his waist, and he could feel his ribs expand as he sighed.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and he sounded – how did he sound? It wasn’t anger, nor disappointment, it sounded familiar. It sounded like shame.

“What?” said Martin, in a scoff.  “Free you? My apologies, Jon.” He shook his head. “What on earth were you even doing swimming out here? We’re miles from land.”

“I was fine,” said Jon, and he pushed his hands against Martin’s arms to lift his chest up. “I was, anyway – until you and your bloody boat came charging by.”

Martin sat up, scowling slightly at Jon as he did. “This isn’t my boat, it’s – oh.”

Martin’s words died in his throat as looked at Jon, or, more precisely – what was attached to Jon.

A tail.

Jon had a tail.

That could't be right. But there it was; slick, and black, and very clearly a tail.

“Oh,” said Martin again, not sure what else to say. Jon’s expression turned into multitudes, flickering between uncertainty, fear and again – shame.

“Please don’t be scared,” he said, looking at Martin with a heavy plea.

“I’m not,” said Martin, and he somehow he wasn’t lying. “Should I be?”

Jon shook his head, looking down. “Martin,” he said, and his voice was so raw that his name alone sounded like a beg. His hand’s fell onto Martin’s chest, and he fisted the woollen fabric of his jumper with a white-knuckled grip. “You can’t let him see me.” Jon’s eyes flickered past Martin. “Peter – he can’t see me, Martin.”

Martin just nodded, swallowing thickly as he did. He spared a glance over to Peter, who, through the doors of his quarters and the heavy wind and rain, hadn’t heard their commotion. His back was still arched, and his attention was still taken with the map.

Martin pushed himself to his feet, holding’s his hands over the perimeter of Jon’s body. “I’m going to lift you now, okay?”

Jon just nodded, and allowed Martin to wrap one of his arms around his waist, and then, once he was lifted slightly off the ground, hooked his other arm in the curve of Jon’s tail. It was wet, and cold and real against his skin. It wriggled slightly as he moved Jon up into his arms, the end flapping in the air. Jon’s arms slid themselves around Martin’s neck, holding him for support.

He carried Jon over to the edge, and peered over the side. It was quite a fall, and he looked at Jon with a hesitant expression. “I’m sorry in advance,” he said, before holding Jon over the side of the boat. “This might hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jon, as he let go of Martin’s neck. He met his eyes briefly, his dark eyes weighted with something that might have been gratitude and could’ve just as easily been fear. Then, he slipped out of Martin’s grasp. Jon landed in the water with a splash, and Martin just caught a glimpse of his tail darting downwards as he vanished from sight.

“Fuck me,” sighed Martin, pressing his hands against his face. “Jesus.”

Chapter Text

“Here you go,” said Sasha, draping a thick, woollen blanket over Martin’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Martin, as he crossed it over his body, bracketing his frozen body in the fabric. The stove was on, casting warmth into the room. His clothes were draped beside it, dripping rhythmically into copper pans. He gave another shiver, and shuffled closer to the stove, holding his hands out in front of it to catch the heat.

“I don’t know why Mr Lukas stayed out there in this weather,” said Sasha, a note of scorn on her voice. She looked out of the window, where rain rapped violently against the glass. “If you get sick, and we’re down a cook …” She faded off, looking down at Martin with a sympathetic grimace. “Just focus on warming up, okay.”

Martin nodded; he was quite happy to oblige in that department. “Thank you, Sasha.”

She hesitated for a moment, before kneeling down beside Martin, and she prodded at his arm. “Let me get in there, alright? I’m turning to ice out here.”

Martin laughed, and let go of one corner of the blanket, which Sasha promptly picked up and drew around herself, shuffling closer to Martin as she did. “So,” she said, “was it fun?”

“It was – ” He cut himself off, worrying his bottom lip as he searched for the right answer. He couldn’t tell her – he knew that. She would think him crazy, or delusional; and maybe he was.

Jon had had a tail. That was real, he’d seen it – he’d felt it. Wet and slimy, and heavy in his arms. But … he couldn’t have. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t possible.

“It was pleasant,” said Martin, offering Sasha a tight smile. “But I don’t imagine I’ll be sailing away again anytime soon.”

But he had seen it. He had.

Sasha chuckled. “Well, that’s good to hear. You were missed today in the kitchen. Daisy even asked about you.”

Jon had a tail.

Martin raised his eyebrows, and grinned. “Daisy? Now that I don’t believe.”

A tail.

Sasha nodded, nudging her shoulder against Martin’s. “Wouldn’t have either, if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears.” Sasha’s face fell into a mask of gruff annoyance, and she scowled at Martin comically. “Where’s that little fellow run off to today then?” said Sasha, in a crude approximation of Daisy’s accent.

It was real. It was.

“Little?” echoed Martin with a laugh. “Haven’t been called that before.”

He should be terrified.

“Compared to Daisy,” said Sasha, “I think everyone is little.”

But he wasn’t.

Martin hummed in agreement, and pressed his hands closer to the stove. He looked over at Sasha, who had brought her knees up under her chin, and was resting against them in a pose of fatigued defeat. She gave a yawn, and then waved her hand through the air to dismiss Martin’s concern.

“Long day,” she said. “Should probably head to bed.”

“Curfews not for another half hour,” said Martin. “Stay till the fire dies?”

“You desire my company that much, Mr Blackwood?” teased Sasha, with a laugh.

“It’s good company,” said Martin. “Not enough of that these days.”

“Don’t ruin the compliment by bringing standards in,” said Sasha, with another chuckle. “But alright, I’ll stay.” Silence sat between them for a moment, just the low crackle of the logs dying.

“Martin,” said Sasha quietly, “I hope I’m not overstepping here, or anything. But I’m sorry about your mother.”

Martin sighed, bringing his knees in tighter. “It’s alright,” he said, keeping his gaze on the fire before him. “Thank you, though.”

“If you want to talk about it …” she faded off, and Martin heard her take a deep breath. Gently, her hand fell against his back – a small weight to show her support.

“Thank you.”

1915, September 17^th

Bread. Martin could do bread.

The dough moved with his hands, pulling and stretching along the floured surface of the work bench with ease. Pockets of air burst as he split them, pulling out the strands of dough, folding them back in on themselves, before pushing out again. His tongue peeked out for a moment, as it did when he found himself in deep concentration.

He liked this part a lot; this dedication to the singular motion, it was easy to get lost in. To let his thoughts fade away, to allow the sounds of the room to become a backdrop for his task. Basira was laughing with Daisy, telling a story that Martin had been drifting in and out of focus for. It sounded to be about Peter Lukas.

“Martin,” came Daisy’s voice, her smile audible as she spoke. Martin looked up at her, his hands still twisting over each other as he worked the dough. “Can you settle a debate here?”

Martin shrugged, nodding his head slightly. “Sure, I mean – of course, what’s the question?”

“When you and Mr Lukas went out on his boat,” she began, “did he, or did he not – ” she gave a pointed look to Basira as she said that “ – wear a bloody captains hat?”

“Not yesterday,” said Martin. Basira let out a huff, and Daisy laughed again. “I could see him owning one, though,” continued Martin, quite keen to remain a part of their conversation. “Maybe one of those blue and white ones, with the gold trim.”

“Did he tell you the story of how he used to be a captain?” asked Basira, leaning forward against the bench.

“He said he made his fortune selling fish.” He raised an eyebrow. “Among other things.”

Daisy barked a laugh, clapping her hands together. “That man can’t be around another person for more than five minutes before he starts telling that story. Did he tell you what the other things were?”

“No,” said Martin. “What were they?”

She shrugged. “No idea. Half hoped he would’ve told you – he seems to have taken quite the shine with you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It’s not a bad thing, Martin,” said Basira. “Quite the opposite really.”

It didn’t feel like it though. In fact, it felt like a burden – a weight he wasn’t equipped to carry. He didn’t want to be singled out, he just wanted to be; move behind the scenes, sneaking through each corner of the day, unseen.

He didn’t like the idea of being anybody’s favourite.

The texture of the dough had changed between his fingers, and he knew it was done. He pulled towards him the large ceramic bowl, and placed his dough inside, covering it with a damp tea towel. Picking it up, he moved the bowl over to the windowsill, where the heat of the oven would help it rise faster.

It was there he heard a knock against the window.

His head shot up, eyes locking immediately with the dark ones that looked back. Martin gave a surprised shout, stumbling backwards, catching himself on the corner of the bench.

What on earth was Jon doing there? How was Jon there?

Daisy and Basira both looked over at him, concern and confusion etched into their faces.

“Martin,” said Basira, “are you alright?”

Martin took a deep breath, pulling his eyes away from Jon’s long enough to meet Basira’s. “Perfectly fine, yes. I’m just – I need air.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, before he quickly darted towards the back door, throwing it open and falling into the outdoors. Jon turned towards him at the sound, and looked at Martin with a nervous apprehension. Martin didn’t know what to say, his throat raw at the sight of Jon standing before him – standing.

This wasn’t right. He knew what he’d seen, he’d fought against the scepticism – he hadn’t made it up. He hadn’t.

“Martin,” said Jon, and he said his name so softly that it was almost a sigh. “I understand if you don’t want to see me, but – ”

“How are you here?” rushed Martin. He blinked, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I just – am I going mad?”

Jon’s face fell, looking utterly crestfallen at those words. He shook his head. “No, Martin. You’re not.”

“Jon, you had a – ” He cut himself off, looking around them to make sure the coast was clear, before taking a step towards Jon and speaking in a whisper, “You had a tail. A – a fish tail, Jon. Like a fish. Fish-man. Man-fish. You had a tail!” His voice had gradually risen as he’d spoken, and he quickly pressed his mouth closed.

“Martin,” said Jon again, holding his hands up, “I understand if this is, ah – an upsetting development. My existence isn’t the most, well – it’s not the most conventional thing, I know that much.”

Martin let out a shaky breath, bringing his hands up to his face and pressing the pads of his fingertips against his eyes, as if he could rub away Jon’s presence.

Jon took another step closer, and reached out, his hands falling just short of touching Martin. “I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have come. I imagine I’ve just made this whole ordeal a lot more upsetting – not to mention confusing.”

Martin dropped his hands, and shook his head. “No, Jesus – no, Jon. It’s – it’s just a lot, you know.”

“I understand,” said Jon quietly.

Martin looked up at Jon, meeting his dark eyes, creased at the corners. “Why – why did you come? Isn’t – isn’t it dangerous? What if I was some awful hunter? I – I might’ve tried to – to sell you, or something awful.”

Jon let out a small laugh. “Well, I suppose there was a slight element of recklessness in my coming here, but Martin, and don’t take offence here, you really don’t strike as the sort of person who would – would hunt me, as you put it.” His hand fell between the distance between them, and he squeezed Martin’s arm. “Quite the opposite, really. It’s why I came – I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” echoed Martin, suddenly feeling quite incorporeal under Jon’s touch. His hands were so warm, and his elegant fingers wrapped across his bicep with ease.

“On the boat,” continued Jon, “if you hadn’t found me first, well – I don’t imagine that your Peter would’ve done the same as you did.”

Martin blinked, swallowing heavily. “God, I – you’re welcome, I suppose. Feels sort of wrong accepting gratitude for – for not killing you, though.” He let out a tight laugh. “Think your bar might be slightly too low.”

Jon hummed. “Maybe. But I am grateful, nonetheless.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and the air around them felt oddly serene; until, that is, Martin broke it with a sudden laugh. “God, so you’re a fish, huh?”

Jon smiled, raising an eyebrow. “More or less. I’m also an avid reader, but I wager that pales in comparison.”

“You can read?” Martin quickly winced. “Sorry, that was – sorry.”

Jon didn’t seem to take offence, his smile never wavering. “Yes, Martin – I can read. Though, my selection is rather slim, I’ll admit. I can’t quite go to a shop, like you might.”

“I have books,” said Martin.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations.”

Martin let out a breath, a scoff tinged with amusement. “No, no – I mean, I could lend you them, perhaps. Just – just don’t get them wet, alright.”

Jon laughed loudly at that, his shoulders moving with the sound, and the creases around his eyes crinkling gently. His beauty grew another stem in that motion, and Martin felt his chest swell at the vision. His laugh was the sort of muse poets would have spent their lives searching for, and Martin could already see himself turning the melody into a stanza upon paper.

The back door swung open suddenly, and he jumped at the sound – feeling very much as if he’d just been caught doing something awful. Daisy was standing in the doorway, her hand on the handle. She looked between the two, her expression unreadable.

“Martin, we need you back inside,” she said. “Dinner’s not done yet.”

“Right,” said Martin. “Sorry, let me just – I just need to finish up here. I’ll just be a moment.”

“Whose your friend?” asked Daisy, leaning against the door.

“Oh,” sounded Martin, looking over at Jon. “He’s – he’s just – ”

“Jon.” He held his hand up in a wave. She smirked at that, lifting a few of her fingers in a similar gesture.

“He’s – he’s just leaving. Apologies, Daisy,” said Martin quickly.

“So soon?” Daisy raised one of her eyebrows, and looked over to Jon. “You’re welcome to sit in the kitchen, as long as you stay out of the way.” She met Martin’s eyes. “I won’t tell Mr Lukas.”

“That’s really not necessary – ”

“That would be lovely,” said Jon, cutting Martin off. “Thank you.”

Jon watched Martin with a fierce intensity as he worked, seated on a stool in the corner – notably out of everyone’s way during the busy dinner rush. It took most of Martin’s willpower to keep his focus on the task at hand, for the sake of his dignity and the sake of his fingertips as his knife made quick work of dicing the veg. In moments of weakness, which seemed to be quite common with Martin, he would spare a glance over to Jon, where he would find him looking right back.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and filled his chest with an odd warmth. As per usual, when they worked, Daisy whistled a song – but tonight, it sounded different, and it wasn’t until Martin looked up that he realised that Jon was humming along to her melody.

Daisy looked over at Jon, a curious expression on her face, that slowly thawed into amusement, and then subtle glee. She picked up her tune, and Jon caught on quickly, turning his hums into more concrete notes, and slowly turned the sounds into words, though they didn’t seem to be in English.

His voice was easy in the same way the waves were, flowing and heavy and beautiful. His low notes resonated with the drumming of waves against the rocks, and his high notes sung of pebbles falling into rockpools. He kept his eyes shut as he sang, and gently tapped his hand against his ankle that was tucked up underneath him on the stool.

Martin could feel the warmth blooming in his cheeks, and knew how he must’ve looked as he watched the song play out – but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care, or at the very least, stop. He didn’t want to look away; he didn’t want to take this in in sneaked fragments. He wanted to watch, and so he did.

Jon took Daisy’s melody, and wove it into a tapestry of warm sound, that seemed to swirl around the kitchen, encompassing the room in that odd sort of magic that music always brought. When the song ended, it stayed in the air, hanging around them all like a weighted blanket.

“That was beautiful,” said Martin in a breath.

A tinge of colour graced Jon’s skin, hidden almost beneath his dark complexion. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Are you a performer?” asked Basira, her features looking considerably more relaxed than Martin had ever seen. “You’ve got quite the voice.”

Jon cleared his throat. “No, no – I’m not. But thank you.”

“What do you do?” she asked, her knife drumming against the chopping board as she worked.

“I’m a fisherman,” said Jon, and Martin had to hide his sudden snort in a series of coughs. Jon caught his eye with an amused smirk.

“Oh,” said Basira, “maybe you know our boss then – Mr Peter Lukas.”

Jon’s smile twisted into something dark, and his jaw clenched. “Yes, I know him.”

Basira raised an eyebrow. “Not friends then, I take it.”

Jon brought his knee up against his chest, and wrapped both his arms around it, resting his chin against his leg and glaring at some nondescript spot on the floor. “Me and Mr Lukas just have very different methods of working, is all.”

Martin was glad to see that Basira didn’t push the conversation further, she just hummed gently, and returned her attention to the meal. Martin spared a glance over at Jon, who was still heavily scrutinizing the floor with his gaze. Martin moved passed him as he made his way over towards the oven, pulling an old tea towel off of the counter, and holding it between his hands. He opened the oven door, and with the towel, pulled out the bread pan, with it a billow of flavourful steam.

The smell of the freshly baked bread enveloped the room, and Martin felt a small surge of pride as he placed the loaf down on the table, perfectly risen. He ran a knife around the edges, loosening it from the pan, before gently tipping it out and leaving it to cool on the rack. He heard the sound of Jon’s stool creaking, and then felt him move beside him. His hand, long and nimble, reached out to touch the loaf.

Martin smacked it away. “It’s not cooled yet.”

“Smells nice.”

“Still isn’t ready.”

Jon just raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed with Martin’s answer. But he conceded his hand down on the workbench, inches away from where Martin’s was. A breath would’ve shifted them together, and Martin stared at them, unblinking. He glanced up at Jon, who was looking at him with that odd intensity that seemed akin with his features. Feeling heat bloom in his face, Martin pulled away, falling back towards the sink.

He knew Basira and Daisy weren’t looking, they hardly ever looked up when they worked – but even so, Martin felt nerves wrap their way around his throat. He flicked the tap on, and scrubbed his hands clean of nothing under the stream, feeling the icy water quell the warmth on his face.

“We’re going to start taking this stuff through,” said Basira, and when Martin turned his neck to look at her, turning off the tap as he did, she held up two trays, laden with the nights course. “Can you make a start on cleaning?”

“Sure thing,” he said, with a nod.

Daisy held the door open for Basira, her own hands holding trays and bowls. When the door shut behind them, Martin heard Jon sigh.

“I made you uncomfortable being here, didn’t I?” he said quietly, staring off at some nondescript corner of the kitchen.

Martin swallowed, and shook his head, and then, when remembering that Jon wasn’t looking at him, spoke, “No, you didn’t. It’s just – ”

“Martin, do I scare you?”

Martin blinked, surprised by the sudden question. He spoke in a breath, “God, Jon, you terrify me.”

“Oh.”

“Not – not in that way, though.”

“Oh,” said Jon again, softer this time. He turned, so that his back was pressed against the table, and he held the edges in his hands. He looked at Martin, his expression unreadable. “In what way do I scare you, Martin?”

Martin shook his head. “I – I can’t say.”

Jon pushed himself off from the table, and moved towards Martin. He stopped just before their feet met, and Martin pressed his back against the sink, willing it to give way in order to offer more space. He didn’t want to be this close to Jon; he didn’t want to be able to see the flecks of scar tissue along his neck, or the scattering of freckles across his cheeks, or the way his tongue rested softly against his bottom lip, parted gently.

He looked over Martin, as if he were expecting something, and Martin felt his face warm under his gaze – it was so heavy, yet weightless against his skin. Jon’s hand came up, slowly, as if he were approaching an injured animal. Martin couldn’t bring himself to say no, he didn’t want to say no – and as Jon’s hand brushed across his cheek, he felt his body shiver. He’d never been touched with such gentle hands.

“Meet me tonight,” said Jon. “By the rocks.”

Martin just nodded. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

The fire had died a few hours ago, and the moon hung high in the sky above, cutting through the window of the kitchen, and leaving smears of silver across the stone floor. Martin moved through this light, tip-toeing his way towards the back door, being careful as not to disturb the sleeping forms of his fellows.

When the door shut behind him, he let out a relieved sigh. The grass was wet against his feet as he padded down towards the slope, casting cautionary glances around him as he did. When it turned to sand below his feet, he almost laughed – needing a release for the panicked, adrenaline fuelled bubble that was blooming in his throat.

He could see the rocks in the distance, highlighted in white under the moon and gleaming wetly. It acted as a beacon for Martin as he waded through the sand. His hands grasped the sharp rock face, and he pulled himself up onto them with a small groan. They were still slick with the memory of the high tide, so Martin stayed low as he manoeuvred his way across them, and towards the drop where he had first talked to Jon. He crouched down onto his knees, his hands clutching the edge of the face, and peered over into the darkness.

“Jon,” he said in a whisper. “Jon.”

The water split into ripples, as Jon’s head broke the surface. His hair was soaked, slicked back away from his face, and the edges hung around his shoulders like a fan. Under the moon, his hair almost looked silver, and he looked ethereal as he smiled up at Martin.

“You came,” he said, the smile audible.

“Of course I came,” said Martin, a small laugh escaping from his mouth.

“I didn’t think you would,” admitted Jon, his arms moving around him as he kept himself afloat. “I’m glad you did, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Martin.”

Martin grinned, leaning further over the edge. “So,” he said, “you have a tail again, I presume?”

Jon’s torso fell backwards, as he floated on his back. His tail, as black as the water, curved upwards, splashing Martin as it did.

“Hey!” warned Martin teasingly, as he held up a hand to shield himself. Jon shot him a toothy smile, devious as it was joyous. He pulled his tail downwards, and swam closer to the rock where Martin was seated. His hands grasped the edges, and with a heave, he pulled himself up onto his forearms, so that his face was mere inches from Martin’s. His tail dangled lazily below him, the tip occasionally sending speckles of water across the obsidian sea.

“Can you just – just have legs?” asked Martin, tilting his head gently to the side, before wincing. “Sorry, sorry – is that rude to ask? I’m not quite sure what the decorum is for – for, well, this.”

Jon nodded understandingly, and twisted his neck around to glance back at his tail before returning back to Martin’s eyes. “It’s a process. Not an entirely comfortable one, and one that takes a lot of concentration, and time – not to mention, energy. It can be – it can be painful to maintain it.”

“Painful, how so?” echoed Martin, concern heavy in his voice.

“Imagine you forced your body into a form that was not your own,” explained Jon. “It’s not really a pain that has a comparison, to be honest. Not because it is so unbearable, but only because I’m not sure there’s a human equivalent.”

“Oh,” said Martin, “I suppose that makes sense.” Though it didn’t. A beat passed. “Where did you get your clothes?”

Jon blinked. “Pardon?”

“You – you had clothes on,” said Martin. “Shoes and everything. Can you, you know – magically create clothes?” He waved his fingers around as he spoke, as if casting a spell of his own.

Jon was silent for a second, before he laughed. He shook his head, smiling. “No, Martin. I can’t magically create clothes; I don’t even magically create legs. It’s just an – an evolutionary adaption. My wardrobe is entirely thanks to the forgetful mind of tourists.”

“They forget their shoes?”

He looked down. “Sometimes I have to have a – a more hands on approach.” He looked back up at Martin, smirking. “But really – who wears boots to a beach?”

Martin laughed. “Remind me to never forget anything down here then.”

“I don’t think we’re the same size,” said Jon, with a twinkle is his eyes. He let go of the rock face, falling back into the water with a gentle splash. He looked back up at Martin, who had raised his hand up to his face again to shield him from the spray. “Are you coming?”

Martin spluttered out a surprised cough. “Am I – God, no, Jon. That’s an awful idea.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “I’m not going to drown you, Martin.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” said Martin. “I think I’d be plenty good at doing that part myself.”

“You can’t swim,” summarised Jon.

“I’m from London,” explained Martin. “Wasn’t exactly queuing up to jump into the Thames.”

“I could – I could show you,” offered Jon. He smiled again. “I’m quite a good swimmer, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” huffed Martin. “But you don’t have to flop these things about.” He pointed down at his feet, which he tapped against the rock for further emphasis. “It would be a pretty ghastly sight to behold.”

“Please, Martin,” said Jon, and he said Martin’s name with such sincerity and depth that it almost sounded like it meant something.

Martin swallowed. “I don’t own bathers.”

“You have undergarments, do you not?”

Martin felt his face warm at the thought of Jon seeing him without his shirt on. Where Jon was lean and slender, Martin was round, and blurred gently at the edges. He’d held onto the notion of baby-fat well into his teen years, before he had finally had to accept that it was just in fact adult-fat.

He felt his hands slowly go to the buttons on his striped nightshirt, and he gingerly unbuttoned each one, keeping his eyes down on the ground, not keen to see Jon’s reaction to his body. His mind went to the comments his mother had made about it, and the way she prodded all his soft spots with leers and crooning insults.

He peeled the shirt off, feeling his skin quickly turn to gooseflesh against the cold night air. Shivering, he stepped out of his trousers, and bundled them up alongside his shirt. He tucked them in the nook of one of the dryer rocks, knowing that they would get damp, nonetheless.

Cautiously, he lowered himself down onto the drop, his feet dipping into the surface of the water. Jon swam up to him, and offered out his hand. Martin took it without much of a thought, and allowed Jon to lead him off the edge and into the water. He let out a small shout as the cold water enveloped his body, and immediately began to flail when he found his feet couldn’t touch the bottom.

Jon was quick to tuck his hands under Martin’s arms, and managed to hold him up with more ease than Martin would have expected from his size. “I’ve got you,” he said gently. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

“It’s bloody freezing,” said Martin, his teeth chattering noisily.

Jon chuckled. “It’ll warm up once you start moving.”

“What, you mean this isn’t swimming?” joked Martin, as he clutched Jon’s arm with a white knuckled grip, his feet kicking out against nothing below him. Occasionally, his feet would brush against the texture of Jon’s tail, and he had had to bite down a startled shout at the first touch.

“Take my hand, okay,” said Jon, slipping one of his hands out from around Martin, and holding it out for him. “I’ll lead you.”

Martin looked between Jon and his hand, and then, taking a deep breath, loosened his hold on Jon’s arm and took his hand. Jon smiled at him, and whispered small words of praise as he loosened his other hand, and offered that up, too.

Slowly, Jon swam backwards, pulling Martin towards him as he did. Martin’s kicks turned from thrashes, to splashes, to something that looked familiar from the swimmers he’d seen in his life.

“See,” said Jon, once they were out of the rocky cove, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“If you let go of my hand, I’ll scream,” said Martin. They were just floating there, Martin’s legs pushing up against the water to keep himself afloat. “I’m bloody terrified right now.”

“You’re doing wonderfully, Martin. You’re a natural.”

Martin chuckled at the flattery, holding Jon’s hand a little tighter. He felt almost weightless in the water once the thrashing stopped, and he melted more into Jon’s hold, trusting each touch. Jon began to swim again, leading Martin through the reflected sky, pulling him through broken moonlight. He slowly loosened his grip on one of Martin’s hands, and when Martin let out a panicked cry, he hushed him with reassurance. The words rolled like the waves, washing over his worries with warmth.

“Can you stay afloat?” asked Jon. With his free hand, Martin drew it around himself in circles, as his legs kicked below him. He gave a small nod, though he could feel his doubt weighing heavily on him.

“I’m going to let go now,” said Jon slowly, and as he said that, he pulled his arm slowly away from Martin. Immediately, Martin went under, salt water pushing up his nose as he gasped out. But his arms came up, and his legs kicked down, and he re-emerged, panting heavily as he did, hair slick back with water. Jon’s hands were hovering over him, and the concern that radiated off of them was almost palpable. Martin just shook his head.

“I’m okay,” he said, letting out a small breathy exhale. “I’ve got it.”

Jon smiled, nodding gently. “Move towards me,” he said, as he started to slowly push back through the water, leaving a cape of ripples in his wake. Martin’s arms fought against the tension of the water, as he dragged his body across the surface. He moved slowly, and his limbs jerked out clunkily as he followed Jon’s path. But he was staying afloat, and after a few minutes of it, Jon halted. His hands came up to catch Martin, who was breathing heavily, feeling quite exerted. Jon beamed at him with pride, and moved his hand from Martin’s, to his shoulder. His hand rested in the curve of Martin’s neck, and his fingers lazily traced the line of his collarbone. Martin found himself grinning back, his smile wonky and wide and there.

“Martin,” said Jon, his voice almost a whisper, “If there’s no one around to get the – the wrong impression, then am I allowed to tell you that you look quite beautiful right now?”

Martin felt his lips part in a small gasp, and he looked at Jon with a desperate intensity, searching for any hint of teasing, or malice. “You don’t mean that,” said Martin weakly, though Jon’s eyes only held sincerity.

“I do,” said Jon, moving his hand up against Martin’s cheek. Martin found his own hand coming up to meet it, gently linking his hand around Jon’s wrist. “How on earth could I lie about that fact?”

Martin let out a long breath. “This is why you scare me, Jon.”

Jon’s lips curved upwards, and his hands moved into Martin’s hair, pushing salt water through the curls. “Hm, though it is a good fear, yes?”

“It’s the sort of fear where I know I’m going to get hurt, one way or another.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Martin.”

“I know, Jon.”

 But others would.

“I know,” he said again, as he pressed a small kiss down on the inside of Jon’s wrist. When he looked back at Jon, his expression was one of wonderment; his eyes soft and his lips gently parted into a smile. He kissed his wrist again, tasting the sweet salt of the sea, and he knew he would be tasting it for weeks.

Jon looked at him for a moment, that look of awe still as apparent. Then, he lifted their intertwined hands out of the water, and brought them to his lips. He kissed the tips of Martin’s fingers, his lips warm against his chilled hands. He brought his mouth around the back of Martin’s hand, kissing each rise of his knuckle, looking up at Martin between each touch, each blink asking if it was okay.

Breathless, all Martin could do was nod.

Jon moved his lips up the length of Martin’s arm, planting affection along his veins, nestling it between the jagged purple lines that curved across his bicep. He moved closer as he did, until their bodies were flush, and Martin could feel the heat of Jon’s body, like a beacon in the ice of the water. His arm was around Martin’s waist, resting in the gentle curve of his body, cupping the small of his back, fingers splayed across his skin.                                                                      

Martin wanted to touch Jon, to hold him in his hands; but he feared letting go, of sinking into something that was only a touch less terrifying than sinking into this moment.

“You’re shaking.”

Martin let out a breath. “Just cold, is all.”

Jon looked down between them, his forehead resting softly against Martin’s. He could hear Jon’s breaths, pressed against his profile, warm and shallow. His eyes were shut; eyelashes, damp with water, fanned out across his cheeks. Martin wanted to kiss them, to taste the sweet salt water of his skin, and feel the fluttering of his body beneath his touch.

Wrong, said his mind, and he felt his body tense up with the thought. He was surprised that the drumming of his heart wasn’t sending ripples out across the sea, and he wondered if Jon could feel the erratic thrum through his skin. Jon’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at Martin with his soft, and dark gaze. Martin had always known that Jon’s eyes were dark, but it was only in their proximity that he could see that his irises were larger than one would consider normal, almost spreading across the entire eye; only a halo of white around the abyss of black.

A sudden flash of white across his eyes, and then he cursed, ducking his head under the water, and pulling Martin down with him. The salt water burned his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, feeling lost and panicked pressed under the waves. He felt Jon’s hand in his, tugging him along, and Martin blindly allowed himself to be pulled away. The water was icy, and heavy atop of him, and it was just as Martin’s lungs were beginning to tighten from the lack of air, that Jon pulled them up – and Martin broke the surface with a loud gasp, chest heaving. Jon had pulled them back over to the rocks, and Martin gripped them to hold himself up.

“What was that for?” exclaimed Martin, pushing his sodden curls out of his eyes.

“Shush,” hissed Jon, holding up a finger to his lips, and then pointing it towards the beach. Martin twisted his neck to see, and there it was – the swinging pendulum of a lantern, ghosting across the beach. The figure holding the lantern was silhouetted behind the light, and Martin squinted at it, trying to discern who the shadowy mass was.

He felt bile rise in his throat, as his mind raced through all the possibilities – none of which were good.

“Do you think they saw – ” You. Me. Us. He let out a deep breath. “Christ.”

Jon shook his head. “I – no, I don’t think so. I think we’re alright.”

Martin just nodded weakly, and prayed that Jon was right. “Jesus.” He pressed a wet, and salty hand to his face, and let out a shaky breath. “God, I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have come, I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon, weakly. “I don’t – look, they’re heading away now.”

Martin’s head snapped back towards the beach, and, as Jon said, the figure was now moving back up the bank, the light catching in the thick, marram grass. In the moonlight, Martin could now make out the thick, blue wool of Peter’s jacket. He swore under his breath, pressing the pads of his fingers against his forehead in frustration. 

Jon’s hand reached out towards him in comfort, and he found himself flinching away from it, and then cursed himself, internally.

“Sorry,” said Jon again, almost in a whisper. Martin just shook his head, and looked back at the receding figure of Peter, his head just beginning to vanish over the horizon.

“I should go,” said Martin, gesturing towards the estate. “I should – I’m sorry.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but he decided against it with a small shake of his head. He looked at Martin, and offered him a weak smile. “I’ll take you back to shore.”

“It’s okay,” said Martin, quickly. “I – I can make my own way back. It’s shallower here, it’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure, Martin?” asked Jon, and Martin nodded firmly, earning a wash of expressions over Jon’s face; all unreadable. He looked down in the water, and pushed himself away from Martin, his arms drawing a ring around himself as floated there. “Of course. I will, uh – get home safely, Martin.”

“Of course,” echoed Martin. “Thank you.”

Jon didn’t say anything else, as his head dipped below the waves, followed moments later by the tip of his tail. Martin tried not to let the weight in his chest sink him.

Chapter Text

1915, September 20^th

As much as Martin tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jon. It was like all his thoughts were a winding maze, and the centre was always just Jon, looking at him with an expression Martin couldn’t understand.

He shook his head, as if shaking the thoughts free from his mind – it never worked, though. Like the tide, they always came back, as persistent as ever. He needed to focus today – after all, Peter Lukas was entertaining a guest, and they were all to be on their best behaviour whilst he was visiting. He’d heard rumours about their guest – some rich, and smarmy sounding gentleman, who had kicked up quite a fuss upon arrival last night. Sasha had told him this all as they’d prepared lunch together.

“He has a monocle,” she’d said, “an honest to god monocle. The man looked like if Nosferatu met Westminster.”

With that in mind, Martin felt quite nervous about serving the guest. With a heavy tray in his hands, laden with tea and plentiful dishes, Martin made his way to the dining room of the estate. Positioned at the far end of the house, traversing the tray over without any accidents was an exercise in steady footing and still hands. Neither of which Martin possessed naturally. So, it was by no short miracle that when he placed the tray down, everything was still intact. He let out a small sigh of relief as he did, and made quick work of setting out the dishes for the two men, who were currently engaged in frivolous conversation.

“Martin,” said Peter, sweeping a hand towards him and cutting off the other man. “Have you met my friend here?”

Martin spared a glance up towards the other man; he was gaunt, and looked to be approaching his sixties, and he peered at Martin over a beaked nose. He looked very much like Sasha’s telling had implied.

“No, sir,” said Martin, placing the tea cups out before the two.

“Elias Bouchard,” said the man, in an overly accented drawl. He didn’t offer his hand to shake, but Martin imagined if he had, it would’ve felt slimly. He’d seen men like Mr Bouchard before, on the white bricked streets of London, keeping his head up as if fearful to meet the eyes of the lower classes.

“Elias here,” began Peter, “is a member of Parliament, back down in London. And Martin,” Peter turned to Elias as he said this, “is from London, too.”

“Ah,” said Elias. “A fellow Londoner. You must miss it, hm?”

“At times,” admitted Martin, as he poured tea into their cups. “But I’ve been enjoying my time here.”

Peter beamed at that. “Martin came out sailing with me the other month.” He looked over at Martin. “Which reminds me, I need to talk to you about that later, if that’s quite alright.”

Martin nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Attempting to create a protégé, Peter?” chuckled Elias.

Peter shook his head, a small scoff on his lips. There was an odd dynamic between the two men that Martin noted; a tense familiarity, that made the air around them feel too thick to breathe. He hurriedly placed their plates of food down before them, and hoped that that would be the end of the conversation. Elias, however, seemed to have other plans, as he held up his hand to halt Martin.

“How old are you, Martin?” he asked, in a tone that sounded like hunger. It made the hairs on Martin’s neck stand on end.

“Twenty-three, sir,” said Martin, holding the empty tray against his chest like a shield.

“You seem like a capable lad,” continued Elias. “The strong, and burly sort. The army could use a body like yours.”

“Elias,” warned Peter.

Elias paid his interruption no mind, and he shifted forward in his seat as he spoke, “I’ve seen many lads like yourself head to the front line – it’s quite an honour to serve your country. Think of it as repayment for all your countries done for you.”

Martin prickled at that, feeling his jaw clench. “My countries not done much for me, sir.”

“Elias,” said Peter again, his tone firmer this time. “I won’t have you coming into my home, and trying to sell your war to my staff.” He looked over to Martin. “Go back to work, please.”

Martin didn’t need telling twice, as he spun on his feet and headed out of the dining hall. It led directly out into the foyer, with it’s too high ceilings and winding staircase that kept those above him, above him – in both the literal, and metaphorical sense.

His mother was up there.

His feet carried him up the stairs before his mind could decide against it, and he gripped the gilded banister as he pulled himself up onto the landing. There were never many staff up there, especially during the middle of the day – but Martin found himself gently tiptoeing across the carpeted floor as he found his way to his mother’s wing.

Her door was slightly ajar as he approached, and he held it gently as he knocked – the sound ringing like funeral bells as it echoed through her room.

“Come in,” she said.

Martin slipped through the gap, closing the door behind him with a click. Like last time, she was in her chair, facing the window, with her back to him. He took the time to place his tray down, and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles of his shirt. It would hardly make a difference to her scorn, but the effort had to mean something.

“Good afternoon, mum,” he said, as he moved his way into her eyeline. She met his eyes for a momentary blink, before shifting her gaze past him, as if he weren’t there – and he supposed that was what she wished were the case. “How are you feeling today?”

“Terrific,” she muttered. “Just bloody terrific.”

Martin took a cautionary step towards her, holding his hand out above the perimeter of her chair. “Is there anything I can do?”

She scoffed, and her scoff turned into a series of coughs, and she fell forward against her knees, handkerchief coming up to her mouth as she hacked and wheezed. Martin’s hand fell instinctively against her back, and he held her as her body shook with ragged breaths.

Her hand flailed backwards, slapping at Martin’s arm as another series of coughs enveloped her. She hadn’t pushed him hard, but Martin found himself stumbling back, as if the touch had been electric. With a heavy breath, her fit resided, and her head fell against the back of the chair.

“Mum,” said Martin, not sure what else to say.

“Mr Lukas says you’ve been sneaking off the premises,” said his mother, casting a stony glance in his direction. “If only you put as much effort into cocking up, as you did anything else – then, maybe, you’d be half competent.”

Martin thought of Peter’s swaying lantern, and the blue of his coat in the moonlight – a blurred figure along the distant shoreline of the beach. Martin had kept himself up for many a night since then, weaving between excuses and reasons for how Peter could’ve seen him – them. He felt his blood run cold, and he shook his head against the accusation; though he knew them to be true. “I won’t mess this up,” he said. “I promise.”

“That’d be a first.”

“Mum,” he tried, but she held up a frail hand to silence him. He sighed, and looked down at his feet, pushing the fallen strands of hair out of the way. A beat passed, and he looked back up at her, his face schooled into a practiced smile. “I thought maybe we could go for a walk along the grounds. I think some fresh air would do you good, don’t you think?”

She shook her head. “Mr Lukas has staff to help me with that.” She looked up at him, with a pointed expression. “Better staff, mind you.”

“I just want to spend some time with you, mum.”

A laugh. “And what about what I want Martin? Or does that concern not even cross your mind?”

“Of course it does, mum – ”

“Then go, Martin.”

“Mum.”

She set her eyes ahead of her, through the window and across the hills and mountains before them. Her mouth was drawn into a tight line, the divot of her cheek clenching viciously as her hands rested atop of one another on her lap.

“Mum,” he tried again, but like a statue, she didn’t shift – hardly even blinked as she waited him out. He didn’t say anything else as he left, swiping his tray back from where he’d left it, and letting the door close with a heavy thud behind him. He wasn’t going to cry about this, not again – he’d wasted too many tears on chasing her affection. It was fruitless.

His pace was just shy of a run as he made his way back towards the main landing, and his eyes were set on the carpet underneath him, watching the pattern pull away from him with undeserved fascination. He was stopped in his tracks when two hands reached out to grab his shoulders.

He let out an alarmed exclamation as his head shot up. “Tim!”

“Martin,” said Tim, looking between his eyes with visible concern. “What are you doing up here?”

“I’m – I’m sorry, I know I’m not meant to. I just – ” the words got stuck in his throat, and he gestured behind him instead, towards his mother’s room. “I’m sorry.”

Tim looked behind him, and nodded understandingly. “It’s okay, Martin. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin again. “I’m not meant to be here. I – I need to be in the kitchen. I’ll get in trouble.”

Tim hesitated, his hands still resting on Martin’s shoulders. He gave them a small squeeze, and smiled. “I’ll walk you down, okay?”

Martin shook his head. “You really don’t have to do that. It’s fine, I’m fine – honestly.”

Tim placed a hand against his chest. “Well, I want to. Call it selfish, if that helps.”

“Really, Tim – ”

“Martin,” stressed Tim, holding up his hand to silence him. “I’m not offering up my lung here, just let me walk you back.”

Martin nodded, a minute shift of his head that was almost imperceivable. Tim dropped his hands to his sides, and began to walk, looking behind him to make sure that Martin was in tow, who shuffled quietly behind him.

“Did you meet our esteemed guest?” asked Tim, with flair in his voice as they descended the stairs. “Mr Elias Bouchard.”

“Yes,” said Martin, “He was quite – he was an interesting man.”

“Bloody prick more like it,” muttered Tim, opening one of the wooden doors open for the two of them.

“Tim,” said Martin, a surprised laugh on his voice. “You can’t say things like that.”

Tim raised his eyebrows, smirking slightly. “Watch me.” He cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed out into the hallway, “Elias Bouchard is a bloody prick!”

“Tim!” cried Martin, grabbing Tim’s hand and pulling it away from his face. “He could hear you.”

“Good,” stated Tim. “I want him to know.”

“Why?” asked Martin, his brows knotting together. “Did he say something to you?”

Tim shook his head. “He’s just another smarmy politician trying to play this war off as something wonderful. He, and his stupid romanticism, can fuck off.”

“He tried to convince me to sign up,” said Martin.

Tim prickled momentarily. “You wouldn’t, though. Would you?”

He shook his head. “Not really a fighter.”

“Neither was my brother,” said Tim. “Those pricks still got him, though.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, hoping those words would hold enough meaning to offer comfort. Tim just shrugged, shaking his head slightly as the two walked. When they got to the door of the kitchen, Tim was smiling again, as easily as he had ever been. No trace of their weighted conversation hung off of him, and Martin felt a pang of jealously for his ability to just slip so clearly into the façade.

“Do you want to come through?” offered Martin, pushing open the door. “Cup of tea?”

Tim paused for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds marvellous. Thank you, Martin.”

The kettle whistled noisily, signalling that it was ready. Using the tea-towel, Martin lifted the kettle off of the stove, and decanted the steaming water into two mugs. Adding a splash of milk to both, he brought them over to the table, where Tim was leaning lazily, thumbing through a cookbook. He looked up with a smile, as Martin placed his mug down in front of him.

“You’re an angel,” he said. He took a sip, making a small noise of satisfaction as he did. Martin clutched his own mug against his chest, feeling the heat seep through him. He took a deep breath, inhaling the rich and earthy scent of the tea. It was then that Sasha entered though the backdoor, wiping her feet dry against the woven mat.

“Afternoon,” she greeted them both, pulling off her jacket, and swapping it for her apron. “Tim Stoker, what are you doing here?”

Tim smirked, raising an eyebrow as he lowered his mug. “To see you, of course.”

She rolled her eyes, smacking his arm playfully as she passed by him towards the sink. “You’re a nuisance.”

He turned to her, an expression of exaggerated shock. Martin hid a smile behind his mug.

“You did tell me to visit more,” Tim pointed out, earning a bark of laughter from Sasha as she rinsed her hands clean under the tap. She turned back to him, flicking off the excess moisture. A droplet hit Martin in the face, and he felt a pang in his chest as the memory of Jon splashing him resurfaced – just to hear him laugh, he’d said. Even just the memory of the moment made his cheeks flush.

Martin felt his lips twist, and he looked down into his mug, as if it held a solution. It just held his reflection in a russet mirror, useless as always. He placed it down on the counter, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Shouldn’t you be ordering around some maids, or something?” teased Sasha, leaning down beside Tim.

“Well, I was,” said Tim, inclining his neck upwards. “But Martin here offered me a cup of tea, and you know how good his tea is – could hardly refuse an offer like that.”

“That’s fair,” she hummed, and then looked to Martin. “You do make quite a terrific brew.”

“Oh, shoot – did you want a cup?” asked Martin, already moving back towards the stove, before Sasha called him to stop, waving her hand through the air. He halted.

“Relax, Martin,” she said, and then, “are you alright?”

Martin nodded before he’d even processed her question fully. “Of course I am.”

“Of course,” she said, and offered him a comforting smile, before turning back to Tim. The two embarked on an animated conversation, one that Martin found he didn’t have the energy to decipher, or chip in on. He looked out through the window, over the cliffs edge, where green turned to blue, and then blue turned to grey as storm clouds brewed in the distance.

And as usual, his thoughts turned to Jon.

Chapter Text

1915, September 21^st

In all his months of working for Peter Lukas, Martin couldn’t say he’d ever seen the man venture down to the kitchen. So it was something to be remarked upon when Peter’s head popped round the door. Immediately, all eyes turned to him; with shoulders pulled back, and stoic faces to emphasis their immaculate work ethic.

Peter just huffed a small laugh as he stepped in. “Please, everyone – no need to look so frightened. I’m not here to yell at any of you.”

Whilst Martin’s shoulders loosened slightly, he still felt on edge – this was only heightened when Peter pointed to him, and beckoned him over with a curling finger. Martin swallowed, placing his knife down on the board, and wiping his hands clean on his apron as he approached his boss.

“Martin,” said Peter, in that same honeyed voice that he always used when talking to him. “Do you recall yesterday when I said I had something I needed your hand with?”

Martin nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Peter looked over to Sasha. “Will you be alright if I steal Martin for the day?”

Sasha just blinked, and nodded weakly, shooting a subtle questioning look towards Martin – to which Martin replied with a weak shrug. Peter clapped his hands together, and rubbed them greedily.

“Wonderful,” he said, and then to Martin, “come along then.”

Peter led Martin through the hallway in silence, the only notion that he was even aware of Martin’s presence came from the passing glances he shot him. Martin didn’t dare ask any questions, just wrapped his coat, as advised to bring, tighter around himself. They passed through the main entrance, with its bracketed carved arches, and walked along the main path that led down to the shore.

“I feel like our time out at sea got cut short last time,” said Peter. “What with you making a mess of that net and all.”

Martin swallowed, and looked down. “Sorry again, sir. I just – I got a bit confused how to open it, is all.” Martin’s heart drummed with the lie, and he kept his eyes set ahead of him, and directly away from Peter’s.

Peter just shook his head, though. “Come now, no need to apologise – I think you did enough of that at the time.”

Martin kissed his teeth at the memory: his panicked grovelling and spinning mind (unsure of what to deal with first; the discovery about Jon, or the fact that he’d torn a man-sized hole into Peter’s net) had led to quite an intense flurry of slurred apologies in Peter’s direction. All of them had been accepted with a blank face, and slow nods – Martin still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or not.

“I just felt that we could try again,” continued Peter. “I thought it could be quite pleasant to have a new face join my crew, especially such a friendly one.”

Martin blinked. “You want me to join your fishing crew?”

Peter hummed. “Not at the moment, but in the future, perhaps. The kitchen is a fine job, but more so a woman’s place, don’t you think? I doubt you want to spend the rest of your life peeling carrots, no?”

“I suppose,” mumbled Martin. He quite enjoyed the simplicity of the kitchen, the quick work and mindless preparations. It could be meditative at times, and it was a peace he savoured. The high seas didn’t quite hold the same appeal. “Thank you for considering me, though, sir.”

“I did say that I see myself in you,” said Peter, as the two walked along the wooden pier towards the small rowboat. “And like myself, when I was younger, I needed a push towards – hm, better things.” Peter stepped into the boat, unwinding the coil of rope from the piling. “I want to give you that push, Martin.”

Martin stepped into the boat, and seated himself on the bench, facing Peter. “Thank you,” he said, but he knew the words held no gratitude. “Are you sure today is the best day for it, though?”

His question was in reference to the dark clouds brewing along the horizon, much angrier than they had seemed last night. His stomach churned at the sight.

Peter waved his hand through the air. “Pish-posh, it’ll be fine. We shan’t be long, anyway. I did promise Miss James that I’d have you back before supper, after all.”

His words did little to alleviate the anxiety that had settled heavy in Martin’s stomach; like an anchor, tethering him down to his fraught thoughts. Peter’s oars carved easily across the water, and soon enough they had arrived aside the Tundra, as tall and proud as ever. Peter gestured for Martin to climb the rungs, and he did so – a tad faster than his first attempt, though that held very little weight comparatively.

Peter boarded behind him, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’d quite like to give you a shot at steering, Martin. Won’t have to worry about any silly nets today.”

The relief Martin felt at that softened the stone in his chest slightly; at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Jon – no chance of him getting caught again, anyway. At least, not from them. Martin shook his head, and smiled tightly at Peter in acknowledgment. “Sounds great.”

The door to the cockpit shut behind them with a click, and Martin let out a small breath of satisfaction as they stepped out of the wind. Peter had already talked him through raising the anchor, and the two had done so with a few grunts of effort as they had coiled the chain back up.

“Do you see that isle in the distance?” Peter pointed through the window towards a wide stretch of greenery, with an almost cubist jut of mountain centred over it. Martin nodded. “That’s the isle of Eigg. I want you to steer us around it, Martin.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” muttered Martin aside, as he place his hands on the wheel. It was smooth, and worn down under his grip. It felt like it’d seen a lot, and Martin could only begin to entertain what those things might’ve been. Martin looked back over to the isle, haloed in grey clouds, and set his jaw in determination. He began to twist the wheel.

They moved slowly through the water, the bow carving a path through the waves for them. Each push forward sent a shudder through the boat, as it rose and fell in tandem. Martin kept his eyes on the horizon, unwavering before him. An hour into their journey, had the Tundra on the back end of the isle, loosely bracketed now between, as Peter informed him, the isle of Coll, and the isle of Rum.

“Head between them,” said Peter. “Towards Barra now.”

“Are you sure?” checked Martin. “Doesn’t it seem like a better idea to steer, I don’t know, away from the ominous clouds?”

“It’ll just be rain,” said Peter firmly. “You’ll have to get used to it, living up North and all.”

“You know, we did have rain in England,” pointed out Martin, his tone dryer than one would consider polite. He tucked his lips between his teeth, and tried to hold his tongue. Peter just smirked though, and let out an amused breath of air. The wind was starting to pick up, and the sail bustled noisily as it did so, filling and dispelling air in rapid succession. Martin frowned at it, looking up at Peter, whose eyes were set on the horizon.

“It’s fine, Martin,” he said, and then he looked back to Martin. “You enjoy the ocean, hm?”

Martin made a noncommittal noise. “I – yeah, it’s – it’s new I suppose. Got quite used to being landlocked.”

Peter hummed. “Suppose that makes sense then.”

“What does, sir?”

“Why you spend so much time by the shore – must be fascinating to a city lad such as yourself,” he said. “I’ve seen you making your way down, a few times now.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll allow your breaching of curfew to slide this time, Martin – though, it really does exist for a reason.”

Martin swallowed. “I – sorry, sir.”

Peter just shook his head. “No, no – nonsense. First offense, and all. Though, I am curious – what draws you down there so often? It isn’t the most, well – let’s say interesting stretch of land.”

“I can’t swim,” said Martin quickly, and then blinked. “I – I’m trying to teach myself; you see. What with our last trip out, it occurred to me that if I were to – to need to swim, well – I wouldn’t be able to.”

Peter was silent for a moment, as he considered Martin’s answer. A slow nod signalled his acceptance. “An important skill to have. I’m pleased to hear you show such an interest in the nautical life – very pleased, in fact.”

An hour later had them passed Barra, and the empty horizon welcomed them behind the isle. It was breath-taking in a way, as intimidating as it was beautiful. Martin knew that the earth curved downwards, yet, there on the boat, and looking out across it – he could understand why sailors passed had viewed the world as flat. They’d sailed out towards the drop, never catching it; that bliss of discovery always evading them, as if the word was a railway track being built before them.

The waves were choppier there, and the horizon was cut into the jagged form of the ocean, as the crests jutted upwards. Their boat lurched below them, caught in a wave that pushed them forward. Peter’s hand shot out onto the wheel, and his white-knuckled grip belied the look of calm on his face.

“Should we head back?” asked Martin, hopefulness seeping into his words.

Peter hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head. “No,” and he laughed at that, though the sound was tight, “you’ll never get your sea legs on calm waters, Martin.”

“But – ”

“Martin,” warned Peter, with a raised brow. “Do as I say.”

So much for equals on the waves, mused Martin, darkly. He turned his scowl through the window, and watched as the waves reached out towards them; white, foamy hands clutching at the sides, and bleeding over onto the deck. The sail caught again, curving out towards them oppressively as the wind blew violently over from the mainland.

“I need to secure the sail,” said Peter, his voice almost a shout over the sudden roar of the winds. “We’ll get blown off course, otherwise.”

The boats lurches began to come quicker, the bow of the ship rising higher and higher out of the water against each crash of the waves; which now came in jagged and staggered rises, tossing the boat side to side as it powered forward. Through the water spotted window, Martin could see the spider web pattern of the sea foam, as it curved and rocked over the angry waves. He felt bile build at the back of his throat, and snapped his head towards Peter; his grip white knuckled on the wheel. “Be careful, alright.”

Peter just nodded firmly, buttoning his coat up to his neck. Martin watched as opened the door, the wind shooting through, and slamming it open into the cockpit. An awful shattering noise sounded as the glass cracked and splintered upon impact. Martin ducked his head behind his arm against the spray of shards. Peter leapt backwards, exclaiming as he did so.

“Jesus,” breathed Martin. Then, louder, “We need to head back!”

“It’s fine,” snapped Peter, grasping the frame of the door, and pulling himself through. “Just steer the bloody boat.”

Martin watched Peter inch across the deck, keeping low so as to take advantage of the meagre shelter offered by the sides. His attention was snapped forward, though, as the boat dropped down, as the wave they’d been riding crashed back into the fray. A new wave rushed up to greet them, and the Tundra climbed up it, tilting upwards at a painful angle. The peak shattered against the bow, sending splatters of water hammering against the deck. Martin gripped the wheel with all the strength he could muster, fearful that he would be sent pummelling downwards if he let go.

He turned back to Peter, as he twisted ropes around his hands and the mast, clinging to both with a ferocious intensity. His hat had been blown off, fallen to his feet, and his white hair laid plastered against his face, dripping with rain and salt water. He teeth were bared in a grunt as he powered through, finishing the knot with a hearty pull. He caught Martin’s eye, and shot him a thumbs up – as if the sail had been their only problem. Lowering himself down again, he began to creep back towards the safety of the cockpit.

It was then that a new wave picked them up, tugging them along the crest. The boat gave an unearthly jolt as it crashed back down, and Martin watched in horror as Peter was thrown to the ground, the slick deck sending him flying towards the side. Martin wasn’t sure if the crack that followed was the thunder or something worse, but Peter lay pressed against the side of the boat, his coat torn open and covering him like a shroud. His face was covered by his arms, that lay Infront of him, splayed out against the sodden deck of the boat.

“Peter!” cried out Martin, pushing himself towards the doorframe, and clutching it intensely. When no reply came, Martin cursed loudly. He couldn’t leave Peter there, he had to bring him in. He cursed again; cursing the waves, cursing Peter, and cursing himself.

He took a deep breath. He wasn’t completely soaked through, and so peeled off his coat, tossing it to his side as he readied himself. Crouching down as Peter had done, Martin crossed over the threshold onto the deck. The winds were as vicious as anything, whipping around him from all directions. The boat twisted from side to side, causing Martin to stumble onto his hands and knees. He took another breath, willing the drumming of his heart to slow. His body screamed in fear, but he pushed forward, crawling towards where Peter lay.

He placed a hand against his body, and shook him. “Peter, Peter – wake up!”

There was a low groaning noise, and Martin would’ve laughed in relief had he been less terrified. He tugged on Peter’s arm, and brought it around his neck, pulling him up slightly. Peter let out a pained shout as he did, and Martin tensed, holding a hand out against him. There was blood against the deck, the puddle turning translucent at the edges where it faded into the water. The sight made Martin’s stomach drop. He looked to Peter, where a nasty gash lay across his forehead, trickling bloody steadily across his face. His eyes squinted against the stream as it carved down in a haunting fashion.

“We need to get you inside,” Martin said firmly. “Come on.”

Martin rose slightly, knees still bent to stay low, and began to lead Peter back towards the cabin. Peter fought against him, but he was too weak to put up any real resistance.

“Peter, come on!” stressed Martin, tugging him again.

“My hat,” slurred Peter, and then, more coherent, “I need my hat!”

“Your – your hat?” scoffed Martin, wrapping his hand around the doorframe, and pulling them both through. They landed onto the floor with a thud. “It’s just a hat, Peter, leave it.”

“No!” shouted Peter, the pitch distorted from his delirium. “I – I need my hat.”

Martin looked out across the deck, as it rose and fell like a heartbeat. There, flapping against a coil of rope, and sodden through, was Peter’s hat – white and blue, with a stupid golden trim. Martin cursed himself again, this time for his own stupidity.

“I need it,” he insisted. “Martin – I – my hat!”

“Stop,” ordered Martin, pushing Peter up against the bench, where his head lolled lazily down onto it. “Stay here, sit down, and just – I’ll deal with it.”

Martin let out a long breath, before he stepped back onto the deck.  Like before, he bent down onto his hands and knees as he crawled across the deck, ducking his head down as a wave split overboard. The remnants of the wave washed over him, soaking him through and turning his body to ice. He gritted his teeth, trapping a gasp behind them. He inched forward, almost sliding down the deck as the boat climbed up another wave. He latched onto the mast, wrapping an arm around it to hold himself steady. With his free arm, he reached forward to grab the hat.

It was just out of his grasp, and he stretched his arm wider, loosening his hold on the mast to give himself more reach. The tips of his fingers brushed against the wet cotton of the cap. With a triumphant ‘aha’ Martin edged it closer, fisting it in his hands, and pulling it towards him.

It was then that a wave came from the side, hitting the hull of the boat like a punch. The boat lurched to the side, the water smacking into Martin, and pulling his grip away from the mast. He torso fell backwards, and he gave a shout, trying to pull himself up onto his feet so as to run back towards the cockpit. The boat gave another lurch, pulling the deck out from under him and sending him flying.

He felt pain erupt against his shoulder, and then he felt very, very cold. And then he didn’t feel much of anything.

1915, September 22^nd

He awoke in a coughing fit, his lungs dry and heaving as he hacked up brackish water. A hand fell against his skin, fingers pushing back his sodden curls. Martin started, head shooting upwards and meeting a pair of familiar dark eyes.

“Thank god,” said Jon aside, pulling his hand back. Martin just stared at him, unbelieving; His tail stretched out behind him, sunken in the deeper part of the cove they found themselves in. His hands were pressed against the sand, holding his torso up. Martin’s throat felt painfully raw. A few more splutters of water escaped his throat, and then his wheezes turned dry and painful. His hand went to his throat and he noted how uncomfortably dehydrated he felt. “How’re you feeling?”

“Where am I?” he asked in a faint mumble. “What happened?”

“The, ah - the storm got you,” said Jon. “I, well – I found you a few miles from land.” He swallowed. “You were – you were unconscious. Seemed like a situation you’d rather not be in, so I, ah – I brought you here.”

“Oh,” said Martin in a breath. “I – thank you, Jon.”

Jon looked down, holding his hands together against his chest. “I – well, I suppose we’re equal then. No, uh – no gratitude needed.”

“I think it is,” said Martin, letting out a small laugh, though it pained his chest to do so. He was sitting in a shallow bank, salt water lapping against his legs, but his head was leaning against rocks, and he could feel the sharp cut of them press into his skin. He pressed his hand against the sand to pull himself up, and then a scream of pain sounded through his body as his shoulder gave way. He cursed loudly, falling back down. His hand went to his shoulder, and he gripped it tightly, feeling the steady throb of pain beating through it.

“You’re in pain,” said Jon weakly, his face paling.

Martin gave a grimaced nod, letting out a slow breath as he did so. “It’s – ah, I think it’s dislocated. Must’ve been when I was – ah, Jesus – when I was thrown from the boat.” He pressed lightly against it, then let out another gasp of pain. “Christ.”

“I – I might have something – to help,” said Jon, and his hand went to his waist, where the skin darkened and turned to scales. There was a small pouch hanging off a twine strap, tied in a knot against his hip – Martin couldn’t say he’d ever seen Jon wearing it before. He pulled his hand out of the bag, and sorted through the handful of items that sat in his palm – a few shells, rocks and, what he was now holding out towards Martin -

“It looks like bark,” said Martin, furrowing his brow. “Thank you, but, uh – no thanks.”

“It’s willow,” said Jon, as if it were an explanation. When Martin said nothing, Jon sighed – pointedly. He thrusted his hand forward again, and Martin leaned away from it. “It’ll help.”

Martin dropped his hand from his shoulder, and used it to lower Jon’s. He shook his head. “It’s a bit off of a tree, Jon.”

“Yes,” said Jon plainly. “Just trust me – please.”

Hesitantly, Martin raised his hand to take the offered bark. He held it up between his fingers, rotating it for inspection. It looked – well, it looked like tree bark. “Do I just – ” He raised a single shoulder in a shrug.

“You eat it.”

“Of course,” muttered Martin. He looked down at it with distaste. “Of course you eat the tree. You don’t, you know – happen to have a sling in that bag of yours, or anything?”

“Martin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” murmured Martin, and with a sigh, he placed the chip of wood into his mouth. It tasted salty, sodden from Jon’s bag – and also warm and earthy. He crunched it between his teeth, feeling the wood split in the bite, small splinters separating and releasing a bitter taste. He grimaced, and Jon chuckled – nodding sympathetically.

“Do I swallow it?” asked Martin, his words slurred as he passed the chip over his tongue.

“Ideally,” said Jon.

Martin wrinkled his nose, and then forced the chip down; the dry texture carving a line down his throat as he did. He looked up at Jon, and stuck his tongue out in distaste.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Jon, raising an eyebrow. Then his expression slackened, and he let out a breath. “It’ll help with the pain, honest.”

Martin smiled weakly. “Thank you – again.” He looked around the cove they were in. “Where are we?”

“You’re on Eigg right now,” said Jon, a small frown on his lips. “The mainland was too far for me to swim with you.”

“Eigg,” echoed Martin weakly. He felt a sudden rise of panic grow in his chest. “I – how do I get back?”

“There’s a small dinghy less than a mile from here, I saw it when I brought you in.  Doesn’t look to be in the best quality, but, well – better than nothing, I suppose.”

“Oh, I – thank you, Jon,” said Martin in a breath, before he let out a groan. “God, will I even be able to row?”

Jon paused for a moment, tongue peeking out against his lips in thought. “I – I may be able to tow you back.”

“You’d do that for me?”

Jon just nodded, eyes flickering downwards. Then he let out a small laugh. “Here’s hoping nothing awful happens this time – you don’t seem to have the best luck out at sea. First time sailing, you end up with, well – me. And the second time – ” he just gestured to Martin’s slouched and fatigued body, which earned a small laugh.

“Thirds a charm then,” huffed Martin, and then furrowed his brow, looking at Jon. “I wouldn’t count you as bad luck, though. Rather the opposite, really.”

Jon gave him an odd look. “I think you’re quite out of sorts, at the moment.”

Martin shook his head again. “No, I – really, Jon. I mean, yes, I’m hardly in the – the best headspace right now, but – but – ” another toll of pain sounded through his body, and he gritted his teeth, pressing his head back against the rocks and riding it out.

“Let’s just focus on getting you back to the mainland,” said Jon. “Can you stand?”

Martin gripped the rocks with his good arm, and pulled himself upwards, letting out a steady breath as he did so. Jon began to swim along the shoreline, and beckoned for Martin to follow. Cupping his shoulder in his hands, and cradling his arm against his chest, he followed suit, wading through the shallow water.

“What’s on this isle?” asked Martin. “It looks almost deserted.”

“A few families live here,” replied Jon. “Not much else, though. I used to be friends with the daughter of the Kirk elder – say, a decade ago.”

“Not friends anymore?” asked Martin, though he felt foolish as soon as the words left his mouth.

Jon’s made a noncommittal sound. “I – she moved to the mainland when she turned eighteen. Suppose there aren’t many prospects in a place like this, and I don’t think she intended to work for the church.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin weakly.

Jon just shook his head. “No, no – it’s – I suppose I’m not the most conventional friend, and definitely not one worth tying yourself to the sea for. I think she ended up in Glasgow, maybe even moved down South.”

“Maybe I knew her then,” chuckled Martin, aiming for levity.

Jon hummed. “Perhaps.”

They continued down the final stretch of the beach in silence. The aforementioned dinghy slowly drifted into view, tucked between a cluster of rocks, and knocking into them in tandem with the waves. As Jon had said, it was rather beat up, and the wood looked quite rotten upon closer inspection.

“It should make the journey,” said Jon, swimming up to it, and hooking his arms over the side. “Hardly glamorous, but it floats.”

“I’m not really in a position to be fussy,” said Martin, as he placed his good hands against the hull of the dinghy, and began to lead it out of the rocks. Once the water reached his thighs, he held the boat steady, and pulled himself in. It was slightly difficult with the injured arm, and the boat creaked and rocked cautiously, but he managed to seat himself with an air of triumph.

“Pass me the rope,” said Jon, holding his hand out towards Martin. He floundered for a moment, as he searched the boat, whilst Jon continuously pointed and stated, “There, it’s just – where I’m pointing, Martin.”

Eventually, he found the coil underneath the bench, and tossed it to Jon, who quickly looped it around the rusty cleat at the bow.  He wrapped the rest of the length around his hand, and began to pull it slowly, his tail kicking up out of the water with force. With a grunt, he tugged the boat into the waves, where it seemed easier to tow, as Jon worked off the momentum.

The water was calmer now, showing no history of last nights turmoil. It looked so peaceful, that it seemed almost impossible that it could turn the way it had. Martin shuddered – he hoped that his next excursion out to sea wouldn’t be for a while, if not ever.

He watched Jon as he worked, jaw clenched in effort as he led the boat over the waves. His brow was furrowed in focus, and his attention seemed spent on the task at hand. He thought, as he often did, of the last time he had seen Jon – and the ensuing regret that followed. He wondered, maybe, if this was his olive branch over onto the what if that haunted him.

Martin had felt fear – true fear, real fear, on that boat. The fear he’d felt with Jon … it was different; it was as Jon said – a good fear. It wasn’t something to run from, but rather towards – to be encompassed by it.

“Sorry,” said Jon after around twenty minutes. He rested his hands against the side of the dinghy, and let out a long breath. “I just need a rest, apologies.”

“God, Jon – don’t be ridiculous,” blurted Martin, sliding onto the opposite bench, nearer Jon. “You must be exhausted. I’m – well, I’m hardly light.”

Jon shook his head. “No, no, you’re – well, yes, you aren’t the, uh – the lightest. But I’m alright – just need a moment, is all.”

“Can I – can I help?” asked Martin.

Jon raised an eyebrow, looking Martin up and down. “I don’t know, can you?”

Martin let out a sudden laugh, his hand returning to his shoulder. “Right, right – of course.”

His brow lowered, and he looked at Martin with a much softer expression, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Thank you, though. Best get moving, however – you need to get that looked at.” He gestured to Martin’s shoulder, before slipping off of the boat, and taking the rope in his hand again. “Hold on, I suppose.”

Another twenty minutes passed before they found themselves along the familiar stretch of beach, that sat below the Lukas estate. The building stood as it always did, which, for some off reason, struck Martin as odd. It looked too neat to match how off-kilter Martin felt. Jon faltered momentarily as they neared it.

“It’s – I can push you a bit further, but I – I probably shouldn’t get so close,” said Jon. “Not during the day, at least.”

“Of course,” agreed Martin. “It doesn’t look that deep here. I should be able to – to wade. Hopefully.”

Jon nodded, and held the boat steady as Martin maneuvered himself overboard, legs first. It was a note deeper than anticipated, reaching up to his shoulders, and he shuddered as the cold embraced him.

“You alright?” checked Jon, a hand coming up towards him, before he caught himself, and left his hand hovering. He was moments away from Martin, both tucked behind the boat, sheltered from view from the beach. With the pink hue of exertion against his cheeks, and his hair slicked back with salt water, and the scattered rays of sunlight speckling across his skin; he looked ethereal.

“Yeah, yeah – I’m okay,” reassured Martin, nodding his head a tad more enthusiastically than usual. “I – thank you, Jon. For – for this, and last night, and – and before.”

“Before?” echoed Jon, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” said Martin. “I didn’t really have the chance to say, with, well – Peter, and all. And I’m sorry for that – about that, I know I didn’t really – I dealt with it poorly, let’s say. But it was – it was probably the nicest night of my life, Jon. I – no one’s ever – you were just so nice.” Martin was well aware that he was rambling, and could feel the warmth of embarrassment against his cheeks – but he couldn’t quite bring himself to mind; he felt lighter with the words gone. 

“Nice,” said Jon, sounding out the word as if it were unfamiliar. He repeated it again, his lips curling upwards as he did. Martin liked how pretty his lips looked when he said it. “Never been called nice before.”

“Well you are,” stated Martin. “Nice that is – very nice, in fact.”

Jon’s smile widened, just shy of a grin, yet all encompassing, nonetheless. “I think you’re quite nice yourself, Martin.”

Martin smiled back, cheeks warm under flattery – and Jon’s smile broke wide, looking at him the way that only Jon ever had, the only one to ever look at him like that. And then Martin -

And then Martin kissed him. Rushing forward like the waves against the rocks, pushing and pulling, lapping and retreating, carving out a space for him inside Jon’s smile. Jon gasped into it; his lips gently parted in shock around Martin’s, before he melted forward, kissing Martin with the same gentle force. Like blood against white cotton, the feeling of warmth and want began to seep through Martin, staining his body with longing. His hand came up against Jon’s jaw, his thumb massing circles under his ear, and leading him closer.

The kiss started soft, as most things do, and slowly turned to a gradation of urgency, as if neither of them could kiss each other enough to fill the gaps between seconds. Underneath the guilt, and the shame for the action, it felt -  it felt like coming home, like letters marked with kisses, like spitting the seeds of an apple out onto the road with your childhood friend.

It felt natural, it felt right. It felt nice.

Jon’s lips tasted of the sea, and Martin wanted to drink the ocean. He kissed him again, once, twice, again – and then broke it, in a breathless sigh. He stared at Jon, with his dark eyes, and flushed cheeks, and swollen lips.

“Is it okay, Jon,” Martin found himself, “is it okay that I want this?”

“Oh, Martin,” said Jon in a breath, carding his hand through Martin’s curls. “Of course it’s okay.”

He brought his arms around Martin, pulling him tight, and holding him up against the water. Martin’s own arms stayed cradled against his own chest, the pain fighting against the itch to wrap his own arms around Jon. He felt Jon place a kiss against his temple, and could feel the slow curve of his smile stamping affection against his skin. He felt his own mouth curl upwards – this feeling, it was happiness, undistilled, whole and unfractured; the feeling in its entirety, not drip-fed like before. It was almost overwhelming, and Martin wondered if he’d ever felt it before as strongly as he did there, in Jon’s arms. Emotion pricked at his eyes, and let out a wet laugh. Jon pulled back, looking at him with worry.

Martin just shook his head. “Happy tears.”

Jon smirked. “You weren’t lying before, then.”

Martin shook his head again. Jon’s hands came up to rest against the curve of Martin’s neck, and he traced his thumbs along the skin is parallel motion. His dark eyes flickered over Martin’s face, as if he’d never seen him before, taking in each detail, mark, and blemish. With anyone else, Martin would’ve felt scrutinized, and self-conscious; but Jon’s gaze was a comforting weight, and one he found himself melting under.

“You should head back in,” said Jon eventually, though there was reluctance to his tone. “Your shoulder will need looked at.”

Martin looked down at his shoulder, with a scowl that implied it was an inconvenience. He looked back to Jon. “Can I see you again - tonight?”

“Not tonight,” said Jon. “You need rest. Not to mention that I imagine sneaking out might prove difficult with everyone fussing over you. I – I wouldn’t want to risk it.”

“When then?” asked Martin, before pausing. “Sorry, unless – of course, you don’t want to. Which is – which is fine.”

Jon leant forward, and placed a chaste kiss against his lips. He pulled back with a smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. Of course I do – I just – tell you what,” and he pulled back, swimming a few strokes away, “do you see that rock?”

Martin waded through the water to where Jon was, and followed his hand. There, amongst the cluster of rocks that the two frequented, was a pointed pillar – stalagmite esque in its form, yet far more rugged. Martin nodded, and hummed in acknowledgment.

“Hang something off it when you want to see me,” said Jon. “A hat, or a ribbon, or – or something. I’ll see it, and I’ll – I’ll wait for you.” Martin nodded weakly, feeling incredibly soft under Jon’s tone. Jon smiled, a note of shyness in it. He reached forward and gave Martin’s hand a final squeeze. “Get home safely, alright.”

With a lingering kiss, the two parted.

Chapter Text

Martin approached the back door of the kitchen with a slight trepidation – he was soaked through, and dripping heavily, leaving pools of water in his wake. Whilst he didn’t want to hassle them with mopping up after him, he also had no chance of drying off in the bitter winds.

He gripped the handle, and pushed it open. It was almost silent in the kitchen, pots could be heard bubbling, as well as the rhythmic thud of knives against boards – but there was no chatter, no whistling from Daisy, or anything. He felt almost intrusive as he passed through the arch into the space.

He cleared his throat tersely, unsure of how else to welcome himself back in. The thudding stopped immediately, and all the eyes turned on him – all wide, and in Sasha’s case, rimmed with red.

“Martin,” she gasped, rushing forward, and bringing her arms around him in a tight embrace. He winced under it, his shoulder crying out. She jumped back, holding her hands up as if in surrender, and looked over him with a fierce intensity. Basira and Daisy stood behind her, both looking at him with the same pale-faced, and surprised expressions.

“Hi,” he said weakly. “Sorry about the water.”

“God, Martin,” she sniffled, using the heel of her hand to brush away a stray tear. “Peter – he said you got thrown overboard during the storm.” She shook her head as if in disbelief. “Jesus, are you – are you okay?”

Martin nodded. “For the most part,” he said. “I – my shoulder, though. I think I dislocated when I got thrown off.” He cradled his arm closer to his chest. “God, Peter, though – is he okay? He was bleeding pretty badly last I saw him.”

“Yeah, he’s – he’s – can someone grab him a towel, please,” said Sasha, looking between the two others. Daisy gave a firm nod, before quickly darting towards the cupboard. Sasha turned back to Martin. “Peter’s fine. A concussion, is all. He managed to steer back to the mainland after the storm died down. He got back last night, ranting and raving about how you – how you – ” She cut herself off with a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping. “You have no idea how glad I am to know you’re okay.”

Martin swallowed at those words, feeling an immense surge of fondness for his friend. He cracked a wonky smile towards her, just as Daisy draped a towel over him. He took it in his good hand, and ruffled it through his hair, tousling the worst of the wet out. Daisy then made a start on mopping away the trail of water that he’d left behind him.

“We should probably let Lukas know,” said Basira, gesturing towards Martin. “He’ll want to be made aware, no doubt.”

Sasha prickled, and nodded. “Yeah, bring him here. I’ve a few more things I want to say to him.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” pointed out Martin, though he wasn’t sure he agreed with the words as they came out. He was good at making excuses for people, though. “The wind picked up, we got blown into it.”

“He should’ve known better,” she stated, with more bite in her voice than Martin was used to. “It shouldn’t have just been the two of you, he – he just should’ve known better.”

“I’ll get him,” said Basira, turning on her heels with that and heading to the door. Sasha took a deep breath, before moving quickly; grabbing the stool from the corner, and pushing it towards Martin, guiding him onto it.

“We’ll have to cut you out of this,” she said regretfully, fingering the damp and sandy wool of his jumper. “Sorry – it’s quite nice.”

Martin made a noncommittal sound. “It’s just a jumper.”

With a nod, she pulled a pair of scissors out of a drawer, and ran them across the fabric; the fibres springing loose with each snip. With the garment split, peeling his injured arm out of it was much easier, and he felt ten times lighter with the sodden thing gone. Sasha ran the towel across his arms, dabbing away the salty water. She moved slowly across his shoulder, listening out to any winces or calls to stop. Martin swallowed, looking away as Sasha moved onto shifting his trousers down.

For modesties sake, she looked away, as he peeled away his undergarments, tossing them into the pile of soaked clothes. She held up one of the woollen blanket like a screen between the two, and Martin accepted it gratefully, wrapping it around himself, and savouring the warmth and dryness with an appreciative hum. She tossed his ruined clothes into an old basin, and dumped it into the sink.

By the time they were done, footsteps could be heard along the hallway, drumming an erratic tempo against the floor. The door burst open, with Peter standing there, a bandage around his head and a wild look in his eye. Basira stood behind him, looking uncomfortably between the two.

“Martin,” he gasped. “You – I don’t believe it.”

Martin just nodded weakly, feeling almost as if he were lying by confirming that – he didn’t quite feel like Martin sitting there. He drew the blanket around himself tighter.

“How?” demanded Peter, closing the distance between them, so that he almost loomed overhead. He was still in his sleep attire, his nightgown hanging off his body in a way that made him look deceptively frail; no more of the grandeur gifted by the coat. His skin was the colour of larvae, yellow and sickly, which highlighted the deep and dark bags that carved under his eyes – bloodshot and wide as they searched over Martin.

“I – I woke up on Eigg,” said Martin. “We must’ve been quite nearby when I got thrown over – lucky for me, I guess.”

Peter’s brow furrowed deeper, the lines on his forehead cresting into waves. “How on earth did you get back to the mainland?”

“I – there was a small dinghy,” explained Martin, “about a mile from where I woke up. I think it got washed up during the storm, too.”

“Basira said you’d injured your shoulder,” said Peter in a breath, looking at Martin like he was a spectre. His hand came towards his shoulder, and Martin flinched away from the touch. Peter’s expression darkened. “How did you manage to row here?”

Martin leant away from Peter, and swallowed heavily. “I mean it – it was hardly easy, but what else was I meant to do? I wasn’t exactly expecting a rescue mission.” He attempted a laugh, though it came out warbled. “Adrenaline is a funny thing, you know.”

“No.” He shook his head, and took a step closer, so close now that Martin had to crane his neck up to meet his eyes. “There was no way you could’ve survived that, Martin.” He jabbed a finger into Martin’s chest, so hard that Martin knew that it would leave a crescent moon indentation. “You can’t even swim.”

“Right,” said Sasha firmly, stepping in and placing a hand against Peter’s shoulder and guiding him away. “He needs to rest, and you need to step back. Martin is here, and alive, and, for the most part, healthy – let that be enough.”

“Here,” said Basira, cupping Peter’s elbow in his hand, and tugging him back towards the door. “I’ll take him back, and get the nurse whilst I’m at it.”

Peter allowed himself to stumble alongside Basira, but his gaze stayed steadily on Martin, as scrutinizing as before. Martin met his eyes with his own weight, and he hoped his words held malice as he spoke, “Sorry about your hat, sir.”

Somehow, Peter’s face paled further, the last of the blood draining quickly. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, before shutting it – and opening it again, akin to a fish, gasping for air. He just settled on shaking his head, a minute nod that was invisible to all but Martin. With another tug, Basira pulled him through the doorway, the door closing with a thud behind them.

Martin was in a bed.

A proper one, not the measly roll out mats like down in the kitchen – an honest to god bed, with four posters, and an excess of pillows. One of which was propped under his shoulder, holding it at a gentle angle to ease the discomfort. The nurses who attended to his mother had been nervous about resetting it, but had pulled through, nonetheless. Martin wished he could say that there were no tears.

The bed was Sasha’s doing, however – she had been rather adamant about the fact, and cornered Peter into allowing Martin to take use of the guest rooms whilst he healed up. It was painfully quiet in the room; no sounds of breathing from his fellows, nor the persistent creaking of the window as the wind tried to weasel its way inside.  A candle burned on his nightstand, the wax slowly witling down to a stub. Caught in the flickering of the dying firelight, Martin could see the way the water trickled down the window. He counted them as he lay there, but they kept multiplying, and splitting, and his task soon became impossible. He sighed, turning his gaze up at the ceiling, bordered with intricate moulding, and a small chandelier hung down overhead. It was a far cry from the dusty rafters of the kitchen.

It was easy enough to say that Martin couldn’t sleep. Between the pain in his shoulder, and the flashes of crashing waves, and the feeling of Jon kissing him – it was a lot, and his brain hopped between the three in an erratic fashion. He tossed his head side to side, groaning in frustration as another hour slipped by without respite.

By the time the candle finally died, turning into a nub of its former self, Martin had given up on sleep. He kicked the covers off, and wrestled himself upright, slipping his chilled feet into his slippers. He padded towards the door, and peeled it open, holding his hand against the seam to silence the click of the lock.

The hallway was deserted, though he’d expected that. The lights were off, but moonlight shone down through the window at the end of the hall, turning the corridor into a milky blue hue. Martin cut through it, getting a feel for the floor underneath his feet. Turning a corner had him looking down another hallway – just as long, and imposing as the one before. It seemed an awful waste for a man such as Peter Lukas, with no kin to name, to own a home this expansive and sprawling.

Martin passed by an ajar door, looking into another guest room, and felt a pang of injustice in his chest – he was expected to sleep on the hard stone of the kitchen, when there were perfectly serviceable rooms going unused? But they were being used, Martin supposed – used to highlight Peter’s hefty wealth, each room a reminder for his fortune. They were like trophies.

There was a small stairwell at the end of this corridor, a spiralling thing, and far less ornate than the grand one in the foyer. It was stone, rough and well worn – most likely a fixture of the estate before Lukas took it over. Martin moved up it. It was dark, with no windows to allow light; and Martin regretted not grabbing one of the small candelabras from his room. With his good hand, he felt his way up the stairs, tracing the pillar that ran upwards. It opened out onto another corridor, smaller than the ones below, and lined with doors. One of which, was slightly ajar, and warm light pooled outwards.

Music could be heard, warbled out of a gramophone – and the notes drifted easily into the hall. Martin tensed, not wanting to be spotted, but now painfully curious as to who was up here at this hour. It was late, after all – and Martin didn’t fancy that the other workers made as big a habit as he did of breaking curfew. Carefully, he moved forward, staying close to the wall as he did. He reached the door, and peered through the crack.

From the sliver that he could see, it looked to be an office. A large oak desk could be seen, piled up with books, maps and a metronome, that swung rhythmically atop the pile. The sound of the ticking was almost lost under the swell of the music, turned up now slightly. There was a fireplace behind the desk, flickering viciously as paper was tossed into it. A disjointed hand, form hidden behind the door, was flicking through a stack of paper in one hand, and using the other to feed the flames.

Curiosity now getting the better of him, Martin pressed his hand against the door, and teased it open an inch more. However, the hinges called out noisily as he did, and the figure stopped. In a second, the door was being flung open, and Peter was standing there, hand gripping the door frame, and eyes wide with surprise.

“Martin,” he said stiffly, the tone of his name holding more than spoken.

“I’m sorry,” answered Martin. “I didn’t mean to – I couldn’t sleep, is all.”

“Curfew exist for a reason,” said Peter. “The rules still apply to you, ailments aside.”

“Of course, sir,” said Martin. “I – what are you still doing up?” Had Martin had any other day, he would’ve slapped his hand across his mouth at that, and furiously apologised for his nosiness. However, Martin had had quite a day, and couldn’t bring himself to care much. “You should be resting, too.”

Peter’s bristled brow rose upwards, arching over his heavy eyes like the crest of a wave. “This is my home, Martin, or need I remind you. I am free to wander these halls, as I please, and when I please. I understand that our excursions together may have, let’s say – softened our relationship, but I am still your boss, and you still answer to me. Not, and I shouldn’t even have to be saying this, the other way around.”

Martin prickled at that, feeling a finger of tension worm its way between his ribs and poke at his lungs. He forced his face into sympathy, though even he knew it looked fake. “I was just worried, is all. We both had quite a nasty shock out there.”

Peter’s jaw clenched for a moment, before he eased it down. His lips drew themselves into a gentle smile, though his eyes stayed tight. “Quite.”

Then another voice came from the room, smarmy and dripping, that crooned out, “Peter? Who is that?”

Martin didn’t pretend not to notice the way Peter’s shoulders reflexively drew upwards, and his expression went sour. He turned back towards the room, “It’s just Martin, Elias – he couldn’t sleep.”

“Do you nanny all your staff, or is he an exception?” asked Elias, as he appeared behind Peter. A pair of C-bridge glasses pinched his nose, and in his hand he held a wrinkled piece of paper, folded in half. He met Martin’s eyes and raised one of his thin eyebrows upwards. “Oh, Martin – of course. I heard about yesterday. Ghastly stuff.”

“Mm,” hummed Martin. “Yes, it was quite – it’s – ”

“Over,” finished Peter. “Frankly, I would be quite keen to just put the whole affair behind us. It doesn’t do good to dwell on the matter, and – well, we’re all fine, aren’t we?”

It didn’t feel like a question that desired an answer; not an honest one, anyway. Elias tapped Peter’s shoulder, and tilted his head back towards the room. “Come now,” he said. “I’m sure Martin can get himself to sleep without you reading him a story.” He looked straight at Martin, with dark and piercing eyes, shrouded behind sagging eyelids. “Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin smiled tightly in response, and nodded in acknowledgment. “Sir.”

The music faded out, replaced now with the slow wheezing of the needle against the centre of the record.

“Don’t let me see you out passed curfew again,” said Peter, meeting Martin’s eyes with a steely gaze. “I mean it.”

Martin nodded. “Yes, sir.”

1915, September 25^th

“I don’t know what he knows,” said Martin. “I can’t – am I just being paranoid?”

Jon hummed in acknowledgment. He was lounging lazily across the rocks, his head resting against Martin’s thigh, and the tip of his tail floating against the tide. His hair was damp between Martin’s fingers, as he carded them through, twisting his coils of loose curls against his index finger. He alternated his hands between Jon’s hair, and the pen and paper to his right, which held a few nonsensical scribbles.

“I’d say keep an eye on him,” said Jon. “But he – I’m sure it’s all okay.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Martin, a small chuckle in his throat.

Jon wrinkled his nose. “I’m hardly a mind-reader, Martin. Has he – has he said anything else to you since?”

Martin shook his head. “No – and Sasha hasn’t been letting me work as much, so I’ve not been serving him. I – I feel like he’s avoiding me, though.”

“Maybe it’s guilt.”

“Guilt?” echoed Martin. “For what?”

“Well,” began Jon, “It was sort of his fault that you both got caught in that storm – he’s always been a cocky sailor. Hoped it would be the death of him, I’ll be honest. Of course, it just ended up being you who had to deal with his consequences.”

Martin worried his lip, and pushed a loose strand of hair away from Jon’s face. “How do you know Peter? You called him by name on the boat, has he – have you two met?”

Jon’s expression soured, his brows meeting together, and carving a neat line between them. “I know of him, of his – his work.”

“Fishing?” Martin let out a small laugh. “I mean, I suppose that could be taken personally, but – ”

“He doesn’t just fish,” cut in Jon. “He – he hunts. There used to be a seal colony near Barra, did you know?” Martin just shook his head. “You can thank your boss for that. Cleaned them out in less than a year, it was – god, it was barbaric. Not the only time, either.”

“Christ,” said Martin in a breath. “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Jon, but it wasn’t said with malice, or with judgement. “He hardly advertises that particular side of his fortune. Has done quite a good job of hiding it, in fact.”

‘The fish markets will only get you so far’ Peter had told him, the first time they’d gone out to sea, and he had laughed as he said it – as if it had been some awful inside joke. He’d worn such a smug smile, and with the context behind the expression, it turned into a snarl – brutalist and animalistic. Martin shuddered.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” offered Martin, when he noted the tension along Jon’s jaw.

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “Our time together is limited enough as it is, and I’d rather not waste it discussing Peter Lukas.” He looked up at Martin, and then, in a voice far softer than before, spoke, “How’s the writing going?”

Martin made a noncommittal sound, drawing his hands across Jon’s jaw, which elicited a small hum of serene pleasure. “It’s going,” he said.

Jon laughed, and Martin could feel the thrum of it against his fingers. “Not well then.”

On Jon’s chest, lay a book, split down the middle and pressed open against him. His hands rested against the cover, and it rose and fell with each breath. Martin tapped it. “How’re you finding Melville?”

“It’s entertaining enough,” said Jon. “Did you give me this one solely due to the fact that it takes place at sea?”

Martin shrugged. “I wasn’t really sure what genre you best liked. Seemed like a safe bet, I’ll be honest.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Well, for next time, I prefer mysteries.”

“Is that so?” said Martin, a small smirk on his lips. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind when I’m next in the village – I’ll pick you something up.” He paused for a moment. “I’m – well, I’m actually heading down on the Friday to stock up the pantry. Sasha thought it could be a – a nice treat. Think it was just to get me out the kitchen, if I’m honest – this arm has me more as a nuisance than anything.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Sounds like a pleasant day.”

Martin nodded, as he ran his thumb down the stretch of skin along Jon’s neck. “I thought maybe you’d like to come?”

“To the village?”

“I know that it’s a – a bit more of a, uh – well, the legs,” stammered Martin. “But I thought, maybe, it could be – well, it could be nice.”

“I think so, too,” said Jon.

Martin blinked. “So – so you’d like to come? With me?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Of course with you, Martin.”

Martin smiled, cupping Jon’s face, and leaning down to kiss his lips. Jon tilted upwards into it, his own hand pressing gently against Martin’s forearm. He squeezed it with a sigh, the exhalation warm against Martin’s lips. The kiss broke gently, neither moving further away than a breath. Jon’s eyes, so dark against the sea, flickered with vibrancy beneath the autumn sun. Like rockpools, his eyes hid secret depths, with flickers of colours speckling the obsidian shade. Jon smiled at him, and the edges of his eyes crinkled like the pages of a well-loved book, telling stories in the lines. Martin kissed him again.

“When should I meet you?” asked Jon, as Martin pulled back.

“Dawn, unfortunately,” said Martin. “The fresher produce tends to go fast, so we’d have to be quick. But after that, we can stay in the village for a wander. Will that be okay?”

“With you?” said Jon. “More than.”

Martin felt his heart swell at that, and he needn’t a mirror to know that he was grinning, the strain of his cheeks was enough. “That’s – that’s great, I’m glad.” He ran his thumb across Jon’s jaw once more, before sighing. “I should really head back – we’ll be starting dinner preparations soon, and, well – someone needs to stand around being useless, might as well be me.”

“You’ll come back?” asked Jon, with a soft worriedness on his tone.

Martin felt his face soften, and he ran a hand through Jon’s hair, pulling him forward for one last kiss. “Always, Jon.”

Chapter Text

1915, September 31^st

“You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.”

― Richard Siken

The village that resided near the estate of Peter Lukas could be easily summed up with the word quaint. Perhaps it was just in comparison to Martin’s experience of London, that the village seemed as twee as it did. It was nothing more than a street, punctuated with a church at the end of the road, which loomed over the residents with a fierce steeple, that looked set to puncture the clouds above.

A few shop fronts pressed themselves against the dark stone of the buildings, fitted with hand painted signs, that creaked against the perpetual winds. Their windows advertised curiosities, luring in the townsfolk and other shoppers. Though, the fact that the stores had four walls and a door to block out the cold, was tantalizing enough in Martin’s opinion.

After the initial rush of the early market, the village had faded into the quiet morning hum that tended to haunt it. It was a peaceful sight, idyllic almost; and Martin watched the soft fray of people busy themselves along the street. One of those people being Jon, who peered curiously through one of the shop window, with an expression of deep fascination on his face. His hands were pressed against the windows, fingers splayed across the glass as his forehead rested against it. It was almost comical in a way, and the sight enraptured Martin; causing his replies to the stall owner serving him to turn to nothing more than noises of faux acknowledgment.

The man, who after a few trips down to the village, Martin knew as Mr MacPherson, pressed a bag of goods into his hands, and waved him off with a warm farewell. Martin quickly made his way back over to Jon, careful to keep a respectable distance between the two – though, he tapped Jon’s shoulder to alert him of his presence.

Jon’s head turned towards him. “Are you done?”

Martin held up the crate of shopping. “Just. What’re you looking at?”

Jon looked back towards the window display, and jabbed his finger against it. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

Martin peered through the dusty glass, following Jon’s gaze to where a small teapot sat, nestled between other various knick-knacks, and memorabilia. It was a simple pot, emblazoned with a painted pattern of yellows, blues and greens; all swirling and twisting amongst one another to form a loose pattern, that seemed to hint at a form, though it was imperceptible in Martin’s eyes.

“The teapot?” checked Martin, with a slight note of scepticism in his tone. Whilst the pot was pleasing enough visually, nothing about it seemed to be in the realm of extraordinary.

“Yes,” said Jon. “It reminds me of the ocean, in a way. After low tide, when the seaweed gets all tangled up along the rocks.” He smiled. “Especially during Summer, when the sun turns the water orange. That’s – it’s quite a sight. I would’ve loved to show you it.”

Martin looked back to the teapot, and with Jon’s imagery in mind – the swirls began to move, flowing in and out of each other, and lapping against the confines of the ceramic. Then, Jon was suddenly right - it was beautiful.

“Maybe you could,” said Martin, and Jon looked back at him as he spoke. “I hope to still be here next Summer, after all.”

Jon’s smile grew. “I think I’d like that.”

Martin wished deeply that he could kiss Jon, and feel his smile against his lips in a way that he had so recently become accustomed to. But they were not safely down by the shore, and the desire quickly turned to a heavy weight, cold in Martin’s chest. Instead he just smiled back, and gestured towards the shop.

“Do you want to go in?”

“Oh.” Jon blinked. “Yes, I would, I think.”

The shop itself was long, yet narrow – though, maybe that was only due to the fact that every inch of wall space was filled with brimming shelves of crockery, literature, and homeware. The ceiling was low, as was the light; the afternoon sun shining through the window was cut off by a bookcase, standing proud against it.

The woman behind the desk smiled at the two. “Afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” said Martin, smiling back. Jon just lifted his fingers in a wave. There didn’t seem to be any one else in the store, and the two ventured deeper. Jon’s fingers touched every surface as they walked, running his hands over the worn wood of the shelves, and over the smooth ceramic of the tea cups, stacked like towers. Martin watched him, mesmerised, as he led them through the maze of shelves. His dark hair was pulled back and away from his face, with strands that broke free and lay over the soft wool of Martin’s jumper; none of Jon’s tourists had been so kind as to forget such a garment, and he had been shivering against the elements when Martin had met up with him that morning. The look that Jon had given Martin when he’d offered up his jumper had warmed him more than any wool could ever. Martin found that he would give Jon anything, if he asked.

“Oh, Martin,” said Jon in a breath, stopping suddenly. Martin stumbled into him, his mind only just returning from their thoughts, and he clutched Jon’s shoulders tightly to catch himself. Jon let out a small exclaim, his own hands coming up to hold Martin’ arms. “Here I thought you’d earned your sea legs.”

Martin blinked, and then, once realising that that had been a joke, laughed. “Sorry, sorry – you just startled me is all. Why’d you stop?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jon, and dropped his hands from Martin’s, and spun them towards the shelf – where they landed on a thick book, with an intricately patterned spin. “It’s that author you were telling me about – your Jane Austen.” He pulled it out halfway, before stopping. “Apologies, I’m not sure why I felt the need to point it out. You’ve already said you’ve read most of her work.”

Martin’s hand quickly grabbed the book, and he pulled it close to his chest. “No, no – thank you. Thank you, Jon. This is – this is a beautiful copy.” He relaxed his hold on it, and drew his fingers over the cover, with its inlaid text and swirls of gold. “Thank you for pointing it out for me.”

Jon tilted his head to the side, and looked at Martin with a note of uncertainty. “You know, you don’t have to buy it simply because I pointed it out.”

Wrong, thought Martin, that’s exactly why I would.

“I – I’m not,” lied Martin. “I left my old one back in England, so – so it’ll be nice. To have a new copy, that is.”

Jon smiled, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Right,” he said, and then, “oh my – there’s more around this way.”

With that, he turned around the next corner, and vanished. Martin quickly hurried after him, not keen to lose him in the maze they called a shop. It was dimmer in this part, the light cast from the scattered tungsten bulbs not quite reaching around the bend.

Jon was already crouched down on the floor, flicking through a stack of books that looked like they had been used as a make-shift step ladder. The shelves against the wall held a various assortment of items, a few books, lent against the edge, and tiny ceramic boxes, and beaded mirrors, and then a small ring – a curving gold band, with a green stone as the centrepiece. Martin picked it up, and, between his large fingers, it felt incredibly dainty. He inspected the ring, running his hands over the green stone. It held multitudes of colours, with streaks of brown and yellow running across it, showing the different layers of earth that it had come from.

Maybe his mother would like it. Yes, a gift would certainly brighten her mood. She used to wear rings all the time; and they would always clatter noisily as she cooked, knocking against the copper handle of the pan. Martin smiled at the memory, not allowing his thoughts to take him past that moment – not allowing himself to think about how after his father died, she’d first removed the wedding band, and then all the rest. She didn’t make a noise when she cooked after that, when she cooked – that role quickly fell to Martin. She never much cared for his cooking, though.

Fuck. So much for not thinking about it.

He quickly brought his attention back to Jon, who was now leaning against the wall, a book propped against his knees, and a look of intense fasciation on his face. Martin moved over, and slid down the wall beside him. The cuff of Jon’s trousers had risen up, revealing the slender curve of his ankle, that swam in the too-big boots. The skin there was paler than the skin on his forearms, and white crescents patterned the flesh – scales, realised Martin.

He wanted to touch them, and see if they felt the same as his tail did. But he stopped himself, opting instead to loosely point at the book in Jon’s hands, cleanly split down the middle. “Do you always start reading halfway through the book?”

Jon cast a quick look towards him, before his gaze fell back on the pages. “The starts are always so dry – at least stuff happens halfway through.”

“Oh,” sounded Martin, as he peeled back the cover to see what it was he was reading. “Darwin’s Origin of Species? I hate to spoil it for you, Jon – but it was apes.”

“What was apes?”

“What we evolved from,” said Martin with a laugh. “Maybe that was at the start, though.”

“Very funny, Martin,” deadpanned Jon, looking up from the book to raise an eyebrow. “Though, I can certainly see where your lots brutish nature came from, regarding apes.”

“Rude.”

Jon smirked, and turned the page. A moment of silence, and then, “You’re staring.

Martin blinked, and pulled his eyes away. He hadn’t even realised that he had been – Jon just had an odd sort of magnetism about him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Jon. “I quite find I enjoy having your attention.”

“Oh,” said Martin, almost a squeak. “That’s – that’s good, I suppose.”

Jon’s hand moved from the page towards Martin, and he held it, palm facing upwards for him to take. Martin looked at it, like he supposed Adam and Eve had looked at the apple. Jon’s hand was as forbidden as it was tantalising, and within the crevices of his fingers, and the lines of his palms, was everything Martin could ever wish to know.

He wondered if Adam and Eve felt the same rush of excitement biting into that apple, that Martin did taking Jon’s hand, there on the dusty floor of that store. Like teeth sinking into the flesh of the fruit, Martin squeezed his hand, clutching it and claiming his sin.

What could be more delicious than this, he wondered?

“Do you believe in God?” Martin found himself asking.

Jon didn’t look up as he answered, “No. Do you?”

“Don’t think he’d have me,” chuckled Martin sardonically. “My mother does, though. Think that’s why she doesn’t like me much.”

“Does your mothers God require her to hate her children?”

Martin shook his head. “No, quite the opposite, really.”

“Why then?”

Martin ran his hand over Jon’s knuckles. “This, I suppose. Because I want this.” He sighed. “I should be grateful, really. She could’ve reported me, told the police – all that horrible stuff. She didn’t, though. I’m lucky.”

“This is wrong?” asked Jon, looking down at their joined hands with an expression of such pained confusion, that made Martin’s chest hurt.

Martin nodded, swallowing heavily as he did.

“Because I’m a fish.”

The laugh that Martin let out was a sudden, and surprised; an inelegant barking sound. He shook his head, a smile of amusement on his lips as he spoke, “Oddly enough, that part is actually fine.”

Jon frowned, his lips pouting in an overly endearing manner. “Hm, I’m not quite sure I follow, then.”

Martin hesitated as he looked over at Jon, before his face fell into a soft smile. “Maybe for the best, I’ve found understanding has never done me any good.”

Jon’s eyes flickered across Martin’s face, before he smiled, not one of joy, but one of comfort, and rested his head against Martin’s shoulder. Against his better judgment (though, when had that ever stopped him before), Martin rested his head down against Jon’s, feeling the soft and salty strands of his hair tickle his cheeks.

This is where Martin existed; in stolen corners, and midnight oceans, and thoughts of wanting.

This is where he lived, in fragments. 

Martin placed the crate of food down on the kitchen table, ladened high with grains, and beans, and colourful veg. He pulled his new Jane Austen book out from where it sat tucked between a bag of flour, and a tin of peas, and placed it down on the counter. He ran his hand over it; the golden text glistening gently in the light. Jon placed his own bag down beside it, letting out a small breath of exertion as he did.

“Thank you for helping,” said Martin, wrapping an arm around Jon’s waist, before pressing a chaste kiss against the top of his head. He murmured against it, “would you sing for me?”

Jon hummed, tilting his head so as to press a kiss against Martin’s lips. “You’d like that?”

Martin nodded. “You have a beautiful voice.”

Jon warmed under his words, a pink hue blooming against his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Very well then.”

Martin let out an airy laugh, stepping back towards the table. Jon pulled the kitchen stool towards him, and perched upon it, crossing his legs over themselves. The song started low and quiet, so faint that Martin had to focus to hear it. Gradually, though, as Martin placed the shopping away in their respective places, the song grew, slowly reaching a melodic crescendo, that came crashing down into a swirling verse. Like last time, the song wasn’t in English – though,  Martin liked to think that he could convey the meaning through the enunciation of Jon’s voice. It was melancholic, in a way, and made something in Martin’s chest twist, as if mourning something he didn’t know he’d lost.

By the time the song finished, Martin had finished unpacking, and he turned to Jon, resting against the table. “That was beautiful. Thank you, Jon.”

Jon looked up at him, and let out a small breath, flexing his hands out against his knees. “You are – you’re welcome, Martin. Always happy to oblige.”

Martin laughed. “You make it sound like a business transaction.”

Jon hummed, dropping his legs down off the chair so that they swung. “Where’s everyone else? The, uh – the Daisy woman, and the other one?”

Martin looked around, as if he’d just noticed that the room was empty. “Oh, well, it’s Basira’s day off, and Sasha and Daisy are probably, you know – ” he waved his hand around vaguely. “Around, somewhere.” Jon nodded, and Martin pulled forward the chopping board. “Do you want to help for a bit? Might as well make a start.”

“I thought you weren’t meant to work,” said Jon, crossing the distance between them. He rested easily against Martin’s side.

Martin gave a shrug. “That’s just Sasha being careful, I’m fine – honest. I also kind of just, I don’t know - miss it, I suppose. I like cooking.”

“I don’t really – ” Jon cut himself off, opting instead to gesture over the table. “I don’t exactly cook, you know. I’ll probably just be in your way.”

“Nonsense,” said Martin, and then, “well, yes – maybe. But – I can show you; it’ll be – it could be nice.”

“Nice,” echoed Jon, tilting his head to the side. He pulled a carrot forward from in front of him, and held it up to his face, inspecting it closely. He made a small noise of satisfaction, and then placed it into his mouth, and bit a chunk out of it.

“Jesus,” exclaimed Martin, grabbing the carrot. “We’re preparing the food, not eating it – and who on earth takes a bite out of a carrot horizontally?”

Jon chewed noisily as he shrugged, grimacing slightly as he crunched through it. “It’s not very nice,” he said over a mouthful. He swallowed, and stuck his tongue out. “Very bitter.”

Martin supressed a laugh, as he cut the middle, and eaten, section off of the carrot, tossing it into the scrap bin. He quickly pulled his knife across it, dividing it all into even, circular slices. He looked over to Jon, who was watching intently, and offered over the knife. Jon looked up at him with hesitant eyes, a small line of worry between his eyebrows. His hand slowly came over Martin’s, fingers shifting around the handle of the knife.

“Just, uh – hold it like this,” said Martin softly, easing Jon’s grip on it so that the handle rested against his palm. “How does that feel?”

“It feels like I’m holding a knife,” said Jon, simply. “Is it meant to feel like something?”

Martin chuckled. “I just mean, is it – is it comfortable to hold?”

“As comfortable as it can be, I suppose,” said Jon. He shifted the weight of it in his hands, and then tapped the tip against the chopping board. He pulled forward another carrot, and looked back at Martin’s board. “I don’t really see why you people bother with all this though,” and he gestured to the kitchen as he spoke, “it just seems like a lot of hassle, if I’m being honest. It all gets chewed, anyway – does this,” and he gestured to the board in front of him, “really matter?”

Martin hummed, as he sorted through the ingredients. “It’s, uh – it means something, I think. Maybe it means something because it’s putting effort into something that, yes – doesn’t really need the effort, but it’s nice to do, and it tastes nicer when you do it. It’s sort of an act of love, really.” He dragged the skin of the carrot off with his knife as he spoke, watching it turn to orange peels on the board. “It’s sort of like how I write poetry. That stuff doesn’t need to exist, but it’s nice that it does and I enjoyed making it exist.” He let out a small laugh. “Sorry, I seem to have rambled there slightly.”

Jon just shook his head. “You really mustn’t apologise, Martin. I like hearing you talk, it’s – it’s nice.”

“Nice.”

“What?” said Jon, looking over at Martin with a small smile on his lips. “Does nice not cut it anymore?”

“No, no,” recovered Martin. “Nice is – is – nice. Nice is nice.”

“How eloquent,” joked Jon. “Thought you were meant to be a poet?”

“Yeah, well,” laughed Martin, “in my defence – I’m not a very good one.”

There was a sudden gasp of pain, and Martin’s eyes shot over to Jon – who had suddenly dropped his knife, and was clutching his hand against his chest. A river of blood carved down his arm, and Martin felt his face pale.

“Oh, Christ – Jon,” he said quickly, as he grabbed a spare rag, and moved towards Jon, who uncupped his hand, and allowed Martin to press the towel against the wound. “Does it hurt?”

Jon shook his head. “Just took me by surprise is all. I’m alright, really.”

“Let me clean this up, okay?” Martin ignored Jon’s protests, as he wrapped the rag around Jon’s hand, and darted over to the sink – wetting a newer, and much cleaner towel, and rushing back over. “Let me just – oh.”

When Martin dragged the damp towel over Jon’s hand, where the blood was pooling from, he found that there was no wound – just a small white line across the flesh of his palm. His brow furrowed, and he looked up at Jon, confusion written over his face.

“I did say I was alright,” said Jon dryly, smirking slightly. A moment passed, where Martin said nothing, and furrowed his brow further. Jon conceded with a sigh. “I – I heal much faster than, well – you would.” To emphasis his point, he flexed his hand; and the white line of the scar began to fade, too - until there was nothing left but a blood-stained towel to indicate any injury. “See – I’m alright.”

“That’s – ” Martin swallowed. A breathy laugh broke through his shock. “Gosh, I suppose I really aught to not be surprised anymore.”

Jon cocked his head to the side. “I should hope I haven’t bored you quite yet.”

Martin hummed, nodding gently as he raised his hand to Jon’s neck; his fingers whispering against the line of raised, and raw skin. “What about this one? This one didn’t heal.”

Jon’s own hand came up to the scar, and he rubbed his hand over it – half obscuring it, half appearing to try and erase it. “I – I was quite weak at the time, and I – I didn’t have the energy to repair my body like you just saw.”

“Oh,” sounded Martin, concern lacing his voice. “Can I ask what happened?”

Jon swallowed, then let his hand fall down into Martin’s, taking the sodden rag out of his hands and placing it on the workbench. Then, he placed his hand into Martin’s, and interlocked their fingers. “Not everyone is as kind as you.”

“Jon,” said Martin, his name weighted with more than spoken. Jon smiled softly, a gentle melancholy at the edges, as if suddenly remembering the punchline to some long-forgotten joke.  He reached up, and pulled Martin closer for a kiss. He melted forward, his free hand coming up to cup Jon’s face, fingers carding through his hair, a thumb tracing the curve of his ear. Jon hummed happily against his lips, looping his arms up around Martin’s neck, and pulling him down lower. Martin’s hands fell to the gentle curve of Jon’s waist, and he held his body close against his, relishing in the warmth of his frame.

Jon pushed forward, languid movements turning heavy as drew his fingers down the length of Martin’s spine, hands creeping under the hem of his shirt. Martin took in a sharp breath, as he felt the cold bite of Jon’s skin against his own, before the shock thawed into warmth. Jon’s hand’s carved across his hips, his thumb etching a line across his ribs, marking him with a red line of affectionate pressure.

“Jon,” murmured Martin, his name no more than a breath. His hands tightened around Jon’s waist, and in a single, easy motion, he lifted Jon up, seating him atop of the table.

“Oh,” said Jon, blinking. “That was – ”

“Yeah,” said Martin, his voice weak. Then he was kissing Jon again, hands clasping against his arms, his face, his hair. He felt like he was created to hold Jon, and yet Jon was sand, overflowing, slipping through his fingers, never able to be held in its entirety. Jon cascaded downwards in pieces, a hand resting against his neck, a kiss pressed against his shoulder, a breath pushed across his skin. Martin leant into it all, sanguine hands holding them both steady.

Martin knew how it looked; he knew there would be lie he could spin, no web he could hide the two behind if someone saw. Part of him felt like he was tempting fate, another like he was taunting it. Try and ruin this, he shouted at the universe. I dare you.

The kiss began to slow, weighted touches turned lazy and shallow breaths evened out. Martin pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against Jon’s, and relishing in the extra seconds he could steal from the moment.

Jon smiled; his lips flushed the most magnificent shade. He drew a hand through Martin’s hair, and let out a peaceful sigh. “Beautiful,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

All Martin could do was laugh, feeling far too intoxicated to form coherent words. He placed another kiss against Jon’s lips, counting out the beats of his heart before pulling back, and breaking away. Jon’s hands lazily followed him, fingers falling off his shoulders like water.

It was then that the door to the kitchen door opened, propelled by Sasha, who was holding a tray full of dirty crockery. Martin stumbled away from Jon, offering her a wobbly smile as she looked up to see him, his heart beat turning vicious in his ears. He ran a shaky hand down his shirt, hoping the movement went unnoticed, as he pressed out the wrinkles caused by Jon’s hands.

“Afternoon,” she said, and then looked over to where Jon was seated, head twisted to face her. “Oh – sorry, I – ”

“This is Jon,” said Martin quickly, stepping towards Sasha, and gesturing towards the other man. “I bumped into him down in the village, and we ended up getting a bit caught up chatting.”

“Yes,” agreed Jon slowly, as if unfamiliar with the word.

“Sorry,” continued Martin. “I know we aren’t meant to – to have other people in the kitchen, I just – sorry. I can – he can leave.” Jon frowned at that. “Don’t tell Lukas - please.”

“Relax, Martin,” laughed Sasha, placing the tray down on the table, and offering a wave towards Jon. Jon jerkily raised his own hand, and mirrored her motion. “Are you the same Jon Daisy mentioned?”

“Potentially,” he said. “How many Jon’s does Daisy talk about?”

“Just the one.”

“That’ll be me then,” admitted Jon. “Unless, of course, it’s not. In that case – ”

“Same Jon,” said Martin, cutting in. Then, quieter, “Same Jon.”

“Heard you had quite the pair of lungs on you,” said Sasha, resting a hand on her hip, a small smile on her lips. “Sad that I missed it, really.”

“Thank you,” said Jon, bowing his head slightly. “I’m sure you have good lungs, too.”

Sasha’s smile faltered into hesitancy for a moment, before she laughed. Martin looked between the two, with an odd feeling of trepidation – he felt as if he was watching both sides of his life interact, a thinly disguised veil between them working as his only defence. He feared the curtain of protection as much as he desired it; wishing to pull it down, and wishing equally to shroud himself in it.

The image before him felt like it would ripple if touched, too easily disturbed; too easily broken. He looked at Sasha, and matched how she was acting; easy smile, loose shoulders – this moment was not one to be feared. For a moment, a split second of naivety and hopefulness, Martin felt like he could have both sides.

Reality was a fickle thing.

Chapter Text

1915, November 20^th

Winter quickly bustled its way into the highlands, charging over the glens and leaving frosty trails in its wake. The mountains that loomed over the estate were capped in white, undisturbed and glistening like porcelain under the dusty sun. The nights held fires, and chattering teeth, and blankets held like capes over shoulders. It held gratuitous cups of tea, placed into icy and wanting hands. Winter brought change to the estate; it was quieter, less to do – and rarely did the staff venture out into the village unless necessary. The meals changed, too – no longer did the market hold the delicious and fresh produce from the Autumn harvest. Soups, and stews made up most of the menu – with stock made from the preserved meats in the pantry, and, on occasion, fresh fish from Peter’s fishing trips.

They hadn’t had fish in quite some time, however – as Mr Lukas had caught a nasty fever, and had been bedridden for the better part of a week. Martin wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up being the one to serve him, but alas – there he was, holding a tray laden with food, and making his way up to Peter’s office. He was a stubborn man, to no one’s surprise, and ignored all orders to stay in his bed, and rest. No, the man preferred to spend his hours in his office, scouring through books and paperwork, always wearing a furrowed brow atop his nightclothes.

Martin held his hand up to the door, and knocked. As was tradition, Peter would open the door for him, take the tray and quickly dismiss him. The door did not answer him today, however.  Mr Lukas was most likely asleep at his desk, his ailments getting the better of him. He’d want to be woken, and fed, no doubt. Martin pushed the door open, balancing the tray against his chest as he did so, and widening it with his shoulder.

Peter’s desk sat empty, the chair pushed back and away from the desk, as if he’d hurriedly gotten up, knocking it against the wall as he did. Martin looked around the room; over the three arched windows, and the leather couches that sat in front of them. He looked passed the rows of bookshelves, all towering high and impossibly well stocked. Then his eyes fell on the small door, pressed in the corner. Behind it, Martin could hear soft patter of footsteps, and the sound of water.

Martin knew that many of the rooms in the estate had washrooms attached, and Peter’s office seemed to be one of those. No worries – Martin would simply leave the tray on his desk, and he could eat when he was done. He made his way over, and placed the tray down gently atop the only clear space on the desk. Peter seemed to leave a perfect rectangle devoid of clutter solely for his dinner tray. It slotted perfectly between stacks of books, letters, and tea stained mugs – which Martin removed, and hung off his finger to bring back down to the kitchen.

There was a book open in the centre of the desk – a broad tome, with gilded golden edges and fine penmanship. Had Martin not been so familiar with Peter’s handwriting, he might’ve assumed it was a diary of sorts. Sparing a look back towards the washroom door, and listening out again for the muted footsteps, Martin moved around the desk, and loomed over the text.

He could feel the heat of the fire closer, as the flames backlit him, warming his chilled body. He ran his hand over the book, feeling the texture of the aged parchment. There were illustrations in the book – sketches of sort; depicting graphite whales, and renderings of seals, that swam between the words.

Where the whales swim, luck shall be found. Do not fear the great beasts, for they are gods incarnate – watchers of the waves, and bringers of harmony.

Martin frowned at the text; puzzlement apparent in the clean line between his brows. He peeled the cover upwards, and ran his fingers over the inlaid title,

Fables beneath the Sea

It was not a title that Martin would’ve expected on Peter Lukas’s desk, and he let out a bemused breath of air, the exhalation ruffling the corners of one of the stacks of miscellaneous paper clutter. The peak, a to-do list of nonsense, shifted off, cascading to the floor in a swift movement. Martin hurried to pick it up, hitting his knee on the jut of the drawer handle, and letting out a sharp gasp of pain. He grumbled some nonsensical curses at the offending piece of furniture, rubbing his hand against the tender spot, that was now destined to bruise. He grabbed the sheet of paper, and rose, using the corner of the desk to ease him upwards. He shuffled the stack back into neatness, noting the colourful flyer that now punctuated the top of the pile; it was a bright piece, all reds and yellows swirling into themselves, foregrounded by an illustration of a ringmaster, wearing a garishly saturated tailcoat, splayed out in movement. It was advertising a traveling circus, dated the year prior, down in Aberdeen. The corners were curled inwards, and raindrops smeared the ink, a tear at the top hinted at a nail – most likely torn down from the towns noticeboard.

As visually striking as it was, the book posed as more of an imminent interest, and Martin covered the flyer with the to-do list. He split the book back to the page he’d found it on, then began flicking through the pages – eyes scanning over drawings of other marine creatures, and swirling text.

He stopped when a winding tail curved around the pages – a rough sketch of torso melting into scales, and winding down to the point of a fin. The drawing had no head, and the human-esque hands of the creature were pointed, and jagged, crosshatched into a glinting knives edge. Nothing like Jon’s slender fingers, that traced only softness onto Martin’s skin.

Fishermen have for years told the story of merfolk as a curse – an omen. These creatures foretell bad fortune, often times causing it themselves. Though, some save fallen sailors, resulting in miraculous recoveries. However, this is not to be taken as kindness, no – merfolk do not understand anything aside from the hunt.

The sound of paper tearing sounded like a scream, and Martin had ripped the page free before he’d even had a moment to consider it. He didn’t know where the urge came from, but a part of him knew that he didn’t want Peter to see that passage. He held the shredded page in his hands, and looked at it with horror, before slamming the book closed, and scrunching the page into a ball in his hands. Panicked, he looked around the office, his eyes quickly falling onto the orange flames of the fireplace. He tossed the page into the fire, toeing it to the back so as to be unnoticeable. It caught in seconds, the edges turning black as the corners curled in on themselves – heat staining the page into ashes.

“Martin?” came Peter’s voice, and Martin whipped around to face him. His face was flushed, and damp slightly – Martin wasn’t sure if the sheen was due to his fever, or merely water from washing. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

“I brought your dinner,” said Martin, quickly move around the desk and gesturing to the tray. “I thought I’d just leave it out for you.”

“Oh?” sounded Peter, raising an eyebrow. “How kind of you.”

“Are you feeling any better, Mr Lukas?” asked Martin, placing his hands behind his back, hooking his fingers around his wrist.

Peter grumbled, running a hand through his wiry hair, spreading damp sweat through the roots. He let out a heavy breath, that turned into a wheeze, and then a cough. He fisted his hand, and drummed it against his chest, his other hand holding him steady on the desk as he spluttered over the books. Martin rushed to his side, and like he did with his Mother, pressed his hand between Peter’s shoulder blades, and gripped his bicep as an anchor.

“Should I call the nurse?” asked Martin, dropping his hands as the coughing eased, and taking a step back. Peter just shook his head and waved his hand though the air.

“No, no - I’m alright,” he said. “I’m alright.”

“You should rest,” said Martin. “You shouldn’t be working now, sir.”

“No,” snapped Peter, and then he sighed. “No, I just – I don’t want to sit in bed all day. I’m ill, not useless.”

“I know – ”

Peter cut him off by shaking his head, as he maneuvered his way around the desk, holding the edge for support as he did. He swayed as he walked, and his steps were shuffled. Martin noted that his socks had slipped down, and were bunched loosely around his ankles. Peter fell down into his chair, and the leather creaked as it strained below him. There was the sound of a draw opening, and then the shuffling of papers, before Peter protruded a small safety pin, adorned with a pressed purple flower.

Peter thumbed the metal, twisting it so that the flower fluttered, the colours blurring. He stared at it for a moment, as if pondering the thing, before holding it out towards Martin. Curiously, Martin took it, and held it in his palm.

“It’s a Michaelmas daisy,” he said. “They grow around these parts – pesky things, really. Beautiful, though, don’t you agree?”

Martin ran his finger over it, a whisper of a touch, and hummed. “Quite.”

“My crew carry those flowers with them,” continued Peter, meeting Martin’s eyes with a pointed look.

“Your crew,” echoed Martin, feeling his expression drop and his body chill.

“When the new year comes,” said Peter, “I’d like you to join. How does that sound?”

Martin swallowed. “I don’t – I don’t know sir, after last time – ”

“You’ll get over that,” cut in Peter. “Don’t allow fear to hold you back, Martin. It’s such a temperamental thing, it doesn’t do good to base your life off it.”

“Yes, but – ”

“Martin,” stressed Peter, before chuckling, and looking around the room. “I’m doing you a kindness here – don’t be foolish and turn it away. You’re hardly drowning in prospects.”

Martin felt quite done with Peter’s gifts of sharp kindness. He felt quite done with Peter in general.

“Of course,” he said, and he hated those words – he hated their quiet acceptance. He pressed his lips together tightly, and held up the daisy. “And thank you for this, sir.”

“Do you know why my crew wears them?”

Martin shook his head.

“St Michael,” he said, “Patron Saint of the sea,” and he raised a silver brow as he spoke, “and sailors. These flowers grow around the day we worship him; carrying them with us, carrying him with us – it offers protection on the seas.” Peter laughed; the sound wheezy. “Might be a load of poppycock, though. But, and I’ve been told this often, I’m quite fanciful for the fantastical.” He tapped the book in front of him, Fables beneath the Sea. “I like to think there’s more.”

“They’re good stories, sir,” said Martin, feeling a weighty lump in his throat – but for a reason he couldn’t quite pin down.

Peter leaned forward against the desk; elbows set squarely before him. “So, you think they’re stories?”

Martin let out a breath, and gestured loosely towards the book. “I – I just think that if those – those sorts of things were real, we would’ve, I don’t know, found something by this point. I think they’re just stories – nice stories, but stories, nonetheless.”

Peter smiled. “What makes you think people haven’t found things, Martin?”

Martin felt his heart pick up speed, and he hoped the tempo didn’t beat across his face. He forced a smile, and shrugged. “I guess I couldn’t really say, sir – I suppose I’ve just never paid that stuff much mind.”

Peter looked at him, with glassy eyes, rimmed red and blood shot. Martin felt sick under his stare, and he watched as the micro muscles in his jaw flexed, his mouth opening and closing against unspoken words. His hand opened, and curled in on its self, like a dying flower. There was tension in his body, and it stank; clogging up Martin’s throat with the smell of his foul agenda.

His hand relaxed. “You’re dismissed.”

Martin didn’t breathe easy until the door shut behind him.

                                                                            If this is wrong,

Then I wonder why

Does your hand fit into mine,

like

An apple does, when pulled from a tree.

You kissed

Seeds into my teeth,

And I smile and the world knows,

The truth of this sweet shame.

I spit them out,

Only for them to grow

Into a wood, a forest, a home.

Somewhere safe, for me to hide.

And you are there,

Red, and vibrant and forbidden,

Hanging from the tree,

And you fit into my hand, so perfectly.

I pull you free.

Martin looked at the words with a scowl on his face, his pen drumming against the page with an anxious beat, punctuating each line with specks of ink. With a sigh, he drew a cross over the words, not hiding them, just showing his disappointment in them. He pulled his blanket closer, wrapping it around his shoulders, as he looked up, through the window of the old boathouse – Jon’s finding, and a very welcome one as the seasons changed. It was a further walk than the rocks, but worth it when shutting a door against the wind became an option. Though, it was rather decrepit, and the smell of rotting wood permeated the whole space – but it was a sanctuary, their sanctuary, architectural ailments aside. When Martin looked out of the window, where the sea met the sky, he could almost pretend that it was a home. He did that a lot these days – pretending.

“What are your working on?” came Jon’s voice suddenly as his body broke the surface of the water, startling Martin; his pen flying out of his grasp. With a splash it landed in the water, and he grimaced, sucking in air as he did.

“Bollocks,” he sighed, “that was a good pen.”

Jon let out a small laugh, then held up a finger to signify a minute, his head vanishing back beneath the waves. Martin edged forward to the side of the dock, looking down into the ripples. Jon emerged a moment later, a look of triumph on his face, and Martin’s red pen in his hand. He offered it over, dripping water across the floor as he did. Martin smiled gratefully, and took it, wiping it dry on the cuffs of his trousers.

“Thank you, Jon,” he said warmly, tucking the pen back into his pocket for safe keeping.

“Of course,” said Jon, resting his arms against the rocks. “So, what are you working on?”

Martin felt his cheeks warm, and he tucked the writing pad against his chest. “Nothing, really – just some ramblings.”

“Oh, can I see?” asked Jon, a small smile on his lips. Martin shook his head, letting out a tight laugh as he did. Jon conceded with raised eyebrows, and a heatless huff. His hair was plastered away from his face, the curls pressed against his cheekbones, curving like darkened rivers across his skin. The growing moon set his skin aglow, silver almost – and he turned to look out across the room, his strong nose silhouetted against the light. He let out a small sigh, content to enjoy the peaceful night in silence it seemed.

He was beautiful, and Martin said that much – the words falling out in a reflective breath.

Jon’s head snapped towards him, his eyes wide and his cheeks visibly warmed. Martin wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Jon blush – he found he quite liked it. Jon’s flustered state was a new one, and quite a refreshing turn of tables from Martin’s usual bumbling.

“T-thank you, Martin,” he said stiffly, clearing his throat. “As – as are you, of course. Beautiful, that is.”

Martin just grinned, and leant forward, cupping Jon’s face, and kissing his parted lips, deepening it with a sudden surge of confidence. His hands drifted slowly to Jon’s neck, and he ran his thumb down his throat, feeling the bob of his Adams apple as he swallowed. He left his hand there as they parted, their noses touching in the short distance.

“I missed you this week,” said Jon, his voice low and his warm breath ghosting across Martin’s profile.

Martin smiled softly. “I know, I – I missed you too.” He ran his thumb across Jon’s jaw, curling over the soft drop of his ear. Then he sighed, and spoke as if he were in confession, “Peter asked me to join his crew today.”

Jon froze under Martin’s touch, and his eyes darkened – the blackness of his iris’ swallowing the white. “You wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to,” said Martin, and Jon softened; barely. “But I – it doesn’t really feel like a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Martin.”

Martin raised and dropped his shoulders in a breath. “I – I mean, what else would I do? He – he was right – there isn’t anything else I – I could do, Jon.” He tried for a laugh, but it came out strained. “I don’t exactly have any skills.”

“That’s not true,” stated Jon, firmly. “And – and besides, what’s wrong with what you’re doing currently? You suit the kitchen, it’s – you like the kitchen, Martin.” His lips twisted. “You wouldn’t be happy working for him.”

“Jon,” tried Martin. “I’m already working for him. And yes, yes – the kitchen is – is fine. But I don’t get paid, Jon – it’s a trade-off. I work for him, and in return; his staff look after my mother.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers getting caught in the tangles of curls. “What am I meant to do with myself when she – when she – ”

Martin wished that it had been a sob that cut him off; some reaction to the thought, a pre-emptive mourning of his mother. The concept sat atop of him, the weightlessness weighing more than he could describe. He didn’t want her to die, but he – no, he couldn’t think those thoughts.

The unspoken end of his sentence hung in the air along with his breath; and he watched the white tendrils float into nothingness. His shoulders dropped. “She’s getting older, Jon – sicker. I don’t know what to do with myself when she’s no longer around.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” asked Jon, intoning each word with a knotted brow.

Martin swallowed, and recoiled slightly in on himself. “I – I don’t know. I’ve always just looked after her – sort of forgot along the way that that wasn’t a permanent thing.”

“Okay,” said Jon, suddenly quiet – as if he were talking solely to himself. He looked up at Martin. “What do you not want to do then?”

Martin smirked. “Join Peter’s crew.”

Jon’s expression softened, and Martin saw a few tendrils of tension leave his body. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple – ”

Jon held up a finger, and pressed it gently against Martin’s lips, before sliding his hands over his cheek, and cupping it gently. “We will work something out, Martin. Something better - you deserve better.”

“Jon,” tried Martin again, his voice weak. He wanted, desperately, to believe Jon – to trust that he was right. But reluctance couldn’t beat reality. Martin knew his life; he knew his optimism was dated to end long before he did. Resignation would take him eventually, and he would succumb to living someone else’s life. He looked at Jon, with his wide and hopeful eyes, and felt a deep sadness settle in his bones. Whatever life he would live, he knew that Jon could not be a part of it.

But he was here now. Jon was here now. That had to be enough.

Martin sighed, and raised his hand and hooked it around Jon’s wrist. He gave it a squeeze, and then Jon said, “Stay here tonight.”

And Martin said, “Okay.”

His body swayed downwards, as he lay against the wooden surface of the deck. He pulled his blanket tighter over himself, and tucked an arm under his head – acting as a pillow. “I’m not sleeping,” he stated. “Just getting comfy.”

Jon looked doubtful, as he crossed his arms over the side, head lolling against his shoulder – eyes meeting Martin’s. There was peace between them; just the gentle sound of the tide creeping through, water lapping against the damp wooden frame, and their breathing.

Jon’s hand came forward, curling around Martin’s jaw, fingers carding through his hair. Martin could feel the soft pressure of his fingertips, and he hummed in pleasure at the feeling. Had his mother ever done this, he wondered? Had she sat at his bedside when he’d been sick, and pushed his hair out of his face with such soft consideration, and love – she must’ve. He must’ve just been too sick to remember. Salty water trickled down from Jon’s hand, and Martin wrinkled his nose as a bead of water trailed over his nose.

“Sorry,” said Jon, voice low. His hand had lifted, hovering above Martin like a halo.

“Felt nice,” murmured Martin, his vision growing thinner as his eyelids inched closed. “Don’t stop.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the gentle weight of Jon’s hand returned. He let out a small, breathy laugh. “You know, when I met you by those rocks, I thought you might be an Each-Uisge. My grandmother always warned me about those sorts of creatures, but I – well, I suppose I’ve always been a bit too curious for my own good.”

Martin chuckled. “What did you think I was?”

“An Each-Uisge,” repeated Jon, running his finger down the parting of Martin’s hair, “a water-spirit. You may have heard of Kelpies? They – well, they tend to claim rivers, and lochs; Each-Uisces prefer the sea.”

“You thought I was a water horse?” said Martin, lifting his head up to shoot Jon an incredulous look.

Jon sighed, lifting a brow, and easing Martin’s head back down. “Well, to be fair – as soon as I got closer, and saw how clean your hair was, I knew you were human. They – they take on human forms, you see – posing as beautiful men, or sometimes boobries. But, well, I definitely didn’t think you looked like one of those.” He laughed at that, as if it were sort of inside joke. Martin supposed that it was. “And, well – you seemed far too nice to be any sort of – of malicious spirit.”

Martin pulled his lips into a bemused smile. “Thank you - I think.” He paused for a moment, worrying his lip. “Creatures like that, are they – they’re real?”

Jon tilted his head to the side. “Of course they’re real, Martin. Where on earth did you think those stories came from?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Martin. “Suppose I never thought about it much.” He caught Jon’s hand in his, and brought it down, so that it sat under his chin. “So, this – this Each-Usage, thing, have you – have you met one?”

“Each-Uisge,” corrected Jon, “and yes, when I was younger. I – I came across their hunting ground once, vicious creatures, truly barbaric when they feast.” He shook his head, as if shuddering. “If I was smarter, I would’ve swum away faster, but,” he grimaced, “I’ve been told foresight isn’t my forte.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

“Nothing really,” said Jon, in a breath. “I – there was a man on the rocks, though, looking down. Awfully dirty, sand and mud in his hair, water reeds, too – the sort of man my grandmother warned me to look out for as a child. They don’t tend to – they prefer humans, but, well – there have been times when,” and he wrinkled his nose up as he spoke, “you know.”

“Did he attack you?” Martin curled his hand around Jon’s a little tighter.

He shook his head. “No, no – they enjoy hunting, but would never do it just out of malicious joy. Perhaps if he hadn’t just feasted, then potentially. But, luckily, I was safe. And I – well, I spoke to him.”

Martin chuckled. “I think you talk to a lot of things you shouldn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I hardly regret it – either cases.” Martin warmed under that, and Jon’s lips tilted upwards into a smile. “I asked him his name, and he laughed – no surprise, really. Our folk tend to hold our names a bit closer than most. Your people used to, too.”

“You told me your name,” pointed out Martin. Jon’s eyes flickered downward, and Martin blinked in realisation. “Oh.” He let out a long breath. “I suppose Jon is a bit of a – hardly a fantastical name, is it?”

Jon grimaced. “I – well, you put me on the spot, I’ll admit. Apologies, really – but I – I like being Jon. I like you calling me Jon.” He pulled his other hand forward, and rested it atop of Martin’s forehead, drawing a lazy line across his temple. Martin’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment under the touch.

“What happened next?” asked Martin.

“He told me that, whilst he respected my folk, that he wouldn’t hesitate in removing me, should I have decided to lay claim to the area. Of course, I had no intention, and said this much. Then I asked him if I could see his true form, and he asked why I would want to – and I informed him that I’d never seen an Each-Uisces true form before.” Martin could hear the audible smile in his voice when he next spoke, “He told me I was lucky.”

“You do know that curiosity killed the cat?” mumbled Martin, sleep seeping into his voice, tinged with amusement.

“Good thing I’m not a cat,” stated Jon. His hand ran along the curve of Martin’s jaw, tracing the divots and rise of his features. “You should sleep, mo chridhe.”

Martin hummed, and melted further under the touch. He couldn’t quite note when sleep took him; he’d never felt peace like that before, and the threshold between Jon’s lazy fingers pushing through his hair, and unconsciousness was a drop of colour into a puddle, faint and consuming.

Chapter Text

1915, December 31^st

Martin had never seen anything quite like it.

Peter Lukas was a wealthy man, this much was no surprise - but even so, Martin found himself gaping at the luscious and luxurious display of fortune that was pinned to each wall and table that decorated the estate. It was the oddest thing, though – Peter had ordered in a sculpture made entirely of ice, as intricate as any marble statue. It dripped between the bustle and heat of the party, further emphasising Peter’s disregard for his money. Under it sat a spread of fine foods, all prepared by the kitchen staff – many a day of labour had gone into producing the feast. Some of the dishes, Martin hadn’t even heard of – meats prepared in fascinating ways, adorned with citrus and sprigs of rosemary, jellies and jams, and slick and oily green beans, speckled with garlic. All of it sat ignored by the guests, hands busied with flutes of champagne, and gesticulate gestures as they told stories of their padded lives to equally padded ears.

Martin stood to the side lines, a tray in his hands, and a gaze set across the room – taking in the spectacle that was the upper class. He found himself wondering how those so heavily garnished in jewels and silks held no understanding for the rules of social grace and decorum; each of them, ruder than the last. Surely, somewhere behind the diamond earrings, and slicked back hair, was an ear that could take in a lesson on manners. He’d spent the better part of the last two hours, being pushed, berated, and ignored like he was nothing more than one of the countless gilded portraits that hung on the walls of Lukas’s dining hall. No, that wasn’t right – he couldn’t be pawned off like one of the frames, he was worth less to those people.

There was one familiar and specific face at the table, in a slick black suit, with a pair of c-bridge glasses perched on his nose – Mr Elias Bouchard, Peter’s esteemed guest from a few months prior. He looked as slimy and smarmy as he had done on their first meeting. He was engaged in conversation with two other people, an intricately dressed woman, with a fascinator made out of fine black silk – with silver embellishments that hung over the side of her head like cobwebs. The other guest, was a tall, and pointy looking blond man, who, even seated, loomed over the two, and had an expression that belied his attentive nods; his vacant stare set into the void of the room.

“It’s like this every year,” said Sasha, as she sidled up beside him. She adjusted her white mob cap, slipping a loose strand back under the fabric, and ran her hands down her crisply pressed white apron. Peter had been quite firm that they were to look their best when serving the guests. Martin ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, attempting to loosen the tight knot of the cravat that held his collar up. It was dreadfully uncomfortable, but Peter had beamed at them all with prideful glee, clapping his hands together as a confirmation of their success.

“It’s exhausting,” replied Martin. “How much longer?”

Sasha huffed a laugh, and tilted her head towards the grandfather clock to their right. “Few more hours till the bells. You’ll be able to slip away for a wee sit down once the dancing starts, though.”

“Dancing?” echoed Martin.

“There’s always a ceilidh at these sort of parties,” said Sasha. “Though, I’ll admit – those sorts of things are a lot more fun when your dance partner can actually bear to look at you.” She looked out across the dinner table of guests, with an expression akin to a sneer. “Not that we get to join, but even so.”

Martin hummed, nodding gently. “I’ve never been to a ceilidh before.”

She let out a small gasp, and dropped her hand onto his shoulder, squeezing intently. “Oh, Martin, you must! We all usually sneak off into the foyer, outside of the ballroom, and dance along to the music. The band is always terrific.” She chuckled. “Peter caught us all one year, though – I’ve never seen the man so red in the face, it was quite a sight!”

Martin laughed along at the image – he could imagine quite well the spectacle that she was describing. “I’ve got two left feet when it comes to dancing, but that – I’d like that.”

“You can’t be worse than Tim,” she said, grinning wide. “He’s got two left everything, I swear.”

The sound of metal hitting glass sounded, and Martin’s eyes followed the noise to where Peter was now standing, holding his champagne flute in his hand, and smiling warmly across the table, with an expectant shadow on his lips.  Under the warmth of candlelight, Peter’s sickly pallor was almost unnoticeable; as if someone had blurred his features to hide the purple gaunt gape of his eyes, or the sallow indentation of his increasingly thinning cheeks. Martin could see the peak of his handkerchief in his pocket, the flash of white winking at him as Peter’s suit jacket swayed with his movements. The garish red of the blood that he knew stained the fabric could not be seen, however.

The chatter died down, and each head turned to him.

“I want to once again thank you all for attending,” said Peter, his voice booming, yet mellow at the same time. “I hope you all enjoyed the wonderful feast, made by my wonderful staff who have been serving you this evening. If you get a moment to thank them, please take it – they worked quite tirelessly for this day.”

There was a faint smattering of applause, aimed for them, yet no one looked over. Martin felt safe enough to roll his eyes, and did so with a small sigh.

“Now,” continued Peter, “if you all wish to follow me through, we can start on the main event of the evening - the dancing!”

The applause picked up, and there were a few cheers, as the guests all rose quickly; all chattering and beaming at each other as they made their way through the archway into the foyer. Peter punctuated the crowd at the back, arms stretched out as he herded them all through.

They tidied up quickly, stacking the trollies high with the dishes, and scraping all the discarded food into a small metal bucket. Martin couldn’t help but think of the ration cards he and his mother had been living off, only a few months prior. He felt something ugly and hot twist in his gut.

“Bloody waste,” he muttered aloud, shaking his head as he spoke. Sasha looked up as he did, her own lips twisting into a line of agreement. She just shrugged weakly, unable to offer anything else, as she finished stacking. With the accompanying sound of footsteps, Daisy came through, her mob cap sitting askew as scratched her head through it.

“You done?” she asked in a grunt, gesturing towards the cart. Martin placed the last dish atop it, and nodded, giving the handle a small pat; as if soothing a horse. Daisy took a hold of it, the veins in her hand flexing as she wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Cheers.”

Through the walls, music could be heard – the low start of a fiddle as the bow introduced itself to the strings. It was a long, heavy note; and then it crashed down into an explosion of sound – lively, hearty music, that reverberated through Martin’s body. It was the quick keys of an accordion, pulled in time to the beat of the bodhrán, which echoed over the melodic song of the fiddle. He looked to Sasha, who grinned back, a smugness to her smile.

“Oh, I always loved this one,” she said, her eyes wrinkling in glee. She held out her hand to Martin, and raised her brow expectantly.

“I don’t know how,” he said weakly, though his hand was already raising up to meet hers. She guided his hands into hers, standing in front of him, turning her head to shoot him toothy smiles. He found himself easily smiling back, though nerves tinged the edges.

“And a one, and a two,” she counted in, waiting for the beat of the song to reset – and then they were off, bouncing forward for 4 beats, before turning, another 4 beats -

“Spin me!” she exclaimed, dropping his left hand, and raising his right. The two swept down the length of the dining room table, as Sasha spun under his hand, before resting her hand on his shoulder and falling into a waltz. Martin stumbled over his own feet, falling forward into Sasha, who laughed loudly, as she steadied him. Martin found himself laughing along, feeling the perfect shade of dizzy as they danced. They returned to the first position, marching forward with bouncing steps, that landed into spins, and waltz, and laughter.

By the time the song ended, the two were red in the face, cheeks strained from the exertion of their smiles. Martin let out a long breath, resting his hands on his knees. It wasn’t long before the music started again; this one much faster. Sasha swung her hand at his arm, lightly bouncing off him.

“Come,” she said, tugging him towards the door. Martin allowed himself to follow along, as she led him through the foyer, towards the door of the ballroom. They were closed, but the music was no less contained, and it spilled through like sunlight as Sasha peeled it open for them both. She held a hand against his chest as they peered in, holding him off from sneaking through.

The guests were arranged in a line, with their partners opposite them. It was a long, winding parade; that stretched the full length of the room, and at the head, a couple could be seen spinning, holding each other’s wrists and turning vicious circles as the other dancers clapped and cheered. The two dancers split with a smile, and began to twirl down the procession, meeting each other person down the line with an interlocked elbow, and another spin – before meeting up with their original partner. It wasn’t long before multiple couples were dancing down the aisle, all red in the face, and cheering.

“It looks like madness,” said Martin in a breath.

Sasha chuckled. “You’ll be lucky to still have your toes after that.” A beat passed. “I went down to the village with Tim, on Burns night a few years ago.” She let out a breathy laugh. “I, of course, made the mistake of partnering with him – the man bloody threw me into a wall, he got so into it.”

Martin chuckled. “Yeah, that – that sounds like Tim.”

Sasha let her grip on the door drop, and the two stepped back, just as Tim’s frame appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked over at them, and smiled, raising his hand in a wave.

“Enjoying the festivities?” called Tim, skipping the last step in a jump as he bounded over to them. “First Hogmany party, eh?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, yeah – it’s new, for sure. More fiddles than I’m used to, anyway.”

Tim clapped an easy hand down on Martin’s shoulder, and used it to guide him back through to the dining room, gesturing with his head for Sasha to follow. “Well, seeing as it is your first Hogmany,” said Tim, mischief on his tone, “I thought maybe we should do it right. Eh, Sasha?”

“Tim,” she said, warningly. “What are you planning?”

Tim didn’t reply, as he finished leading them though, positioning them beside Peter’s glass drinks cabinet. In it, bottles of dark, rich Whisky sat, alongside pillars of Bourbon, in crystal decanters that caught the light as Tim pulled open the doors.

“Tim,” hissed Sasha. “Peter will have your balls for that.”

“Peter is currently being manhandled in a ballroom by a bunch of rich socialites,” stated Tim. “Peter won’t know.” Tim looked over at Martin, and smiled. “What say you, Martin? Fancy a drink?”

Martin shrunk slightly. “I – I’ve not – I haven’t ever had whisky before.”

Tim let out an exasperated sigh, his body sagging comically. He threw a ragdoll hand towards Martin, and set a pleading expression towards Sasha. “This could be the poor boys only chance!”

“Oh, yes,” said Sasha, drawing out the words like a bow, “cause where else is he going to find a dram of whisky in Scotland?” She shook her head, and sighed. “If Peter catches you, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Not staying for a drink?” said Tim, dropping his shoulders, and raising his brow.

“I never said that,” Sasha said, with a smirk. “Just don’t want to get the blame.”

“Well,” said Tim, as he popped the lid off of one of the bottles, and began to pour 3 even portions out into the glass tumblers, “I am more than happy to take our lumps, if you’ll both join me for a toast.”

He handed out the glasses, and Martin took his with a grateful nod, holding the glass of amber coloured liquid close to his chest, as if trying to pull warmth from it. Tim cleared his throat, and raised his glass high.

“To Peter’s inordinate fortune,” said Tim, his voice short of a bellow, “and his penchant for absolutely God-awful whiskey.” Tim raised his glass higher with a thrust, before bringing the glass to his lips, and downing the liquid in one. He pulled his hand away with a grimace, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Oh, Christ – yeah, that’s a sipping whisky. That’s a slow drink, that is. Jesus.”

“To Peter!” said Sasha over a laugh, lifting her glass up in a shrug, before taking a measly and smug sip.

“To Peter,” echoed Martin, placing the glass to his lips, and taking a hesitant drink. The liquid was thick in his throat, and burned heavily, carving a line of heat that he could feel in his stomach. He tried to hide the disgusted twist of his lips as he finished.

“Happy new year’s, folk,” said Tim, running the hem of his shirt around the glass, before placing it back in the cabinet.

“Still a half hour till the bells,” said Sasha, taking another sip. “Sorry, you’ve got to suffer in 15’ for tad longer.”

Martin looked over towards the grandfather clock, its hands carving a neat line down the middle. He looked back at his drink, took a breath, and downed the rest. A shudder rolled through his body, as the taste stung his throat. He ran his own shirt hem around the glass, and handed it back to Tim, who shot him a wink as he did.

“I’m just going to go get some fresh air,” said Martin, looking over to the door, and taking a step back from the two.

“Don’t miss the bells, okay?” said Sasha, pointing a finger towards him.

He nodded. “Not for the world.”

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an ethereal blue light over the marram grass that swayed gently in the soft, winter winds. Martin disrupted their dance, as he moved through it, following the familiar path towards the shore, where the sky fell onto the earth, caught on the surface of the ocean. Stars, an insurmountable distance away, now rocked with the waves, and rippled against the craigs.

Martin brought his coat around his frame tighter, tucking his scarf over his nose, and shuddering against the icy breeze. Gloved hands clutched at the rock face, as he clambered up onto it, fingers trailing across the jagged lighthouse rock, adorned with his bobble hat. He plucked it free, and pulled it over his ears, before setting down against the side, his thick boots kissing the dark surface of the sea.

“Jon,” he said to the wind, and it carried the name across the water. A moment passed, before the water swelled, breaking over the rising face of Jon, who smiled as he swum nearer, pulling himself up onto the rock.

“How are you not freezing?” asked Martin, as Jon’s sodden arm pressed against his side, his glistening hands atop of his woollen ones.

Jon just shrugged. “Warm blooded, I suppose.”

“Were you waiting long?” asked Martin.

“I don’t mind,” said Jon, looking out across the sea. The cold cut of the night caught on his profile, the moonlight tracing a copy of his silhouette. “It’s a beautiful night.”

“It’s New Years,” said Martin, bumping his shoulder against Jon’s. “Do you celebrate it?”

Jon tilted towards Martin, meeting his eyes, and shaking his head softly. “I – I know of the traditions, but I – there doesn’t feel a need to. Separating the days into years, it just feels - ” He let out a small laugh, and gestured out across the waves, “well, a calendar means very little out there.”

Martin hummed. “Well, yeah – it would get all soggy, wouldn’t it?”

A beat passed, and then Jon laughed, the sound cracking through the stillness of the night. His laughter turned to a smile, and his eyes wrinkled gently at the corners. “Mm, yes – big oversight of the manufacturers.”

“Someone should let them know,” said Martin, nodding his head stoically. “They’re missing out on a whole market of – of aquatic customers. We can get all the jellyfish to celebrate Christmas, and the crabs – the crabs, well, they can celebrate Easter properly, now.”

“Because they were doing it wrong before?” chuckled Jon, cocking his head to the side, so that his hair fell away from his face.

“Oh, yes,” said Martin. “They were always off by a week.”

Jon’s smile broke wide; wonky, and toothy, and beautiful. Martin leaned forward, and Jon met him in the middle, kissing his lips with a gentle warmth. He stayed there for a breath, tasting the sweet salt of his skin. He pulled away slowly, and brought his arm around Jon’s shoulder, and guided his head down against his chest. His hand fell easily against Jon’s watery mess of curls, and he began to card his fingers through them, the dampness seeping through his gloves.

Jon let out a slow, and easy sigh, contentment rich in the sound. His hand came around Martin’s waist, fisted in the fabric of his coat. With his free hand, he raised it skyward, his index finger drawing a line down the sky. “Do you see Cassiopeia?”

Martin squinted at the sky, eyes attempting to follow Jon’s finger. “I – maybe?”

A beat passed, and then Jon moved his finger slightly. “Do you see Polaris? The North star?”

Martin let his eyes focus on the smattering of stars above, all glistening and winking, exploding into themselves; dying infinitely – a performance of self-destructive beauty. “The really bright one?”

Martin felt Jon nod against his shoulder. “Just to the side of that – Cassiopeia.” Jon’s fingers carved out the loose shape of a W, joining up the stars like co-ordinates on a map. “Do you know the story behind it?” Martin shook his head, and Jon let out a pleased hum; obviously excited to share the tale. “It’s an old Greek myth, but the story goes that Queen Cassiopeia was awfully vein – thinking herself more beautiful than the Nereids – sea nymphs.” Then, aside, “awful creatures, really.”

Martin chuckled at that.

“Now,” continued Jon, “this was an awful hubris for a mortal to possess – and so she was punished, her lands ravaged by the power of Poseidon; until, that is – she sacrificed her daughter, Andromeda. But,” and Jon held up his hand as he spoke, emphasising his words, “she was of course saved – by Perseus, who then married her.”

“How romantic,” mused Martin, twisting his head to look down at Jon, whose gaze was set on the stars, the moon illuminating the flicker of his smile.

“Cassiopeia’s punishment was to be trapped in the stars, circling the celestial pole for eternity,” said Jon, his voice quieter now. “It’s said that every night she drowns.”

“Seems awful harsh,” said Martin, looking out towards the constellation – the form of Cassiopeia hidden amongst the darkness, hinted at only by pinpricks of light.

“Of course,” continued Jon, “she isn’t actually there. It’s one of the things I love about your people, you – you look up at this abyss, and in it you find stories, and art, and guardians. You drew a line between the stars, and called her a queen.” Jon shook his head, his smile unwavering. “You people think you exist without magic, but I think you just don’t understand it.”

Martin blinked, feeling quite raw. A million words fought at his throat, a million revelations and confessions; yet, all he said was, “How do you know all this?”

“My grandmother,” said Jon. “There was a sailor – heavens, many years ago now. He – he taught her about the stars; about how he used them to navigate the sea, and the stories that followed them.” He made a small sound that could’ve have been just as easily a laugh, as it was a sigh. “I think she was awful smitten with the fellow. Only time I really saw her smile was when she spoke about him. He was a nice memory for her.”

“What happened to him?”

“Joined the army,” said Jon. “Some conflict overseas – one of many.” Then, darker, “Your lot really seem to really love fighting.”

“Did he – ” Martin hesitated, and the last word went unspoken, yet understood.

“I assume so,” said Jon. “Though, I couldn’t say if it was due to the fighting, or simply something else. All I really know is that he didn’t come back.” There was a moment of silence. “I think she hoped that he died overseas – I imagine the alternative hurt more.”

“My dad didn’t come back from war, either,” said Martin, his voice quite. “He was fighting over in Africa – wasn’t even the conflict that killed him.” He let out a sardonic laugh. “Caught a fever, of all things.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Martin shook his head. “Nah, it’s – it’s fine. It’s – ” he let out a weighted sigh, unsure of how to vocalise the loss. He’d never seen the grief on himself – only ever on his mother, in the way she cut herself away over the years after the funeral, curling in on herself until there was nothing left. She’d turned into an ouroboros of grief, continuously cycling between anger and denial, and then, eventually – complete numbness. Martin’s own grief always felt too cruel to acknowledge – never in mourning for the lost life of his father, only ever the lost life of his own youth; taken by the wanton fingers of death, and replaced with shoes that he was always too young and too naïve to fill. “It’s alright.”

“You know,” said Jon, slowly and tentatively, as he moved his hand over to Martin’s scapula, drawing a circle against the thick fabric of his coat, “it’s okay if it’s not.”

Martin ran his tongue over his lip, and bowed his head for a breath. “I think it’s a bit late to grieve the man, if I’m honest.” Martin attempted a laugh; wet and gummy, and sickly in his throat. “It’s New Years,” he said weakly, “it’s not a day for the past.”

“Okay,” conceded Jon, spoken as softly as a breath. He cupped Martin’s shoulder in his hands, and pulled him in tight, so that Martin’s head now rested on his chest. A hand came to rest on the curve of his neck, and lazy fingers traced out the shape. “What does the future hold then?”

“Jon,” tried Martin, elongating the sound. “We’ve tried this before.”

“Amuse me, then.”

“What?” He raised his head so as to look up at Jon, who just offered a raised brow, and a smirk. Martin shook his head, a gentle laugh in his throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” asked Jon. He hummed in acceptance. “Alright, then. I’m still waiting on your answer, though.”

“Okay, alright – fine,” said Martin, letting out a resigned sigh as he rested his head down against Jon’s shoulder. “There was – there was this bakery near where I used to live, back in London, and the man who ran it was this cheery older lad – always speckled in flour, and his fingernails were always caked in dough, and he -  I don’t think I’d ever seen a man smile as much as I saw him. Folks always called over to him when he passed, and he’d always go over and chat – no matter the weather. Saw him get soaked through once, just because Mrs Greene wanted to tell him about her bloody cat.” Martin chuckled at the memory. “The poor man still had a half mile to walk in those sodden shoes.”

“And that’s what you want?” asked Jon, trailing his thumb under the rim of Martin’s hat. “To run a bakery?”

Martin shrugged. “I mean, I suppose that would be nice. But, it’s more just – I’d like to be like him, I think. I don’t really know the specifics of what I want, but when I think about being happy, or content – or whatever, I – I think of him, and just how – how loved he was.”

“You want to be loved?”

“I – yeah. Who doesn’t?”

There was a moment of silence between them, before Jon spoke, “Are you not already?”

Martin swallowed; his breath caught in his throat. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I?”

Jon’s hand stalled its course, frozen against his temple. In the distance, cheering could be heard – in the proximity, only Martin’s heartbeat, tolling its own bells. The New Year had arrived.

Jon’s hand softened, and a breath escaped him; turning white against the chill. “Yes,” he said. “I would say that you are.”

If the words in Martin’s throat were smaller, then maybe he would’ve been able to free them. Instead, he reached forward, and took Jon’s hand in his, squeezing the cold away in a gloved embrace. “Happy New Year, Jon.”

It was terribly noisy when Martin remerged in the foyer of the estate, skirting around the edges of the crowd, as they continued to cheer and sing. Glasses of fine liquor were held skyward, tips clinking as the starting note of the song.

“May auld acquaintance be forgot,” they sang, the voices of each guest merging and mixing into a boisterous swell of music, “and never brought to mind. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne …”

Martin scanned the crowd as he moved through, keeping his shoulders tight, and raised so as to avoid knocking into anyone. He caught sight of Tim and Sasha, standing vigil at the base of the stairs, swaying together, and singing along with a sappy smile on their faces.

“For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne,” said the song, backed by a hearty surge of enthusiasm, “we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”

Sasha’s smile grew when she caught Martin’s eye, and she beckoned him over with the grace of someone who had definitely gone back to Peter’s whisky. “You missed the bells!” she chided, a pout on her lips. The expression barely lasted a moment, before her lips caught up with the verse, “And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, and surely I'll be mine!” The expression returned, and she shook her head. “I had to kiss Tim, thanks to you!”

Tim laughed heartily, throwing his head back. He raised his glass, as if toasting Martin. “Yeah, thanks to you, Martin - and we'll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne!”

The song ended in applause, and glass clinking, and drunken embraces. It was quite the sight, and Martin felt the room thru, with affection, all barriers broken down by music and drink. The atmosphere was hot, and intoxicating, and Martin felt his lips break into a smile as he joined the ovation, congratulating the New Year for arriving.

Jon was right, it was a funny thing to celebrate – but it was so wonderfully human; to kiss, and drink, and sing, and dance, and relish in another year lived. A promise to live another one.

Sasha brought an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him in tight, squeezing the surprise out of his body. She broke it with a smile, pressing a friendly peck against his cheek, before turning to do the same to Tim, who wrapped his own arms around her, pulling her up onto her tip toes, and leaning her back into a kiss. Sasha let out a squeal, that turned into a laugh, her arms coming up loop around Tim’s neck. When the kiss broke, they were both wearing flushed smiles.

Martin felt a pang of something bitter in his chest, a snaking feeling of jealousy that wrapped around his throat, and made his breath feel too short to appease his lungs. He looked around the room, noting each free and loving kiss that the cheering couples gifted each other; unguarded, and unafraid. The sight made him feel painfully lonely, in a way he couldn’t quite understand.

A moment, a flicker of a reverie cut through Martin’s mind; an entertaining thought of Jon beside him, hand intertwined in his own, walking out into the room, and dipping him into a kiss – just to see the look on every smug face that surrounded him. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the daydream, head shaking a minute dismissal.

“Martin!” came the voice of Peter, as he stepped easily through the crowd, towards him. In his hands, he held the arm of Elias Bouchard, whose pinstriped legs stood coltish as his drunken body swayed against the other man. “I need you to help Mr Bouchard here back to his room.”

Martin didn’t miss the snort of laughter from Tim, whose self-satisfied smirk was now hidden behind his glass. Martin just nodded, and held out his hand for the politician to latch onto. “Course, sir.”

Peter took in a breath, his chest puffing out as he did. “Right, and Martin – be discreet about it. He’s a right idiot of a drunkard.”

Elias’s clammy hand wrapped around Martin’s extended wrist, and he scowled deeply as he stumbled forward. Martin took a few steps back to accommodate for the sudden weight on him, and tried for a smile, though he knew it looked as tight and fake as it felt. “Right, I’ll just – follow me please, Mr Bouchard.”

They took the steps slowly, as Elias tried and failed to raise his feet to meet each rise. Halfway up, Martin elected to just wrap his arm around his skinny waist, and haul him up to the landing. He grumbled out a protest, his head bowing inelegantly, as it lolled forward.

“C’mon,” muttered Martin, as he tugged the man down the corridor, to the wing he knew he was staying in. The walk took them past his mothers door; shut, of course, with no hint of light sneaking through the keyhole. He didn’t linger.

“This is – this is mine,” slurred Elias, as he fell in the direction of a door, yanking Martin’s arm painfully, as he moved to pull him back upright. “You’re dismissed.”

Elias pried his hand away, and immediately collapsed into the wall, the skin of his cheek splayed against the frame of the door, the jut of his shoulder acting as the only thing keeping him steady against the wood.

Martin tried for a polite smile, holding up his hands, and moving towards Elias, as if approaching a spooked deer. He placed a grounding hand on the man’s back, and pushed down on the handle of the door, allowing the hinges to carry it open, guiding the man through the frame. “Just this way, sir.”

“I know where my room is,” Elias spat out, head twisting in an uncomfortable fashion to allow a glower of annoyance. Then, in a mutter, “useless ass.”

“Of course,” said Martin, voice tight with sickly sweet civility. He pulled back his hand, and took a step backwards. Elias’s legs immediately gave way, and he staggered inelegantly into the room, catching himself on the door handle, the wood creaking in an argument against his weight. Martin bit down on his tongue to fight his growing smirk. “My bad.”

Elias steadied himself, knocking out the bow of his knees with the help of the door frame. He tentatively let go, and his body began to sway as he wrestled his arms out of his suit jacket. It was like watching a fly attempt to escape honey, writhing and fruitless. “Well,” he snapped, looking at Martin with flushed cheeks, “aren’t you going to help? It is what you’re bloody paid for, isn’t it?”

Martin faltered for a moment, before his body kicked into gear, and he darted to clear the distance between them, arriving behind Elias, and taking the cuff of his jacket, and peeling it off.

Elias laughed, a cold and empty laugh, as Martin folded the jacket up over the chair. “You don’t get paid, though – do you?” He met Martin’s eyes, with a heavy and inebriated stare. “You’re the one with the sick mother, aren’t you? How’s that whole arrangement working out for you?”

“Can’t complain,” said Martin stiffly, his shoulders inching upwards. “She gets looked after. I get roof over my head.”

Elias raised his eyebrows. “Sounds fulfilling.”

Martin prickled. “If there’s nothing else you need, sir.”

Elias waved his hand weakly, as he collapsed onto the bed, his torso slumping forward against his knees. A beat passed, and then he thrusted his leg outwards, clearing his throat expectantly.

“Right,” mumbled Martin, aside. He moved forward, and cupped Elias’s heel in his hand, using his free hand to loosen the knot. The laces trailed downwards, and bounced like marionettes as he twisted the man’s foot free. The socked foot dropped to the floor with a thud, followed quickly by the other.

“I hear Peter’s asked you to join his crew,” said Elias, as Martin stepped back. “What an honour.”

“I suppose,” was all Martin could say, tucking his hands behind his back.

Elias smiled; an awful slice of a smile, thin and red. He threw out a gangly hand towards his jacket. “I still wear my daisy, you know.” The smile grew teeth. “A good luck charm, hm.”

“You worked for him?” said Martin, feeling oddly dumbstruck, as his eyes fell upon the peek of the purple Michaelmas daisy that was pinned to Elias’s lapel. Martin wondered how he hadn’t noticed it sooner.

“With,” corrected Elias. “Co-Captain, in fact. How do you think we met?”

“I assumed his wealth was a factor.”

“You assume me shallow, then,” said Elias. A laugh. “You’d be correct.”

“Why’d you leave?” asked Martin. “The work seems to treat Peter’s pockets nicely.”

“Used to, anyway,” said Elias, his words slurring gently at the edges. “I fear tonight may be the last we see of the infamous Lukas fortune.” There was a pregnant pause, and when he next spoke, it was dark, and weighted, “Though, he tells me he’s found something, and I must say, I’m quite curious to see if it comes to fruition.” He looked up at Martin, with a hunger to the lilt of his lips. “I imagine you will be, too.”

“Money doesn’t really interest me, sir,” said Martin plainly.

Elias laughed; his eyes fluttering closed for a breath as he teetered over the verge of consciousness. His head bobbed forward, before snapping upwards with a start. “How noble of you..” The end of his sentence caught in a yawn, and he waved his hand, as if swatting away a fly. “You’re dismissed.”

Martin pursed his lips, taking in a deep breath through his nose. He pressed his lips into a smile, and nodded. “Right. Have a wonderful night, sir.”

He couldn’t leave fast enough.

Chapter Text

1916, January 16^th

There had been three times Martin’s world had fallen out from under him.

The first came with a letter, handed over by a white gloved hand and a heavy expression. He could still see the image before him, clear as day; his mother, crumpling by the door, the sunlight haloing her curls as her hands ran ragged through them – the man before her, dressed in his finest, blotting out the sympathetic onlookers with his mournful frame. Martin remembered looking at that man, the way his gaze had found him at the end of the hallway. He had looked so heartbroken, and Martin didn’t understand why. There were a lot of why’s that day.

He could still see the way his mother had closed the door, a shaking hand rising up from her defeat to shut out the world, nails drawing down it as she succumbed to her grief. Martin’s curious and anxious hands had been swatted away in a fitful shriek; comfort pushed away in bellowing sobs.

By the time his father’s funeral arrived, she had already began her own emotional rigor mortis. Each day that passed, her body and mind rotted into nothingness; leaving only the putrid stink of decay behind her.

The second time had been in an office, blinds pulled shut against the factory floor that sat below them. A pot-bellied man, with a pencil thin moustache, leering over Martin across from his desk with a face of plastic sympathy.

“I’m afraid we have no use for your service,” the man had said, voice airy and casual – as if he was simply telling Martin about the weather, and not pulling out the world from under him. Martin could still recall the way his cigar had stank up the room, the sickly-sweet smoke clogging up his nose and staining his throat with its ashy taste. He could still see the wispy lines that caught in the pin pricks of light that permeated the space.

“Please,” Martin had begged, “I need this job – I need the money. My mum, she’s sick – ”

“Mr Blackwood,” the man had replied, sighing. “My hands are tied.”

Martin had walked the streets until he’d worn holes into his shoes, until his socks soaked up the rain water, until there was nowhere else to go but home. His mother, propped up in her bed, and dressed in white as if prepared for her own christening, had taken one look at him and known.

“He would hate you,” she had said. “Useless arse.”

It felt ironic that the third time his world broke also came as a letter – as his own death notice. No gloved hand delivered this blow, however, only the pale and shaking hands of Tim as he placed the notice upon the kitchen table. No one spoke. The room was quiet.

Why was the room so quiet?

There was a spill on the table, a splattering of white that turned the edges of the letter dark, and damp. When had that happened, Martin wondered. He should do something about it. The stain was growing at the edges of the letter, and the text blurred at the edges, as tears began to prick at the edges of Martin’s vision. He felt his hands press together, and raise, shakily, to his chin, splitting across his face in a weighted breath.

“Martin,” came Tim’s voice, the edges wavering with emotion.

Martin dropped his hands to the table, knuckles white against the edges. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the notice’s scarlet lettering still read ‘Attest Now’.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” was all Martin could crack out before he was stumbling towards the door. The wooden frame gave way into the cold air, the winter chill biting at his raw skin. In an awful mockery of his mother, Martin fell to his knees, his legs giving way to shock. He curled downwards, pressing his forehead against his thighs, and cocooning himself in his own pitiful embrace.

His arms blotted out the cry of the wind, his thighs the glare of the sun. He cursed; the words muffled against his skin. He cursed again, and again. Louder. Again. Louder.

A hand fell on his back, and pried apart his shell. He collapsed into the touch, as Tim brought his arm around his shoulders, falling down beside him.

“This is a fucking shit situation,” said Tim, a dry and empty laugh on his lips. “It’s fucking shit.”

Martin couldn’t bring himself to verbalise a response. He just nodded.

Tim echoed his nod. “Fucking shit situation.”

Martin could feel the January frost settle over his skin, turning the tips of his fingers frigid. The sky brewed above them, in shades of ashy blue, that faded into the ocean, as if the sky was a curving wave – waiting to crash down upon them.

“I don’t – ” started Martin, before the words jammed in his throat. He sighed. “I don’t – fuck, Tim, I don’t want to fight.”

“I know,” said Tim, voice quiet. He drew his hand across Martin’s back. “I know. God, Martin, I – believe me, I know.”

“We don’t – ” a sobbing choke ate his words, and he shook as the tears fell free. “We don’t even get a choice, anymore.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but through a blurred and watery glance, Martin could see that his lips were parted in a half-formulated response. A beat passed, and he sighed, his mouth closing as he nervously rolled his lips between his teeth. He met Martin’s eyes between blinks, and his gaze softened into an attempt at comfort.

“Are you okay?” asked Martin, and the question felt empty and stupid as soon as he asked it.

Tim huffed a laugh, drawing his arms around his torso. He shrugged. “Hasn’t really sunk in yet. Don’t imagine it will till we leave, you know?” He cleared his throat, and looked up at the sky, the cold sun edging his profile in diluted light. “Fucking shit situation.”

The sky had darkened, and the fire had been lit, though it’s warmth felt lost on Martin as he sat beside it. A mug of tea was pressed into his hand, followed by a small squeeze of his shoulder from Sasha. No one had touched the letter. It sat like a stain upon the table.

“Have you told your mum?” asked Sasha, her voice tentative. It made Martin’s chest hurt.

He shook his head, and brought the mug close to his chest. “No, I – God, how do I even tell her?” He dropped his head into his hands, and let out a fatigued sigh.

“Do you want me to?” she asked, crouching down beside him, and resting her hand on his knee. “If that’d be easier for you.”

He shook his head again. “No, I – I should do it.” He let out a laugh, bitter and cold. “Hell, she’ll probably be chuffed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?” Martin raised an eyebrow. “It’s true. The woman hates me, Sash. Damn, if she’s in luck, I’ll get shot before she dies, and then – then she can finally have some – some fucking peace away from me, right?” His voice had crept up in pitches, verging on a manic crescendo by the end. “Fuck me – this will make her bloody day.”

Sasha’s face went hard. “Don’t say that, Martin. Don’t.”

Martin dropped his shoulders, and looked down into his tea, and watched the flames flicker on the ripples of the russet mirror. “Sorry,” he said, quieter, “I just – I’m just – I’m upset, is all.”

Sasha nodded, swallowing audibly. She reached forward and took his hand. “You and Tim, you – you’ll come home, okay. You’ll be okay.”

Martin looked at her through tired, and half lidded eyes. “You don’t know that.”

She let out a breath through her nose, and shook her head. “Of course I don’t, Martin.  But I have to believe it – you need to believe it, and Tim, too.”

Martin tightened his hold on the mug, pressing the scalding ceramic flush against his skin, just under the point of discomfort. He let his mind focus on the feeling of heat tingling up his arm, and not the tightness of his chest, or the vacancy of his lungs that felt endlessly empty, no matter how many shaky breaths he took. “I don’t want to die there.”

His voice felt fifteen years younger – thin and weak, and confused; desperately searching for an answer for all the questions running around his head. Through the entanglement of waves that lapped against his skull; questions of mortality and fear, one question cut through them all – like the bow of a ship across the sea.

How was he going to tell Jon?

1916, January 20^th

Had the bank that led down to the shore always been this steep, Martin wondered. It dropped down below him, a sharp cut into the gritty sand that faded into the ocean. His shadow loomed down it, sliding through the marram grass, and slithering through the jagged rocks that lined his self-carved pathway down. He stood still, though, staring out towards the horizon.

He found himself in that position most days now; frozen not by the winds, but by fear. Every time he began to cross over that threshold that led towards the sea, his body became paralysed with the thought of Jon’s face; confused, and crushed, and hurt.

Would Jon even understand? He was smart, yes – but he wasn’t, as Martin tended to forget, human. These customs, these rituals of war, they weren’t part of his world. He held an awareness of them, Martin knew that much – but viewed it as nothing more than an inconvenience; a fondness of humanity. As if it were something done at the weekend, booked under a croquet session and just before afternoon tea.

Martin sighed, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat and drawing his shoulders up to his ears in an attempt to shroud himself against the winds. He was a coward, but that wasn’t news.

He turned back towards the estate.

1916, January 25^th

“Did you hear about Samuel?” Martin heard Sasha say to Basira as the three worked over dinner. “Heard they found the poor lad out by the tree behind the farm. Ciabhan told me about it down at the market – his mother’s distraught.”

Basira hummed mournfully, shaking her head. “Damn shame. He seemed nice.”

“Only met him the once,” said Sasha. Then, in a bitter mutter, “the things this war drives people to do. Bloody awful stuff.”

Martin met her eyes with that, and she gave him a look that was half grief, half apologetic. Martin looked away quickly, not trusting his vision to stay clear against the bundle of nerves in his chest. He turned to rinse his hands, not washing them of anything but the conversation. He found thinking about it never did him any good. Just turning him into a more enhanced version of his wretched and panicky self. If he kept up at that rate, his nerves would get him long before the war could get a chance.

Maybe that was preferable. Samuel seemed to have thought that, anyway.

1916, February 4^th

“If you knew you had to tell someone something, but it would hurt them – maybe a lot, would you tell them?”

Sasha looked up at Martin from where she was working, diligently stirring the simmering pot. “That depends,” she said, “is it something they need to know?”

Martin worried his lip between his teeth. “It’s not – maybe they wouldn’t need to know, but it – I think they would be confused as to why – why, um – maybe not telling them would hurt them more, you know, in the long run,” Martin trailed on. “If I told them then they might understand, but it – it would still hurt.”

“A little more specificity might help,” said Sasha, giving Martin a small smile. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this – this thing a lot, though. I imagine you already know the answer.” She raised an eyebrow, and gave him a pointed look. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t want to,” said Martin, letting out an indignant huff as he spoke. He splayed his fingers out against his forehead, and counted out a sigh. Looking back up at Sasha, he dropped his shoulders, “You know, I was looking for a good excuse – so cheers for that.”

She laughed. “Go to Tim if you want excuses.”

Martin hummed. “Maybe I will.”

“Hush you,” said Sasha, shaking her head with a smirk. She paused for a moment, and turned her eyes back to the stove “This – this person that you’re worried about hurting, are they – is it – ” She cut herself off, looking down for a moment as she searched for the right words. “You care about them a lot, right?”

Martin swallowed, nodding.

“Sometimes,” she began, “when we care about people, our attempts to make life easier for them end up making things harder. You can’t hide the world from someone, just because it might hurt them. It’s your job, as someone who cares, to help them navigate it – not just exist on the outside of it, where everything is softer.” She looked back to him. “I think you do that, Martin. It’s not an accusation, just an observation. You make yourself softer, to shelter people from the fact that you hurt – you think that if people knew that, then they would hurt to.” She let out a small laugh, sardonic in nature. “Caring hurts, Martin – you know that. You can’t control who cares though, and you can’t control what hurts.”

“I know,” said Martin, whisper like in tone.

She smiled at him, though the edges were lilted in sadness. “Sometimes loving someone is just finding someone who makes that hurt worth it. I’m sure this person,” and she waved her hands around vaguely before her as she spoke, “thinks that you’re worth it.”

Martin nodded, bowing his head to process her words. His hands reached up to cup his face, and he could feel the hot streak of tears smear across his skin. He heard footsteps, and then felt arms across his back, as Sasha brought him in close. “It’s okay,” she said, as she rubbed small circles of comfort against his arms.

“I don’t know what to do, Sasha,” he said in a sob, the words syrupy and gummy in his throat as they fought their way out. “I don’t know how to make this okay. I don’t know how to not miss him.”

For one awful moment, the world stilled as the words fell out. Sasha’s hand halted its movement for a breath, and then thawed in exhalation as she brought him in a little tighter, gently cupping the nape of his neck.

“It’s okay,” she said again, and Martin let out another sob, this time in a feeling that must’ve been relief, if only for the way his whole body softened at the words. He pulled back after a few rotations of shuddering breaths, wiping at the corner of his eyes with the cuff of his jumpers. She gave his shoulder a small squeeze. “Talk to him, alright.”

1916, February 5th

There was a crude scarf of seaweed wrapped around the midsection of the lighthouse rock when Martin looked down across the beach. His heart clenched at the sight, followed quickly by nausea which then settled into guilt.

Jon wanted to see him. Jon was waiting for him.

Fear and cowardice beckoned him to stay, luring him backwards with crooning words of pathetic fallacy. It would be easier to stay put, to pretend.

He found himself down by the water despite that, cautiously guiding himself up the rocks with shaky hands. He couldn’t see Jon in the water, but he knew he was there; and he was right,  

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Jon was tucked along the wall of the rockface, facing towards the horizon line, and pointedly away from Martin. “Hope Peter’s not been working you too hard,” he said dryly, only adding an intoned huff onto Lukas’s name.

Martin sighed wearily as he sat down on the rocks, the cold dampness quickly seeping through his trousers as he did. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say. “I didn’t – I just – I’m sorry.”

Jon still didn’t look at him, but Martin could see the taut pull of his lips, drawn across his face in a firm line. “Well,” he said coldly, “I hope whatever has been taking up your time has been highly riveting.”

“Don’t be like that.”

Jon scoffed, loudly. “Be like what exactly, Martin?”

With that, Jon craned his neck to meet Martin’s eyes, and Martin wished he hadn’t – if only to spare him the sight of Jon’s hardened, and flat expression that held nothing but annoyance. None of his familiar and forgiving fondness apparent in the faint lines around his eyes.

“Like that,” snapped Martin, throwing a hand towards him. He dropped it quickly, alongside his shoulders. “I’m just – I’m sorry, Jon. Really.”

“I can hardly fault you for having a life. I just – ” he cut himself off, rolling his lips between his teeth to clamp them down.

Martin tilted his head to the side, and leant forward onto his knees so as the breach some of the distance between them. “You just what, Jon?”

Jon let out a small huff, his shoulders raising skywards to kiss his ears. He dropped them with a splash, and pursed his lips together. “I just,” he began, “I thought that I was a part of that – of your life. I – that was foolish, clearly.” He let out a slow and controlled breath as he spoke. “I’m not some freak of nature you can just come to when you’re bored, Martin. This hurt.”

“That’s not what this is at all.”

Jon barely seemed to hear him, not even a flicker of the eyes to indicate he’d even acknowledged his words as he steamed on. “Do you think I just swim about all day waiting for you to throw a hat over that – that bloody rock? A little woollen flag to indicate to me that you’ve – what, got time for me now?”

“That’s not fair.”

“ – he’s not like me, he’s not human – he can just survive on scraps, that’s fine!”

“Jon,” breathed Martin, a plead in his name, “I didn’t – I wasn’t ignoring you, or – or forgetting about you. I just – I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?” said Jon, the firmness wavering at the edges. The words swelled in Martin’s throat, trapping themselves between his rocky breaths. Jon’s brow furrowed. “Martin – ”

“Can I hold your hand?” cut in Martin, in a quickened slur; only just verging on coherency. Jon blinked, faltering for a surprised moment, before raising his hand up and out of the water, and meeting Martin’s. Martin cupped it between both, trapping it in a prayer, as he ran his thumbs along the curve of his palm, the stretch of his knuckles, mapping out every detail, lest he forget. He didn’t want to forget. “He would’ve come back,” said Martin, his voice both a whisper, and a shout in the silence of the night. “The sailor, your grandmother’s – he would’ve come back to her, I’m sure of it.”

Martin heard Jon take a breath, and he could feel bile rise in his throat alongside the words. He swallowed both down, and tried for a smile, pulling one hand away to smooth down Jon’s mess of curls. They were pliant under his touch, the strands splitting and entangling his fingers between them, trapping them in a way Martin wished was permanent. “Martin,” said Jon again. The hardness in his face had softened into concern; his brows knotted together, his bottom lip gently parted as his obsidian eyes flickered across Martin’s face, as if searching for the answer between freckles and stubble.

The ocean held its breath, the waves stilling for a second as Martin spoke, “Jon, I’m leaving.”

Jon’s hand went slack in his, and both his eyes and shoulders fell. “Of course,” he said, his voice quiet and empty. He looked down, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot. Of course – of course you are.”

“No, Jon – no, that’s not – ” the words in his head tripped over themselves on his tongue, and all the came out was a garbled noise of despair and frustration. He tightened his grip on Jon’s hand, bring it closer to his chest. “I don’t have a choice.” Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Martin shook his head quickly. “I don’t.”

Jon nodded, his own dark reflection in the water mirroring the stiff movement. Martin let his eyes hold onto his figure a second longer, vision carving over the hunched curve of his shoulders, the sharp bow of his neck, the rippled reflection of his forlorn eyes. Martin felt sick.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin.

Jon only blinked.

“Please say something.”

Jon looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Is this all we get?”

Martin swallowed, exhaling dolefully. “Jon, I’ll – I’ll come back.”

“Will you, though?” he said doubtfully, the line across his brow deepening.

Martin dropped his hands and raised them to his own face, pressing the heel against his brow. “I want to.” He met Jon’s eyes, and it hurt. “Whatever happens, just – know that I wanted to come back. I just – this is – is shit, Jon. It’s all shit, and I just – for one moment, I just thought, maybe – maybe, I could – we could be happy.” He collapsed forward into his own hands, fingers pressing sharply against his skull as he fisted clumps of his salt sodden hair. “It just feels like some – some awful cosmic joke, you know.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, the lapping of the waves rushing in to fill the silence. Then, “you wanted that? For us.”

Martin let out a laugh that could’ve just as easily been a sob. “God, Jon. Of course I did, I – ” the words shrunk in his throat, not yet brave enough to emerge. He shook his head. “Of course I did.”

Jon was silent as he heaved himself up onto the rocks, sending a spray of water that Martin was too tired to flinch away from. There was a pause, and then a breath, and then Jon’s hand’s found their way onto Martin’s, and eased them down onto his lap. Martin stared down at them with watery eyes. “Martin,” said Jon, “look at me – hey, okay – look at me, Martin.”

Jon’s hand reached up to Martin’s cheek, and he followed the curve to meet Jon’s eyes; as watery as his own. He leant forward, and kissed Martin. It was chaste and quiet, and the salt water stung at Martin’s raw, and bitten lips. Jon pulled back, and drew his thumb below the dip of Martin’s eye, wiping away the dampness. “I’ll still be here if – when you come back. ”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” said Martin, shaking his head. “That’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair, Martin,” said Jon, with a tired laugh on his lips. He gave Martin’s hand a squeeze. “At least this is worth it.” The edges of Jon’s lips tilted upwards into a smile. “Just don’t take too long, okay?”

Martin cracked a wobbly smile. “I’m going to miss you something awful.”

“As will I.”

Martin leant in with a kiss, holding two fingers under Jon’s chin to tilt his lips up to meet his. Jon’s words turned to breath, as he tightened his hold around Martin, trapping him between their dying embrace; an epitaph of their affection. Jon pulled away first, and Martin let out a weighted sigh; one that felt gummy in his throat as his heart fought its way upwards.

Leave me here, it said. You can go, but let me stay.

Chapter Text

1916, February 10^th

“You packed?” came Sasha’s voice from the doorway of the kitchen. It was mid-afternoon, though the sky was already tuning dark, the light taking with it any semblance of warmth the sun had pretended to offer. The fireplace lit her worried expression in warm flickers.

Martin toed one of the bags at his feet, and gave a slight nod. “Can’t take much, really.”

“How are you feeling?” She stepped into the room, trepidation in the motion as if she were unfamiliar with the space. “Sorry, that’s a silly question.”

Martin offered a smile in understanding as he rolled one of the loose buttons of his shirt cuff between his thumb and forefinger. “Is it weird if I say relieved?”

“Relieved?” echoed Sasha. “Slight change of tune.”

“Today’s been looming over me the past month. It’s – it’s here now, and it’s just – it’s just a day now, you know.” He sighed, and pinched at the fraying thread holding the button down. “Relieved doesn’t mean chuffed, though – don’t get me wrong.”

She nodded, letting out a quiet, breathy laugh as she leant over the table, propping herself on squared off elbows. “Think I’d be a bit concerned if you were, god forbid, excited to leave. Not to mention, hurt.”

Martin smiled weakly, humming gently as he did. “You spoken to Tim today? I haven’t seen him around.”

She nodded, and brought her hands in closer to her chest, her shoulders hunching. “Yeah, I – he’s – he needs some time to himself. I think it’s just sunk in, really – the weight of it all.”  She bowed her head for a breath, before looking back up. “I’ll see him before you’se head to the station, though.”

He watched her swallow, fingers twisting around one another. He waited a beat, before he placed his hand down on the table, palm upward for her to take. She met his eyes, and then his hand, and gave it a squeeze. “I’m meant to be the one comforting you,” she pointed out, the words coming out in a gummy laugh. “Sorry, I’ve never been a good one for goodbye’s.”

“Hey, you said yourself that we’ll come back,” said Martin gently. Sasha nodded, eyes locked on his hands. “It’s not a goodbye, then.”

“It is, though,” she said. “You’ll come back, I’m sure, but – you, Tim, he – you both won’t be the same people who left.”

“Tim’s still going to be Tim.”

She tucked her lips between her teeth, and nodded, giving his hand a quick squeeze. A beat passed before she pushed herself away from the table, clapping her hands together. “C’mon, I’ll give you a hand with your bags.”

“Sasha,” tried Martin, but she was already skirting behind him, looping the strap of his saggy canvas sack across her shoulder. She gave him a quick flash of a strained smile, before she was turning towards the door. With a conceding sigh, he followed.

Tim was in the foyer when the two emerged, his own bags at his feet, and his arms drawn across his chest in a figure of hunched discomfort. He looked up, briefly, only to show his awareness of their presence. Sasha placed Martin’s bag down beside his, and brought her arm across Tim’s shoulders, her other hand curling around the bend of his elbow. In just moments, his body melted forward against hers, weak and pliant under her comforting touch. His head rested heavily against the curve of her shoulder, and her hands raised to cupped the back of his neck. She was saying something, but Martin couldn’t hear clearly enough to understand what. It wasn’t for him to know.

When the two pulled apart, there was a glisten to Tim’s eyes, and Martin felt his face soften in sympathy. Tim looked up at him, eyes crinkling at the edges in a mournful smile; Martin needn’t a mirror to know that his own face looked the same.

The moment was broken by a hacking cough, a wheezing and wet sound that came from the stairs. Martin twisted his neck to look up, as Peter Lukas descended, one hand holding him steady along the banister, the other holding his handkerchief up to his mouth. He tucked the rag into his pocket, and pressed his palms together as he approached the three.

“All packed, I assume?” he asked, nodding towards the bags by their feet. His voice, usually so soft spoken, was gritty at the edges, tinged with the evidence of his sickness.

“Astute,” said Tim, kicking at one with the tip of his boot.

Peter raised a silver brow, a small notch of annoyance creasing at the edges of his eyes. “I’ll bring the car around in that case.”

“You’re driving us down?” asked Martin, his eyes squinting in a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

“It’s a 10-mile trip to the station, Martin,” said Peter. “You’re welcome to walk, but I can’t imagine you’d want to.” He didn’t wait for a reply, before turning his head to address Tim. “I’ll be waiting outside for you in five. Don’t take too long with the farewells.”

Tim gave a stiff one-fingered salute, and a tight smile. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Peter let out a quiet, almost indiscernible, huff, before he passed by them, and towards the wide, open doors – chilling the room to a painful degree.

“Well,” said Tim, opening his arms wide as if to say what now? “I can’t honestly say I’ll miss this place much. The staff, on the other hand,” his hand swung forward to brush past Sasha’s, a moment of levity that she caught between her own, and clutched tightly.

Martin looked down at his bags for a moment, before picking them back up into his arms. He looked between them, and offered a smile. “I’ll give you guys a minute.”

Tim just nodded, though the curve of his mouth showed his gratitude. Sasha could only meet the eyes of the floor, and Martin couldn’t fault her for that.

The trunk of the car shut with a slam, as Martin finished placing the two’s bags inside. He rubbed his hands together, as if wiping away the fatigue of a far more strenuous job. Tim clapped a hand down on his shoulder as he passed him, pulling open the passenger door, and vanishing inside the black automobile. Peter was standing by the door to the drivers seat, his pipe between his lips as he looked across the grounds, as if taking it in for the last time.

Martin had been doing that a lot; looking at everything through the eyes of a premeditated memory. Simple, mundane things, really – the way the wood on the broom splintered, and left speckles of grain against his hands; the spider webs that always made their home in the window of the kitchen, no matter how many times he evicted them; or the chip in his mug, that always pressed too sharply against his lips, but never drew blood.

But it was mainly Jon he tried to memorise. He couldn’t think of anything worse to forget.

“Martin,” said Tim, poking his head out of the window, “we should get going.”

With a small nod, Martin fell into the backseat, his knees raised up to his chest in an attempt to squeeze himself into the minute space. He pulled the door shut with a click, rattling the automobile as he did. Peter slid easily into the front seat, white gloved hands drumming a melody against the wheel before settling into a loose grip. His pipe stayed perched between his lips, the embers warming the edges of his sallow face against the dying Winter light.

Martin twisted in his seat as the car started, leaning his arms against the backrest as he watched the estate grow smaller through the frosted glass. There was a figure upon the moors beside the estate, their frailness apparent even in the distance, draped in a familiar blue, woollen jumper. Then, they raised their hand. Not in a wave. Just held it there, and Martin knew what it was. A goodbye.

He raised his own, and swallowed down his heart.

Martin thought of the first time he had stepped foot into Arisaig station; all those months ago, with his mother in tow, and a feeling of dread in his stomach. This time didn’t feel all that different, sans his mother’s bitter presence. Only now the dread felt less directed towards the destination, than it did the departure.

The station was busier than when Martin had first seen it, bustling with boys and men, with bags in tow, and worried expressions upon their faces. Mothers and wives stood beside them, bustling and chatting, and fretting away their farewells. Martin wondered how many of those farewells would be their last.

Tim knocked an elbow against his, bringing him to attention as he handed over the short stub of his train ticket. “Don’t lose it, alright.”

Martin snorted, curling his fist around the paper. “Yeah, that’d be the end of the world, wouldn’t it?”

Tim raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips that didn’t quite fit the red rims of his eyes. “Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll be invalid and we’ll get booted off the train. What say you, Martin – me and you, living off the land, court marshalled and living free.” Tim held out his hands as he spoke, as if drawing a map out for the two of them. In a slump, he dropped them to his side, and cocked his head to Martin. “Then again, can’t imagine London prepared you much for scavenging.”

“Hey!” cried Martin, wrinkling his face up in offense. “I can – I’m sure I’d do just fine.” He held up his hands to halt Tim before he started. “That doesn’t mean I’m keen to get hunted for desertion, however.”

“Probably for the best,” muttered Tim. “Still, can’t imagine it’d be much worse than whatever shitshows waiting for us in France.”

Martin only sighed, rolling his lips between his teeth in a worried show of anxiety. They’d become quite raw by this point, burning bitterly with each sip of tea, or bite of food that Martin took. “Yeah, well,” he started, “at least we get to see France? Further than I ever thought I’d get to go, anyway.”

Tim looked at him for a moment, the micro muscles in his face flittering between expressions. Then, he nodded, slow and slight. “Silver linings, I guess.”

Smoke could be seen in the horizon, a billowing pillar that shot upwards, painting an ashy line of clouds behind it as it signalled the arrival of the train. The tracks began to creak and shudder as the vibrations grew nearer, louder.  A horn sounded, another deafening addition to the miasma of sound fluttering about the crowded station.

“Here she is,” said Tim, his voice dry and unimpressed.

“I’m going to go say goodbye to Peter quickly,” said Martin, tapping his hand against Tim’s bicep. Tim nodded, bending down to sling his bag over his shoulder.

“Don’t take too long,” he said, and then, “or do – we’re fucked either way, really.”

“Tim.”

Peter was sat on one of the benches, pressed against the wall of the ticket office, pipe in hand, and legs crossed over one another. He looked up as Martin approached, with a small nod of acknowledgment.

“So this is you off, then?” said Peter, raising the pipe to his lips and taking a draw. Martin nodded, eyes drawn to the grey ghosts of smoke that haunted Peter’s perimeter.

“I remember day I left for Africa - to fight. God, I was wrought with nerves. All these awful images in my head of what was awaiting me.” He shook his head, and let out a long breath, staining the salty air with the sting of bitter tobacco. “Apologies, I doubt you need more ideas for worries. You’re a smart kid, Martin – smarter than you think. You’ll come home, I’m sure.” Peter let out an echoed laugh. “Don’t want to be short a crew member, after all.”

Martin prickled, and his lips drew thin. “Course, sir.”

“And you won’t have to worry about the folk here,” continued Peter. “I’ll keep an eye on them all for you, I promise. Sasha, your mother, as agreed, and your friend – of course.” He used the shaft of his pipe to draw a spiral through the air, and tapped a finger against his chapped lips. “What’s the name again?”

Martin’s chest lurched in an awful mimicry of the ocean. “Sorry, sir?”

“Don’t play coy, Martin,” he smiled. “Its name. They usually like to pretend they have one.”

Martin tried for a bemused smile, though he knew the edges shook alongside his nerves. “I’m really not sure I follow.”

Peter raised his eyebrows, rolling his smirk between his teeth. “You’re smart, Martin – but you’re not subtle. I know what a man with secrets looks like.”

Martin didn’t speak, didn’t dare move.

“I might not have caught on had you not vandalised my book, you know. Ironic, really.” He freed his smile, and it grew wider, hungrier. “I imagine that was an attempt to keep me in the dark.”

Martin’s faux smile dropped without his consent, and he knew his expression gave way more than words could. He could see his breaths before him, white and ghosting, shallow and fast.  “Why are you doing this?” Martin’s voice was quiet, almost lost to the din of the station. The growing curve of Peter’s lips showed that he heard, though. Martin sucked his cheeks into a bite. “What do you want, Peter?”

“I only wanted to know its name.”

“Why?”

“Why?” echoed Peter. “Why, it’s only good manners, Martin. You know, the ones you seem to forget at times?”

“Why would you need his name?” spat out Martin, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “You planning on reporting me, or something? Want to be real thorough, is that it?”

“Easy there, Martin,” said Peter, holding a halting hand up towards Martin. “This is a busy place, you don’t want folk overhearing and getting the wrong idea, do you?” He dropped his hand, and eased himself against the back of his chair. “I’m not going to report you, don’t worry.”

“Then what do you want?” said Martin, fatigue and frustration intoning each word.

“We’re going in circles a bit here, don’t you think? You’re being awfully defensive for a simple moniker.”

It was just a name. It was a name. It was Jon’s name. It was Jon’s name.

The stubbornness didn’t shift from Martin’s face, and Peter’s own twisted into a knowing smile. He took another draw. “I suppose I could just ask it – seeing as your being so shy about the whole thing.”

Behind him, the trains horn sounded.

Martin felt his face pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“I won’t have to,” stated Peter, “if you just tell me its name.” He lowered his pipe, and met Martin’s eyes with his darkened gaze. “Martin, I promise you I have no intentions here minus curiosity. I’ve often wondered how those things introduce themselves, and you’re being awfully withholding about the whole thing.”

The horn sounded again, and Martin heard his name being called. He didn’t turn.

“He’s not a thing,” snapped Martin, clenching his hands into a bite, so that the tooth of his nail cut into his flesh.

Peter’s eyes went wide in a forced fashion. “Martin, it’s not human – you know that, deep down, correct?” He laughed. “Do you think it genuinely cares about you? Do you really think that you care about it? Or have you just convinced yourself of that fact out of a lonely desperation?” His face creased into commiseration. “It can get lonely, can’t it? Keeping those sort of secrets.”

His name was being called again, louder this time.

“Jon,” he snapped. His name sounded different than before – as if he was giving volume to something best kept silent, as if naming something unnameable. Martin threw up his hands. “His name is Jon. There, you happy now? Was that all you wanted it to be?”

The trains horn sounded again, and suddenly Martin felt a hand wrap around his bicep. His head jerked in the direction of the assailant, to see Tim, brows furrowed, and a tight expression on his lips. “We need to go, Martin!”

“You’re a coward for doing this now, Peter,” spat out Martin, leaning toward Peter to jab a finger in his direction, fighting against the pull of Tim’s grip. “A coward.”

Peter just raised a wiry eyebrow, and shook his head. “I’ve never pretended otherwise, Martin.”

“Let’s go,” hissed Tim, giving Martin’s arm one final yank before he pulled his feet free from the hold they had been frozen in. Martin stumbled after him, the vice like hold on his arm the only thing keeping him upright. Tim all but threw him into the carriage, jumping on after him, and pulling the door closed, just as the train started to pull away from the station.

“You know I was kidding, right?” said Tim. “About fucking deserting. What was that all even about?”

“Nothing,” bit out Martin, busying his hands with brushing imaginary flecks of dirt off of his trousers.

“Martin.”

“What?” Martin looked up at Tim, a weighted glower on his face. “What, Tim?”

Tim blinked, his weight shifting backwards as the train rumbled past a bend. “Hey, hey – alright. You good?”

Martin barked out a laugh. “Really?”

“Ask a stupid question, I suppose,” said Tim, mostly aside. He met Martin’s eyes, and took a tentative step forward, placing his hand down on Martin’s shoulder; though, he didn’t add the weight, readying himself to be shrugged off. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead opted to sigh, gaze falling to the floor.

“Sorry,” said Martin, adrenaline and regret fighting at either end of the sound, resulting in a quiet, and jagged, strained thing.

Tim squeezed Martin’s shoulder once, before dropping it, hands swinging back to his side. “Don’t be. Thought you were holding it together a bit too well before. Makes me feel a little less dramatic for earlier.”

“Mmh,” grunted Martin, leaning his head back against the rumbling wall of the train carriage. “Another silver lining, I take it?”

“Got to take them where you can. Not like we’re dealing with a surplus.”

 Martin’s gaze fell past Tim for a moment, through the blur of countryside that was pulling itself past the train, as if being viewed through a kinetoscope. It felt very much like his mind did; too much, too fast, too intangible to make sense off. His thoughts were mountains, smeared into stains of greens, and purples, and hues of stone.

Peter knew. And there was nothing Martin could do about that. Nothing.

Chapter Text

1916, February 20^th

The first thing they’d done was cut his hair.

His new reflection stared back at him, hands going up towards his scalp, pin pricks of stubble scratching his fingers as he mapped it out. Martin had never staked much on his hair, but the mirror showed not only him, but every man he’d seen since he’d arrived at the camp – shaved, tired, and, in some cases more than others, hiding a deep layer of fear that hung heavily at the eyes. Out of a line up, Martin wasn’t sure if he’d be able to point himself out, faded amongst the crowd of the soldier’s khaki coloured uniform.

He looked down at his hands, and tugged the cuffs of his woollen tunic down, if only to appear busy to watching eyes. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, wasn’t sure what he was able to do – his autonomy had been striped the same time they’d shaved his head, the same time he’d signed his name on the dotted line that felt all too much like a death certificate. He sighed, and looked out of the window, propped open to bring in the cold, winter air. The scene that lay outside was a graveyard of barracks, pitched up in neat rows that spanned as far as Martin’s eyes could see.

He felt a hand grab his elbow, and he started suddenly, letting out a small shout, and leaping up and out of the touch. “Tim – Jesus, don’t do that!”

Tim just laughed, and dropped his arm. “Sorry – you seemed a bit out of it, didn’t think you’d hear me. Love the new look, by the way.”

Martin ran a hand over his head, and grimaced. “Could say the same to you.”

Tim wrinkled his nose. “I think it’s rather becoming on me. C’mon – I’m starving.”

Tim began to head out of the barrack, and Martin picked up his pace to catch up, settling in by Tim’s side as the two began to weave and twist through the maze of dormitories towards the mess tent. They didn’t talk as they walked, but Tim would glance over at him as they did, as if fearful of losing him in the fray of grey brickwork. A few of the dormitory doors were open, exposing the innards – fellow soldiers sitting on the tarped flooring, passing around bottles of whiskey as a stack of cards piled up between them. Most men seemed to fall easily into the comradery of the army – Martin was not one of those men. He was lucky to have Tim.

“After you,” said Tim, holding out a hand towards the canteen – a large tent at the edges of the field, filled with a bustling crowd of hungry men, some sitting, and some still queuing for their rations. Most days were the same; watery soup, with chunks of floating meat, and a hot cup of tea – always brewed far too strong. If they were lucky, a slice of gritty bread would be tucked alongside the soup, but that was a rarity – flour was a commodity these days.

Martin took a bowl, and held it out for the cooks, who ladled in the brown slop of their meal. It was a meagre portion, and commenting on that fact would gain him little more than a scowl. Tim followed suit, and the two made their way over to one of the emptier tables, slipping onto the bench with a sigh. Martin pierced a chunk of meat, and popped it into his mouth, chewing with a grimace.

“We should get you in the kitchen,” said Tim, gesturing with his fork. “Might taste better that way.”

Martin laughed, and warmed gently under the flattery. “Not sure Daisy would agree with that sentiment – but thank you, anyway.”

It felt odd saying Daisy’s name in that tent – it didn’t belong there, none of them did. Jon’s didn’t. He washed down the ache in his chest with a sip of the too-bitter-tea.

“What did Daisy ever know?” said Tim, with a smirk. “Have you heard from any of them?”

Martin shook his head, swallowing heavily. “No, I – no.”

Tim nodded slowly. “Sasha wrote to me. Mentioned you.”

Martin tried for a smile. “That’s sweet. What did she say?”

“Told me to keep an eye on you.”

“Tim.”

“What?” he said, holding up his hands. “She’s quite keen to get her favourite cook back, you know. Foods awful bland without you, I hear.”

“Hardly,” muttered Martin. Then, clearer, “Did you write back?”

He shrugged. “I – I don’t know. What do I even tell her?”

“She probably just wants to hear how you’re doing,” said Martin. “She cares about you a lot.”

“And how am I doing?” asked Tim, tone flat. He sighed. “I just – I think it would just be easier if I didn’t – didn’t write back.”

“Tim,” said Martin again, his tone softer this time. “Why?”

“Because,” and he let out a long breath as he spoke, “because one day she won’t get a reply, and – and …” he trailed off, shoulders kissing his ears as he slumped forward, lording over his bowl. “It’s just easier this way. Besides, the bloody commanding officers read through all our letters – can’t have our Highnesses’ soldiers saying anything sour about the war, and I can’t promise that I’d write the kindest things.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Who are they kidding?”

There was silence between them both, encompassed by the loud and piercing banter of their comrades, all laughing and cheering over their meals – as if the moment was one to celebrate. Maybe it was. They would miss this safety come Summer.

“I think,” started Martin, slow and cautious as if he were approaching an injured animal, “you’ll regret not writing back. Tim, if I had someone who – who missed me back home, and that I could write to – talk to, then – ” He cut himself off with a sigh. “It’s not easier, Tim – there isn’t an easier here. If anything, that makes things harder – cutting yourself off from the outside world, cutting off people back home who miss you, and love you – it’s – it’s like you don’t want anything to go back to.”

Tim stared blankly ahead, pointedly avoiding Martin’s gaze. He shook his head softly, and bowed it. “Be smart, Martin,” he said. “We’re not coming back.”

“Bullshit.”

“Martin,” groaned Tim. He looked up and around the tent, hands gesturing towards the masses. “We’re canon-fodder. We’re a couple of sandbags, thrown into the fight to soak up bullets. People like us,” and he pointed between the two, “we don’t come home.”

Martin shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“God,” mumbled Tim, pressing his hands against his face, and splitting them through his hair. “You remind me of Danny so much sometimes, it’s unbelievable. You know, your blind optimism is – is charming back home, but get real – you fancy yourself much in a fight? Really see yourself holding up under gunfire?”

“I can handle myself,” stated Martin, furrowing his brows. “You’re being cruel, Tim.”

Tim opened his mouth, and then conceded with a shake of his head. He tried for a smile, small and lopsided as he met Martin’s eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry, sorry, Martin. I just – I’m just angry at this whole – whole situation.” His smile dropped into an expression of sincerity. “You’ll come back, Martin.”

Martin took a deep breath. “So will you.”

1916, March 15^th

Evening came slowly, the sun creeping teasingly towards the land. Martin could see the slow change of hue through the open slit of their window, lining the edges of the field in warm saturation that almost belied the view of the camp as something pleasant. He was seated in his bunk, boots kicked off, and neatly discarded below the bed. His tender feet throbbed, and he rubbed his thumb along the raw sole with a grimace. Training was running havoc on his body.

Tim was lying in the bunk across from him, his pillow pressed over his face to blot out the sounds of their rowdy bunkmates – who were currently engaged in a card game upon the floor. Hopworth, judging by his sour and pockmarked expression, was losing.

Martin tried to keep his focus on his writing pad before him, where he had been loosely sketching out the shape of a strong nose, softened by sodden hair. Many of the men Martin had met had pulled out dog eared photos of their wives, or girlfriends, and fondly told Martin about them, about the life they were going to have when the war ended.

They always ended with a pause, a cue for Martin to pull out his own creased photo, and warm smile, and respond with a tale of his own loved one. Someone he was fighting to go home for.  

Martin didn’t have a photo.

So, he would, during moments of respite, sketch out elements from his memories; a cross hatched rendition of Jon’s slender fingers, a charcoal imitation of his jaw, a sketched impression of the lines below his dark eyes. It was a pathetic likeness; Jon wasn’t made to exist upon paper.

“Didn’t realise we had an artist among us,” came a gritty voice, as thick fingers appeared at the edge of Martin’s vision, snatching at his pad. Martin let out a shout, bolting upright as Hopworth took a step back, an entertained smirk on his lips as he flicked through the lined pages. Martin jumped to his feet, and lunged forward towards him, holding out his hand to grab the book back. With a laugh, Hopworth raised it skyward, towering over Martin with his extra foot of height.

He held out a mocking hand to hold Martin back as he lowered the pad. He looked between the sketches and Martin, and grinned. “Pretty,” he said. “Who you drawing?”

“No one,” snapped Martin, taking another step forward that was met with a push to his shoulder, and Hopworth waggled his finger in a chiding motion.

“Looks like a bloke,” said Hopworth. “Bit queer, innit?” Hopworth raised a wiry eyebrow. “You some sort of pervert, Blackwood?”

“You bored or something?” bit back Martin, attempting another grab for the book. “Stop being a git.”

“How come you ain’t got no missus back home?” Hopworth grinned, sharp and wolfish. “Don’t recall you mentioning anyone.”

“Yeah, and what was the name of your girl?” said Martin, another swing for the book. “Seems to have slipped my mind.”

There was a beat, and then Hopworth laughed, before tossing the book towards Martin’s bunk. It missed the bed, and skidded onto the floor, the pages creasing towards themselves. Martin snapped down to pick it up, and attempted to smooth out the crumpled lines. He felt his jaw clench as he saw the spider web of creases that now cut up the jut of Jon’s profile. He yanked his lockbox out, the metal screeching noisily against the floor, opening with a click as Martin unlocked it, tucking the notebook in before closing it with a slam.

“You’re gonna get eaten out there,” stated Hopworth coldly.

Martin twisted his neck to face the hulking man. “You done?”

He smirked. “Sure.”

Hopworth turned back to his game, which had continued despite his interruption. Martin sucked his cheeks between his teeth, and bit down a grunt as he pulled his coat over his body, and shoved his throbbing feet back into his blistering boots. The sun had vanished completely along the horizon, turning the sky a dirty blue. The air was cold, and biting against his flushed face; he turned the collar of his coat upwards against the winds, and drew his arms tighter around his chest.

He found his way to the edge of the camp, running his hands along the perimeter of the barracks, and leaning down against it; where his view looked over the sprawling field, so peaceful without the morning drills. He drew his knees up to his chest, and rested his arms over them. Not a minute passed, before a weight was sliding down beside him.

“You follow me?” muttered Martin, not looking over.

“Sort of,” admitted Tim, and Martin could feel him shrug beside him. “You seemed upset.” He dropped a hand down on Martin’s knee and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it. “Don’t pay Hopworth any mind – the blokes a right arse.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Yeah, cheers for stepping in. Appreciate it.”

“Sounded like you were dealing with him just fine,” said Tim, levity on his tone. There was a pause   between them. “Hey, look – the man’s got nothing but dough between his ears. I imagine he’ll blow himself up before we even get deployed – you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Why would I worry about it?” Martin turned his head to look at Tim. “He was just being a prick.”

Tim hummed and looked down. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Right prick, he is.” Martin watched as Tim ran his lips between his teeth, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against his boots. The beat stopped suddenly, and he sighed, meeting Martin’s eyes. “I get it.”

Martin blinked. “Get what?”

Tim gestured vaguely with his hands, fingers wriggling in an attempt to convey the unspoken. “Just – it, you know. The – the weight, the – it.”

“It?” echoed Martin, an uncertain laugh blooming on his lips before quickly dying when he noted Tim’s expression; uncertainty, fear, shame. “Oh.” He let out a small and shaky exhale.

“Sasha told me.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

Tim shook his head. “No, probably not. But she’s honest with me to a fault – why do you think she calls me an idiot so much, hm?” He knocked his knee against Martin’s in a playful swing. “She’s a good person, Martin. You can trust her, honest.”

Martin smiled, a small thing. “Just not with you, it seems.”

Tim laughed at that, his head lolling back against the wall. “Well, you can trust me, too.” Silence hung between them, mingled with the white ghosts of their breaths against the cold and dark night. Then, “you must miss him something awful.”

Martin nodded, a minute motion. When he spoke, it was a gravely, and broken thing, “It – it hurts, but it’s nice. To miss him. If I – if I miss him, then I can’t forget him.” He looked down, and plucked absentmindedly at the grass below. “I think I’d go mad if I forgot him.”

There was a sadness in the smile Tim gave him, a weight to the eyes that didn’t match the lilt of his lips. “Tell me about him?”

Martin just shook his head. “I can’t.”

Tim nodded, his smile flickering upwards into something more before settling back down. A moment of silence passed between the two, then Tim nudged his shoulder, and held out his hand, palm upwards so that the moon caught the edges. “C’mere.”

Hesitantly, Martin raised up his own hand, and pressed his palm against Tim’s. Instantly, Tim intertwined their fingers, and gave his hand a tight squeeze. It wasn’t like holding Jon’s hand. Where’s Jon’s fingers were slender and soft, Tim’s were hard, and calloused. Where Jon’s were cold, Tim’s were warm. Though, both held fondness, and both made Martin feel, in the simplest of terms, safe. Seen.

1916, July 21^st

Days must have passed, as the sun rose and fell like clockwork, but they didn’t ever feel like days – just routine stretched out and pulled over a calendar, broken up only by meagre games of cards, and watery soup.

“Any sevens?” asked Banks, his brodie helmet cupping his cards as he looked out across the fellow men in the dugout. He was an interesting man, and not one Martin had taken an immediate liking to. He spoke often in waxing verses, lamenting of their mortality and the futility of the fight at hand; looking over the pockmarked ground that fell beyond the trenches with a sagacious expression, as if he understood something the rest did not.

“No sevens,” said Tim, around a mouthful of dry biscuit, sending flecks of crumbs flying as he spoke. Banks reached forward to pluck a new card from the deck between them, perched atop Martin’s mess tin. “Fives?”

Martin sighed, pulling out his five of hearts, and handing it over to Tim, who accepted it with a smug smirk. “Twos?” Hopworth grumbled as he handed over his card.

Tim looked out, through the arch of the dugout, squinting slightly. “Whose on lookout the moment?”

Martin shrugged. “Shelley, I think.”

Tim snorted. “That’s not comforting.”

“Leave him be,” said Banks, knocking his mud-caked boot against Tim’s. “He’s not that bad.”

“I’m just saying,” said Tim, “it’s our skulls on the line, if Mr Head-in-the-Clouds can’t keep focus.”

“You’re welcome to relieve him, if you’re that worried,” said Banks, a dark eyebrow inching upwards. “Might be easier than admitting defeat – any fours?”

“Screw you, Banks,” muttered Tim, not entirely unkindly, as he tossed over the card. Banks laughed as he caught it, tucking it neatly into his hand.

Martin chuckled alongside him, before the texture of something damp and furry brushed past his ankle. He let out a surprised shout, leaping up to his feet. “Oh – Christ.”

The rat, bloated and swollen to an egregious size scuttled forward, clambering over the mess tin, and spilling the cards over onto the muddy floor. It’s claws, as brown and dirtied as Martin’s own hands, picked furiously at the lid of the tin, it’s whiskers fluttering as it sniffed out the memory of the meal that had been packed inside.

“I got it,” grunted Hopworth, swinging his rifle off of his shoulder, bayonet blade glinting in the flicker of the torch light. He pierced it forward, slicing through the meat of the creature with a wet and slick sound. He hummed, seemingly pleased, before raising the gun upwards, the rat sliding down to meet the hilt of the blade.

Martin tried to hide the disgust on his face, as Hopworth flung the body out of the door. If the amused expression on the hulking man’s face was anything to go by, he’d failed.

“Rat got your tongue, Blackwood?”

“Fuck off,” said Tim, not looking up from where he was cleaning up the spillage of cards. “Keep being an arse, and you can find some other folk to lose at cards to.”

Hopworth’s expression soured, his lips twisting into a tight coil as his eyes darkened. His shoulders rose as he crossed over to Tim, lording over where he sat. He prodded a thick, meaty finger against his chest. “Say that again, Stoker.”

Tim batted his hand away. “I said fuck off. You got mud in your ears, Hopworth, or are you just thick?”

Banks leant back in his chair, arms crossing over one another, a tired and blank expression on his face. “Leave off, the lot of you’se,” said Banks. “I don’t fancy having the Lieutenant on our backs, and I doubt you’se do, either.”

That got Hopworth stepping back; he was already on thin ice with the Lieutenant, and any more warnings would have him cleaning out the latrine until their relief came to take over. However, that fact didn’t stop the deep scowl from blooming on his face, and he jabbed a finger in Tim’s direction. “Talk to me like that again, and I’ll break your bloody nose, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Private,” bit Tim, raising his hand in a cheap mockery of a salute. Martin hid a smile behind his hand. Hopworth spat, just to the side of Tim, raising an eyebrow to challenge him on the fact, before turning back towards the archway.

“Stand to!” came a shout from outside, bellowing and sharp as always. There were a few murmurs of complaints as the men rose to their feet, slinging their rifles over their shoulders, and arching out their backs, bones clicking back into place.

“Right on time,” said Tim, “we were almost having fun.”

Martin hummed in amusement, falling into tow with Tim as the two left the dugout, heading down the winding maze of the trenches, sandbags piled high around them. “You know,” he said, “you didn’t have to do that.” He paused as another soldier skirted by him, before being shoved slightly by a Private behind him. “But thank you.”

Tim shrugged. “Just trying to give the bloke an incentive to stop bumming off our card games. Man can’t play for shit.”

Martin let out a small snort, as the two climbed up onto the fire step, raising their rifles to rest upon the mud mounded parapet. It was routine, each morning and evening, for the men to stand guard against the front line, rifles at the ready in case of enemy attack. He remembered the first time the order to stand to attention had come; how nervous he’d been as he stood there, quivering fingers wrapped around the trigger as his knees shakily knocked against the sandbag walls. When the call to stand down came, the series of gunshots that followed had Martin ducking down, body pressed flush against the walls, and holding his rifle to his chest in shock.

Of course, the bullets had come from their side – a source of relief for some of the men following the tension that weighted the experience. A man, Lance Corporal judging from the uniform, had kicked his boot as he’d passed by Martin, muttering foul words about cowardice.

It wasn’t that he was used to it now – god, no. Martin didn’t expect he would ever get used to the fear, didn’t particularly want to. But his hands stood steadier, his stance sturdier – either he had become braver, or more adjusted to his terror. He still hadn’t fired his gun outside of training, and he hoped more than anything for it to stay that way. He’d seen men on the front lines, when he’d still been back in the reserve trench, fighting, sending sprays of bullets into the void of no-man’s land, eaten either by earth or flesh. Martin wondered how many men knew the colour of blood on their own hands, how many could claim a life lost as their doing. It was easier, it seemed, to fire through the wire and never see where it landed.

Tim rapt his knuckles against Martin’s hat, the metal sounding out in an echo. “You still in there?”

Martin shook his head, blinking, dry eyes burning as he did – his stare must have turned vacant more than a minute ago. “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t let the Sargent see you floating away,” said Tim, giving a firm nod. “You saw how he chewed out Shelly the other day. Man had it coming, mind you – ditzy bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” grumbled Martin, resting his chin down against the curve of the sandbags, closing one eye to look down the front sight of his rifle. He closed the other eye for a moment, squeezing them both shut for a sigh. “Bloody exhausted, I tell you.”

Tim hummed. “You and me both. You’ll never guess what I woke up to find scuttling about near my head the other day.”

“Placing my money on a rat.”

Tim shuddered, wrinkling his nose up in disgust. “You know they got into the bloody supplies? Chewed right through it – bastards, the lot of them. Look’s like it’s bully-beef till the cows come home, eh?”

“When we go home, you know what I’m going to do?” asked Martin, turning to Tim with a small smile on his face. “I’m going to cook the best meal the estate’s ever seen – not a can of bully-bloody-beef in sight. Bread, too – good bread, not the stuff they ration out here. And tea – brewed proper, mind you.”

Tim was a silent for a moment, then he nodded. “That sounds really nice, Martin.”

Martin beamed, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll – I’ll do our favourites, you know. Deserve it after this. Might get home before Summer ends, yeah? Maybe even be able to eat outside, if the weather holds.”

Tim smiled, a melancholy thing. “When does it ever?”

“We’ll sit under the awning then,” stated Martin. “Besides, I like the rain – back home, anyway. Not here.” He grimaced. “Who knew dry socks would seem like such a luxury?”

As if the clouds had heard him, a slick, wet droplet fell onto his nose, rolling down onto his chin. He wiped it away with the dirtied cuff of his uniform, before looking up to meet another droplet on his cheek. He let out an incredulous laugh. “Speak of the devil.”

Tim was already wrestling his rain poncho on, tucking it around himself, as he settled back in against the wall. It would be another long night, it seemed.

1916, July 23^rd

“Who knew waiting to die would be so fucking boring?”

Martin looked up from his writing pad, page littered with affectionate doodles, over towards Tim, who was half propped up against the wall of the dug-out, his hat cupped over his face as to blot out the afternoon light.

There was a grumble of agreement from Banks, who was routinely cleaning his rifle – the blade of the bayonet far cleaner than any of the men could claim to be. God, what Martin wouldn’t give for a bath …

“Anyone got any stories?” prompted Banks, looking up between the men. “Unless you’se want me to grab Herbert – don’t think he’d quite wrapped up his thrilling tale of grave digging.”

Martin gave a groaning laugh, pressing his hands against his face. “God, I would’ve taken cleaning out the latrines if it meant getting away from that man sooner.”

Tim snorted, sliding his torso upright. “Would’ve enjoyed it more had the man buried me a grave. Jesus.” A beat passed between them, before Tim threw his hand out over to Martin. “You’ve got stories, Martin.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Yeah,” said Tim. “You’re into your folk stuff. What was that one you were telling me about the other day, the – ” he clicked his fingers repeatedly as he lured out the memory. “The fish horse!”

“Each Uisge?” checked Martin, which earned a nod from Tim. “I don’t know many more.”

“I like a good folk story,” said Banks, seemingly done with his rifle as he rested it against his leg. “Go on, Martin.”

Martin worried his lip, attempting to recall any of the handful of stories Jon had told him. He could see him, head resting against his lap, dark curls staining Martin’s trousers with salt water. There had been sunlight, bright and warm, and it had blinked off the ocean, as if a thousand eyes had been watching them in their unified solitude.  

“Do you know the story of Martin’s stone?” Jon had asked, craning his neck upwards so as to meet Martin’s eyes. His dark gaze had swum with light, amber hues lapping against the edges of white as specks of blue crashed over his pupils. Martin had told him no.

“There was a man,” began Martin as Banks and Tim settled down to listen, “a long time ago now, and he had nine daughters …”

“He sent his oldest down to the well,” he could hear Jon say, “to fetch water, and when she didn’t return come the evening – he sent the second eldest. I’m sure you can imagine where this is going.”

“I assume the daughters were all just having a grand time down by the well,” Martin had joked, and Jon had laughed – shoulders shaking and melodic. Martin couldn’t quite recall if the sound lilted up at the end, or dropped.

“So,” continued Martin, as Tim and Banks listened on, “the father – awfully anxious about his children, grabbed an old fishing spear and ran to the well. Now, what he found there was certainly not to be expected – ”

“ – a blood smeared dragon,” Jon had said, raising his hands and flexing them open for emphasis. “There was carnage everywhere, and the man knew – knew it was this creature that had taken his children from him. So, unable to take him on alone, the father rushed to the village – and he gathered the villagers to surround this dragon.”

“The villagers were led by the Blacksmith, a man called Martin,” said Martin, ignoring the small snort of laughter from Tim. “He had been in love with one of the daughters who had been slain. The mob drove the dragon to Strathmartine, which was named after – ”

“Strike, Martin – the villagers chanted,” Jon had said, sitting upright now, a bright look of excitement over his face as he recounted the tail. His hand had fallen to rest against Martin’s forearm, his other drawing shapes of the tale against the sky. “The dragon was beaten by a club, wielded by Martin, and where the beast died, a stone now sits – Martin’s stone.”

“Man’s kind of putting all the other Martin’s to shame,” Martin had said, giving a faux huff. “Can’t say I’ve bludgeoned any dragons recently – not that I can remember, anyway.”

Jon’s brow had furrowed, and he looked to Martin with a fierce sincerity. “You would remember something like that, I guarantee.”

Martin had blinked, and then laughed, head knocking against Jon’s shoulder. “Aright, I definitely haven’t killed any dragons, then. Glad we settled that.”

“Shame,” Jon had muttered, “They’re quite vile things – cruel beings on the best of days.”

Martin had gasped, laughing as he smacked the back of his hand lightly against Jon’s arm. “Now, I know that one’s not real.”

Jon had just smiled, raising his eyebrows with a small shrug. “Well, no one can truly say for sure …”

“Stop being ominous,” Martin had said, shaking his head, and rolling his eyes fondly. “How does the story end?”

“Well,” Jon had said, “that’s it for the most part – minus the creatures dying words. I was tempted at Pitempton, draiglet at Baldragon – ”

“ - stricken at Strike-Martin,” finished Martin, resting his head back against the muddy walls of the trench, “and killed at Martin's Stone.”

There was silence for a moment between the men, before Tim broke it, “you okay, Martin?”

Martin stared at Tim for a moment, before he felt a wet line carve over his jaw. His hand reached up to his face, feeling the stains of tears against his face. He swallowed, wiping the cuff of his sleeve across his face. When had he started to cry?

“I’m alright,” said Martin, clasping his dirty hands together into a fist. Tim opened his mouth to press the issue, but closed it quickly with a shake of Martin’s head. “Someone else next?”

“I’ll go,” said Banks, flagging his hand up for a brief moment. “It’s one my ma told me.”

Chapter Text

1916, July 25th

The sky had darkened, smoke covering the stars as the men worked; lanterns kept low beside their feet. Martin’s head was bowed as he lugged the decaying sandbags over his shoulder, dropping them down at the feet of Tim and another soldier, whose name he had yet to find out – he was French, if the accent was anything to go by, and didn’t seem to know much English. He was polite, though, conversing through grateful smiles and nods whenever the two worked near each other.

“That’s the last of them,” said Martin, bending down to open one of the bags up. The smell inside was smoky, and damp; an absorbent sponge of the putrid air of the trenches. He wrinkled his nose. Tim crouched down to meet him, running his hand through the murky and thick river that bracketed the duckboard, pulling out a handful of dark sludge that he then transferred into the bag. He was far better at hiding his distaste than Martin was; his expression an unreadable line of disinterest.

“Better them than us, right,” said Tim, knocking a dirty hand against the bag with a small huff of laughter, then raised his hand to a salute, leaving a line of muck across his forehead. “Your country thanks you for your service.”

Martin snorted, sealing the bags back up, and hauling them upwards.

“Here,” said the French solider, his accent heavy around the word, pointing towards the parapet above him. Martin nodded, inching around him to clamber up onto the fire step, stacking the refilled bag atop the old and dwindling ones. They would refill those another day, but for now they would hold.

“Pass up the others,” said Martin as he held out his hands to receive the next bag, and then the next, and the next. He brushed his damp and sandy hands down the length of his uniform once they were done, flicking away the excess moisture.

Tim shrugged, looking up at him. “What now?”

The trenches were a playground for fate, a place where temptation came quick and easy, and consequences faster. Tim’s reply came in a whistle from the heavens, a long stretched out note that made their blood run cold, and their faces pale. The high note broke into an explosion, a shuddering jolt of the earth that had the three stumbling for purchase along the wall.

“Where did that hit?” Tim asked, tone steady against the erratic thrum of Martin’s heart in his ears.

Martin didn’t know how to reply, tightening his grip on the strap of his rifle as he started to feed himself along the alleyways of the trenches, hands fumbling along the wall, holding himself upright. The air had turned muddy quick, his breaths ashy and thick, pinpricked with light from the lanterns along the floor. His eyes burned as he followed them, blinking away the heat of the dust that was settling all around them. A hand was on his arm, not pulling him backwards, just holding on.

“Where are you going?” said Tim. Martin turned to give him a small look as they moved, his face blurred by smoke. He just swallowed, unable to formulate a response. He didn’t know. “Martin!”

This cry was followed by a yank of his arm, and Martin was spun round to face him, his shoulders meeting Tim’s hands in a tight hold. “We need to get to cover, do you understand?”

The world was not hazed only by smoke, but by something else. Martin could see Tim, hear his words, feel his grip on his shoulders, and in the same breath he felt none of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not quite remember how. He could taste the smoke now, burning down his throat. A cough broke through his body, and with it a fraction of life, a jolt of existence that had him staggering forward with a tug of Tim’s hand, following where he lead.

“Keep your head down!” shouted Tim, and Martin knew only to obey, ducking down to meet Tim’s level. Another heaven bound whistle sounded, and it was funny – Martin knew the sound. The kettle his mother had once owned had sung a similar pitch, calling for tea. Calling for a moment of respite, of peace. He should have peace. He deserved that.

But peace was not what this sound brought them. The ground writhed and popped, as the shell nestled into the earth at the head of the alley, sending up an ocean spray of dirty sinew, speckling the sky in muddied stars of gore. There were screams, in voices familiar to Martin. He’d played cards with those screams, shared meals with them. But he couldn’t give them names. What were their names?

Tim was dragging him down another alleyway, his footsteps frantic against the rotting board below them. Martin could feel the heave of his chest, weighted down with ash and exertion. It burned him from the inside out.

Tim pulled them to a halt, his hands falling down onto his knees as he caught his breath. Martin fell against the wall, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. His eyes fell to the sky, where the stars turned to darkened explosions, black and putrid, and raining down onto the trenches. He squeezed his eyes shut for a breath, before pulling himself upward, hand falling onto Tim’s back to ease him upright.

“Move,” was all he could say, his voice broken and raspy. Tim staggered against Martin, his footing slipping off the deck and into the muddied river that surrounded it. Martin heaved him out, tugging him through the twists and bends that fell before them. They collapsed through another turning, meeting a line of soldiers, backs pressed to the wall, and arms brought tight over their heads.

Another shudder sounded behind them, a harsh splatter of earth hitting the two in the back, and the two lurched forward into the fray of men. Martin’s helmet hit hard off the ground, the echo of the metal ringing in his ears alongside the explosion. He grunted, clenching his hands into fists that raised his shaking torso upwards. A hand wrapped around his arm, and tugged him forward before another caught his collar, yanking him upwards and then shoving him forward. His neck twisted to see Tim, upright, and close behind him; his face streaked in shades of dirt and ashen fear.

“You lot need to move!” Tim ordered to the men bracketing them. “Get to a dugout, get to shelter – just move!”

A few men broke free from the wall, stumbling past the two and down another twisting bend. There was one lad, old around the eyes yet barely pushing twenty, and an older fellow beside him – both wide eyed and vacant, frozen in place. Tim dropped Martin’s arm, dropping down to grab the two. He gave a huff, and a wheezing cough, before flicking his head towards Martin and giving a shout to help. Martin faltered a moment, his mind working too slow to process the words, before his feet stumbled forward, arms wrapping around the older man, and hauling him upwards. His body was rigid under Martin’s hands, and the shakes could be felt through his uniform.

He was heavy to lead, his feet not complying with Martin’s desperate tugs, more so falling where he was pulled. “I’m Martin,” he said through tired breaths, not fully understanding why. The man didn’t reply, didn’t even seem to register his words.

“Next turning,” called Tim from behind him, “should be a dugout.”

Martin pulled himself through the passage, hands directing him along the towering trench walls that felt all too much like a tomb. His fingers wrapped around the wooden arch of the dugout, and he let out a sigh that could almost taste like relief against the smoked-out sky. Martin fed the man through the doorway, taking the arm of the younger lad as Tim pushed him forward, and guiding his head down under the doorway. Another shell landed, punctuating the head of the alley, breaking into smears of charcoal that shot upwards with force. Martin flinched, raising his arm to cover his face, feeling sharp divots erupt over his arm. He let out a shout, the surprise of the pain sending him stumbling backwards.

“Get in!” said Tim, voice loud and sharp as he caught Martin’s arm, sending him flying towards the entrance. He tripped over the threshold, skidding down onto his forearms, pressing the sharp cuts of shrapnel deeper into his skin. He winced, allowing himself nothing more than that before pushing himself up and twisting round to face Tim, just as another whistle began to sing it’s song.

The world held its breath for a single moment, and then the song ended; a climactic crescendo of engulfing black smoke that rushed into the trenches, encompassing the men in its rancid and putrid sweetness. The echoes of the shells song now only sounded as a ringing in Martin’s ear, a droning tone that ran over his panicked rasps of, “No, no – God no.”

He rushed out of the dugout, stumbling through the smoky abyss, hands falling forward against nothingness until they met the sodden walls of the trench. “Tim!”

His voice was diluted under the ringing, and roughened through the smoke, yet he continued to call, the void of ashen darkness swallowing his words and spitting nothing out in return. He stumbled for his flashlight, shaking hands frantically scanning it across the smoke. “Tim!”

His light caught over something that wasn’t smoke, something solid and broken, and, “Tim.”

Martin fell to his knees, hands rushing to his friends face, his wrist, his chest, desperately searching for something, for a reply of life. A breath. A beat. There had to be something There had to be –

There was blood. It wasn’t Martin’s.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right.

“Help me!” cried out Martin to the abyss, wrapping his hands under Tim’s arms. “Help me bring him in!”

Another whistle sounded, a plume of smoke in the distance signalling it’s landing. No hands arrived at Martin’s sides as he pulled Tim up into his arms, the pulse of pain in his forearm drowned out under desperation. He could feel wet against him, sticky and sour.

He fell into the dugout, his body giving away under the weight as Tim fell to the floor. “Help me,” cried out Martin to the other soldiers, dropping down onto his knees to survey Tim under lamplight. He looked up to the men, eyes flickering over each and every face. “Please, someone – we can – we can help him, please.” None replied, expressions low. Martin swallowed, speaking next in a choking sob, “Please!”

A hand fell onto his shoulder, and Martin flinched away from it, twisting up to look at the face of an older man, whose eyes were set on Tim. “I’m sorry, lad.”

Martin shook his head. “No, no – we can help him. We can help him.”

The man shook his head, his movement far softer than Martin’s frantic ones, before he knelt down beside Martin, his hand resting quietly on his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. He’s my friend,” said Martin, desperate. “Please.”

The man’s hand pulled away to unbutton his tunic. He peeled his arms out of the sleeves, and pressed it into Martin’s hands. “Let him rest, yeah?”

Martin just stared at the man. Could he not understand that this was wrong – could he not see that there was something to be done, there had to be. There had to be.

He took the tunic, blood damp hands fisting it in a prayer. He looked back to Tim. Martin knew what the dead looked like, but Tim didn’t look like them. He was Tim. He was his friend.

Martin placed the coat over Tim’s face in a mockery of a shroud. He did not look peaceful. He did not look how they promised; he was not resting. He was dead. It was cruel to pretend that those were the same thing.

1916, July 27^th

“Blackwood?”

Martin looked up from where he was sitting, propped against a tree with his brodie cap blocking out the mid-afternoon sun. The cap fell into his lap as he leant forward. “Yeah?”

The man before him was young, mud-caked fingernails clutching a cigarette tin. Martin knew that tin. “You were friends with Stoker, right? Private Stoker, yeah – you two were in the 9^th together.”

Martin nodded.

“I thought you might want this,” and the man held forward the box, “since he had no next of kin. I don’t really know what happens to all the folks shit if they got no one to send it to, but I doubt the higher-ups are big on sentimentality.”

Martin reached forward, cold metal greeting his aching hands. “You took it?”

The man shrugged. “No one saw me, and I doubt they care much anyway.”

Martin held the tin in both his hands, his thumbs running over the battered inlay, the sharpness of the edges bashed into softness. “Thank you. That’s – ” he cut himself out with a breath, drumming his fingers against the lid. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Harrell,” said the man, “Private Harrell.”

“Your first name?”

Harrell blinked. “David.”

“Martin.”

“Martin,” echoed David, then seemingly satisfied, gave a nod. A beat passed, before he pointed to Martin’s arm. “You get hit, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes flickered down to the dirt-smeared bandages that encased his arm. Faded red could be seen through the layers, and he flexed his hands, feeling a numb echo of the aging pain ring through his skin. He ran his good hand over the fabric, feeling the divots and rise of the wrap, pushing past tender spots. “Got shelled.” Then he tapped his finger against the box, and gave a sardonic laugh. “Suppose I was lucky.”

“Shit way of viewing it, I think,” said David, his boot kicking down against a tuft of grass. “It all comes down to luck - nah, what’s the point, then? If the world works like that? You’re lucky or you’re not? Sounds – ”

“Inevitable?”

David nodded. “Aye.”

“Think Tim might’ve disagreed with you there,” said Martin, a small smile at the edge of his lips, as if waiting to be invited in. “If only cause he liked to fight against stuff like that. Man would’ve fought fate if you just pointed him in the right direction.”

David snorted a laugh. “Sounds like me and him would’ve got on quite well, then.”

Martin let out a breath. “I’d think so.”

There was another stretch of silence between the two; in the distance, shouts from the triage area, sobs from the medical tent, and barking orders from the generals. But between the two, silence.

“I best be off,” said David, gesturing a thumb behind him. “Starting to serve up lunch soon, and I’ll be damned if I’m scraping the barrel again.”

Martin gave a small nod, holding up a hand in a farewell. “Thanks again, David.”

David turned on his heels, cutting through the expansive field towards the camp. A year ago, Martin would never have viewed a dry patch of ground, and a tree to rest his head as a luxury – but things had changed, and any moment out of those trenches was to be savoured. It was a moment of peace.

Martin opened the tin. It didn’t feel right, like prying into his heart; a box of things he’d once looked at and thought ‘I’d could die with these’. The inside was rather empty. Two slips of paper, one folded, one a photograph.

Martin didn’t dare lift the photograph, didn’t want to touch it. It was Tim’s, it was not for him to hold, and mark and mourn over. Had the smile been any different, Martin would’ve thought the photo to be of Tim; same messy muse of brown hair, same wrinkle around the eye, same general air of mischievous joy. But the smile – the smile was smaller, tighter at the corners, with no peak of teeth slipping through. Danny Stoker, his brother.

Had Martin been a religious man, he might’ve found comfort in the two being reunited. But all he could think of was how there was no one left to tell stories of the other; of how they were when they were young; who broke their arm climbing the tree out back; which one of them pegged the decline of whiskey in the cabinet on the other; who first took whose hand when their parents had passed.

An entire family, gone.

Martin picked up the folded piece, and unfurled it in his hands. Through blurring vision he could see the crest of the royal family, lording over the page, regret to inform you, and Danny’s name, scrawled out in ink upon the page. He folded it up immediately, slamming the lid down and dropping his head against his knees.

“Those pricks still got him, though,” he could remember Tim saying, a lifetime ago; a moment followed by tea, and conversation. Sasha had come through, and she had laughed, and – a sob rocked through his body, spilling through his hands, cascading downwards in waves. His chest rattled with the sound, hands clawing against his stomach as if to tear the ache away.

It stayed, trapped between his lungs and below his heart, a shell gently eroded by the ocean, till he was full of the grains, sand-speckling his body with sorrow. So he cried. And he wept. And he mourned, and he wondered if it would always hurt like this.

1916, August 5^th

Martin was transferred down to the border. The journey took them past the ocean. It burned like fire under the dying sky, just like Jon had told him it did. Martin thought of ceramic, and promises made outside shop windows. He thought of promises broken.

1916, September 21^st

Martin did not cry when his mother passed. He hated himself for it. He kept the letter, tucked inside his jacket, and hoped one day he would grieve over it. When this was over, he told himself, he would mourn. He would mourn for them all.

1916, December 31^st

Martin brought the new year in with strangers acting like friends; laughing and cheering over hidden bottles of drink, and sipping and sharing from the same neck. Martin laughed when the sound prompted him to do so, lulling himself into the guise of safety and comradery.

Martin thought of Cassiopeia, watching them celebrate, trapped as she drowned. They cheered.

The new year had arrived.

 Maybe this year, came the voice of each man, staggered over one another, maybe this year we go home.

Chapter Text

1917, April 11^th

“How much time do you get?” asked Banks as the two walked, skirting around the crowd of soldiers lined up for dinner.

“Three days,” said Martin.“Three whole days.”

Banks let out a slow whistle. “You going to go home for that?”

Martin shook his head. “Can’t afford the fares. Besides, I’d be back for a whole five seconds before having to rush back. Don’t fancy that much.”

Banks snorted. “Either way, I’m jealous. My leave got cancelled.” Martin gave him an apologetic look, and Banks waved his hand through the air. “Pushed back, they said – promised they’d give me an extra day if I held off. Said it like it was an option.”

“Was it?”

“Course not.”

Martin snorted.

“Where you going to go, then?”

Martin shrugged. “There’s a village a short way-a-ways. Look’s quiet, sounds nice.”

Banks nodded, clicking his fingers together. “North from here?”

Martin nodded.

“Good spot,” said Banks, “heard one of the men talking about a circus passing through. You a fan?”

“Not been to one,” admitted Martin. “Never much appealed to me.”

“They’re a lot of fun. Went to a lot as a kid.”

Martin hummed. “Maybe.”

“Well,” said Banks, clapping a hand down on his shoulder, “if you do – tell me how it is. I’m going to need a good story when you’re back.”

“I’ll be sure to bring you a full report.”

Banks chuckled, giving Martin’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping it. “You best be going – don’t want to waste your time off rotting away with us lot.”

*

It was a small village, seemingly untouched by the war, but Martin knew that the scars of the conflict ran deep throughout the country. He knew of empty beds behind windows, those that would never be filled again. It was quaint, and gentle, and reminded his deeply of the village near Peter Lukas’s estate – the church punctuating the street, the rows of wobbly houses piled in beside one another. The air was soft, warmed by the hint of the Summer sun. The days were getting longer again, sunlight stretching across the land in increasing increments, holding the world in warmth for a breath longer every day. It almost tasted like hope, and Martin revelled in it.

Martin’s shoulders were light as he walked, his bags left at the inn, tucked neatly under the bed. He had few down clothes, minus the shirt he had arrived at the camp in – which hung far looser on him now than it had before. He’d managed to trick himself into thinking it still smelt of salt. He’d rolled the sleeves up, tucking the bunched-up fabric into his thick, woollen serge trousers; still damp from the wash, but far cleaner than they had been in a while.

Martin never used to walk just for the sake of it – only ever as a means between point A and point B. London had been too dark and crowded for it to bring peace. But this – this was nice; each step decided by him, not ordered forward, or marched backwards. These steps were his own, and they carried him like they had always done. He’d almost forgotten that they could.

So he walked. He walked through the country roads that surrounded the village, over the ramshackle walls that bracketed it and the sprawling fields that crawled over the horizon. He walked until his feet ached, and the sun died; the flickering glow of the village leading him back.

The streets were empty; unusually so for the rush he had seen earlier. Behind windows, lights sparkled, warmth pooling onto the street. He cut through the golden hues as he walked, following the bend of the street and down to where the light died – or where it should have died, as the houses faded out. What followed the village was a vast field, bracketed by a thick line of trees. Hidden by darkness, most days – but today there was a garishly colourful tent pitched up in the centre, glowing with light and chatter.

Martin didn’t debate his feet as they crossed towards it, the ground underfoot trampled from the footfall of the crowd that was busied outside the entrance. Up close, the tent was massive, split into stripes of colour that pulled Martin’s eyes upwards to the pointed tip that looked set to pierce the stars above. There was a man above the door, towering over the queue, unnaturally so – and it wasn’t until he moved that Martin caught sight of the stilts attached to his feet, draped in comically long trousers that swept against the muddied ground. Ropes cut out from the walls of the tent, as if it were a maypole, secured down into the ground with harsh metal pins, tucked under heavy looking rocks.

Martin laughed a little, feeling quite young and surreal watching the scene play out; with all its colours, and lights, and the laughter of those waiting and those already inside. It was such a contrast to the muddied din of the trenches, that found himself wanting to touch everything, just to know if it was real. He felt a body stumble against his back, he let out a small shout as he stumbled forward, caught between the mess of bodies before him.

“God,” came a woman’s voice, “I am so sorry. My youngest, he’s – ” The woman, wrestling with a small army of children, gave a sharp yank on the arm of a small boy, around six, if Martin had to guess. “You alright, sir?”

Martin blinked. “I – yeah, yeah. No harm done. Don’t worry about it.”

The woman smiled, and then gave another tug on the boys arm. “Apologize to the man, John.”

Martin reddened, shaking his hands out in front of him. “No, no – really, it’s okay.”

She gave Martin a small look, tired at the eyes before letting go of the boys – of John’s hand, and giving him a small push forward. John kept his eyes down as he approached Martin; but Martin could see the fierce flush of scarlet over his cheeks and knew the boy to be crying.

Quickly, Martin crouched down, and held a hand out against the child’s shoulder. Thick tracks of tears were lining his cheeks, and Martin felt his chest lurch in guilt. “Hey, hey – it’s alright, it’s alright.” John just shook his head, tears dripping down onto his crossed arms. “Your name’s John, yeah?” A beat, and then the child nodded. “I had a friend called Jon once, you know – and do you know what he was?” The child looked up for a moment, blinking through reddened eyes. “He was a fish, if you can believe. Big long tail and everything!”

John cocked his head to the side, and then giggled, shaking his head. “Fish don’t have names.”

“This one did,” said Martin. “Told me it himself, he did.”

“Alright,” said the mother, appearing at her son’s side. “That’s enough, kid.” She looked over to Martin, and gave him a smile. “You got a ticket for this?”

“Huh? Oh.” He turned towards the entrance, and could see the tall man fiddling with a small metal box that rattled noisily with coins. “No, I was just – was just seeing what was happening, really.”

“I’ll buy you one.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Only a bob anyway.”

Martin blinked. “I – if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Thank you.”

They found themselves at the head of the queue soon enough, and as promised, the lady, who introduced herself as Megan, handed forward an extra bob for his ticket. The tall man stamped an intricate design onto his hand, and pressed a flyer into his arms with a toothy smile. Martin thanked him, a note of uneasiness in the tone.

He stepped inside, sawdust soft under his feet. Candles flickered around the room, alighting the space in a fiercely warm glow that pulled shadows up and along the wall in distorted figures. In the centre, surrounded by a wide ring, was a hoop, twisting softly in the breeze as it loomed overhead. Below it, sat a box; wide and tall, and hidden under a navy sheet. Seats surrounded the stage, rising upwards so as no view went disturbed. It smelt of smoke, and gunpowder, and for a pained second his heart clenched tight in his chest, before he felt Megan’s hand tap against his shoulder.

“You’re welcome to sit with us, if you want – Elise always likes the back,” she said, pointing up to the steps to where a small girl was clambering over the chairs. Martin smiled and nodded, following her upwards.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” said Martin as they sat down, “that you’re English.”

She smiled. “Astute.”

“How long have you lived in France?”

She let out a small breath, almost melancholic, as if recalling a long since faded memory. “We moved over when the war began. I know, I know – talk about bad timing.” She gave a small laugh. “We’d planned the move before, but – well, we would’ve called it off, had my husband not been a General. Thought we might see him more if he didn’t have to travel overseas to visit, but – ” she faded off in a sigh. “It’s a ghastly business.”

Martin nodded, swallowing. “It certainly is that.”

A beat passed, and the candles flickered down for a moment. Megan gave a tight smile, and reached over to squeeze Martin’s hand. “Let us not worry about all that today, though, hm? Tonight, we enjoy ourselves. What do you say?”

Martin nodded. “I’d say that sounds very nice indeed.”

The stands were steadily filling, shoulders bunched up tight against each other’s as the crowd awaited the start of the show. Chatter died quickly as a figure emerged in the centre of the stage. She was tall, and lean, her face painted in a mask of a smile, stars over her eyes that wrinkled as she talked – her voice was clear, and to Martin’s surprise, she spoke in English, her accent reminiscent of those overly articulated fools that bumbled around parliament. Her slender hands drew shapes that told the audience of the thrills and sights they were yet to see as she moved across the stage, her red tailcoat billowed out behind her.

She took a step backwards, her hands dropping to the side as the coat came sliding off, landing like a feather by her feet. Her arms shot upwards, fingers latching onto the curve of the hoop that hung above her. Steadily, and amazingly, the hoop began to rise – but she did not seem to panic, nor fear this. No, she moved with it; her arms pulling her torso up with ease, legs flipping upwards to curl around the top, dropping her hands to shoot them out towards the crowd. There was a cry of amazement from the crowd, followed quickly by clapping.

She was not done with them yet, as she wrapped her arm around the hoop, body going limp as it dropped downwards. A moment, and then she raised her other hand upwards, and began to swing her legs to-and-fro, gradually building up momentum until the tips of her toes were almost kissing the edges of the tent. As she swung, she lifted her legs up, spreading them through the hoop, feet curling around the bend. She let her torso curl backwards, hands falling behind her to latch onto her feet. Her body moved in ways Martin had not known possible, her bones seemingly non-existent as she twisted, folded, and contorted herself in the air.

When she finally returned to the ground, the crowd erupted into applause; a few rising to their feet to shout and cheer. Martin’s own hands were furiously applauding, his palms raw by the time the noise died down. The ringmaster plucked her coat up from the ground, elegantly slipping it on over her shoulders. She held her hand out towards the back of the tent, as the flap was pulled open, and a stream of horses trotted through, punctuated at the end by a rider, dressed in shimmering embers of orange that burned like fire against the candlelight. Martin was mesmerised as she lead the horses across the stage, herding them into sharp and neat lines before she rose to her feet – eliciting a gasp from the audience. Her feet were poised at angles, toes cupping the bare back of the horse as it carved a neat circle before the audience. The woman raised her hands upwards, and then pointed towards the audience, as if beckoning them to join her, before she place them down against the horses back, and kicked her legs upwards. They shot up in perfect parallel, her body a neat arrow that showed none of the shakes that were to be expected. As the new applause faded, she returned upright, calling the horses to her side, as she began to leap between them, her legs so nimble so as to not even be touching them – almost flying.

The look of giddy awe on Martin’s face was starting to hurt, his cheeks burning from the exertion. The next performances all passed in a blur of fear and excitement, hands clutching at the edge of his seat as the men dressed in waistcoats lept through hoops, and the girls dressed in sequins flew overhead. It was all colours, and lights, and Martin felt dizzy in the best way by the time the ringmaster returned, the shrouded box backdropping her as she spoke, announcing their last and final act.

“Not a performance,” she said, her voice tinny and sharp, “but no less a spectacle.”

There was something about the way her lips curled upwards in a smile that made a feeling of dread settle in his stomach – not the painted smile, smeared gently at the edges from sweat, but her real one. There was something in it that he did not like. He looked down for a moment, and noticed that the flyer he had walked in with had fallen to his feet. He dropped his hand down to pick it up, pressing it against his lap to rub out the creases. He pulled his thumb across it, and froze.

He knew this poster. He had seen it before; with a torn hole at the top, and stained with rain. It was the same poster he had seen in Peter Lukas’s office, all reds and yellows swirling into themselves, foregrounded by an illustration of a ringmaster, wearing a garishly saturated tailcoat, splayed out in movement.

The lump in Martin’s throat landed in his stomach with a splash as the ringmaster fisted the navy sheet covering the box in her hands, and pulled.

“May I reveal to you all,” she exclaimed, “the finale!”

The sheet fell to the ground, fluttering into a crumpled descent, leaving the box unobscured. What had been hidden was a glass container, it’s edges reinforced with steel, and capped with a caged lid that sent flickered shadows into the water that filled it. And in the water, squirming and fighting against the glass walls was a tail, sleek and black, that faded upwards, as jagged elbows and skeletal hands knocked furiously at the walls.

Jon.

Everyone gasped. It wasn’t in horror. It was in awe. Amazement. Amusement.

Martin felt sick, frozen in place against the wooden chair that was suddenly too sharp against his skin. Jon’s shadow thrashed against the tent walls, crashing over lines of colour in a horrible display of desperation. No. No. No.

People were clapping, each ovation ringing like gunshots in Martin’s ears. This was wrong. Could they not see that this was wrong? Megan was clapping, too, and Martin hated her.

The ringmaster was walking around the stage, raising her arms to hype the applause, throwing her hands towards the cage with a vicious smile, relishing in the praise. Martin couldn’t sit there a moment longer and watch. Doing nothing.

He couldn’t remember when he had risen to his feet, but no eyes watched him as he rushed down the stairs, feet skidding along the sawdust floor. He was closer to the stage now, closer to Jon – whose eyes swam across the crowd, until they crashed against Martin.

There was cheering, but Martin couldn’t hear it; couldn’t feel the heat of the candles, nor the pressure of the room. There was only Jon, faded and muted behind the tank’s walls. His expression was unreadable, unblinking eyes that grew wider before shrinking into a squint.

A hand pressed against Martin’s back, and then a voice spoke, “You coming?”

Martin blinked, air rushing into his lungs. Megan was standing beside him, head tilted towards the exit, where the audience was beginning to pile through. When had the show ended?

“What?”

“I asked if you were leaving,” she said, giving a small, polite laugh. Martin just stared at her, unable to form his face into anything but shock. Her brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“I – ” He looked back towards the stage, the tank – Jon. The navy sheet was falling across the corners, two performers holding the edges loosely in their hands. Martin swallowed, shaking his head. “I have to – ” His words died on his tongue, not even knowing what shapes to form. “Christ.”

His mind was racing, and his feet were already moving, pushing through the crowd towards the exit. A few called out angrily after him as he shoved, and stumbled through – but he didn’t stop until he was outside the tent, cold wind rushing up to greet him, as he fell to the side, catching himself on one of the guylines, clutching it in his hand tightly as his other hand pressed against his chest.

He let out a long breath, and then another.

There was a sound to his right, and his head shot up to see one of the performers, leaning against the tent, and striking a match against their boot, and lifted it to the cigarette perched between their painted lips. Martin’s own twisted at the sight, and his feet were propelling him forward before he even had time to consider himself.

The man looked up as Martin approached, a slight curious raise to his brow as he expelled a cloud of bitter smoke. “You alright?”

“What the fuck was that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why was he there?” spat Martin, jabbing a finger towards the tent.

The man’s face widened into amusement, and he laughed. “You had a bit too much to drink, pal? Called a performance, tends to have performers.”

“Your finale,” bit Martin. “Your – your bloody fucking finale! Why - how?”

“No tricks at this circus minus the acrobatics,” said the man, reciting the words in an overly cheery tone – an obviously recited piece. “Promise you it’s all real. But – hey,” and he gently smacked his hand against Martin’s arm as he spoke, “come back tomorrow if you don’t believe us. I’m sure we can convince you.”

“Pretty convinced already.” Martin bit down on his cheek. “I wasn’t asking about that.” Martin let out a sharp breath. “Why is he here?”

The man’s brow furrowed, his eyes casting across Martin’s body. Then he nodded, taking a long draw of his cigarette. “You with Wallace?”

“What?”

“Nah.” The man looked away, smoke clouding the night as he exhaled. “Look a bit too rough, even for him – no offense.” He gestured towards Martin as he spoke, with an awful smug flick of his wrist. He hummed in deliberate consideration. “Murphey’s lot – is that it?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just jabbed his cigarette towards Martin, the ashes falling onto his shoe. “Whatever he’s paying you, we paid more – and we’re not letting you swoop in here to fucking knab it, you hear?”

Martin’s face paled. “You paid for him?”

“A whole lot.”

“Who?”

“What?”

Martin felt something in his chest snap, something ugly and rotting, something that had been festering inside him for months. Years, maybe. He rushed forward towards the man, trapping his shoulder under his elbow, and slamming his back into the tent. The fabric bowed under the pressure. The man let out a surprised shout as he was propelled backwards, caught now between Martin’s vice like grip, and the tent walls.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” cried the man, his spit speckled with tobacco.

“Who?” snapped Martin. “Who – who did you fucking pay? Who did you fucking pay?”

“Get – ” the man mumbled a string of curses as he twisted and squirmed in an attempt to free himself. “Get off me, you fucking – ”

“Who?” It was a shout more than it was a question, a desperate plea. Martin could feel the bitter bile of adrenaline in his throat, the frenzied thud of his heart as it thrummed its sickening beat in his chest. He knew himself to look manic, unruly and akin with what he had always hated. That bitter anger that had always tinged those around him; the anger that festered and bubbled and brewed into vicious outburst of deranged mania. He hated himself, but he hated the man more.

“I don’t – ” He wrestled again against Martin’s hold. “I don’t know – I don’t fucking know, Jesus! I don’t fucking deal with that shit.” He gave Martin’s arm one final push, sending Martin falling backwards, only just catching himself. The man let out an exerted breath, side stepping, and backing away from Martin. “The bastard just turned up one day, and my pay got docked. I don’t – I don’t fucking know shit. What’s wrong with you? Jesus. Fucking hell.”

“He wasn’t for sale,” said Martin, his jaw going tight. “You had no right – no fucking right.”

The man scoffed, a bitter and cold sound. “Why do you care? Thing’s just a freak. As long as we don’t tap the glass, it’s happy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.” The man pulled out another fag, lighting it in one quick motion. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

A hand fell on Martin’s shoulder, and immediately, he flinched and staggered away from it; wide eyes flickering over the intruder. He was stocky, built like a brick house and loomed over Martin. His skin was pock-marked, taut and pulled over a broad brow. He did not look kind.

He didn’t talk, just sucked one cheek between his teeth, and inclined his jaw, shoulders rolling back – an obvious display of machoism if Martin had ever seen it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed, letting out a huff. “I’m leaving.”

*

The moon now hung high, splitting the sky in half with it’s haloed light. It was in this silvery glow that Martin found himself back in that field, no candles nor chatter to guide him now. The shadow of the tent jutted out of the darkness, it’s muted stripes of colour rippling gently in the barely-there breeze. Martin approached it slowly, each step slow and weighted in shaking exhalations. He gripped the guylines of the tent as if it were a lifeline, tethering him down.

There was noise nearby, faded, but clearly singing. It was not a gentle song, but an uproarious chant of off-tune music, the notes tinged with drink as the lyrics slurred around one another. Martin felt his brow furrow, his hands pressing against the thick weave of the tent as he slipped around the perimeter.

There was a small smattering of wagons, with small tents pitched up beside them; all circling a small fire, which around it danced silhouetted figures. Martin paused for a moment as he watched them, shadows swaying and intertwining with another, broken up by the flickering of the fire.

He blinked – scouring the selection of wagons for a hint of where Jon could possibly be. They all looked far too small to hold the tank he had seen, all so painfully narrow and frail looking. To the left of the camp, Martin could see the horses from earlier, grazing lazily. Past them – nothing. Nothing but the dark void of the field.

He stepped backwards, crouched low. And then he heard something – it was singing. Not the drunken campfire songs of the dancers ahead of him, no; it was a gentle song, faint and in a language Martin knew, but did not recognise. He held his breath, and listened. Through the noise of the night, it was there – like the trickle of a river heard through a thunderstorm. It was coming from inside the tent.

Martin almost fell as his feet picked up pace, pulling him towards the entrance. The flap was tied down, in a maze of tight knots, but Martin slipped his fingers between the cracks, and pulled – just enough to see through. It was dark in the tent, the room lit in the gritty silver hue of darkness. But the singing was clearer, and as beautiful as it had been the first time Martin had heard Jon sing.

He could’ve wept. He could’ve shouted, and sung, or screamed, or laughed, or anything – but he just let out a breath, and pulled out his knife. It was a short blade – a pocket knife, military issued. It sat heavy in Martin’s hand, deceptively so for the slightness of the thing. He brought it to the rope, and cut. A few passes later, had the rope falling limply, the flap of the tent catching in the breeze and fluttering open.

The singing stopped as he entered, the sound of the flap heavy as he pushed past it. Martin took a slow breath, and called out, in a loud whisper, “Jon?”

No reply came as Martin inched forward into the tent, his eyes scanning across the room, searching for movement in the darkness. His foot caught on something, and he let out a small cry as he fell forward, onto the hard wood of the stage, softened by sawdust. He grunted slightly, wincing as he pushed his tender joints upwards. He stayed low as he moved, now, hands feeling out ahead of him before they landed on something solid. He spoke again, as he placed his hands flush against the fabric that covered the tank, “Jon, it’s – it’s Martin, Jon. It’s – I’m going to get you out of there, alright?”

He fisted at the sheet, and pulled it down. It sang like the wind as it fell, rushing to meet the ground. The edges of the tank shone silver in the absence of light, a fuzzy line sharper than the haze of the background behind it. Beyond the glass, Martin could only see the faint movement of a shadow, distorted by darkness and water.

He took a step backwards, his lips falling between his teeth as he anxiously worked them. His hands rubbed at his jaw as his thoughts began to swarm - it was glass. It was just glass. Glass could be broken.

He stumbled towards the exit, the thin sliver of light pooling through the open flap guiding him. He fell through it, skidding up onto his feet and desperately scouring the edges of the tent.  He found what he was looking for quickly enough, one of the large rocks that pinned down the guylines. He heaved it into his hands, pushing it up onto his shoulder.

He ducked through the flap, not bothering to feel his way back to the tank, just taking each stumble as it came until he was falling against glass.

“Move away!” he called, hauling the rock above his head. He brought it down against the glass.

Crack.

He raised it skyward again, and thrusted it against the slowly forming web of splinters.

Crack.

Again.

Crack.

Again –

The tank shattered, glass and water pooling out, rushing to greet Martin, knocking him down against the ground. He gave a shout as he fell, his head smacking against the sodden floor. He pulled himself up onto his knees, hands flailing through the darkness looking for –

“Jon.” His hands fell against something cold, slick and slimy. Martin rushed to his feet, feeling his hands along the line of Jon’s body, cupping one hand under the soft bend of his tail, one under the sharp jut of his shoulder. He pulled Jon up.

“Don’t,” he heard Jon say, his voice weak and raspy.

“We have to go,” breathed Martin, his voice ragged. He fell through the darkness, stumbling towards a hint of light around the edges of the entrance. He tightened his hold on Jon, cradling his body close against his chest as he pushed the two through the flap, the cold night air embracing them both.

Martin could no longer hear singing. Shouts, now. Footsteps, quickening. Moving. Closer.

He just held Jon tighter, and ran.

He split through the tree line, hands shielding Jon’s body as thick branches grabbed at them. It was thinner past the threshold, but the canopy diffused the pale moonlight, and the ground was rife with crawling roots and rocks that kicked against Martin’s feet as he stumbled over them, barely keeping them both upright. The shouting was still prominent behind them, and a hurried glance over his shoulder revealed the flicker of approaching torches. He swallowed down the burn of acid in his chest, and quickened his pace.

He didn’t dare look at Jon as he ran, fearing if he did, he would fade from his grasp – taken into the oblivion, lost again. So he kept his eyes locked on the approaching horizon, jaw clenched in a pained embrace, quickened breaths fighting their way through.

Static light shone to his left – the village was nearing; they might be able to break through the tree line and find cover between the houses. Another glance behind him – the torches flashed as they swayed in and out of the trees, the light never quite meeting Martins sprinting pace.

He took a gulping breath, shifting his body to the left, and flying down to decline towards the village. His feet fumbled and his ankles twisted as the softened and muddied ground gave way, leaving the two falling down the slope, Martin’s grasp on Jon slipping as he attempted to catch himself on a bending tree. His fingers brushed past bark, sharp splinters kissing his skin as the branch broke, leaving him tumbling after Jon’s rolling body. The two crashed into the brick wall that split the woods from the village – an old decaying feature, eaten by moss and time.

There was silence between them as the shock faded, and then a grunt from Jon, as his bony arms heaved his torso upwards. Martin’s mind faltered for a beat, and then his hands rushed forward, gripping Jon’s shoulder’s and helping him upright. Jon’s hand flew out to bat his hand away; but weakened by fatigue, he just fell against Martin’s, before sliding down and back onto his lap.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice rasping, exertion on his lips. “Don’t.”

“Are you hurt?”

Jon’s head rolled against the wall, towards Martin. His eyes were sunken, the dark flicker vacant in his dusty gaze. He laughed, a dry and bitter noise, that highlighted the gaunt cut of his cheeks. Martin watched the bob of Jon’s throat as he swallowed; the stretch of the scar along his neck swelling with the motion. There were new scars beside it. Martin looked down, across Jon’s body. There were many new scars now, and the thick pale skin of them caught under the moonlight. He felt sick.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, his voice a weakened whisper. He held out his hand again, but didn’t settle it, just left it hovering over Jon’s body. “We can’t stay here. I – I have a room. We can lay low for a bit.” Jon didn’t move, made no show of acknowledgment. “They’ll be looking for us, Jon – ”

“Don’t,” said Jon, again. He shook his head.

Martin took a breath, eyes flickering over Jon’s face, his eyes – set past Martin, faded as if he weren’t even there. “It’s not far, okay. I can carry you.”

Jon shook his head. “I’ll walk.”

“You can’t.”

“If you’d give me a moment, then yes – I can.”

“Jon – ”

“Stop that.” His eyes met Martin’s then – and Martin wished they hadn’t. They were dark, not only in colour, but in weight. He shook his head, a tight movement that matched the tense line of his lips. His eyes pulled away. “Don’t watch.”

Martin just nodded, swallowing the fierce lump in his throat, and turning to face away. He rested his head against the cold wall, felling the dampness of the rain slick moss press against his face. He let out a breath, and then another. A few terse moment passed, before Martin remembered – and peeled off his tunic, holding it out behind him, gaze still set forward.

“I don’t suppose you have clothes,” said Martin, after the coat remained in his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t – I don’t have anything else.”

There was silence, and for one gut wrenching second, Martin feared Jon had left. Then, “Thank you.”

The coat was taken from his hands. Jon’s fingers didn’t linger against Martin’s. He tried not to ache.

“Decent?”

“Enough.”

Martin nodded, twisting around to face Jon, and pulling himself to his feet. Jon was standing before him, swamped in Martin’s military coat, the sleeves bunched up around the bend of his elbow, held up only by his crossed arms. The bottom of the coat hit just above his knees, covering just enough so as to not be indecent – but a far shout against something comfortable and warmth.

“Let’s get you inside, alright.”

Chapter Text

The room Martin was staying in was small. A single bed propped under a pinprick window, footed by a chest of drawers that held nothing more than a bible and some loose lint.  A battered door faced the bed, leading into a decaying ensuite, with beaten tiles that housed more grout than ceramic. The floors creaked as the two walked across, each step tentative, unsure of the space and of each other.

Martin turned to Jon, his fingers knitting knots between each other. He gestured loosely towards the bed. “Do you want to sit?”

Jon shook his head.

“I have some food,” said Martin. “I – are you hungry?”

He shook his head again.

Martin swallowed. “Okay, alright. I – ” He sighed, taking in a long breath. “It’s good to see you.” A beat passed. “I missed you.”

Jon looked up at him. His eyes heavy, sallow in his face, and empty of all the warmth that Martin’s memories had given them. He blinked, and then looked away. He shook his head.

“Jon,” tried Martin, taking a step forward, and praying that Jon would meet him in the middle.

“Don’t.”

“Jon.”

“Stop,” snapped Jon, his jaw tight. “Stop – stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

Jon’s eyes widened as he met Martin’s, his nose flaring in a sharp breath. He threw a hand towards Martin. “That – that name. Stop it!”

Martin stumbled a step backwards, his hands curling across his torso. He blinked, shaking his head. “Why?”

Jon’s lips twisted, his brow lowering in a huffed exhalation. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t understand.”

“I don’t.” A beat. “Jon, I – I don’t. I – ”

“What did I just say?” cried Jon, a hand pressing against his brow. “Don’t. Martin, please – don’t.”

“What – what happened?”

Jon stared at him, almost in disbelief, before he laughed, a choking and bitter sound. He shook his head, dark eyes settling on Martin’s. “He called me that. It – it makes me sick, Martin. Hearing that – that name.”

Martin felt his face pale, his heart dropping into chest as the familiar feeling of dread encased his throat. He swallowed. “Peter.”

“Don’t look so shocked,” muttered Jon. “What did you expect when you gave it away?” He laughed then; a cold, and broken sound. “Do you know what names mean, Martin? Do you know what it means to create something, and give that something to someone else – to have them throw it around to a stranger, as if it were nothing?” There was silence between them. “Do you know what it means to have that name used against you?”

“What happened?”

Jon shrugged, a weak motion weighted in fatigue. “He called me Jon, Martin. That’s what happened. I was waiting, and I was alone, and I was afraid. I was afraid that you weren’t coming back, and he – I heard my name. I heard my name being called, and I – ”

“You thought it was me,” finished Martin, his words a ghost between them.

Jon nodded. “I thought it was you.”

The words hung between them; an awful decaying thing, filling the room with the putrid scent of what was once beautiful, of what was now left in the shadow of the thing. Martin felt sick.

“I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards,” continued Jon. “I knew it was wrong almost immediately, but I – the mind can be convinced of almost anything, if it wants to be convinced.” He took a breath, and met Martin’s eyes. “I woke up to applause.”

Martin swallowed, guilt knocking at his throat, clawing its way across his face, and holding his body in its crawling embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

Jon shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I never told him about you,” said Martin, his voice dripping with a plea. “I never told him.”

“You told him my name.”

“He said he’d leave you alone if I did.”

“He didn’t.”

“No,” breathed Martin, bowing his head for a shaky sigh. “No, he – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Silence settled between them. It was a lonely silence. It was the silence that fell between school friends upon reuniting, after finding out that the things they had once bonded over no longer existed. It was the silence that weighted a room upon hearing bad news, none quite knowing when the appropriate moment to speak would arise. It was the silence between two people who didn’t quite know where they stood with one another.

It was a silence broken only by Jon’s words of, “I know.”

*

The bath had finished running. Tendrils of steam rose up out of it, clawing against the mirror, fogging it up entirely and obviating its use. Martin was seated against the edge of the tub, taking in a moment to feel the warmth, breath in the cloudy air. His fingers were tinged pink from where he had been running his hands through the water, specks of dirt following his trail. He ran his hands down his trousers, leaving a line of damp from his fingers. He looked up, through the open door into the main part of the room. Jon was seated on the bed, the cuffs of Martin’s jacket coiled up into balls in his hands. His bare feet hung an inch of the ground, his toes barely catching the grain as they swung absentmindedly.

There was a look in his eyes that Martin hated. It was unfamiliar, it wasn’t Jon. Maybe that’s why he hated it; hated how much it reflected that the Jon before him wasn’t the same Jon he’d left. He swallowed. He supposed he wasn’t the same Martin, either.

It hurt.

“Bath’s run,” called Martin, cursing how loudly his voice rang through the silence. Jon didn’t move, eyes unblinking as they stared at the peeling wall before him. Martin pulled himself off of the tub, and made his way across the floor. Lightly, he placed his hand against Jon’s shoulder. Jon jumped, eyes going wide, and flinching backwards. Martin pulled his hand back, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to – I – the baths run. Sorry.”

Jon blinked a few times, adjusting to Martin as if he was a sharp cut of light after a restless nights sleep. He took a breath, and nodded. “Right, thank you. I’ll – goodnight, then.”

He quickly rose to his feet, head bowed as he made his way towards the bathroom. He closed the door gently, but it hit Martin like a slam. He fell onto the bed, elbows against his knees and hands holding up his head. Martin was not a stranger to guilt, it was the foundation of his being. Every inch of who he was, was formed by the hands of remorse, melding his body into some awful mutation of a person playing pretend.

But this - this guilt was different. It was darker, heavier. It clung like tar to his throat, turning each breath thin and ragged – letting through only what was deserved, and even that seemed generous. He thought of Jon – of his white lined body, of the bones that threatened to pierce his muted skin, of his eyes that seemed too frozen to hold warmth. His throat closed up an inch more, and Martin wished it would consume him entirely.

He looked back at the door, and through it he could hear the splash of water. He thought of moonlit nights in Scotland, and the way the water had followed Jon, rippling, chasing, flowing. The ocean had ached after him, clinging to every word, every movement he made, replying in kind with echoes of his touches, sending them across the water. Martin wondered if Jon’s ripples had blessed the entire ocean. His being a drop of holy water. No wonder sailors worshiped the seas.

Martin peeled off his clothes, dried mud from their fall clumping off and dusting over the floor. He pulled on his pyjamas, lifting the covers off of the slim bed, and sliding in. It was so soft. The covers were so warm. The sky was so dark. It was so quiet.

It was so wrong.

He rolled onto his side, shoving one arm under his pillow, trying to hold it in a way that felt right. A moment later, had him flipping over onto his left, legs criss-crossing over one another, before falling parallel, before rising up to meet his chest in the foetal position. He let out a breath, and then a heavy sigh, kicking off the covers. They bunch up by his feet, and he pulled them free, lying them atop of the pile of fabric. He rested his hands atop his chest, drumming his thumb against the swell of his stomach. The bed was still so soft.

Martin’s bare feet met the cold chill of the wooden floor, and then his hands met the handle of the bathroom door. The room was lit in silver, the cut of the moons lights shining down through the pin prick window that hung upon the wall. The slick sheen of Jon’s tail shone in the light, the fin stretching out beyond the confines of the tub, and swaying gently against the floor. The black hue of his irises were tinted grey in the light. They flickered towards Martin as he entered, pressing the door shut behind him with a small click.

“Sorry,” he said, voice quiet. “I couldn’t – can I – could I sleep in here tonight?”

Jon blinked. “There’s only the floor.”

“I know,” said Martin. “I can’t – the bed’s too – it’s too – ” He ran a hand through his hair. “The floor would be better.”

There was silence, and then Jon nodded. Martin let out a small sigh of relief, and then sat down against the door, resting his head against the wood. It was harder than the soft sandbagged walls of the trenches, or the mud packed walls of the dugouts. He squirmed where he sat, trying to find a position that felt … normal. Nothing seemed to fit that definition anymore.

“You don’t have to sit over there,” said Jon, voice small. “You can sit closer.”

Martin looked up at him through the darkness. “Are you sure?”

Jon nodded.

Martin shuffled closer, his shoulder pressing against the warm ceramic of the bath, the residual heat of the water flowing through his chest. He looked up at Jon, who was peering down at him from over the side of the tub. He blinked, and swallowed. “Martin,” he said, “in the morning, will I – will I still be here?”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes. I promise.”

“I thought of this a lot,” said Jon, “when I was – I would have such vivid dreams, and – and I would wake up, and – ”

“You’re here,” said Martin. “I promise you you’re here.”

Jon laughed, a small and broken thing. “You know, I dreamt you said the same thing.”

Martin twisted on the floor, clutching at the sides of the tub with a white-knuckled grip. He met Jon’s eyes, and didn’t allow himself to shy away from the coldness of them. “You are here.” He swallowed, and moved one of his hands closer to Jon’s, their thumbs a breath apart. “I am here. Not a dream.”

Jon exhaled, the breath ghosting across Martin’s skin. “It’s horrible,” said Jon, his voice gummy, “I don’t even know if I want to believe you.” Martin let out a breath where he would’ve once said a name. Jon tapped his fingers against the rim of the tub for a single beat. Then he sighed. “You know, the worst thing was, underneath all the anger, and the betrayal and the – the confusion, I missed you. I always missed you. No matter how much I thought I might hate you, I missed you more.”

Martin rolled his lips between his teeth, looking down for a breath. He looked back up at Jon. “Do you hate me?”

“No,” said Jon. “I Imagine it would’ve all been quite a bit easier if I had.”

Martin nodded, swallowing heavily. His eyes wanted to cry, but his consciousness knew he did not deserve the relief.  He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “God, I’m so sorry. If I had known – if I had – ” he sighed. “I know I have no right to ask of your forgiveness, and if you resent me forever, I – I’ll understand.”

Jon stared at him, wide and empty eyes. Then, he blinked, taking in a slow breath. “I don’t think it’s a matter of forgiveness, more than it is a matter of time.” He moved his hand, his thumb now resting atop of Martin’s. “I don’t want to hate you, I never have. But, I – I spent a long time, believing a lot of things to be true, and that sort of stuff doesn’t just leave. I – Martin, I’ll be honest, I’m not quite sure how to feel right now. About you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” His shoulders fell. “I know, and that’s why I don’t know what to do with all this – this anger in me. And all this relief. I – how can both feelings exist so strongly at once? Opposites, and here they are.” His thumb drew a small line across Martin’s knuckle, a touch so slight he wouldn’t have known, had he not been watching. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you again, and I didn’t know if I ever wanted to. And here you are, and I’m lost.” There was silence between them for a moment. “Why is loving you always so hard, Martin?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Martin, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“You look different,” said Jon, his thumb raising to run along the bags under his eyes.

Martin just stared, frozen under Jon’s hands.  

“I don’t remember you looking so sad,” said Jon, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered over Martin’s face. “What happened to you, Martin?”

Martin let out a small laugh, gummy and broken as it caught between a sob. He didn’t know how to word the months that predated that moment. He didn’t know how to describe days that never truly ended. His shoulders rose and fell in defeat.

“I left.” Then, “and I missed you.”

Jon’s thumb ran gently across Martin’s cheek, and he felt the soft smear of tears under Jon’s fingers. A beat, and then Jon nodded, pulling his hands back to rest against the bath. “Look at us,” he said, a sad smile on his lips. “We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we?”

Chapter Text

1917, April 12th 

Martin awoke with a crick in his neck, cold ceramic pillowing his face. The morning sun was beginning to break, the faded sunlight slicing through the window and scattering the tiles with speckled warmth. Martin’s gaze was hazy, sleep lining his eyes. He blinked, once, twice – adjusting to the light, and then to the weight on his hand. He’d fallen asleep with his arm resting atop the rim of the bath, leaving an awful ache in his shoulder – but his hand was encased between Jon’s. Martin moved slowly, not wishing to disturb the gentle embrace; it somehow felt like a secret, and not one Martin saw himself entitled to.

He shifted to alleviate the tightness in his body, his lips emitting a small groan as he did – not loud enough to wake Jon, to which he was thankful for. He needed the rest. Martin watched him sleep; the low flutter of his eyelashes, the ghosting breaths that skittered across their hands, the way his fingers would tighten ever so slightly as he breathed in.

Martin realised he’d been drawing Jon’s nose wrong.

That thought left an odd sickness in his stomach. He swallowed, quietly removing his hand from Jon’s. He flexed it, feeling the soft memory of warmth fade as he did. He pulled himself to his feet, closing the door to the bathroom behind him with a soft click.

The early dawn air was gentle, the wind was soft, and though it still held the bitter bite of the cold, it was an almost comforting chill. It was the sort of chill that Martin remembered from his youth – a memory of frozen fingers, and red noses that prefaced an evening of fireplaces and mugs of something hot.

The street was quiet, which served only to highlight the soft bumble of the village store as he entered. It was a warmly lit room; gas lanterns providing heat as well as light, flickering their welcoming shadows over the shelves. Martin waved a small hello to the shopkeeper, knowing his French to be pitiful. She waved back, a sleepy smile upon her face that matched the bags under her eyes. She had been chatting to another woman when Martin had entered; a young girl, who shared the shopkeepers hooked nose and mess of curls. She talked animatedly, so quickly that Martin imagined he would’ve struggled to keep up had he a grasp on the language.

Martin was plucking items from the shelf – a meagre assortment really, but his mind wasn’t quite there that morning. A loaf of bread, tucked neatly inside a brown paper bag; two apples, that he held in the wide embrace of his hand, and a bottle of milk.

He placed these items upon the desk, the sound of the items alerting the shopkeeper, who held up a hand to silence the young girl. The shopkeeper ran her hands over the item, humming as she did so, whilst her other hand scribbled something down on the filled-out pad beside her.

She looked up at Martin. “C'est tout?”

Martin blinked, and smiled in a way he hoped was polite, nodding.

She hummed, as the young girl handed her a paper bag, which she accepted without looking. She placed the items inside, sliding the bag over to Martin, exchanging it for the folded over notes he was holding out for her.

There were people out on the street now, as the dawn was beginning to fade into the morning. He nodded to the few folk that strolled on by, echoing back their well wishes of the morning. He got back to his room, pushing open the door, and sliding back inside.

“Oh.”

Martin blinked at Jon as he entered. Jon, who was currently wrestling his way into Martin’s army fatigues, looked up, and his face fell. A breath was all that Martin had time for, before Jon was rushing forward, one hand coming up to clutch at his face, the other carving around his neck.

“I thought you’d left,” said Jon, his voice barely a whisper.

Martin shook his head, swallowing. “I didn’t want to wake you.” Jon nodded, eyes falling downwards, along with his hands. Martin tried for a comforting smile, even though he knew Jon wasn’t looking, as he ran his thumb along the sagging lapel of the too-big shirt. “What are you doing in this?”

Jon’s shoulders raised slightly, as he twisted the hem of the shirt between his fingers. “I – I didn’t know if you’d come back. I didn’t want to wait. I couldn’t wait.”

“You were going to leave?”

“I was going to try and find you,” corrected Jon, looking up and meeting Martin’s eyes. There was a flicker behind them that almost looked like life. It faded between a blink. “How long do we have?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” said Jon. “It’s always been fragments with you. How long?”

“Two days.”

Jon nodded, rolling his lips between his teeth. “Two days.”

“I got food,” said Martin quickly, not wishing to steep in the emptiness of Jon’s voice. “It’s not much, but – god, did they feed you?”

“Enough,” said Jon, sitting down onto the floor as Martin lowered his bag to fish out the produce. They sat across from one another, legs crossed, as Martin tore the loaf in half, pushing the bigger piece towards Jon. Then, he pulled out his knife, and the pair of apples, and began to segment them into slices, placing them down upon the brown paper bag.

Jon had never eaten with much grace; always a touch animalistic, in a way that would always tug at the reminder that he wasn’t human, not like Martin. But this, the scene before him, was one of desperation, of blurring hands, and ravenous hunger. He held each tear of bread in his hand with a white knuckled grip, as if terrified that it would be ripped from him at any second.

Martin ate a slice of apple, and left the rest for Jon.

Once all that was left was crumbs, and a dreg of milk, Jon let out a long breath. “Thank you.”

Martin smiled, feeling a small bloom of warmth in his chest. “Of course.”

Jon nodded, rubbing his hands together, and then slowly raising, stumbling slightly as his coltish legs moved. “Lets leave.”

Martins brow furrowed. “Leave?”

Jon’s head tilted slightly, his own brows meeting in the middle. “We can’t stay here, Martin. The circus will be here for another few days, and I – I can’t risk it. I refuse to risk it.”

Martin pushed himself up onto his feet, his own gait wobbly. “Do you think they’d look for you?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” Jon gestured sardonically to himself. “I’m their finale.”

“Right,” said Martin, echoing the word a number of time in low mutterings. “Right, of course. We – we can’t just start walking, though. We need a plan, or something. A route, at least.”

“Does it matter?” asked Jon. “Head north – we’ll meet the sea eventually.”

Martin gave Jon a flat look. “You’re right. Let’s just pick a random route – maybe a long, winding dirt road. A real nice and dry one, eh? Because walking is just so easy for both of us – isn’t it?” Jon’s lips gave a small twist of annoyance. “We both know this,” he gestured to Jon’s legs as he spoke, “isn’t comfortable for you.”

Jon’s arms crossed over one another. “Then what do you suggest?”

“There’s a trading town a few miles east,” said Martin, moving over to his bed to pull his bag out, flopping it down on the bed. From it, he pulled out a small map. It was a dingy thing, dog eared at the edges and damp with rain. He’d picked it up a few months back, and during the few quiet moments in the trenches,  he would trace his finger along the inked-out roads, and imagine someplace far away. “It’s a bigger town than this one – one a lot of merchants travel through. There’s a chance we might be able to grab a lift with a trader. Someone has to be heading North.”

His finger tapped against the map, touching against a blue line. “Not to mention,” continued Martin, “there’s a river that meets our route for a kilometre or so. For you know – ”

“Relief?” said Jon, with an odd quirk to his brow. “My, you’ve really thought of everything, hm?”

“It’s better than nothing,” deflected Martin, folding up the map, and tucking it back into his bag. “Also, we might want to swap clothes. I doubt you’ll want folks mistaking you for a Private.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, looking down at the saggy mess of Martin’s uniform that hung off of him. He looked back up at Martin with a puzzled expression. “A private what?”

Martin stared at Jon for a moment, before he laughed – a wide laugh that pulled at his smile, and shook at his shoulders. The sound faded into a breathy exhalation, but the smile stayed. Jon was still looking at him with confusion, but his eyes shone brighter; as if he had finally wiped the sleep from them. Then, he blinked – gaze falling downwards.

“I still don’t understand,” said Jon, his voice fainter.

“It’s nothing to understand,” chuckled Martin, shaking his head ever so slightly. “It’s quite stupid, really.”

*

They kept behind the scattered buildings as they made their way to the edge of the village. Jon, head bowed, and following in tow as Martin led them; eyes flickering furiously around them. He could feel his heart in his throat, low and thick as it nervously thrummed its song. He often lost himself to the sound at times: he had found it to be the only constant in the trenches. Soldiers turned friends were fickle, fading quickly, falling faster – conversations grew shorter as the months stretched on, as the war failed to dissolve.

But his pulse. That stayed. Though, at times, he wished it wouldn’t.

But today his focus was not on that sound, but on the low footsteps behind him. Barefoot feet passing over drying leaves, branches snapping underfoot. Above it, he could hear breathing – soft, yet anxious. Then, “Martin.”

Jon tugged at Martin’s hand, yanking him over to a wall, and pressing his body flush against it. He held a finger up to his lips, eyes gesturing to their right. Martin turned his head to look down the small alley that lay before them. Backdropped by the sun, a slim figure could be seen, back turned to them, yet angled as if in conversation.

“Do you know them?” whispered Martin. Jon just nodded, his lips pressed together in a firm line of mute defiance. Martin swallowed, and then gave Jon’s hand a squeeze, leading him gently backwards. Another alley swallowed them, the rickety walls on either side hiding them in shadows. Though, neither mistook the shelter for safety.

The alley opened up into the main road, bustling now with the morning commute. Automobiles, and wagons rode noisily beside them, their wheels catching on the cobbled road. Martin dared a glance back at Jon, who was close behind, with wide eyes and worried lips. His eyes flickered from side to side, showing the small hint of white that haloed them as he did.

“This way,” said Martin quietly, dropping Jon’s hand to beckon him as he walked. They kept close to the walls of the buildings, heads low, feet drumming a quickened pace along the road. A shoulder brushed past Martin, and he let out a small cry, jumping back with a start. The man, dressed in muddy-looking clothes, furrowed his brow, and asked Martin something that he couldn’t quite understand.

“Sorry!” blurted out Martin, his voice slightly manic with nerves.

The man’s brow furrowed a notch deeper, but he conceded with a small nod of his head, before he continued his commute. Martin pressed a hand against his brow, and cursed himself lightly. Jon appeared at his side, his arm brushing against Martin’s for a moment that could have been mistaken for comfort, before he stepped away.

“I didn’t know him,” said Jon. “It’s alright.”

Martin just nodded, steeling his face into one that did not belie his anxiety. They took the next turning, onto a quieter street, punctuated at the end by the sprawling mass of the country side. By the time they were halfway down the street, the two were almost running, desperation in each step as if all that stood between them and all that could go wrong was hidden over that threshold. Their pace didn’t slow until the town lay hidden behind the curve of the road, and until their lungs burned with exertion.

Martin collapsed against the crumbling wall that bracketed the muddy road, his hands falling onto his knees as he panted through the pain in his chest. After a few breaths, he looked up – Jon was resting along the wall opposite, cheeks red with fatigue, and chest rising and falling with each breath. His gaze was set along the road; almost scrutinizing it, as if it had done something to offend him. It was odd, how much the expression warmed Martin’s chest – as it was the way he had first looked, when Martin had seen him, all those years ago, tucked between the rocky craigs that sat below Lukas’s estate. He wondered, if he knew all that would follow that moment, would he have turned away, or waved; one hand held up in a way that had always felt like surrender.

“I suppose we’re safe now,” said Jon, thick breaths between each word that did nothing to hide the silent plead of his statement.

Martin nodded. “I don’t want to tempt fate. But,” and he looked back towards the village, towards the field that followed it, adorned with the colourful spire of the circus tent. “Yes, I think we may be. As long as we keep moving.”

“Well,” said Jon, moving to stand, “lead the way.”

*

The sun hung high above them, beating down with its mid-day heat. Martin could feel a damp line of sweat down his back, as his heavy fatigues weighed him down. They’d been walking for almost two hours, with nothing but silence to keep them company. Occasionally, a car or wagon would roll by – sometimes military, but more often than not, it was simply a farmer, or a tradesman commuting. Even so, Martin made sure that the two stayed clear out of their eyeline, least any questions be asked.

It was another hour of walking before Jon began to slow. He didn’t say anything, offered no complaints – but Martin’s attention was so fused to him, that he noted each wincing step, and wheezing breath as they grew more and more frequent.

He glanced at Jon as they walked, a small flicker so as to not catch his attention. His chapped lips were drawn in a tight line, the muscles in his jaw pulsing each time his foot touched the rocky road.

“Do you want to stop?” asked Martin, his voice cracking at the edges from disuse. The street was not quiet, not with the sound of cattle, nor the wind – yet, his voice felt like an unwelcome intrusion, one that had his shoulders inching upwards.

Jon’s slowed, his pace almost halting. He met Martin’s eye’s, letting out another dry breath as he did, before he set his gaze back on the road. “No. We should keep going.”

“Are you sure?” Martin overtook Jon with ease, turning as he did so that he was facing him as he continued backwards. “Ten minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged, a line of annoyance brewing on his brow in the shape of a comma. “Martin, please. The faster I can get home, the faster this will all be behind us. I see no need in delaying that with petty reasons of – ”

“Of rest?” filled in Martin quickly, raising an eyebrow. “Be sensible.”

Jon let out an affronted scoff. “I am being sensible. More sensible than you, it seems; apparently under the impression that waiting around on the side of the road is safer than – than – ” His lips twisted as he failed to find the words, or chose not to say them, and he sighed – a long, performative sound.

Martin stopped walking, holding his arm out to block Jon. “They’re not here. We can breathe, okay?” His hand fell away, and he tucked it into the pockets of his tunic, twisting a strand of fraying thread between his fingers, and ignoring the way his hands used to follow the same motion with Jon’s hair. “You look exhausted. Please.”

Jon’s eyes fell for a moment, bowing his head so that the shadows caught themselves on the bruised fatigue of his cheeks. “You said there was a river. How far?”

*

A half hour later, the babbling rush of water answered them. It was a wooded, shaded area; where the path grew thin, marked only by dirtied, flattened grass. The path gave way to a slope, with roots that acted as stairs as the two clambered down. Jon’s movements were shaky with fatigue, and fuelled by desperation, resulting in Martin’s hand staying alert to reach out and catch him, least his legs give way.

“Will anyone find us here?” asked Jon as the land evened out, his attention on the gentle current of the river.

Martin looked around, and shook his head. “No, I think we’re – ”

“Perfect.”

Jon peeled his shirt off, dropping it onto the muddy bank, stumbling forward towards the water as he wrestled out of  Martin’s trousers. Martin flushed, bending down quickly to pick up the discarded shirt, and turning away to give Jon some privacy. He made a show of folding the shirt, his ears straining to hear the small splash that soon followed. He turned, dropping his bag into the crevice of the buttress roots that stretched out, the edges fading under the muddy bed of the river. He moved over to the river’s edge slowly, crouching down as the water met his boots, and looked out over to Jon.

The sunlight broke through the canopy above them, casting golden fractals over the water’s surface. The bubbling blooms of sunlight split and shuddered as Jon moved through them, the slender length of his arm cutting through the ripples with ease. The long stretch of his tail peaking up with each push, sending a misty spray out behind him. The water caught in the light, transforming into refracted colours, and leaving Martin feeling a way he could only describe as magical.

Because that’s what Jon was, and it was what he made the world.

Martin felt a small smile cross his face, and he fell back onto his rear, his legs crossing like a child’s. The water lapped against his trousers, and unlike when the damp wet of the trenches soaked through, Martin didn’t mind. He leant back on his hands, the gritty dirt of the ground gently piercing his skin.

“You coming in?” came Jon’s voice. The water was fairly shallow – shallow enough that Jon could sit, the water curling over his shoulders. “It’s really rather lovely, and look – ” he opened his arms out to gesture, leaving a cape of ripples as he drew a circle around himself. “It’s shallow enough that you won’t even need my help.”

Martin scoffed, faux offence lacing the sound. He leant forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “I was doing just fine without your help before I left, if you remember.”

Jon blinked, and he looked at Martin with an expression Martin could only place as lost. Then, he shook his head, meeting the eyes of his reflection in the rippled water. “Of course. Yes. We – we used to swim together.”

Martin suddenly felt as if he had said the wrong thing. “Not much,” he said, in an attempt of amending. “Really only in Summer, a few times. Too cold, otherwise.”

“Yes,” said Jon, with a small hum on his lips. “You always felt the cold.”

Martin laughed. “Most people do.”

“I suppose I’m not people,” said Jon, his voice soft, “am I?”

Martin wasn’t quite sure how to reply, and Jon didn’t seem like he wanted one, as his arms began to pull him backwards through the water. So, Martin pulled off his boots. Standing, so to remove his outerwear, tossing them so that they caught on the roots by his bag. Then, he waded into the river, and crashed forward into it. He spluttered, pushing the water through his hair, and wiping it away from his eyes. The water was cold, and the refreshing bite pulled at the tight muscles in his body, easing them open with each small stroke through the weak current.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and ducked his head below the surface, feeling the small comforting pressure build behind his eyes. He opened them, expecting to be greeted with nothing but the blurry and murky saturation of the river. Instead, what met him was two dark eyes, with soft tendrils of dark hair passing across them. Jon looked almost like an oil painting before him; soft and blurred. Nothing of detail except that he was beautiful.

He came up for air, and Jon soon followed, those his breaths were not as full of relief as Martin’s.

“Didn’t think you were coming in,” said Jon, flexing his fingers through the water between them. He looked as if he was weaving the current, creating a tapestry of liquid silk; it was oddly memorising.

Martin pulled his eyes up to meet Jon’s and shrugged. “Well, it’s probably the closest I’m going to get to having a bath for – Christ, who knows.”

Jon’s lip’s twisted. “I’m sorry.”

Martin hands flew up to wave away his words, droplets of water following the movement. “No, no – god, no sorry. I didn’t mean – don’t apologise for taking the bath. I’m not so desperate for some – some relaxation that I’d dry you out.”

Jon chuckled, the edges of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly.

“You look better,” said Martin, the words falling out without thought. “Less – you look more – more like yourself.”

“Yes, well,” said Jon, looking around, “I feel more like myself. I haven’t exactly had the chance to swim in, well - almost a year, I suppose. It’s not exactly ideal - saltwater really is preferable. But it’s much better than before.”

“That’s good – very good, in fact,” said Martin, letting out a breathy laugh as he spoke. He sunk deeper into the water, and watched as his warbled arms drew circles in the water before him. “It’s quite nice here, isn’t it?”

“I think you could take me anywhere right now and I would probably think it beautiful,” said Jon, with a teasing lilt to his brow. He lowered it, and let out a small hum of contemplation. “But, yes – it is rather lovely.” There was silence for a moment, and both pairs of eyes lowered as they waited for the other to continue talking. Jon coughed, clearing his throat, “Have you seen much of it? France, I mean.”

“Hardly the nice parts,” said Martin, with a shrug that sounded like a splash. “I feel quite idiotic, in hindsight – with how excited I was to see a new country.”

“It is exciting, though,” said Jon. “Isn’t it?”

“You sound like the recruiting board,” said Martin with a mirthless chuckle. He raised a hand to brush a sodden curl away from his face, and paused as he caught sight of Jon’s expression – frozen, and focused on his arm. Jon moved forward, as slowly as a whisper. Fingers touched his arm, dripping beads of water down his skin, and Martin swallowed, looking at Jon. He ran a finger across the mottled scars, and then looked up at Martin. “What happened?”

Martin opened his mouth to reply but, the pain of the memory caught in his throat. Curling fingers of smoke, that tasted bitter and cruel, crawled up and out of his eyes, turning the view of Jon’s worried face into one of fog.

 “Shelled - uh, explosion. It, um – it – sorry, I – ” He blinked, wishing for the fog too fade between the seconds. Jon’s features were still smeared, and he could feel the burn of ash against his skin. “Sorry, I – it was – it was – ”

He could feel it all; the splatter of pain against his arm and the clawing smoke that he would still wake up coughing from. Martin’s breaths were coming quicker, too thick to flow through his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and gasped for a breath that would feel real. “Sorry,” he echoed. “I – ”

“Martin.” Jon’s voice was solid, and real, and yet lost behind the veil of Martin’s heaving breaths, each feeling weaker than the last. He felt hands around his face, and he could see Jon’s eyes, furiously flickering over his skin – but he wasn’t there, he was there. He wasn’t there. He was there. He was in a river. He was holding Tim. Jon was holding him. He was lost. He was lost. He was –

“Martin,” came Jon’s voice. “Look at me.”

Jon was blurred behind tears Martin didn’t remember crying. He blinked.

He breathed. He breathed. He breathed.

His hands came up to meet Jon’s, fingers wrapping gently around his wrists, slackened so as to be easily shaken off if need be.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, his voice rough and gummy. “Sorry, I – I’m alright.”

“You don’t seem alright,” said Jon, and Martin laughed – a sudden, and sharp sound.

“No, I – I’m not,” said Martin, shaking his head. “But I will be, I just need a moment.”

“Can I – ” Jon rolled his lips between his teeth, low eyes flickering over Martin’s face. A beat passed, and then Jon’s arms were curving their way across Martin’s back. Martin was glad to have his face hidden, so that the way his face crumbled into something between despair and relief was left only for the rippled version of his reflection on the rivers surface. His hands came up, slow and hesitant, and cupped the small curve of Jon’s waist, feeling the faded memory of his skin reignite into warmth, slick with water. Martin tucked his head into the gentle slope of Jon’s neck, and pretended he could still smell the ocean on his skin.

Jon’s fingers cradled his hair, and he could feel the soft movement of his thumb drawing shapes along his neck. For all the hardness Jon now held in his eyes, his hands still only held softness, and his fingers traced Martin’s skin as if it were a paintbrush, smearing and staining Martin’s skin with comfort.

He could feel Jon’s heart beat against his, and he lost himself to the sound.

Chapter Text

They found themselves at the village just as the sun began to fade. The sky was painted in strokes of life – looking the colour of a week old bruise, faded behind clouds. There was a chill in the air, not helped by the dampness of Martin’s hair, and the way his clothes hung to the parts of him that hadn’t quite dried from their river excursion.

Fatigue was back on Jon’s face, low and dry. Martin could feel similar lines of exhaustion upon his own face, and it weighed deeply in his bones, ringing with each burning step as they trudged onto the cobbled street. It was a far busier town than the last, and streetlamps lit the way, fading down turning streets that twisted and winded themselves around the town square they found themselves in.

It was a wide courtyard, and the cobblestones that lined it curved in an intricate pattern; a spiderweb of masonry, leading the eye towards the centre, where a crumbling fountain sat. A horse had been hitched nearby, and its rider sat on the brim, washing his hands in the water. Behind him, a grand church loomed, haloed in gold from the setting sun. It was an elaborate edifice of faith, artistry apparent in every inch of the building.

Townsfolk bustled past; older men with sun bleached clothes, and dirt smeared faces, and women holding hampers of washing on their hips, alongside furrowed and focused brows. None paid the two any mind, just another tired face lost in the crowd.

“Where do we start?” asked Jon, turning in a circle as he took in the town.

“I suppose we find the merchant district; see if we can find any traders heading towards the coast.”

Jon hummed, nodding, though Martin wasn’t sure he’d heard. He didn’t speak as he began to walk, his steps quick and far more sturdy than his limping gait should’ve allowed. Martin stumbled slightly as he rushed to catch up.

“We should split up,” said Jon, and Martin let out a sudden, barking laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m being efficient.”

“It’s reckless,” said Martin. “We don’t know what sort of people are around here – what if someone recognised you?”

Jon’s steps faltered slightly. “I thought you said we were safe?”

“I said we might be.”

Jon stopped fully, and turned to Martin. An uneasy determination contradicted itself on his face. Martin felt his shoulders drop.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Jon. He gestured to his lower half. “My pain tolerance doesn’t have time for this, either. You go North, I’ll go South – and when the hour sounds,” and he pointed towards the church, “we’ll meet by the steps.”

Martin swallowed, shaking his head and looking away. “If you see anyone, I mean anyone that you even think you might know – ”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jon. “I would know their faces blind.”

“Meet by the steps,” Martin reaffirmed, and then, with a nod, Jon turned to leave.

Martin found himself on the outskirts of the town, a half-hour later, looking out across a long building, cut into wide, open archways. Through it, pillars could be seen, bracketing tables that looked to be stocked with produce – though, with the dying light and crowd, the tables looked quite sparse. He caught sight of a merchant in the middle of filling a wooden crate, cleaning away what was left on the table before him.

Martin began to move closer, before he froze, as an awful question struck his mind. How on earth was he meant to communicate to the merchants, when he had the barest shred of their language? There was only so far bonjour, and au revoir could get you.

Christ. Would Jon even know of the language barrier?

Was he stumbling around the town, completely dumbfounded as to why he could not understand them, and they not him? Martin pressed a hand to his face, and cursed. How could they have come this far, only to collapse before the last hurdle – due to something so simple and mundane as language!

He would have to find Jon and explain to him the issue. Then, perhaps together, they could resolve a new plan. He turned on his heels, and began to walk up the street he had just come down, when a voice called out to him.

“Oi.”

Martin froze, unable to make himself turn to face the voice. He needn’t have worried, as the voice belonged to a hand that grabbed at his shoulder, and twisted him around to face him. The man before him was short, and his face was hard and wrinkled, pockmarked skin pulled taut over a wide nose.

“I know you,” said the man, with an accent so jarringly English that Martin might’ve believed himself to be back on the streets of London had the air not been so warm. He looked at the man, and tried to search for familiarity between his bristled brows.

He shook his head. “I don’t think you do. Apologies, sir.”

Martin made to move, but the man’s hand shot out again and pulled him back in close. “Nah. I do.”

“Please let go of me,” said Martin, as he attempted to wrestle his arm out of the man’s hold. Martin was not small, and neither was he weak – but the man’s hands were so sharp and fierce, that the mere effort of trying to free himself had him worrying about pulling his own arm out of the socket. Another futile tug, before Martin froze, as the man’s features suddenly placed themselves into a memory.

A memory tinged in candlelight, and applause – and it was no wonder Martin hadn’t recognise the man, as the last time he had seen him, he had been towering over him in stilts, and guiding him into a tent. The man must have noticed the change in Martin’s expression, as his glower turned to a grin, and with his free hand, he grabbed Martin’s, meaty fingers leaving lines across his wrist.

He tapped a finger against the faded stamp that he himself had placed there. “See. Knew I recognised you.”

Martin breathed. Thick, heavy breaths.

“Where did you put it,” snarled the man. “Boss ain’t so happy you see.”

“I’m quite sure I have no clue what you’re talking about,” replied Martin, his voice surprisingly steady around his hammering heart.

The man gave Martin a push, sending his body scattering across the road. The air was knocked from his lungs, and he let out a choke as he tried to pull himself upwards. The man was upon him between blinks, his boot flying towards Martin, to kick under his arched frame, sending him twisting back onto the ground.

“You’re really going to do this in the middle of the road?” spat Martin, the taste of blood and bile in his throat. There was a gruff laughed, as the man split into two, nearing Martin. He flinched as the man’s thick hands reached down to grab his shirt.  

“Good point,” growled the man, his face now inches away from Martin’s. Tobacco stained the breaths between them, sweet and sickly with liquor. Then, he rose, and in a mighty show of strength, Martin was flung into the nearby alleyway. The tin bins clanged like bells as his head smacked into them, and the noise lingered in his ears as a high pitched ring.

The man continued to laugh, the sound harmonising with the bitter choir in Martin’s ears. His mouth flexed into a pained grimace, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing for the pain that pulsed through him to fade when he opened them.

They shot open as a hand cupped the nape of his neck, and squeezed, nails cutting crescents into his flesh. Martin was pulled to his feet, his own hands raising to slash and scrape at the man’s, until his grip slackened, sending Martin stumbling forward, and deeper into the alleyway. The light was dim there, only the warm flicker of the street’s lantern sneaking through. The light caught on the edges of the man, drawing his shadow wide and long, and consuming as it draped over Martin.

He took a step backwards, and glass crunched underfoot. He looked down for a split moment to see a carpet of broken shards. The man lunged forward, his fist raised high. Martin felt blood fill his mouth as it landed, bitter and thick and choking. He coughed, spluttering out a splatter of red as he collapsed into the wall.

“It not with you?” said the man, stepping closer. Martin slid down the wall, his legs splayed out before him. “Where the fuck is it?”

Martin took in a heavy breath, feeling the hot trickle of blood ooze across his face. The man’s knuckles bit at his face as another punch landed. Martin’s hands fell to his side, too weak to raise up in defence as another hit landed. Between each hit, he kept asking that same incessant question – barely even giving enough pause for a reply, had Martin been the sort of person to answer.

The man took a small step back, his fists still raised, but his knuckles slack as he caught his breath. It was in that pause that Martin’s fingers crept forward, slowly lacing themselves around one of the larger shards of broken glass that littered the ground beneath them.

The man laughed, raising a bloody knuckled to his face to wipe away the sweat and spit. Then, he was, moving forward, his torso twisting to give his attack more weight. But Martin’s arm was already sailing through the air, his hand curving a path directly into the man’s knee, the thick, sharp, splinter piercing the rough flesh of the man’s legs.

“He’s not a fucking it,” said Martin, his chest running ragged as he forced the words out. The man let out a scream, a bellowing cry of surprised pain, as he stumbled backwards, his legs giving way to the agony. Martin’s hands clung to the wall as he heaved himself upwards, and he lumbered towards the man, his vision red and swimming. In the distance, he could hear the church bells begin to sound the hour.

He twisted his hands around the man’s blood soaked collar, dragging him through the shards. The man let out a whimper of pain, and with crimson hands, pawed and pleaded at Martin’s grip. Martin could hardly feel the man’s protests, nor feel the desperation of his cries. Martin’s hands laced around the man’s neck, and he slammed his face into the wall. With a crack, blood began to pool from his face, and his words were eaten in another shout.

“He’s not a fucking it!” cried Martin, drawing the man’s head back, only to send it slamming right back into the wall. “He’s not an it!” Each word was punctuated with another crack, as the man’s face shattered and crumbled against the wall.

Martin dropped the man into a heap, his swollen lips a mottled and mocking version of the cocky smile he had worn not a minute prior. Breaths escaped his broken mouth, thin and shallow, but there enough to ease Martin’s conscience. It was a pathetic thing to pay mind to in that moment – the matter of his soul.

He spat at the man, the red of his own blood lost amongst the man’s. “Leave him the fuck alone.”

The man wheezed, but the notes rose and fell as if it was laughter. “Do you think I’m the only one looking for it.” Spit and blood pooled the edges of his mouth. “That thing’s our finale.”

Martin’s knuckles knocked the man into silence.

Martin kept his head low as he stumbled and waded his way through the streets, one hand tracing along the walls of the buildings beside him for support. He wasn’t sure if the shaking in his legs was due to an injury, or merely the fading effects of adrenaline. He brought his handkerchief to his face, the white fabric turning crimson in the matter of a single pass across his face. The sight burned at his eyes, and left an awful twisting sensation in his stomach.

He discarded it, raising the rough flesh of his palms to his face, and scrubbing the dried blood from his face. It burned, and a gash along his cheek sang of a biting pain. He winced, his steps fumbling as he did.   He received a few looks as he made his way to the town’s centre; none of concern, but all of wariness. He felt shame creep up his face, and his shoulders raised an inch higher.

He found his way back to the towns centre, his feet tripping and catching on the uneven ground. The church acted as a beacon, and on the steps, he could see the small figure of Jon, knees raised and coiled in on himself. Martin let out a sigh of relief, and the motion pulled at his chest. His pace quickened, and turned more erratic – more falling forward than it was walking.

He called out to Jon, barely raising his hand up in a weak wave. Jon looked up, wide and curious eyes scanning the crowd, until they landed on Martin; and then his face fell into a crumpled mask of concern. He rose to his feet quickly, bounding down the steps two at a time as he cut the distance between the two.

“What on earth happened?” cried Jon, worried hands brushing over his face, his shirt, his bloodied hands. “Martin, I – good lord. Are you alright?”

Martin nodded. “I’m okay. I’m fine, really. Just – we should probably leave. I’m sure we’ll find something along the way. Catch someone along the road, for sure. We should – we need to go.”

“Martin,” said Jon again, his name but a breath on his lips. “Tell me what happened. Before we do anything.”

Martin let out a sharp breath through his nose, and his shoulders dropped from their arched perch. “I – it was – Christ, it was those bloody circus freaks.”

“They’re here?” said Jon, his voice low. Martin didn’t pretend not to notice the swell of Jon’s throat. “And they – ” with the cuff of his sleeve, Jon raised his hand to wipe away the crusted blood from Martin’s face. The shirt came away speckled with red, turning brown at the edges.  “They did this to you? Martin, I’m – I’m so sorry.”

Martin blinked, and then shook his head. “What? No, Christ – this isn’t – you have nothing to apologise for. I’m alright, honest.” The last part was a lie, but it was one he could live with.

“We should – we need to clean you up,” said Jon, bowing his head as if he were muttering only to himself. “I should – ” Jon laced his hands around Martin’s bicep, and lead him over to the fountain, gesturing for him to sit.

“It’s fine,” tried Martin again as he fell onto the seat. “We don’t have time, we need to – we have to go.”

“Not until we sort this.”

“There might be more – ”

“Then they can fucking wait,” snapped Jon. He caught Martin’s eyes, and the tension along his jaw broke, and he let out a sigh. “Sorry. I’m not angry at you.”

“You’re allowed to be,” said Martin, his voice so quiet as to almost go unheard. But Jon’s eyes fell noticeably at the edges, and his lips tightened.

“That’s not important right now,” said Jon, finality at the edges of his words. He took the baggy cuff of his shirt, and dunked it into the water, before raising the make-shift rag to Martin’s face. In slow, gentle passes, Jon began to remove the remainder of the blood. Martin watched, his eyes following each movement, as Jon swung between him and the fountain, tinging the water with red as he wrung out the sleeve of his shirt.

“That’s going to be uncomfortable all day,” said Martin, gesturing towards the damp fabric. “Not to mention cold.”

“Well,” said Jon, his eyes focused as he wiped the blood clean, “I never minded being wet.”

Martin snorted, shaking his head gently. “Suppose you don’t mind the cold either?”

Jon smiled. “Not as much as you do.”

Jon moved away from Martin’s face, and sat beside him along the brim of the fountain. He reached forward, and took Martin’s hand – and Martin flinched away, quickly turning to scan the crowd to see if anyone had been watching.

“I need to clean your hand,” said Jon, reaching forward again. Martin swallowed, feeling embarrassment creep up his neck. He complied as Jon took his hand this time, holding it high between them as he scrubbed the dirt and grime away from his knuckles, sweeping over the ends of his fingers in a single motion.

“Sorry,” mumbled Martin, his throat gummy. “And thank you.”

Jon just nodded, exhaling a small sigh as he did. Then, he clapped his hands together. “Are you alright to walk?” Martin nodded, and Jon rose to his feet. “Well, then, I must say - I’d quite fancy a drink. What say you?”

Martin blinked. “I – what? Since when do you – you heard me earlier, right?” Jon had already started walking, and Martin stumbled to catch up. “We need to go.”

“Yes,” said Jon, “but I thought we might go faster catching a lift. That was the plan, was it not?”

“I – I mean yes, I suppose. But – ”

“There’s a man, apparently – Hugo Thomas. Fishmonger. Always goes for a sherry at the local pub before heading home for the night.” Jon was relaying all of this as the two walked, Jon slightly ahead and navigating them with ease. He stopped outside a building, all rough brick work and cut up into pin prick windows. “I thought we might ask him about a getting a ride.”

Through the door of the building, Martin could hear music – overlayed with chatter, and the clinking of glasses. He shook his head, not out of dismissal, but of disbelief. “I – how did you find that out?”

Jon eyes flickered over Martin’s face, as if debating the legitimacy of his question. “I asked about.”

“In English?”

“I don’t think it was English.”

“You speak French?”

“Not at first.”

Martin scrunched his face up in confusion. “Is that a – a fish thing?”

“Speaking French? I don’t think so.”

“No, no,” said Martin, waving his hands through the air. “You know, picking up a language just like – like – ” he punctuated his sentence with a click of his fingers.

Jon eyes flickered upwards in thought for a moment. “I – well, I never really gave it much mind. I suppose, though. If you wish to reduce it to a – a ‘fish thing’.”

With that, Jon pushed open the door to the pub, and the two stepped inside. For how clearly the sound had carried on the street, the actual innards of the pub were surprisingly bare. A few men, all older fellows, were scattered about, drawing diagonals across the room. The barkeeper, tucked behind the counter, one hand leaning down against the counter to hold his head up as he looked over to the small stage, nestled in the corner. A lone man sat upon it, a guitar in his lap that he teased sweet melodies from with fluttering fingers. Behind him, Martin could see a crutch. It looked new, and Martin didn’t have to strain his mind far to piece together the cause of whatever injury he had sustained.

Martin hadn’t noticed how quite caught up he’d become in the song, until he noticed Jon – standing beside one of the tables, and talking animatedly with a gruff looking man. Martin hurried over, arriving by Jon’s side, and offering a polite wave to the man.

His face was weather beaten, hidden behind a coarse beard, and his silverly locks curled around his ears, and flicked up at the nape of his neck. He smelt of salt, and the pungent aroma of the fish markets curled around him. His gaze shifted to Martin as he approached, and only nodded in response to his meagre wave.

His attention was back on Jon, and he was speaking quickly, voice gritty – so much so, that Martin wondered if he would’ve been able to understand the man even if he did have a grasp on the French language. He looked to Jon, who was nodding easily, and did not seem to share Martin’s struggles.

He replied, the foreign words rolling off his tongue with surprising grace. Martin wasn’t sure what was being said, but Jon had just gestured towards him with a hand, and he felt the uncomfortable urge to introduce himself again.

“This is the Thomas fellow I mentioned,” said Jon, leaning in close to Martin as he spoke, “the one with the carriage.”

Jon’s breath was hot against his neck as he spoke, and he shuddered under the sudden heat. Martin nodded, his tongue peaking out to wet his lips. “Is he amicable – in helping us?”

Jon turned back to the man, and continued to talk. The man – Thomas, laughed, a barking sound, and a thick hand was thrown in Martin’s direction again. Martin shifted under the gesture, not quite enjoying how lost he felt between them. Jon answered, his voice suddenly firmer, and a note louder – then he sighed, and turned back to Martin.

“He says he’s not in the business of helping criminals.”

“Criminals?” Martin’s face scrunched up with the word, confusion lilting his tone upwards. Martin would’ve laughed at the absurdity of the statement, had his eyes not immediately caught the blood soaked cuff of Jon’s shirt – his blood. His hand rose to his face, feeling the tender welts that had swollen up along his jaw, and around his eye. He winced, and sucked in a breath. “Can you tell him that we’re not.”

Jon gave Martin a flat look, and spoke dryly, “I never considered that.”

Jon began talking in French again, his hands curling around his waist as his shoulder slowly crawled upwards. Thomas said something, and punctuated it with a long swig of his drink. Jon’s lips twisted, and Martin heard a small grunt of annoyance pass his lips.

Thomas’s own shoulders had began to raise, his arms bracketing his glass in a stiff embrace. His eyes were now set across the bar, pointedly not looking their way.

“What did he say?” asked Martin, but he knew the answer well enough.

Jon let out a small huff, and prodded Martin’s arm to start heading back out. “Nothing worth repeating.”

“Fat lot of use he was,” muttered Martin, as the cold air embraced them again. It was fully dark now, and the stars were hidden behind the glow of the streetlamps. “What now?”

“I’ve sort of been trusting your judgment with this whole thing,” said Jon with an empty laugh. The two turned down the side street that ran alongside the pub. “Though, if you resort to us walking, I may have to put my proverbial foot down – as my actual ones,” and he looked down at his bare feet, and knocked them against the cobbled road, “are feeling quite worse for wear. Not to mention, I’m only going to get weaker the longer I go without changing.”

Martin worried at his lip. “Walking is out of the question. That’s – yeah.” He looked down at his feet, as if the answer was hidden under each step. Then, Jon’s hand shot up, and stopped him in his tracks. “ I – what – ”

“Martin,” said Jon, dropping his hand to raise it – pointing forward. “Would you say that carriage looks like it belongs to a fishmonger?”

Martin squinted through the low light – but the shape of the carriage was clear, with a sleek brown shire horse reined up to it. The back of the carriage was covered by a dark tarp, but Martin could see through the gaps – where boxes, lobster cages, and fishing nets all lay bustled in beside one another.

“I might say it looks like that, yes,” said Martin, moving closer to inspect the vehicle. He turned his head to look back at Jon. “What are you thinking?”

*

They waited in the dark for an hour, tucked down a skinny alley with their heads peaking out to watch over the cart. Eventually, heavy footfall sounded. The steps were laboured, and Thomas fumbled over his own feet as he made his way over to the cart. He approached the horse, drawing a hand down the animals back, and punctuating the affection with a pat. He swayed slightly as he maneuvered himself up onto the drivers seat, holding the reins tight for balance.

Jon began to creep forward, but Martin caught him, and yanked him backwards. “Wait.”

Thomas busied himself for a moment, hands checking over himself as he readied himself for the journey. Then, he lifted the reins, and brough the snapping down. The horse began to trot slowly forward, and Martin hid his and Jon’s footsteps under the sound as he lead them closer.

The carriage inched to the edge of the road, where it faded into darkness without the aid of the streetlamps. They would have to be quick.

Thomas raised the reins again, and Jon and Martin were running before he brought them down. The carriages pace picked up, and for an awful moment, Martin saw the vehicle fade off into the distance – their last hope lost. It was as if Jon could sense his sudden fear – as he took Martin’s hand, squeezed it tightly, and raced them both up the road with a surprising speed.

Their feet punched the ground as they ran, the clumsy movement sending thuds reverberating through Martin’s body. His lungs began to tighten, swelling up into his throat. But the carriage was drawing nearer, both parties picking up pace. His fingers brushed against the wooden tail board, and his grip in Jon’s hand tightened.

With a swallowed down cry, he threw Jon forward – the momentum sending the other man flying. He watched as Jon quickly scrambled up onto the cart, one hand lacing around the rail, the other held out for Martin.

In a final burst, Martin caught his hand, and pulled himself up onto the cart, his body crumpling against Jon’s. He sent a cautious look behind him, peering over the swell of the tarp and towards Thomas - through his inebriated state and the heavy clack of the horses’ hooves, the two went unnoticed.

Martin let out a small laugh, tired and relieved as he watched the road roll away from them. Then, he turned to face Jon – whose eyes were already burning into him. He smiled, breathy and wobbly, and the other man echoed the expression back.

“Thank you, Martin,” whispered Jon, his hand reaching forward to take Martin’s. Martin locked his fingers between Jon’s, and vowed to never let go again.

Chapter Text

Martin didn’t think it possible to forget the grandeur that was the ocean; the complete and utter vastness of it. But as it peered through the trees that lined the road, moon capped white horses galloping across the horizon, Martin knew his memory to have entirely understated its beauty. He could feel the wind that blew off it, rolling across his skin, and sending ripples through the dark waves of Jon’s hair. He opened his mouth to breath it in, and could taste salt on his tongue.

Jon’s hand still sat gripped in his, and he tightened the grasp as the cart neared the ocean, desperation apparent in the light crescents his nails were pressing into Martin’s flesh.

Jon let out a long breath, and Martin could swear he heard a prayer in it – gratitude, and relief lacing the exhalation. Martin brought his free hand over their clasped ones, and cupped Jon’s hand in comforting warmth. Jon turned to him, the moon glinting off of his dark eyes, and he looked at Martin with an almost reverence. He opened his mouth to talk, but as he did – the cart lurched, turning down a narrow road. Martin peered his head over the swell of fishing equipment, where Thomas’s head bobbed along behind it with the divots in the road.

They were nearing a house – small, and derelict, with a wide sprawling land encompassing it. Small wooden dinghy’s were strewn about the path leading up to it, and a lantern swung beside the door, luring the driver home.

“Damn,” whispered Martin. Then, he gripped Jon’s hand, and offered him an apologetic look. “Jump.”

Both of their legs gave away as they landed, crumpling down onto the dirt slick road. Gravel pierced Martin’s knees as he fell, and he heard Jon wince beside him. Martin spared another look behind him, and once confident Thomas hadn’t noticed them jump, rushed over to Jon.

“You okay?” he asked, curling one hand under Jon’s arm, and pulling him upwards. Jon’s legs swayed, and he stumbled into Martin’s chest. Martin caught him with ease, a wide hand cupping the curve of his back and holding him steady. “Sorry about that.”

“Better than having him catch us,” said Jon, with a dry laugh. He tried to move, but his legs buckled, and Martin had to move quick to catch him again.

“Did you hit something?” Martin held Jon’s shoulders in a firm grip as he stepped back to survey Jon under the moonlight. “Are you injured?”

Jon shook his head, waving one hand through the air in dismissal. “I’m alright, really. I just – I don’t usually go this long in – in this form. It’s starting to – it’s becoming quite uncomfortable, I’ll admit.”

Martin nodded slowly, rolling his lips between his teeth. “Can you walk?” Jon gave him a dry look, and swayed slightly under Martin’s grip. “Will you be alright if I carry you, then?”

Jon was already shaking his head, and sighing. “You’re hurt, Martin.”

“Well, you can’t walk,” said Martin firmly. “Unless you want me to – to roll you to the sea.” Martin laughed, and then there was a pause. “Do you want to be rolled – ”

Jon help both his hands up in a signal to be stopped. “I would really rather not be … rolled, Martin. Truly not sure I can think of anything more humiliating, if I’m being honest.”

Martin raised an eyebrow, and Jon grunted in annoyance, his arched shoulders dropping. Martin smirked. “I’m good to carry you.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed for a breath, before he sighed. “Fine, alright. Thank you.”

Jon’s arms hung loosely around Martins neck, his chest pressed flush against his back and his legs twisted around his torso, Martin’s hands holding him up. Martin walked quickly, Jon’s weight barely a hindrance to his gait. He was used to lugging around his kit bag, and Jon was only slightly heavier. Martin followed the curving path that sloped downwards, each step tasting of salt. He could hear Jon breathing in his ear, and the soft stutter of excitement as the trees faded to reveal the sprawling expanse of the beach, with the dark line of waves curving around it.

“I never thought I would see it again,” said Jon, his voice almost lost to the wind. “I never thought – ” Jon’s arms tightened around Martin’s chest, and his next words were muffled against Martin’s shoulder, “I owe you an insurmountable debt.”

Martin squeezed Jon’s legs as the sand shifted below his feet. “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do this because I – I wanted something in return.”

“Then why did you?”

He couldn’t see Jon, but he could feel his eyes on his skin. Martin swallowed. “You know why.”

There was silence.

“I wish you could say it.”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat, and he stumbled slightly, his chest suddenly feeling far too tight. He coughed, clearing his throat, and readjusting Jon’s weight on his back. I wish I could too, went unsaid.

“We’re here.”

The ocean began to sing as they neared, but it did not hide Jon’s sigh, as the low crescendo of crashing waves rang over the harmony of the rock pools, plugging and unplugging themselves with the swell of the tide. He felt Jon slip out of his hold, though his hands still clung to his shoulders for support as his coltish legs led him towards the shoreline.

Jon continued to move forward, his hands slowly trailing down the length of Martin’s arm as the water reached up to meet him, salt water crawling up his legs. Soon, all that touched was their fingers, Martin reaching forward, as Jon began to sink into the water. And then he was gone, his head vanishing below the waves, his hair billowing out and lost amongst the silky darkness of the water. Martin’s hand fell to his side, and he let out a long breath, watching as, a moment later, the tip of Jon’s tail appeared, sharp and glinting among the waves.

Martin laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up through his chest and escaping in a spluttering and breathy conclusion. There was a weight in his chest and he couldn’t quite place if it was joy or despair, but it wanted to be free, and so he laughed. Jon’s face split through the waves, and suddenly Martin was standing on a beach in Scotland, with wind bitten cheeks, and feeling, for the first time, what it meant to love someone.

Because he’d always quite enjoyed being in love with Jon.

That thought, for some reason, felt like a goodbye, one he wasn’t quite ready for. And then he was crying; soft, unnoticeable tears. Just whispers of tracks, warm across his face – almost like fingers, tracing a line down his skin, and then pulling away in a breath. He pressed the palm of his hands up to his cheeks, and brushed away the drying tracks, letting out a small sigh as he did. When he pulled his hands away, Jon was in front of him, hands tucked under the shallow waves, holding up his torso as his tail faded backwards into the water.

“Happy or sad tears?” asked Jon, tilting his head to the side in question, his mouth gently downturned.

“You know,” said Martin, looking down at Jon, “I’m not quite sure.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, the waves lapping gently against his body, singly gently as they did. Then, “Come in?”

And Martin just nodded.

The water was cold, but Jon’s hand was warm in his, and he fell easily between the waves, the weak current catching him.  His legs kicked out behind him, and Jon guided him easily forward, his hand tangled tightly in Martin’s. The waves rose up, and caught Martin’s face, sending a spray across his hair and plastering it against his cheek. The water burned and soothed at his wounds, shrouding the throbbing ache under the sharp sting of the salt water.

Jon’s hand came up, leaving a trail of tin tacks upon the surface as droplets fell from his skin. He pushed back Martin’s sodden curls, fingers curling around the shell of his ear, before returning back to the water.

“You were right,” said Jon, “you are a much better swimmer now.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “A real honorary fish, that’s me.”

Jon snorted, his shoulders raising for a beat in laughter. “I hardly think I’m esteemed enough to hand out such titles.”

“No need to put yourself down like that,” said Martin, his hand slipping out of Jon’s to swim around him. Jon turned in the water as he did, his eyes set on Martin, his tail following the movement in a wide curve. “I think you’re quite esteemed.”

Jon smiled softly, the gentle curve catching the silver hue of the moon, alighting it with an entrancing magic. Martin’s eyes lingered on Jon’s lips, the soft swell, chapped and bitten and glistening with salt water. He pulled his eyes back up to meet Jon’s, and felt an odd pit brew in his stomach. The pit grew up his throat, curving around his chest and around his throat – the dull ache of want left unfulfilled.

Jon was moving now, his tail kicking out a misty spray as he glided through the waves, his torso curving as he turned onto his back – his eyes set on the stars, the same ones that glinted and shone on the reflected sky they swam through. Martin began to swim too, his own movements far less elegant than Jon’s. The beach was growing fainter as they swam, and Martin tried not to let his mind linger on the darkness below, and the low chill it sent through his bones.

Jon had stopped moving; he was just floating there, his arms splayed outwards, his eyes closed. “Lie with me.”

“Won’t I sink?” asked Martin, his voice low – he almost felt like he was disrupting something sacred as he spoke.

Jon stretched his hand out, and Martin took it. “You won’t. Trust me.”

Martin fell back into the water, the gentle waves holding up his body as he lay there, half submerged and breathing easily. The weight of his and Jon’s clasped hands sunk below the waves, and there was something poetic about that that he wasn’t quite ready to ruminate on. The midnight sky hung above them, and the stars curved in a smeared spray – as if a painter had wiped their brushes clean on the heavens.

“I still keep expecting to wake up there,” said Jon, and there was something about it that almost felt like a confession. “I don’t know why. I – I know I’m here. I can feel it. I can feel you. And yet – ” Jon let out a long sigh. “I’m just waiting. It feels like as soon as I – as soon as I let myself feel safe, let myself feel – ” he cut himself off again. “It just feels like as soon as I do, that it’s all going to go away.” There was silence for a moment. “That probably sounds quite silly.”

“Not at all,” said Martin. “Not even slightly.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You are here,” said Martin, intoning each word with fierce sincerity. “If this was a dream, don’t you think we would’ve had an easier time getting down?”

Jon laughed, a gentle and breathy thing. “No, I – I suppose you’re right. It’s just – I can’t settle, Martin.” Jon looked at him across the water. “I’m – I’m so afraid. Even here, I’m still so afraid. What if that feeling never goes away?”

Jon’s voice held multitudes, though all Martin could hear was the lost voice of a child, unsure of the world and of themself. It made something in Martin’s chest ache. “It will,” he said. “You won’t notice when it does, but it will.”

“I hope you’re right.” There was silence for a moment, and when Jon next spoke, it was a whisper, “I don’t want you to go, Martin.”

Martin swallowed, his chest breaking open and tightening at the same time. “I know.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” He closed his eyes, and pretended it wasn’t an attempt to hide himself from the look of anguish on Jon’s face. “If I don’t go back, they’ll kill me.”

“Martin – ”

“Please don’t do this,” said Martin, his throat bleeding with the force it took to say those words and not succumb to Jon’s plea. “Please. Please don’t ask me to come with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll agree,” said Martin, “I’ll agree, and we’ll leave, and they’ll kill me. And I don’t want to die.” His last words were but a swollen breath, shattering between them.

Neither of them were lying down against the waves now, twisted towards one another and trying not to break.

“We can go somewhere quiet,” said Jon, the words tripping over his tongue in a stumbled rush. “They won’t find us. Any of them. We can leave, Martin – together. We can just leave.”

Martin was already shaking his head. “We can’t.”

Jon stared at him, his eyes thin with desperation, and his mouth parted in an argument he looked too tired to have. He blinked, looking down, his warbled reflection on the water not seeming to offer the comfort he needed.

Martin moved forward, sending out a cape of ripples as he held his arm out to Jon, who moved forward into the space, his head bowed, and tucked in against Martin’s chest, both hands wrapped tightly around his waist. Martin’s hands settled over Jon’s back with a sigh, his salt slick hair cold against his forehead as he rested down against it. He could feel Jon’s heartbeat pressing against his, singing a lonely dirge. There was a sound of defeat in the melody, as if it had been calling out for aid, only to be greeted instead by the rain. It was sad, and heavy, and it ached through Martin, and he wondered if Jon could hear his own chest singing the same song back.

“Why is it always like this?” Jon’s words were muffled against Martin’s skin. “When do we get a say?”

Martin tightened his hold on Jon for a breath. “We got a say in this.”

Jon scoffed against his chest. “I think you’ll find it’s quite the opposite.”

“It’s not,” said Martin softly, pulling back slightly to meet Jon’s eyes. “This didn’t happen by accident. We didn’t.” Jon didn’t blink, eyes wide against Martin’s. “I made a choice, one of the few choices I had the chance to make, and I chose you. And I would again, a million times over.”

For a moment, the ocean stilled as Jon looked at him, holding its breath expectantly. “Tell me my name.”

Martin’s chest shattered, and he let out a broken breath. “I thought – ”

“I know,” said Jon. “But I – I said I needed time, and we don’t – we never seem to have that, do we?”

“You don’t have to hear it, if you aren’t ready.”

“I want to.” Jon’s hands fell to the curve of Martin’s neck, and Martin’s own hands came up to loop around his wrists. “I want to hear you say it. I don’t want – I don’t want his voice in my head when I think of it, and if I – ” he cut himself off, taking in a long breath. “If I never hear it again, I want to remember it the way you said it.”

Martin swallowed. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure.”

“Please.”

Martin held a hand to Jon’s cheek, and Jon leaned easily into the touch. He was greyscale under the moonlight, yet colour and life radiated off of each breath, warm against Martin’s skin. How such a slight form could hold the world, Martin would never understand.

“Jon.”

Jon kissed him.

“Jon.”

And he kissed him.

“Jon.”

And he kissed him.

“You’re crying,” said Martin, pulling back. He could feel worry crease his face, the heavy weight of furrowed brows. “Did I do something wrong?”

Jon shook his head, wet eyes wrinkled in a sorrowful smile. “No, no. I just – I’d forgotten how you said it. I’d forgotten your voice, Martin. I’m so sorry.” He looked up at Martin. “I’d forgotten. What if I – what if I don’t remember? What if I forget you?”

“You won’t,” said Martin, his voice quiet and shaking. He tried for a laugh, and it failed. “I should hope I’m a bit harder to forget, really.”

“Impossible,” said Jon. “But forgetting is so easy. You don’t even notice it happening.”

“You’ll remember,” said Martin, and he said it like it was a promise. “We deserve to be remembered.”

Jon’s face softened. “We deserve more.”

Martin nodded, pressing a gentle kiss against Jon’s head, leaving his lips there for a breath. He sighed against Jon’s skin. “We do.”

*

The small fire that Martin had lit crackled gently in front of him, his hands held up to the warmth, as his body shivered under the dampness of his uniform. Lacking a towel, he has succumbed to peeling his clothes on over his salt slick body, trying very hard to ignore the awful itch of sodden wool against his joints.

Jon rested in the shallows of the water, his arms folded before him, head resting gently against them as his dark eyes glowed with the flickering embers. There was a mesmerising look of wonderment on his face, and a small and intrigued smile on his lips.  His eyes moved over to Martin. “Will you be warm enough?”

“Once I dry off,” said Martin, “then yes. I should be. Quite used to roughing it, I’ll be honest.”

Jon cocked his head to the side. “You are?”

Martin shrugged. “Back, uh – back there, you sort of sleep where you can find a place to  - and the time, too.” He gave a small chuckle. “I once caught Tim asleep, standing upright. He just had his rifle against the ground, holding him up – just swaying. Didn’t even notice he was asleep until he started to snore. Sargent startled him quite bad, though. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man jump so high off the ground before.”

Jon’s smile grew gently. “I would’ve liked to have met him.”’

Martin swallowed. “Yeah. I think you two would’ve liked one another. He was nice, Jon – funny, too. Probably would’ve wound you up a bit, but – he always laughed with you, you know. Never at you.”

“You miss him,” said Jon, his voice quiet.

“I do.” Martin kept his eyes set on the flames, curving each way and that with the wind. “He was my friend.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin smiled weakly at him. “It’s okay. But thank you.” The fire popped and burned in the silence, and Martin let out a small laugh. “God, our conversations never used to be this – this depressing before, huh?”

“I might argue that a few things have changed.”

Martin smiled, and let out a breath through his nose. “I can’t even remember what we used to talk about, really.”

Jon ran a hand along his jaw. “I remember a brief discussion over the merits of calendars in the hands of crustaceans.”

Martin snorted, his hand coming up to cover his face as he did. “Oh, god – of course. Still stand by that. Think it’d do them good.”

Jon raised a brow. “Once you find a – a waterproof alternative, I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next annual aquatic meeting. See if I can get them on board.”

Martin continued to laugh, and then halted, turning his gaze to Jon with a furrowed brow. “That’s – you don’t actually have – you know, fish meetings?”

Jon gave him a dry look. “How else would we get anything done? Honestly, Martin.”

“Okay – but you have to tell me if that’s actually true,” said Martin, leaning closer to Jon and narrowing his gaze. “Like, hand on heart tell me.”

“Is that not what I’m doing?”

“Jon!”

“Martin,” echoed back Jon, in the same annoyed sing song. Then, his face broke into a smile, and he shook his head. “What – you think we have a little cabinet room under the waves? You know what you’re implying – fish politics. Is that really a path you wish to go down?”

“Well – I don’t know!” Martin threw his hands up. “Didn’t think you were real until I met you. Sort of got into the habit of not assuming.” He clicked his tongue noisily, shaking his head. “Might’ve have little fish bi-elections for all I know.”

“What would we even vote on?” Jon’s smile was audible as he spoke. “Keeping the ocean wet?”

Martin shrugged. “Taxes.”

“Taxes?”

“Fish taxes.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jon, nodding his head firmly. “Big point of contention all that. Ghastly business.”

“Leave off,” chuckled Martin. “You’re the one who started all this political malarky.”

Jon hummed, resting his chin down against his hands. “Mm, quite. It is a bit late for such an intellectual debate, I suppose.”

Martin nodded gently. “It’s been a bit of a day, huh?”

“Certainly one way of putting it.” Jon arched his back out, letting out a small groan as he did. “I’m quite exhausted, I’ll be honest.”

Martin laughed softly, finally succumbing to the fatigued ache in his bones, and heavy pull of his eyes. “Mm, goodnight, Jon.”

There was silence, and then, “Martin.”

“Mm?”

Jon was looking at him, curiosity flickering behind his tired eyes. Martin lowered his down to the sand, his arm tucked under and acting as his pillow. Beside him, the fire glowed with warmth, and it caught the edges of Jon’s face in hues of orange. “What happens after tomorrow? What happens after you leave?”

Martin swallowed. “I don’t know. But – this is nice, Jon. This moment. Can we – can we just pretend it’s alright, just for tonight?”

Jon nodded, a minute motion, and smiled softly. “Alright, Martin.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Martin noticed when he awoke that was that Jon wasn’t there. The second, was the press of something cold, and hard against his temple. Through half-lidded eyes, he could see the ocean, wefts of white kissing the perimeter of his camp – and, across the scene, a shadow; long, and stretching, and seemingly darker than it should’ve been.

Martin didn’t move, and the icy tip of the gun pressed deeper against his skin. “You might want to start walking.”

It was a woman’s voice – piercing, disturbingly cheery, and English.

Martin didn’t feel the sand shift below him as he slowly rose to his feet, his hands raised, and the low thud of his heart swelling his throat. The gun pushed his head down, and the woman kicked at his heels – and he started to walk. She had coiled her fingers around the collar of his shirt, pulling it taut so that the buttons pressed sharply against his throat, restricting his already shallow breaths.

“You’re a solider,” said the woman, almost as if it was a question. “Trenches drive you mad, or something? You an obsessed fan?”

“What?” The words came out in a breath, pitched higher in nerves and untethered at the edges.

The gun pulled back, only to press deeper. “Seems like an awful lot of issue for a sane man to go through – running this way and that with a bloody fish.”

“You’re with the circus.”

“With?” She laughed. “Oh, I’m not going to undersell myself here – not to you. Orsinov. Nicola. I run the show.”

Martin’s eyes lowered, and, as they walked, he could see the faint flash of red as the Ringmasters tailcoat swayed with each step. “How did you find us?”

“A soldier and a fish-out-of-water,” she said, “quite a memorable pair. Especially if said pair go around a small town asking every-bloody person and their granny ‘how to get to the sea’. Really?”

“You can’t take him back,” said Martin, willing his voice to hold steady. “You can’t – you can’t trap him again like before. I won’t let you.” Orsinov just laughed again, and buried the gun deeper against his skin. He swallowed. “Are you going to shoot me?”

He could hear her smile, feel the hot breath of her wolfish grin against his neck. “That depends. You going to tell me where he is?”

Martin could only shake his head, feeling the sting on the gun push further as he did.

“Then yes.” She spoke simply, her voice light and playing almost like a song. “You’ve lost us quite a bit of money, you know. Setting a precedent is quite important in the business world.”

Martin’s leg’s stumbled as the nerves crawled down, and his shuddering fingers shook like flags in the wind as he held them up. His chest pulsed with the erratic song of his heart, low and heavy. He could feel the blood in his body, running, sprinting – desperately trying to pull him away, but he was frozen. The scene before him was far away, as if he was looking through the wrong end of binoculars. He wanted to run to it, but knew he would never meet it. Not before she did.

The springs creaked as she pulled back the hammer.

He wanted to feel grateful. Grateful that Jon was nowhere to be seen. He was gone. He was free. He wanted to feel peace, but all he felt was fear. And the awful drumming in his head that kept chanting that this was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to die like this.

The gun vanished from his temple, and Martin felt a surge of air enter his lungs as he sighed in what might’ve felt like relief, had the feeling not been so entirely shrouded by the unwavering sickness in his chest.

“Not here,” she said, and brought the cap of her shoe down against Martin’s heel, pushing him forward. “Go to the water.”

Martin’s rigid legs crumpled, but the Ringmaster just tightened her hold around his collar, and yanked him upright. He could now feel the gun pressed against the small of his back, burning through his uniform.

The shore met them, crashing over stuttering footsteps as the two fell into the waves. The Ringmaster pushed Martin down, his torso smacking against the shallow water with an awful wet pop, as the water dispersed before rolling back over him. He tried to push himself up, before weighted landed against his back, as the Ringmaster straddled him, knees locking him down as her hands clawed at his face, half-submerging him in the salty shallows. He squirmed under her hold, opening his mouth to yell, only to be silenced by the crashing waves, salty water writhing down his throat and burning him with its clawing taste.

He forced his neck upwards, spluttering and choking and crying, before her hand pushed him back down. The water was like ice, yet his body burned in agony as his lungs swelled and strained under the waves. His hands twisted behind him, fingernails clawing at red fabric that pooled around them like blood in the water. He tugged, and tugged, and pulled, and heaved, and then fell – her fingers fisting tighter in his hair, and pushing down against him with all her might.

His eyes screamed, as the pressure began to grow, filling his body with the piercing thud of his chest. It rang through him like an awful crescendo, an orchestrated melody of swollen desperation - and then, the thudding of his heart in his ears began to fade, and it was quiet suddenly. The water no longer felt cold, and the weight against his back was fading, distant, as if the ground had risen up to take him back, shrouding him away from the world. It was so quiet.

So quiet.

Quiet.

The sound of waves crashing ripped through his body, as the water was pulled away from him, curling over his limp body, recalled as if lured in suddenly by a sirens song. There was a song. A voice.

Jon’s voice.

Martin’s eyes opened, and instead of being greeted by the sting of salt water – he saw Jon. The tide was crawling towards him, a monument in the water, twisting up and around him, haloing him in a cape of undulating shades of blue, flickering with the burning morning sky behind them. Jon’s eyes were fierce against the ocean, darker than Martin had ever seen them, and radiating a power he couldn’t quite begin to understand.  His dark hair caught in the water, sending fractals of black rushing up above him, twisting in the curling waves that enveloped him.

The Ringmaster stood, quickly, and Martin turned with a gasp onto his back, his chest rising and falling in spluttering breaths. Her face was furrowed, eyes narrowed and pulsing between awe and horror. It was the first time Martin had seen her not cast in the golden glow of candlelight – she looked far older than she had that day, her face stained in shades of white and red, as the faded scar of a painted smile curled up along her shallow face. Dusty black lines carved across her eyes in X’s, smudged and dripping from the ocean spray. Her coat, sodden and heavy, hung off of her like a chain. She looked exhausted, and desperate – and terrified.

Martin watched as she stepped forward, across the sodden sand that had, until recently, been hidden by water. Her steps were laboured, her shoulders angled to the left as she trudged towards Jon, the gun in her hands blinking in the light. She took another step forward, and raised it -

The seaweed slick sea bed began to writhe and pop as she did. It was almost as if the ground below them was breathing, each exhalation sending the seaweed fluttering upwards. Orsinov turned, looking down, and letting out a shout; as the glistening tendrils began to rise, moving in the wind as if the water still held them, and careening towards her with considerable speed. They latched around her legs, twisting and wrapping, tethering her down. She let out another shout, her hands falling to her legs, desperately attempting to tear herself free.

Like a fist, the seaweed tightened, sending another echoed cry of pain and desperation from the woman’s painted lips. Martin’s eyes moved to Jon, who was watching the woman struggle with a vacant, and cold expression. Then, he looked to Martin, and said but one thing, “Breathe.”

And the water consumed them.

It rose upwards, snatching Martin from where he lay, and pulling him into a sudden and terrifying pillar of water.  Martin’s limbs shot out in panicked and jerky motions as the water curled around him, sending him drifting upwards through the watery heavens, completely untethered.

Spinning waves knocked against his body, as white spider webs of sea foam entangled him as the water crawled higher. It felt like a constant tide, a punch against him, knocking each gaping breath from his lips. He twisted, and turned in the water, burning eyes scouring for something – anything that wasn’t just the tornado of blue that cupped him in gigantean and ruthless hands.

Down below him, through the burning in his eyes, he could see the twisting and mutated form of the Ringmaster – her spindly fingers stuttering like white fractals against the water, her red coat consumed by the crawling hands of the seaweed. It encased her like a cocoon, constantly moving, and writhing, and twisting and tightening.

Through the water, Martin could see her scream, her bubbling breaths stolen by the ever warping water. They cascaded upwards, until the ocean drank them in, and the pillar swelled with a sated hunger - and then it fell.

The pillar bloomed liked a flower as it did; the waves crumbling downwards like wilting petals, shattering into droplets as it broke into itself. And then Martin fell.

His body hit the water with a crack, and then arms were around him; fretting and frantic and slowly fading.

*

He came to with a start, sodden lungs spluttering and wheezing as his chest shot upwards. Jon’s hands were on his back, carving circles to ease away the dull and dry pain that enveloped him. He folded forward, hacking up brackish water as his hands fisted the dry sand below him. It was warm beneath his fingers, and he held it like a life line as he gulped down breaths of air.

“Martin,” started Jon, his voice weak and ragged with worry, “I’m so sorry. God - I – you could’ve died. I could’ve – I just saw her, and you and – and – ”

“What was that?” Martin’s words came out dry and broken, burning as they stumbled out. “Jesus, Jon – that was – what was that?”

Jon didn’t blink. His hair was drenched, plastered across his face, and drawn across his shoulders, and his eyes – his eyes, still achingly dark, and swollen with the fading remnants of whatever power he had just shown. His hands came up to Martin’s shoulders, and he could swear he could feel the faint electric buzz of something radiate through him. “I killed her.”

“She’s gone?”

Jon nodded.

“Thank you.” Martin’s head, suddenly too heavy to hold, collapsed down against his knees – and he let out a small murmuring of pain as he did.

“Are you okay?” Jon’s grip on Martin’s arm tightened, and Martin hated how much it ached – but he knew the absence would hurt more. He just nodded, the movement miniscule, and more than he could muster. Jon let out a small breath of disbelief. “Christ, I never should’ve – I don’t even – I hardly understand it myself. I – but she’s gone.”

“You saved my life, Jon,” said Martin, managing to lift up his chest to meet Jon’s eyes.

Jon’s eyes softened, and he pushed a sodden and sandy curl away from Martin’s face. “You don’t look very saved. Quite worse for wear, I’ll be honest.”

“I’m alive, though,” said Martin, the words revealed in a breathy exhale. His eyes scrunched up, and he pressed the heel of his hands down hard against them. “Jesus, she was going to – she was going to kill me, Jon. I’ve felt that way a lot these past few years, but never – never the way I felt there. I’d never been so certain before. I – ” He pulled his hands away, and saw that they were shaking. “She was going to kill me.”

Jon shook his head, and Martin could see the small swell of his Adamas apple as he swallowed. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“You didn’t,” said Martin with a dry laugh. “That was – Christ.”

Jon smiled in a wobbly fashion. He leant forward to press a kiss to Martin’s temple, but Martin raised his head up, and caught Jon’s lips. It wasn’t so much a kiss, just their lips, barely touching; feeling the warmth on one another’s breaths and revealing in the fact they were alive.

Alive.

They parted, each cupping the others face, fingers tracing features with grateful reverence. Martin laughed between Jon’s hands, the sound croaking and pained, and rippling with relief.

Jon ran his thumb across the bags that hung under Martin’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Will you be?” asked Martin. “With the circus, I mean. Will they leave you alone now?”

Jon faltered for a moment. “I – yes, I think so. That felt like an ending.”

“An ending, huh?”

“A good one,” said Jon. “One I’m quite keen to leave behind me.”

“What does that mean for you?” Martin’s hands fell to Jon’s, and he left them resting gently atop.

“I don’t know.” Jon sighed, looking down for a beat before meeting Martin’s eyes. “Will you really not leave with me?”

Martin’s shoulders fell. “I can’t, Jon. I can’t – I can’t spend the rest of my life afraid that they’ll catch me. I don’t – when this war ends, I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want my life back.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “And what does that mean for you?”

“I suppose I don’t know either,” said Martin. “Go back to Scotland, I guess. It’s the closest thing I have to a home anymore. But I – ” he shrugged. “I’ll need to get mum’s things, and do … something with them. I can’t stay there, though. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.”

Jon nodded slowly. “I can’t, either.”

“But we can – we can meet back there, yeah?” Martin’s hand tightened in Jon’s. “Like we talked about before.”

Jon opened his mouth, his eyes flickering between Martins. He took in a long breath, and Martin could feel it in his own lungs. “I can’t.”

Martin swallowed. “Can’t what?”

“Go back,” said Jon. “Wait. I just can’t. The same way you can’t leave with me. I can’t look up at that estate, and those – those bloody rocks, and just wait. All the while knowing that he’s up there, existing on money he got from – from selling me, Martin. I won’t go back there.”

Martin was quiet for a moment as Jon’s words sunk in. “Then what do we do?”

The question hung between them, caught on the wind and swirling around, encompassing them in the cold weight it carried. It was silent. It was silent for too long. And then, Jon smiled, and for some reason – it broke Martin.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” said Jon, his voice quiet, “you’re going to come home. And you’re going to do what you always wanted to do, Martin. You’re going to be loved. You’re going to exist, and better – you’re going to live. You’re going to burn bread, and stain your mugs with tea. You’re going to take walks, and get tired of the view – until one day the sky does something different, and you fall in love with it again. You’re going to wear holes in your socks and push off darning them until they fall apart, and you’re going to try and fix them under the sun when it’s too late to save them.

“You’re going to listen to the rain, and miss the sun, and when the sun comes out you’re going to miss the rain, and on the days you get both you’re going to smile. You’re going to look up at the stars, and you’re going to try and name them – you’ll tell the stories you remember about them, and try to piece together the ones you don’t. And you’re going to be happy, Martin. You’re going to be loved.”

Martin just stared at him unblinking. And then, as if suddenly shocked, jumped to his feet. “I don’t – Jesus, Jon, I don’t want any of that. I don’t – where are you in this?”

Jon’s shoulders fell as he looked up at Martin. “It was always going to come to this, you knew that – you know that.” He gestured down at himself, at the curling tail that sat below him. “You can’t have a real life if I’m in it – this is – ”

“Don’t you dare!” snapped Martin. “Don’t you dare say this would be for the best. Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s the point then?” continued Martin, steamrolling over Jon’s words. “What was the point of – of all of this, if we don’t get a – a fucking chance to be happy at the end of it?”

“You’ll be happy,” said Jon. “Eventually. I promise.”

Martin just shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Will you?”

“I’m okay with not being.”

Martin scoffed. “Well, I’m not.”

“Martin.”

“No.” Martin held his hand up to Jon, raising his other to push through damp curls, his fingers scraping across his scalp as he did. “This is bullshit. You complain that we don’t get a say – a choice, but – but we can work around this, Jon! So we can’t meet again at the estate, so what? We’ll go somewhere else, we’ll find each other somewhere else.” He took a breath, and exhaled in empty laugh. “Why are you choosing this? Why are you choosing the worst possible road?”

“Because I want you to be happy!” Jon’s eyes burned against his skin, and meeting them left Martin feeling aching and empty, filled only with the hot sting of his gaze. “And I don’t think you will be, not with me. Not in the long run, Martin. You deserve a proper life, a full life.”

“Don’t do that,” said Martin, furiously shaking his head. “Don’t decide what I want. Jon, Christ – I was never going to – I could never have a proper life, don’t you understand? People like me – we don’t get this. I never thought I would get anything, and then – then I met you and I had something. I had someone. I thought we were on the same page about this, I thought you felt the same way?”

“I do.”

“Then why?”

“I’ve said why.”

“And I’ve said that’s bullshit. Your reasons are bullshit.”

“It’ll be me finding you, Martin,” said Jon, his words firm and cold. “And it’ll be you waiting, and I can’t – I can’t make you do that. I did, and it almost killed me.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Jon shook his head. “Or is it okay if it’s you whose hurting? You’re so painfully willing to suffer, Martin. You’d wait forever if you had to. And if I can’t – if I couldn’t find you, then you wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew you were hurting like that.”

“This hurts, Jon.”

“This hurts now. It won’t forever.” Jon smiled weakly, the edges uneven and seemingly unfamiliar with the shape. “Like I said before, Martin, I think this is an ending.”

Martin turned away, running his hands across his face, and feeling his shaking breaths burn against his skin. He closed his eyes and he could see Jon’s words behind, twisting and warping into some awful mutation of a farewell. It was waving, one hand held up. Motionless. He shook his head, and turned back. “A year.”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Give us a year.” He could feel his chest straining as he breathed. “You’ll know when the war ends. You’d be able to see celebrations like that from the middle of the ocean, no doubt. When it does, you give us a year.”

Jon’s face furrowed. “And then what?”

“And I’ll wait,” said Martin. “You can’t ask me not to. I’ll wait, and you’ll find me. And then – and then – we’ll have time after that. We can work it out. But – just give us a year, Jon. If you don’t come, if you don’t find me, then fine. But we’re owed a chance.”

“A year,” echoed Jon. “And if I don’t find you – promise me, Martin. Promise me you’ll have a life. Promise me you’ll have peace.”

Martin lowered onto his knees, and took Jon’s shaking hands. “I promise.”

“Martin,” said Jon, his voice a prayer. There were tears in his eyes, though they did not spill. “Tell me this will be the last time I have to say goodbye.”

“No more goodbyes,” said Martin, intoning his words with a squeeze of Jon’s hands. “Just this once. Then never again.” Jon’s face crumpled, and Martin tried for a smile, though he knew it was too shaky to be convincing. “Just say you’ll find me.”

“Martin.”

“Please.”

Jon’s hands broke away from Martin’s and he cupped his face, and held it close. He opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it, swallowing. He just nodded. And Martin kissed him, and tried to immortalise the way the salt water stung at his lips.

Chapter Text

Time passed.

Time always passed. It was a fact that Martin could trust, but not one he could always understand. How, when the world never quite turned correctly, could the days come and go, as free and wanton as they always had? How could days that had once passed under the sun, with the smell of soup on the stove, pass the same way they did in the abattoir tunnels of the trenches?

But they did.

The war ended. It ended with a bullet, shot into the sky. It ended with bated breaths, with disbelief, with something that almost felt like relief. It ended with hands on shoulders, with mournful faces that cracked into smiles they’d forgotten they could wear. It ended with laughter.

It ended so quickly. It ended so slowly. Martin wasn’t sure it had actually ended at all.

The gun in his hand was cold, and the hand on his shoulder was warm. Someone he didn’t know was saying something to him, they were smiling. Martin smiled back. Beyond the laughter, the chatter, the cheer, the joy – there was silence. Silence that Martin had forgotten.

The pockmarked land that stretched out beyond the trenches was quiet. It had sung, day and night; it’s luring taunts - it’s threats to consume the men that hid from it. It had sung of the men it held, waiting to be harvested and wrapped in white.

‘Come in’ the trenches had crooned, ‘bring them home.’

But today – today it was silent. She was full. Satisfied. She would not take any more men. She would know peace. She would know rest. They all would now. For the war was over.

They were going home.

The war ended on a train. The war ended at Arisaig Station, in Scotland.

The station was empty. Martin thought of the men that bustled and busied themselves on the same platform, all those years ago, awaiting to leave on a journey they would not come home from. There was something poetic in it that Martin was too tired to consider. Perhaps it was too cruel to engrave strangers into stanza’s. For those stanza’s would be men. They would be missed.

They were not to be immortalised in ink, described only by the ghostly pallor of their fearful flesh, and nothing of their character that Martin did not know. Could never know.

Martin passed the ghosts that haunted the platform, and crossed over the threshold of the station. It was not a journey Martin had ever made by foot, and one that had only ever been made twice. But the road before him was familiar, winding and wobbling, leading him ever forward.

The air was cold, bitter with Winter, and alive with frost. The cold settled like a memory on the ground, a routine welcomed by the rocks that merged so perfectly with the wispy, spider-web-like pattern of the ice that coated them. Martin’s calloused hands ran over them, feeling the sharp slice of the chill cut through his skin.

He rubbed his hands together as he walked, warming away the wind. The mountains bracketed him, earthly thrones shrouded in fog. He wondered if, up there, the giants that had once wandered the land now hid themselves in the mist. Birds flickered through the clouds, and Martin told himself they were the fingers of a great creature, their grandeur only hinted at in blurred flashes.

The road began to even out, the uneven floor smoothing and fading into the familiar stretch of the driveway that led up to Peter Lukas’s estate. It sat the same.

That fact seemed funny, though Martin wasn’t quite sure why.

He didn’t realise that he had stopped walking. His bags hung limply at his side, before they fell, as his hands rose to his face, and they did not feel like his own as they pressed away the tears that had started to fall. Peter Lukas’s estate stood like a tomb before him, and he wept as he mourned the person that had left it. He had mourned for so many lives that it made sense for him to, at last, mourn for himself.

When he finally came back to himself, he did not knock on the door. Whilst he was no longer a servant, the thought of entering through the heavy main door felt akin to blasphemy. He followed the thin path that led towards the kitchen courtyard, keeping a wide berth to the walls of the building, as if it were somehow a sickness.

There was a light on in the kitchen window; the low flicker of the fire, that smudged the frosted window in shades of orange. The glass pane of the kitchen door revealed the blurred shadows of movement, brought into clarity as Martin opened the door.

Sasha stared at him. And then she was running. Her arms fell around him, her chest hitting his like a punch, and it hurt, but it was a good hurt – it hurt the way the ocean did as you dipped a toe in, it hurt like drinking tea before it’d cooled. Sharp, but quickly fading into ease.

Martin’s hands wrapped around Sasha, and he held her, and she held him – and for a moment, just one, it felt like nothing had changed. He was Martin. He was safe.

And then she pulled back, her eyes damp with tears, and her face lost as worried hands scoured over Martin’s face. He caught them, and clutched them between his in a prayer. He squeezed. “Hi.”

She let out a laugh; though, it was wet, and full of sorrow. It was an imitation of what Martin knew she wished to do. She squeezed Martin’s hand back. “Hey.”

The fire cracked and popped behind them, neither turned to look. A kettle sang it’s song, and neither turned to look. A pot began to bubble. Neither turned.

“God,” she said, her voice quiet. “I thought of this moment so many times, and now I – I don’t even know what to say.” Her eyes met his, and she smiled at him. Beneath the lines that had deepened around her eyes, and the sharper cut of her jaw, she still smiled like always. She smiled like there was joy in her, and the only way to share it was to bare her teeth. “I missed you. But, I think that’s a given.”

“I missed you too.”

“You look like shit,” she said, and then laughed again, the sound firmer this time – more certain of its happiness. “I think you’re entitled to look a little rough, though.”

Martin smiled. “Only a little?”

She drew her hand across his cheek, and pinched the fat gently. “Nothing a bit of soap and some scrubbing won’t fix.”

“Think it might take more than that.”

Sasha’s smile fell a little, before growing into something rather melancholy. She nodded. “I’ll make us some tea, alright?”

She gave him the mug with the chip in it, the one that always pressed sharply against his lips as he drank. He ran his hand over it, feeling the divot of chipped glaze, where the rough texture of the clay broke through. Steam kissed his fingers as he did, leaving a sweaty sheen of condensation that he wiped against his shirt. He cupped his hands through the handle of the mug, and held it close to his chest.

“I don’t know what it says about me that the thing I missed the most was a good cup of tea,” said Martin, taking a sip, humming in contentment. “Thank you, by the way.”

Sasha cocked a brow, cupping her own mug in both hands. “Here’s me losing to a good brew. Pity that.”

Martin chuckled. “You’re a close second, I promise.”

It was a lie, and one they both knew – but the words sounded pleasant, and Martin needed a bit of pleasant. He felt guilt lurch in his chest, and thought of a third mug – one that should be giving off steam, held between tan hands and drunken over laughter. He put his cup down.

“Sasha – ”

“I know,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “We got the letter, back when it happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

She tucked her lips between her teeth, and nodded. “Did he – was he – Christ.” She leant her head down against her hands. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for by asking. It – it doesn’t matter how – how he – ” the words died on her tongue, the weight of them choking her as a tear broke across her cheek. She wiped it away quickly. “He died wrong. Nothing can be said that will change that fact. He died wrong.”

“He did.”

“God, I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her hand to fall close to Martin’s. He took it, and she replied with a sad smile. “You were there. I must sound awfully selfish mourning from the comfort of a home.”

Martin shook his head. “Not at all. He deserved to be missed, to be mourned.”

“He deserved to live,” said Sasha, and her voice was thick, and gritty with sorrow. Her hands crawled to her chest, interlocked and pressed under her chin. “He deserved to come home.”

Martin’s grief had always sat like a stone in his throat, each wave of emotion, pushed down, eroding the shape into something smaller – something he could breathe around. But the waves had just knocked it against his flesh, cutting his throat up into ribbons of pain that left everything tasting like blood. Like heartache.

It had not eroded gently, and it had not eroded entirely. Martin wasn’t sure it ever would; he wasn’t quite sure he wanted it to. If his grief was all he had left of Tim, then he would hold onto it as long as it would hold him back. He swallowed, and it was sharp.

“He did.”

“I don’t think he wanted to, though,” said Sasha. “I think when he said his goodbye’s, he said them to last. Did you ever – ” she took a breath, wetting her lips. “Did you ever feel you were doomed?”

Martin left a beat of silence as he pretended to think. “At times.”

She nodded. “You look at the future, and you just – you can’t see it. Not because you don’t want it, just because – because you feel like fate has other plans. You feel as if you weren’t quite made for the world, and so – so it has to fix that. And it dooms you.”

“Do you feel like that?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I know he did. When the letter came, I saw it on his face. It had finally caught up with him. He’d lived his whole life waiting for that feeling to catch him, waiting to prove it right, and it did. I hate that it did.”

“Did he write to you?” asked Martin, pushing the rough flesh of his hands flush against the icy burn of the ceramic.

“He did,” she said. “And then he didn’t. Of course.”

“He almost didn’t want to,” said Martin. “He thought it was cruel. To – to prolong it.”

She smiled, a melancholy thing. Then she chuckled, and bowed her head, shaking it gently. “Trust him to say that. The self-sacrificial bastard.”

The fire popped behind them, a blackened log splitting between the heat. The warmth draped across Martin’s side, and he tilted ever so slightly towards it, allowing it to thaw some deep seated cold within him. His eyes looked across the room; very little had changed, and the fact did not comfort him the way he thought it might. It felt almost as if he had travelled back in time, a stranger in the shoes of someone who was once a friend.

“Daisy and Basira …?” Martin’s brow furrowed. “Are they not – are they still around?”

Sasha let out a long sigh, her shoulders falling with the exhale. “No. Basira was recruited by the Red Cross shortly after you left, and then me and Daisy we – I don’t know how much you’ve been keeping up with the news over here – but things are changing for women. We’ve been marching.” She smiled, and there was pride in it as she took a sip of her tea. “Of course, the movement is hardly at its peak over in the village. We went down to Glasgow for a weekend, a few months back now. It was amazing.

“And it’s so, God – seeing other woman feel the same way, fight for the same thing, it’s – ” she laughed, throwing her hands up. “I truly think we can do it. Get the vote!” She leant forward against the table, her eyes glinting with enthusiasm. “Daisy took to protesting immediately. Can’t imagine you’ll catch her lobbying anytime soon, though. She quit here. Moved down to London - hear the movements in full swing down there. Keep expecting to see her name in the paper, in all honesty.”

“That’s amazing,” said Martin. “I’ll look out for her, if I ever go back.”

“Will you?”

“Go back?” Martin shrugged. “I – I don’t really know, if I’m being perfectly truthful. I don’t have anything to go back for, really. I can’t stay here, though.”

“Neither can I. Bit out of my hands, truthfully,” admitted Sasha. Martin looked up, meeting her eyes with a curious expression. “Mr Lukas’s isn’t well,” she began to explain, and Martin felt his chest start to twist. “I don’t know if you remember how he was before you left, but – it’s a matter of time, at this point.”

Martin’s jaw went tight, and his grip on his mug turned white. He sucked a sharp breath of air between his teeth. “He’s dying?”

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes softened into sympathy. “I know you were close.

Martin would’ve laughed at the thought, had it not made him feel so sick. He shook his head, a small, stiff motion. “And parasites are close to their hosts – doesn’t necessarily mean the two are fond of one another.”

Sasha leant back in her chair, her eyes flickering over Martin’s face. “Sorry,” she echoed again, her voice faint, and tinged with uncertainty. “You might want to go see him, though. Before he – before it’s too late. Even if you don’t care much for him, I think he cared for you. It might make him happy to see you.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Then I should hope to never see him again. I wish to give that man nothing, and happiness is a far cry more than he ever deserved.”

Sasha shook her head. “You don’t mean that, Martin.”

“I don’t want to see him,” said Martin, and he met Sasha’s eyes with an unwavering intensity. “He should be so lucky to pass rather than to continue his suffering.” He looked down, taking in a breath that felt too weak to offer relief, and dropped his hold on the mug, turning his grip into a fist. He could feel sharp crescent of pain flare up along his palm. “I’m sorry. I came here to see you. I don’t wish to discuss him. Please.”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, and then nodded. “Of course. And I’m glad you did. You can stay here for the night – more nights, if you need. He won’t – Mr Lukas won’t know, and you won’t see him. He hasn’t left his bed in many weeks now.”

“Good,” he bit out, and then he sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you, Sasha. Your kindness is appreciated.”

She smiled, and it did not meet her eyes. “Of course, Martin.”

*

Through the darkness of the night, only the moon ridden white horses could be seen, those that rose and fell out of the water, galloping across the waves, dissolving into the fray. They glistened like lanterns; like blinking eyes that watched him intently as he moved forward. Marram grass brushed his hands as he stumbled down the slope, his shoes held in his hands, and the frosty bite of the sand cold beneath his feet.

The sand turned wet below his feet, as the tide reached forward to lap at his feet. It was like ice, and sent a shiver of shock up his spine, but he stayed rooted, watched the soft bubbling foam of the water wash away the dirt and grime of the trenches. He didn’t know if he’d ever be free of the mud that was caked under his nails, and smeared against his skin. He could scrub for days, and still stink of rot – of gunpowder, of bubbling flesh, of gas, and of sweat; sticky and sour, and afraid.

He blinked, expecting the ocean to vanish between the seconds – but she stayed, and pushed another wave across his skin, a kiss to ground him. He was home.

It should’ve felt like something. Martin just felt numb.

He looked over to the rocks, where their Lighthouse rock stood proud; almost like the mast of a grand ship. He clambered over the sharp rock face, and pulled himself upright. The cold, damp, slick of the rock pressed against the bare soles of his feet, almost sending him toppling as he careened over a frosted slice of seaweed. He caught himself on the face of the Lighthouse rock, his hands cupping the curve of it as it were a face.

There was a strand of seaweed wrapped around the bottom, tied in a decaying knot. Martin swallowed as he crouched down, his fingers gently tracing the twist of the knot, as if it would somehow crumble into nothingness if he gripped it too tightly. It was old, and fallen – a flag calling out for a ship that would not pass. He thought of Jon, years ago now, anxious and desperate, and tying the strand of seaweed around the rock as if all that had been stopping Martin from coming home was a signal.

Martin chest wanted to scream, but all he did was move to the edge of the rocks, where it dropped into the sea, where he used to sit and wait for Jon. So, he sat, and he waited.

He looked down into the water, and darkness looked back. The stars did not reflect in the ripples, and the moons light seemed lost on the surface. It looked not like water, but like a fall, like a patient maw, who did not move forward for it knew Martin would jump. His reflection looked back at him in warped and twisting shapes. The ripples hung below his eyes, exaggerating the fatigue that he didn’t expect would ever fade. The water lapped against the rocks, and cried against his skin in the misty wind.

“I’ll see you soon, alright.”

In the distance, a bird began to sing. It was a mocking song.

Chapter Text

He awoke to sunlight streaming through the window, and the sound of a kettle singing. Through one tired eye, he could see Sasha, busying herself about the kitchen, twirling a dance as she maneuvered between the pots that sang out for her attention. Martin shuffled upwards, pulling down his shirt from where it had ridden up during the night.

Sasha looked up at him as he lumbered towards her, sleep in his steps. She smiled, and gestured towards a teapot. “Morning.”

“Morning,” echoed Martin, his throat groggy. He seated himself down against one of the stools that always sat tucked under the big workbench, and pulled a mug towards himself, watching the amber coloured liquid pool into it.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, as she began to arrange dishes upon a tray. “I heard you come in late.”

He cringed behind his mug. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. My sleep is a bit,” and he gestured a spiral pattern in the air with his fingers, “don’t really sleep great these days. And I missed it – the sea. Saw a whole bunch of shorelines over there, but – ”

“Home’s different,” she finished, and Martin nodded. She finished arranging the bowels and cups on the tray, and then shot a pleading gesture towards the door. Martin hurried to his feet, falling quickly into an old routine as he held the door open for her. “Thanks. He hardly eats it, but turning it down gives him something to do, I suppose.”

Martin gave a tight laugh, his grip on the door handle clenching for a beat at the mention of Peter. “Don’t spill anything.”

“Hush you,” she said with a faux scowl. “Not when you’re as out of practice as you are.”

“Even in practice I was awful,” joked Martin, and she laughed – concluding the conversation as she hurried down the narrow hallway. He turned back to the kitchen, and his ears rang in the silence that hung over the room.

It was rare to see it so still. His memories of the place were bustling, filled with Daisy’s singing, and chatter, all over the low melody of meals being prepared. He ran his hand along the rough wooden workbench, feeling the divots of wood sink below his fingers. In the centre, there was a cookbook – the spot where Tim had placed the recruitment notice, years ago. His hands reached over, and he pushed the book aside, somehow expecting to still see the letter, as if it was a stain that had sunk into the woodgrain. He ran his thumb across the clean surface, and let out a small breath through his nose.

His feet moved uneasily around the room, finding old routes that he worn into the floor; a practiced dance he had almost perfected, but now stumbled through. Nothing had changed, not really – but the warped body he now carried held shifting multitudes unfamiliar to the space, and the room didn’t seem to quite know what to do with him.

He sat back down, and curled his shaking hands around the lukewarm shell of his mug. He lifted it to his lips, and drank, feeling the faded warmth reignite in his stomach, lining his belly with comfort. A few moments passed, before the gentle patter of Sasha’s steps grew closer. She gave him a nervous smile as she came through the door, an empty tray tucked under her arm.

“Everything alright?” asked Martin, lowering his mug.

She placed the tray down on the table, and worried her lip. “He wants to see you.”

Martin blinked. “I – how does he know I’m here? Did you tell him?”

She shook her head, holding up both her hands to dispute him. “No, no – I – I have no clue. I went in, gave him his breakfast, and as I went to leave he asked if I could send you up.”

Martin swallowed, his knuckles turning white around his mug. “I can’t, Sasha. I don’t – ” he cut himself off, bowing his head into a shake.

“What happened?” she asked, the sincerity not quite thick enough to cover the intrigue. “Did he do something to you?”

He shook his head again. “No. No, it’s a long story.”

“Alright,” she said quietly, noticeable unsatisfied. She cleared her throat, knocking her hand against Martin’s shoulder to get his attention. “You don’t have to go. Not like he’s going to jump out of that bed and come find you. I can just tell him you left.” Martin twisted his lips in thought, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her cock her head. “But I … I don’t think that’s what you want. Whatever he did, Martin – getting closure might do you good.”

“It’s not my closure to get,” he admitted. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” she said, moving now to tidy away the morning’s preparations. “Just – don’t take too long. Time isn’t on your side here.”

Martin snorted into his tea. “When is it ever?”

*

He knew he wasn’t going to find anything behind Peter Lukas’s door that would offer anything of comfort or solace. No wretched form under pale sheets could take away the pain he had put both himself and Jon through. Even knowing that, he placed his hand over the brass handle, and pushed.

The room was dark, lit in muted greys; dust motes caught in the sneaking fingers of light that crawled out from the windows, from behind heavy and dusty drapes, twisting and dancing across one another, clawing at Martin’s throat as he entered - dry against the damp and earthy smell of sickness that permeated the room like a deeply-set rot.

A single candle flickered and faded as the wick spluttered downwards, casting a sickly yellow hue across the sweaty brow of Peter Lukas. He was a copper nail hammered into a forest of trees, his poison ruining the space around him; decaying and putrefying what life had managed to co-exist in his presence.

He looked awful, and Martin couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his face.

“Peter.” Martin’s voice cut through the dinge of the room, cold and precise against the warm fuzz of sickness.

Peter’s body cracked towards him, his head twisting in shuddering increments. His eyes were dull, and rimmed in red, haloed in streaks of purple. His cheeks curved towards his sore-ridden mouth like a river, hollowing him out. Martin could see the pained muscles in his wafer-thin cheeks flex as he spoke, “Martin Blackwood.”

Even with his words coated in fatigue, and the awful croak of his dying lungs, his tone was as it had always been – light, a monotonic display of faux friendliness.

Martin suddenly felt his chest grow tight, and the surge of confidence Peter’s rotting form had given him was gone, washed away by the simple utterance of his own name. He shifted his weight where he stood, and tucked his shaking hands behind his back. “Sasha said you wanted to see me.”

Peter smiled, and the sores that lined his lips split. Beads of red popped up along them, and Martin supressed a shudder. “I didn’t expect you to come back.”

“I had to collect my mother’s belongings,” said Martin. “I won’t be staying.”

Peter’s smile never faded, his lips seemed frozen on the empty expression. “I was going to show you so many things, Martin. I could’ve made you something incredible.”

Martin swallowed, the taste bitter and of bile. “You sold him.”

Peter nodded, the movement minute. “I did.”

Martin scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just like that?”

“Why would I deny it?”

“For – for shame, for regret. Hell, even for lying to yourself that maybe – just maybe the afterlife might forgive you.”

“You were never religious, and I very much doubt war changed that,” said Peter, the words slow and dragged out over his aching breaths. “A secular man cannot hold the weight of the afterlife over another, when neither believe, and expect it to have weight. What I did has no meaning on what comes after.”

Martin’s brows knotted together, weaving a furious mask of resentment. “What you did doesn’t die with you. He has to live with that – I have to. All for what? So you could decay in silk?”

Peter laughed, or well – Martin summarised that it would’ve once been a laugh. Instead, it was a wheezing and scratching cough, that rose and fell in an agonizingly jovial tone. It then shattered into a series of hacking and desperate coughs, that had his shoulders thrashing against his pillow, blood splattering against the white cotton around him like a necklace of crimson. Martin took a step forward, one hand raised to offer comfort before he froze – and he turned his extended hand into a fist and held it down by his side.

The coughing faded, and Peter gave him a tired look. “You’re to lecture a dying man on morality? Old dog, new tricks – I suppose?”

All Martin could do was shake his head. “Why am I here, Peter? Why did you want to see me? Are you trying to gloat, is that it?”

Peter raised a scraggily brow. “And what exactly do I have to gloat about?”

Martin tensed his jaw.

“I suppose,” continued Peter, “that I was rather excited to hear you were back. And, if I may be candid – I missed you. We were close, in a way, before the end.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, is it not?”

Martin’s shoulders raised into a hunch, his hand flexing by his side. “I held nothing for you that wasn’t discomfort, and then utter contempt.”

“I didn’t intend it as fond – not mutually, anyway.” His head lolled further against his pillow, and his chest rose and fell in wheezing breaths. “Well, I was always quite fond of you.”

“What’s that meant to be?” snapped Martin. “A compliment?”

“I’m just being honest. I see no reason to lie, not now,” he said, gesturing weakly towards himself with a skeletal hand. “I suppose I’m getting my affairs in order.”

“I’m an affair, I take it?”

Peter looked at him with his dry and empty eyes. “In a matter of speaking, yes. I promised you a few things, and I’m ashamed to say I failed to meet them.”

“Like leaving Jon alone?”

Peter blinked, and Martin watched the saggy skin around his throat swell as he swallowed. “I truly thought that would be a forgotten thing. How well did the two of you even know each other? How much time did you truly have to care for it like this? War is quite consuming, I can’t imagine that a – a fish, of all things would remain in the forefront of your mind. Even now.”

“Even now,” echoed Martin, feeling his chest ache at his words.

Peters lips grew tight, and he nodded. “I said I wanted to give you a push – towards better things. I wasn’t lying when I said I saw something in you – and yes, at first, that something was myself.” Martin prickled. “But seeing you now, I see little left of that man I wanted to help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

On matchstick arms, Peter slowly raised his torso upwards. In creaking motions, he leant towards his bedside table, scraggily fingers wrapping around the drawer pull and removing a letter, sealed in wax. He held it towards Martin. “You’d have an easier time accepting it.”

Martin stared at the envelope, the crisp whiteness of the thing painfully stark against the yellow sheen that coated Peter’s skin. His eyes flickered upwards to meet Peter’s, and he just stared, his brows knotted in confusion.

Peter grip tightened on the letter, and he let out of a ragged sigh, and a few pained and bloody coughs escaped him. “Oh, for God’s sake, Martin. Take the bloody thing.”

Martin reached forward, and took it, creasing it in his shaking grip.

Peter fell back down against his pillows, and Martin could hear the whistling of his wheezing lungs like a choir. “It’s not an apology.” Another wheeze. “Just making good on a promise.”

Habitual gratitude formed at the edges of Martin’s tongue, but he swallowed the words down, tucking the letter into his back pocket. “Right,” he said, feeling suddenly at loss. He looked up at Peter, filling his lungs with surge of confidence as he spoke his farewell, “I hope it hurts.”

“Martin!” cried out Peter, as Martin turned to leave with a white-knuckled grip on the door. Martin froze for a moment, before Peter let out another shout of his name, and a demand for him to face him.

And then he started to cough. The sound was worse than the ones Martin had heard before; the sound dryer, and the splatter of blood ringing as it coated itself over his clawing hands and white-linen bed sheet. Martin turned, to watch as Peter’s chest seized and shook, bellowing and aching coughs erupting from his crimson lips, the gaps between filled only with his desperate and futile intakes of breath.

He was saying something, but the words shattered into spluttering coughs. His hand clawed at his throat, as if he could tear it open and pull the sickness out from within; as his other thumped, panicked, against the mattress.

“Get the doctor!” he managed to get out, the words tight and pitched upwards in a rasp.

Martin knew three things in that moment. The first was that Peter was dying. The second was that there was little a doctor could do – too far away, not enough time. But the third thing was that Martin wanted to watch.

The thought was almost as chilling as the scene. A scene he knew that he should be a part of; rushing forward, offering words of comfort, and lies. He’d always been a good liar.

But instead, he watched – almost as if he was getting a voyeuristic thrill out of it, eyes wide as Peter hacked and wheezed his way through his numbered breaths. The sound was like laughter, falling up and down, uncontrollable and … something inside Martin, something dark and rotting that had always been there, but pulled and stretched out by Peter’s hands, smiled. Soft. Small. But noticeable.

Peter noticed it, as his own bulging eyes went wide – his brow notching in the middle, panicked confusion destroying the mask of superiority he’d always worn. He wasn’t coughing anymore. Barely breathing, either. Just thin, trickles of breath; his chest swelling in a pleading motion as each intake offered nothing. And nothing.

Martin wished that he could say that it suddenly went quiet. But there was nothing sudden about it. He watched, as Peter lay there, twitching, his lips turning blue, whilst a hand that didn’t have the energy to do so, scraped continuously at his throat. It seemed to go on for hours. Until it didn’t.

Martin had seen many people die. But he’d never watched. Not like this.

He suddenly felt entirely and utterly sick.  And his feet finally moved, stumbling backwards, and crashing against the door as a shaking hand rose up to his mouth, muffling the quickened and panicked breaths that fell out of him. Peter’s body lay there, draped across the bed, and freckled in drying blood. His eyes, red rimmed, glassy and swollen, stared at Martin as he sunk closer to the ground.

He looked down at his hands, scarred and still grimy with dirt. His index finger quivered, as if it was still anxiously curled around the trigger of a rifle. He closed his hand into a fist, and pressed crescents into his flesh, focusing on the sharp pain on his skin, than the dull pulse of horror at his own actions.

*

Sasha made them tea. They did not talk as they drank it.

There was no grief on her face, no missing or mourning that scared her upon hearing the news. There was just a void of anything, a low echo of numbness that radiated off of her. He could see the questions in her mind; of what would come now, all of work, of money and worries. Overwhelming to the point of nothingness.

She took their mugs when they finished without a word, and washed them in silence.

“I’m going to go get some air,” she said, looking out through the window. She didn’t ask for company, and Martin didn’t offer it. He just watched as she wrapped her coat around herself, and stepped into the wind.

He curled around himself, turning towards the fire behind him, and watching as the flames crackled and popped. He could see the light against his skin, but could feel none of its warmth. He stared at it, eyes glazed over and dry with heat, trying to wrap his head around everything that had just transpired, and everything before that. Everything after.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head, letting out a loud and performative sigh for himself. It was then that he remembered the letter in his pocket, the knowledge suddenly cold where it pressed against his skin.

He stood, pulling it free and bracketing it between both hands in a white knuckled grip. The front just had his name written upon it, in scrawling black ink, shaky and smudged. A few drops of ink haloed the name, and they looked disturbingly similar to the blood splatters that had shrouded Peter. Stark against the white.

He flipped it, running his thumb along the seam and following it towards the red seal that held it closed. Martin assumed it to be an old family crest; a spiral of swirling fog that encased a towering building. The wax was soft, and broke easily and Martin tugged it open, slipping out the folded piece of paper.

He collapsed back down onto his chair as soon as he read the words. Peter had left him the deed to the estate.

“Christ,” he muttered to the room. “That bastard.”

1919 January 10^th

“You got everything?”

Sasha was looking at him from the door, one hand on her hips and a fond smile on her face. Martin looked back from where he was sorting through his bags, and shot her a toothy grin.

“Think so,” he said, pulling the bag onto his back, and hoisting the other onto his shoulder. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll only be here till the Friday,” she reminded him. “Don’t worry, I won’t get lonely or anything.”

“You’re welcome to come stay with me for a bit,” said Martin. “If you’d rather have company.”

She shook her head. “Someone should be here to show the new folks around.” She let out a small laugh. “Honestly surprised you managed to pawn this place off so quickly.”

Martin smiled, chuckling slightly. “Yeah, well – slightly desperate, I suppose.”

“Would it have been so bad?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “Staying here? You’d be – Christ, you’d be Lord of the estate, wouldn’t you?”

“That reason exactly,” he said. “Could you imagine? Lord Blackwood. Don’t much fancy being called sir and all that.” He dismissed it with a grimace.

She laughed, her shoulders rising and falling with the sound. It faded, and she met his eyes with a warm sincerity. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”

He nodded. “I hope so.”

“Come visit us sometime,” she said, stepping forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “I’m sure Daisy will be missing you, too.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” he said, hugging her back with a tight squeeze. “But give me a year, and I’ll come down, alright? Be quite nice to see London again, really.”

She pulled away, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, giving his arm one final squeeze before stepping back. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He smiled, and nodded. “You too, Sasha.”

Chapter Text

Martin dropped his bags down at the threshold of his new home. The door was open, bringing with it the biting winter winds, but Martin didn’t feel the cold as he stepped inside, turning on his feet as he did; taking in each small and minute detail of the cottage he now called home.

It was a small place. By the entrance, the kitchen sat; wooden counters, worn down at the edges, with chipped ceramic handles on the cupboard doors. He walked through it, running his hand over the spokes atop of the oven, feeling the rough cast iron texture of them as he did. Turning, he saw a table, left over from the previous tenant – and tucked under it was an odd assortment of chairs. Some appeared to be handmade, and rocked slightly as he fiddled with them.

He peered his head around the door to the bedroom; small, with a window over the headboard, casting shadows across the wooden floor. He stepped in, and the door closed behind him, with a soft click from the latch. He sat down for a moment on the bed, feeling the springs bow beneath his weight. A blank wall stared back at him, pockmarked and dinted in places. Up in the corner, there was a small stain, yellowing and half hidden by cobwebs.

He dropped his head backwards onto the bed, and closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in the gentle quiet, underlaid by the song of the ocean, with it’s constant, rhythmic crescendo of crashing waves. He turned his head, and looked out of the window; out to where the rocks sloped downwards, with a yellow stretch of sand punctuated by the vast grey expanse of the ocean. It was a wild and windy day, and the ocean reflected each sway and tug of the elements, rocking upwards in white peaks, before crumbling down in magnificent sprays.

Through the dark clouds that hung overhead, Martin could see the small pinprick of the sun; its light barely strong enough to penetrate through the murky and milky sky. It was low, and soon there would be little light to see by. The fire would need to be lit, least the cold ravage his first night there. But, there were things to settle first, and he very much doubted his mind would ease until they were.

He heaved himself upwards with a small grunt, stumbling back through into the main space of the house. He grabbed one of his bags, the smallest one, and headed out. The sea wind was as biting as always, and he took in a long breath, tasting the salt on his tongue. Worn down stone steps led him towards the beach, bright and expansive, and sheltered by the rocky mountains that bracketed the view. His boots kissed the water as he stepped closer, icy grey tendrils reaching out towards him like the embrace of an old friend. He smiled down at it, accepting the comfort it seemed to be offering.

He looked up, out, towards the grey horizon, and searched for the flicker of something against it. Nothing but the swell of the ocean, as it breathed in and out with rocky waves. Martin swallowed, running his lips between his teeth.

He tightened his grip on the bag in his hands, and marched towards the rocks that cut out into the water. He clambered them with ease, staying low and avoiding the icy patches that coated the uneven surfaces. He caught himself on the taller rocks, the ones that shot up like pillars, and he dropped his bag, opening it quickly to reveal a wild assortment of colours. He shoved his hand into the bag, and pulled out a handful; all ribbons, scarves, torn fabric – whatever he’d been able to salvage from the estate.

He took them in his hands and began to tie them around the rock, coating the whole surface in a shimmering array of fabrics and hues, and they all fluttered like flags in the wind. He moved over, towards another nearby rock, and repeated.

Clambering back down onto the sand, he crossed over onto the other side of the beach, and continued to drape, knot, tie and cover each surface he could wrap the fabric around. There was a jetty that stretched out towards the horizon, and at the end, was a lantern; to which Martin adorned with a wonderfully saturated crimson ribbon that rippled like a river.

He would light it later, once the light said its farewells to the land. No use wasting oil on daylight. He turned, back towards the beach, and saw, with a gasp; the wonderous swell of colours that greeted him – all whipping and waving in the wind, cutting up the shadowed lands in their beauty. Like fingers, they curled, and they beckoned, and they sang out for Jon.

He returned to the cottage, resting down on his knees by the fireplace as he stacked the logs, alighting them to embers. The home flickered with warmth, the hues stronger with the rise of the moon, fighting back against the shadows that lingered.

The moment called for tea, as did most moments in Martin’s opinion, and soon the kettles song could be heard alongside the crackle of the fire. He would have to get a radio; music would suit the space nicely. Perhaps a gramophone, and a few records. Something pleasant for when guests came to visit.

He poured the boiled water into the teapot, stirring the flecks of leaves as they floated up to the surface. He hadn’t an armchair, or any place comfortable to sit; so he pulled over two of the kitchen chairs towards the hearth, and seated himself beside it, raising his feet atop the second.

For the first time, in a long time, Martin felt peace.

*

Spring came, and with it, a visitor. His face was weather-beaten, and his hair thinning, hidden under a knitted cap. But his eyes were kind, and he smiled broadly as Martin had answered the door.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, sir,” he said, interlocking his hands together in a show of respect. Martin felt himself blink at the formality, and had to quickly remind himself to smile back – least the stranger think him rude.

“Not at all,” said Martin. “Is everything quite alright?”

“Oh – aye, no worries at all,” said the man, nodding. “It’s just I’ve noticed you here for a while now, sir – and, I hope you don’t mind the nosiness, you seem a touch out of sorts with these lands.”

“I do?”

“I mean no offense,” said the man quickly. “It’s just the lad who lived here before, he and his family, I – well, they made good use of the land, and it seems a shame to see it wasted.”

“I’m not much of a farmer,” replied Martin weakly. The news he was hearing was not new – there was a modest patch of land behind the home, sheltered from the North sea’s wild winds. When he had arrived, the land had been rough, hard under frost and rigid below his feet. The home had sat vacant a few months before he had moved, and the rocks and weeds that littered the beds were evidence of the neglect he had seen in that time.

“I gathered as much,” said the man, a small laugh on his lips. “It’s why I came, actually.”

Martin blinked. “Oh. That’s – how do you mean?”

“I mean to help,” he said. “Me and my wife, we man the lands a mile away. I brought bulbs, and thought – well, they would do good planted.”

Martin chuckled. “I know that much about bulbs, at least. Afraid that’s where my knowledge on the matter ends. But, I – this is very kind. I don’t mean to sound rude, but why?”

“Why help?”

Martin nodded. “I am a stranger, after all.”

The man smiled at him, a sadder expression than his last. There was notes on his face Martin recognised; grief, loss, loneliness. Perhaps the hand he was offering was one he hoped would be held.

“Times are funny now. We lost a lot of folk, and yet it seems like that’s all we have.” He bowed his head for a moment, before meeting Martin’s eyes with a cheeky glint. “And I do hate seeing good land go to waste, so.”

Alongside bulbs and seeds, the man had brought tools – old, rusty ones, that he told Martin were on their way out, and going spare. He said so with an apology, which Martin had stammered out a protest against, offering instead a stream of gratitude.  They talked as they worked, digging out the rocks and the weeds from the earth, turning the dusty grey over into the rich, damp  below. They talked of the winter, and the storms it had brought, they talked of their youths and the ways they had differed between the generational divide, and then, they talked of the war.

“I thought you a solider,” said the man, as he brought the hoe down against the earth, sending flecks of dirt across his boots as he did. “Saw it in your shoulders, I did. First time I saw you, wandering about. Meant to come over say hello, and all that – and thank you.”

Martin twisted his lips slightly, his face hidden as he worked. “Don’t got to thank me. Such is the way of the world, I’m sure you’ve had your own wars to fight in. Should be I to you, I wager.”

“Aye,” said the man. “Boer. Nasty business all that.”

“Never stops being nasty, I don’t think.”

“At least we can rely on it.”

Martin snorted, bending down to toss another stone into the wheelbarrow the man had brought. He looked back over the man, and felt a sudden lurch of guilt. “I never asked your name.”

The man looked back, and rested his elbow atop the tools handle. “Nor I you, now I come to think of it.”

“Martin,” said Martin, reaching over to offer his hand. “Martin Blackwood.”

The man took it, and shook it in a film grip. “Michael Harrell.”

“Harrell,” echoed Martin, dropping his hand down to his side. “You don’t happen to be related to a man called David? David Harrell.”

Michael looked surprised for a moment, and then he laughed. “My nephew, actually.”

“I met him, overseas,” said Martin, feeling a sudden warmth bloom in his chest. “He was very kind to me when I needed it.”

“That’s our David, that is,” said Michael, a fond look now on his face. “I’ll have to tell him you’re up here, when he makes his rounds our way. Sure he’d be glad to see you made it home.”

“He’s okay?” asked Martin.

Michael nodded. “As okay as one could be, I suppose. But he’s alive, and he’s healthy. I think we may be the luckiest people alive, when it comes to that. God knows more fared worse.” He met Martin’s eyes, and the two shared a breath of understanding. “Anyways. I think we’re ready to start planting.”

The sun had started to set by the time Martin said his goodbyes to Michael; though not before a grateful cup of tea, and slice of the bread he’d made the afternoon prior. The two sat against the wall of the cottage, the loaf and butter dish between them, and a warm mug against their calloused hands.

They didn’t say much else as they ate, but the company was pleasant, and Martin was glad that, when he looked out across the burning sky, he knew someone else could see it too. Martin felt a lot less lonely looking out towards the setting sun after their first meeting.

Whenever Michael would come to visit, the two always made a point to watch the sky together.

*

A month later had Martin hosting a small lunch for Michael, his wife, Sarah – and David, who had agreed to come by during his rounds. The two embraced like old friends, yet both knew they shared little more than a conversation, and a few years under their belts they’d rather forget. But the day was enjoyed with chatter, and laughter, and after they’d eaten, Martin showed Michael the land behind the house – and pointed out with glee the small buds of green that had already started to grow.

They said their farewells with a handshake, and a promise to visit one another soon.

*

Martin sat along the jetty, his feet kissing the water as they swung against it. It was mid-afternoon, and the sea was still, the wind naught but a tickle against his neck. In his hands, he held strings of pine needles, ones he’d picked up after a walk to the village. He’d kept them bundled in cotton, waiting for a fairer day to weave them; which is what he did as he sat there. Sarah had shown him how, one visit up to their farm, a few weeks prior.

He slipped the pine needles into the small metal gauge she had gifted him, twisting and weaving, and securing with string as he built the shape up. First the base, and then the walls, until he had a modest wee pot in his hands. Later on, he would place it on the shelf in the kitchen, filling it with dried beans from the market.

But, for now, he stayed on the jetty, looking out across the silent sea with scouring eyes. He watched it for a moment, another, and then a third. And then he sighed, looking behind him, towards where the pillars of cloth twitched minutely under the sun. The colour in them had begun to fade, sun-bleached and leaching away.

Perhaps he should buy more. Newer ones. Brighter ones.

“Any day now would be nice,” he said to the water. “Starting to miss you something awful, Jon.”

*

There were good days, and there were bad days.

Today was a bad day.

It started with an ache, low and sharp in Martin’s chest, and it had ended with a scream; barefoot in the moonlight, charging towards the water with fists clenched.

He brought his hands down against the waves, the sound of his skin smacking against them sharp and painfully clean against the soft mellow song of the tide. He cursed the calm, and wished for a storm.

His slacks were soaked, and his shirt speckled with salt water as he shouted, hands continuing to pound against an unwavering force. If Martin was still one for the poetics, he might’ve found something in it. But his pad had sat untouched for some time now, and the moment just felt pathetic.

He collapsed downwards, his knees hitting the sodden sand as the water pooled around his belly. He found that Jon had been quite right, and if Martin were to wait forever, he was sure he would die. He dropped his head into his hands, and felt the anger escape him in tears.

“How did you do it?” asked Martin to the water, through his hands. “How did you wait like this?”

The ocean didn’t reply, but it never did, and Martin was growing used to its silence.

“It feels like you’re holding this part of me, down wherever you are – and it’s drowning me.” He dropped his hands, pressing them into the sand below him. “Sometimes I wake up, and I can barely breathe for your not being there.”

He could taste salt on his lips, but knew the warmth to be his own tears and not the ocean. He wiped them away, smearing sea water across his face. He looked towards the ocean, and sighed. “I think I’ve spent more time missing you than knowing you, isn’t that funny?”

*

The bad days usually came quick, and faded with the sun. But this day lingered, long and stretching, until one morning, when he opened his eyes, he found himself unable to move. His ceiling became a friend, watching over him each day as he lay there, one hand across his stomach, the other bent out beside him, as if curling towards something. The sun always burned through his window, leaving him feeling warm and sticky, and ill-fated – the Summer months were not for melancholy, they were for laughter and for work. You would save the sorrow for winter, and retreat alongside the trees and the plants, and the animals that slept the cold away.

Knocks came at his door, and he did not answer them.

Until one day, the knocking was followed by a voice, “Martin Blackwood, I know you’re in there.”

Martin’s brow furrowed, and he found his legs slipping over the side of his bed, cold feet aching their way across the dusty floorboards. He opened the door. “Sasha?”

“It’s mid-noon,” she cried, stepping forward to embrace him, “whatever are you doing in your bed clothes?”

“I’m not well,” he said weakly, hands coming up to curl around her waist. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled back, and gave him a small smile. “Right. Best do something about that, then.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Martin, as Sasha finished preparing them lunch, placing the meal down upon the table as she seated herself. “I thought you’d be in London by now.”

“Have been for a while,” she said. “Grand city, quite a change.”

“You like it?”

“I like the people,” she said. “And Christ, are there a lot of people.”

“So why are you here?” he asked again, tearing the crust from the bread, and placing a small piece into his mouth. His tongue was dry, and his breath tasted old and sick – the bread made him feel quite nauseous. “I can’t say I’m not pleased. Just surprised.”

“My sisters to be wed,” she said. “They live up North, and I was passing through.”

“I didn’t know you had my address,” said Martin.

She smiled, her nose wrinkling slightly as she did. “I didn’t. But I got to chatting to the wee farmer up the road – friend of yours, he says. Anxious, too, it seems. Hear you’ve not been taking visitors.”

“I’ve not been well,” he said, his voice faint. “I should apologise. I wouldn’t want to worry him. Christ,” he dropped his head into his hands, “I’m afraid I’ve been quite a fool.”

“He thinks no less of you,” comforted Sasha, her hand falling against his arm. “But aye, you should go see him soon. Think it’d do you good, more than anything. Don’t you get lonely all the way up here? Not much folk about.”

Martin shook his head. “No, I – it’s nice. I like the quiet. I’m not sure I could do a city anymore, really.”

“A wife, then,” she said, looking around the cottage. “Someone to come home to.”

Martin swallowed. “I don’t really expect I’ll marry.”

“You’d be a catch,” she said. “I’m sure you will.”

“I don’t expect I should,” said Martin thickly. “Not sure it’d be decent, nor true.”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, her face unreadable. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Wasn’t sure if you still felt that way.”

“It doesn’t exactly go away,” he said. “Pity that.”

“And he – your friend, is he – ” she faded off, looking downwards. “You talked about missing someone before you left. Seems you’re still missing him.”

Martin met her eyes, and offered a small smile. “Yeah. Still missing him.”

“Have you no luck finding him?”

“I found him overseas,” said Martin. “Whilst I was away. We made plans for him to find me after the war ended.”

“You’re waiting.”

He nodded, and then bowed his head. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this stuff, not to you – not aloud. It’s not – it’s not right, or proper. I’m sorry.”

She squeezed his arm where her hand fell. “Hey. You care for him, yes? Nothing wrong about that.”

“I care for him far more than a friend,” said Martin, the words heavy on his tongue. He let out a breath. “I love him. In every way, in all the ways. I love him.”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, and overhead, a gull began to sing – the tune garish and sharp against the silence between them. Eventually, she smiled.

“I’m sure it must be quite hard,” she said. “But I envy you. To be so sure of a love that the world denies. That’s quite a thing to possess.”

Martin blinked, looking down into his mug, and not quite knowing how to feel.

*

She stayed for a few days, against Martin’s protests of her finishing her travels North.

“If luck has it,” she had said, “I’ll be too late for the decorating, and just in time for the cake.”

She helped around the house, coaxing Martin out for air, and pushing him along walks across the hills. She managed to get him into the garden, and pushed a trowel into his hand, and helped him tend to the quickly growing harvest.

“Here,” she said, plucking a sweet pea from its stem and drawing her nail down it. She split the pod, and held out a handful of green peas towards him. He accepted gratefully, popping them into his mouth and savouring the sweet and fresh burst of their flavour.

“Lord Blackwood,” she said with an air of song on her voice, “turned farmer. Whatever would Peter think?”

Martin snorted, as he twisted weeds between his fingers, and pulled them free. “Oh, yes – what a mighty fall from grace it’s been.” He tossed the bundle of weeds into the wheelbarrow – one he’d bought himself, painted a brilliant rust colour. “Not sure Michael would deem me much a farmer, though. Aspiring green thumb, perhaps?”

“Maybe that’s even a push,” she said with a chuckle. Then, she rested back onto her heels, her muddied hands pressed against her knees. She looked out across the sea, and towards the cottage, and the hills that loomed behind them. “This place suits you.”

Martin glanced over. “You think?”

“Yes.” She beamed. “I can see you being quite happy here.”

Martin considered her words for a moment, before a shout came from the pathway. He looked over, and in the distance, he could see the waving hand of Michael. Martin raised up his own hand, and then stood. He looked over to Sasha, and smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I could be.

Michael had brought Martin milk from the farm, and a few sweet buns that he’d been able to pillage from Mrs Harrell’s tin. Martin invited him in, and the three chatted over tea and sweat bread. Sasha and Michael talked easily, finding a few distant relations between themselves, and laughing merrily over the facts.

Martin was quiet, but not out of the aching loneliness that had been haunting his bones of late, but out of appreciation for the people before him, and he enjoyed the lilting melodies of their voices as they talked. They chatted until the tea went cold, untouched from neglect. They chatted until the second cup went through the same treatment.

“She’s a good lass,” said Michael, as Martin walked him to the door. “And a good friend to boot. You hold her dear, you hear me?”

Martin swallowed, looking over to the kitchen where Sasha was busying herself with tidying. He turned back to Michael with a smile. “I fully intend to. Get home safely, now.”

“Come by soon,” he said. “Sarah misses you so.”

*

He was sad to see Sasha go when the time came. Her presence was warm in the home, and it wasn’t until she said her farewells, that he noticed how quiet the cottage had always been. The day following, he travelled up to the village, and bought himself a gramophone like he’d said he would.

It was a large, bulky object, that weighed a painful amount. He lumbered down the pathway with it, swaying each way and that with the wind as he walked. By the time he returned to the cottage, his arms burned, and his back ached, and a thick sheen of sweat covered his brow.

He set it up easily enough, atop the kitchen table where it loomed with a vigorous grandeur. It took up half the surface, but as the home was, he hadn’t anywhere else to place it. He set up the handful of records he’d bought alongside it, and set the needle to the start.

Music filled the room; a soothing classical piece, filled with violins and the gentle strum of a guitar. If he had the kitchen window open, he could hear it out in the garden, and it brought with it a wonderful feeling of calm over his days.  

If he cranked it up loud enough, and strained his ears, he could even hear it down by the shore. He didn’t think the ocean could’ve sounded sweeter, but he was glad to have been proven wrong.

There was an unease that came with waiting, a feeling of wasting ones day to get to the next, and then the next – least that day finally bring an end to the waiting. At the start, Martin would wake late, and sleep earlier, content to whittle down the waking hours to as few as possible.

But the days were now longer. And Martin rose with the dawn, and stayed up to say farewell to the light, filling the space between with work, and wanderings. He found peace in the motions.

“You wanted to show me this,” he said as he sat out on the jetty, looking out across the sea as the golden sun turned the waters warm. “Years ago, now. Promised to show me the way the ocean glowed during Summer. I can see why, it’s quite beautiful. I wonder if it looks the same, wherever you are.”

Martin hummed, using the sound to fill in the absence of a reply.

“Though,” he continued, “I wager it looks much nicer here.” He chuckled slightly, and then let out a breath. “Christ, Jon – the things I want to tell you. To show you. I think you’d like the things I’ve got to say, I know I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

He stayed there until the sun began to set, and as it did – he rose, and lit the lantern that swung beside him. He closed the window with a click, and looked back towards the water. “See you soon, alright.”

*

Soil clung to Martin’s fingers as he made his way round the cottage, pushing the wheelbarrow out in front, laden with tools, and a basket of veggies that had been ready for picking. There was a small tap adorned to the west facing wall of the cottage, a rusty old thing that he would use to clean his boots – least he trample mud and sand all across the floorboards.

The water was always freezing, and had been a biting shock the first few months living there; but as it was, the heat of the sun, muddied with the warm flush of working made it quite refreshing. He flicked the excess water away, before wiping away the damp on his trousers.

It was then that he saw something in the corner of his eye, a small flicker. He turned, facing now towards the water, with narrowed eyes that scanned the horizon. A gull flapped its wings, haloed by the sun. It let out a loud squawk, and Martin felt his lips twist slightly in disappointment.

He turned back to the barrow, gripping it back in his hands before another flicker of movement caught his eyes. His gaze went back up to the sky, but the gull had moved on, and it sat empty, bar the slow trail of the clouds.

Then, his gaze lowered.

And a hand was held up between the waves. Not waving. Just held up. Motionless.

And then he was running. Sprinting, tumbling down the steps, tripping over himself as he kicked his boots off, his coat catching in the wind as he threw it behind him, crashing forward into the waves. The water embraced him quickly, and no sooner was the embrace of Jon’s arms, wrapped tightly around him.

Martin wept with all he had as his own arms came up around Jon’s body, hands not quite wide enough to hold all of him, though he wished he could. How he had missed every inch, how he had missed it all.

They pulled apart, Jon’s smile wide before him and his hands cupping his face. His eyes were bright, and rippled like waves at the edges, fondness in each line. Martin might’ve thought Jon to be the wonderous mirage of a reverie, but no dream nor memory could ever strive to encapsulate the way he glowed between Martin’s hands.

“Martin,” said Jon, his voice breathless. “My Martin. Mo chridhe.”

“Jon,” said Martin, “I knew you’d find me.”

“I was terrified I wouldn’t,” admitted Jon, before his face softened, his thumb following the curve of Martin’s cheek. “I didn’t even know if you’d be waiting.”

“Of course I’d be waiting,” said Martin.

“After all this time,” said Jon, “why?”

“Because I missed you.”

A beat.

“And because I love you.”

“Martin,” breathed Jon, and in his name he heard his own words echoed back. Because he’d always liked the way Jon said his name, like it meant something. Like it was something he treasured saying. Like it was something he loved. Someone he loved. “Are you sure this what you want, truly?”

Martin nodded, spluttering out a wet, and desperate laugh, holding Jon tighter. “Just you, Jon. Always you.”

Jon’s lips met his, and Martin kissed the ocean, feeling within the touch all that had ever been, all that ever would. All that he had held, and lost, and found, and mourned. All he had ever loved. Jon pulled away, and Martin kept him close.

“I can do that,” said Jon, quiet. Just for him.

Martin fell back against Jon, encasing him inside his embrace, feeling the tide of his heart swell against his own. Before Martin, the grand expanse of the ocean lay, each crescent of each wave representing the apotheosis of all things. Yet, it didn’t feel like an ending.

In fact, quite the opposite.