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Two days after the contract extension, Martin is sitting cross-legged across from Jon on his couch and Jon is trying not to look visibly nervous as he deliberately sits so that his knee just barely touches Martin’s with enough pressure that he could pass it off as purely coincidental if it weren’t for how often he kept looking down at that point of contact between them. It’s been like this for about twenty minutes, give or take a few, and Martin has said absolutely zero words in between. Jon thinks Martin has been looking at the same spot on his wall the entire time, but he can’t really be sure; he’s sort of been busy with the whole staring at their knees thing.
After a while, the ticking of the clock on the wall gets loud enough that he has to break the silence somehow.
“Martin,” he starts, faltering. “Martin, if Tim hadn’t—I would’ve—” He stops, feeling profoundly ridiculous. Obviously, Jon would’ve kissed him. Obviously, Martin would’ve kissed him back. That’s the whole point, really, why they’ve been sitting in dead silence in Jon’s living room for the past twenty-or-so minutes while Jon pretends he’s only touching Martin on accident and Martin pretends he’s not aware of anything at all. Christ, this is so stupid.
Martin takes pity on him, though, directing his attention towards Jon and shifting so that the point of contact between their knees becomes something solid and real. “No, I know,” he says. “You were…surprisingly very eager.” The statement falls from his lips wrapped in a laugh that sounds just self-deprecating enough that Jon’s heart stutters.
“Why surprising?” he asks, genuine.
A shrug. More self-deprecating laughter. “Dunno. It’s me.” Martin severs eye contact with his answer, going back to staring unfocused at a point just beyond Jon’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Jon says. It feels like the only thing he can say. It’s me. Of course it is, of course it’s Martin, it never could’ve been anyone else. Martin with his off-key singing along to Carly Rae Jepsen in the showers, and his stubborn unwillingness to admit that he’s better at throwing sliders than anyone else on the team, and the way he blocks his name online so he can’t see anything that’s being said about him, and his kind eyes and the way his arms wrap around Jon’s shoulders when they’re celebrating a win and the way he cheers for himself when he catches a home run ball that sails into the bullpen, even if they’re losing, and his smile and his warm, calloused hands and—
“Yes?”
Jon blinks. “Yes. Wouldn’t be so eager if it was anyone else.”
A flush rises over Martin’s cheeks, freckles fading from view as his skin darkens. “Oh.” He ducks his head, gaze falling from that unnamed spot on the wall down to the place where their legs are touching. When he reaches a hand out to rest over top of Jon’s knee, it feels like he’s moving in slow motion. His thumb brushes over the seam of Jon’s trousers, and Jon could swear time had stopped. He certainly hasn’t been breathing.
Suddenly, it’s imperative that Martin understands exactly where Jon is standing. He’s not sure there could have been much room for interpretation, considering, but he is the one who took two weeks to realize he was dating his girlfriend in uni—you can never be too careful. Without letting himself overthink he grabs Martin’s hand with his own, turning it over so that their fingers interlock. “Martin,” he says, “I’m in this, if…if you are.”
This time the laugh that falls from Martin’s lips is nothing but genuine. “I am. You know I am, I told you first.”
There’s a squeeze against Jon’s palm and he returns it without hesitation. “Good.”
Martin wrinkles his nose a little, confused. “Good?”
Jon wants to laugh. He does. “Good. Wasn’t looking forward to finding out what happened if you said no.” He says it with levity, the smile that crosses over his lips brightening his tone even as he’d spent the past thirty-six hours and change with his heart in his throat while he worried over how their relationship would change.
Martin matches the brightness, showing his teeth as he catches on. “Why’s that?” he asks, and the question is as teasing as Jon’s previous response had been, but just like his previous response there is an undercurrent of genuine trepidation lacing through the words.
The answer is so simple that Jon is amazed that Martin can’t see it. “Because it’s you.”
Martin looks like he’s about to split in two. Jon feels like their interlocked hands are the only things holding him together. Even if they weren’t, Jon’s not so sure he’d want to let go.
“Right,” Martin says through a grin. “Cool.” He clears his throat, ducking his head once more and only looking at Jon from underneath his lashes. “So, um…what—what now?”
“I don’t—I don’t know actually.” To be honest, Jon hadn’t really pictured himself getting this far. “Hadn’t thought I’d get this far.”
The concept seems to surprise Martin. “Really? Why not?”
Jon shrugs, lips turning upwards at the corners in a shy smile. “Because it’s you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s you, too, you know,” Martin says suddenly. A fresh blush spreads across the bridge of his nose. “I mean—god, that sounds way stupider than it did in my head, I just—it’s you. For me. Always has been.”
Jon can’t resist. “Even when you were on a different team and had that whole hero worship thing for me?”
“I really regret telling you any of this, you know.”
“No, really, it’s sweet, I think—” Jon cuts off with a laugh as Martin’s free hand covers his mouth.
“Please, stop talking, I’m trying really hard to be excited about all this,” Martin says, and the words are warped by gentle laughter that contradict their meaning.
“Oh, you’re excited, are you?” Jon’s teasing response is muffled against Martin’s hand but considering Martin uses his position to shove Jon backwards against the arm of the couch, Jon figures he must have heard anyway.
“Shut up,” Martin squeaks, tugging Jon back upright with the hold he still has on his hand. “You’re excited,” he continues, petulantly like he’s a schoolchild arguing with a classmate over something he knows is silly and inconsequential but he’s too stubborn to give up.
Jon is still laughing. He can’t help it—he hasn’t felt this light in years. “I am.”
Martin is still pink when he twists his lips to the side, trying to hide his pleased grin. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
And that’s it, for a moment. It’s so stupid, and more than a little cliché, but Jon loses time like that, looking at Martin. Twin smiles grace their lips, soft and comfortable, and Martin brushes his thumb, featherlight, against the knuckles of Jon’s hand. Jon could live a lifetime like that. He can’t, he knows, but it would be nice.
After a minute, he clears his throat. “Martin, I don’t—I don’t think we should—” Jon flounders for the right words to explain what he means, realizing his mistake almost immediately as Martin reacts by trying to pull his hand away and slide further down the couch.
“Oh, I’m—sorry, I thought—”
Jon reaches out before he can move too far, grabbing onto Martin’s hand and pulling him close once more. “No, that—that came out wrong. I like you.” He cringes as the words come out of his mouth, feeling profoundly childish. Even through the embarrassment, he doubles down. “I want to date you. As soon as possible, actually. Right now, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Martin loosens a little, reclaiming his grip on Jon’s hand and letting the soft smile from earlier resurface. “Okay. Me too. So then...?” He trails off, no doubt wondering over Jon’s unclear stuttering from just moments earlier.
“I just—to be clear: I want to be romantically involved.”
The smile over Martin’s lips grows. “You’ve said.”
Jon’s cheeks grow hot. “Right. It’s just that I don’t know if we should…do anything about it yet, you know, properly. I don’t want to get lost. The season’s almost over, and there’s so much work to do, and…I don’t know. It wouldn’t feel right, I think.”
Martin tilts his head to the side, squinting a little as he does. His hand squeezes Jon’s before Jon can worry that he messed it up again. “What do you mean?”
Trying to give himself time to collect his thoughts into words, Jon blows out a breath. “I just don’t…want us to get distracted. There’s a lot going on.” It still sounds inadequate.
Somehow, Martin doesn’t seem to think so. He straightens up a little, prideful, and his eyes light up as he sucks in his cheeks to try and hide his reaction. “You think I’m distracting?”
A thought is spared for how warm it is growing in Jon’s flat, and he thinks for a minute that maybe he should adjust the thermostat. It’s not the aircon’s fault, he knows, but he has to deal with it somehow. Suddenly overwhelmed, he looks elsewhere, letting his gaze wander around the space, wondering exactly when it was the last time he dusted. “That’s not what I—well, yes, I do, but that’s not—”
Martin tugs on his hand, directing Jon’s attention back to him. He catches his eye, something distinctly tender overtaking the teasing pride in his gaze, and Jon feels like he could melt, clichés be damned. “Don’t worry, I think you’re distracting, too.”
Jon lets that go to his head a little before responding. “This isn’t about the game, that’s not what I mean.”
Martin nods like he understands, even though Jon can tell they’re still not quite on the same page. “What do you mean, then? Plainly this time, if you don’t mind.”
“I want to give us the proper attention,” Jon says, startling himself with how easy it is to say. Really, he could have started with that. If it was going to be so easy and natural, surely it could have been the first thing he thought to say. “You’re too good to let you get swept up in the middle of things.”
“Jon.” He can’t parse out Martin’s tone, not quite. It doesn’t sound bad, but it does sound…wounded, in a way. Like just saying Jon’s name has knocked the breath out of him.
“Martin?”
“If you want us to wait, you can’t say things like that.” Before Jon can question what he means, before he can worry about overstepping, Martin continues. “I will make out with you right now on this couch.”
And that’s…something. That’s a lot of something. So much something that Jon can’t figure out what else to do with himself other than sit there with his mouth open, stuttering out nonsense syllables while he tries to respond. Eventually, he recovers. “Right. I will…remember that.”
Martin gets a funny look in his eye, then. “So we are dating,” he says, “we’re just not…properly doing anything about it, not until things slow down a little more.”
“Right,” Jon answers.
“And we are…exclusive,” Martin continues.
Jon feels his neck start to burn, for some reason. “I would like to be, yes.”
“Me too,” Martin is quick to agree. “So then, would you mind if I asked a few questions? Just to find out what that entails.” The funny look in his eye remains and Jon gets the distinct feeling that he’s about to find himself in some sort of trouble. He can’t quite muster up the effort to be apprehensive.
“Sure.” Jon tries to look unbothered even as he curls the fingers of his free hand inwards to keep them from shaking. He’s sure Martin isn’t fooled.
“So nothing distracting,” Martin teases.
Jon tries to sound appropriately put-upon when he responds, but it comes out more breathless than anything. “Martin—”
“Shh, I’m trying to have a very important conversation here,” Martin interrupts. “Nothing distracting,” he repeats, “but—” Before Jon has the time to process that Martin is moving, his hair is being gently untwisted from its haphazard bun, fingers curling through the strands as Martin plays with the lengths. “Is this okay?”
It’s a miracle that Jon finds it in him to answer, given the way his breath catches in his throat. “Yeah, that’s—that’s fine.”
Martin shifts closer, then, close enough that Jon has to shift as well, moving his legs so that one hangs off the edge of the couch, foot flat on the floor, while the other bends upward and leans against the cushions to make room. Martin helps himself to the space between them.
“And this?” he asks.
With the shift, their position is reminiscent of two days prior, close enough that they are sharing breath and Jon can tell he’d go cross-eyed if he made the effort to focus his gaze. Instead, like before, he lets his gaze soften and his vision blur as he focuses more on the sensations than the sight. “Still fine,” he answers.
The hand in his hair slips away, sliding down until it comes to rest at the nape of his neck. At the touch, he tilts his head back just slightly, inviting.
“Still good?”
He nods. Martin releases his hand in favor of reaching forward, hand gentle at his waist. The question is evident in the barely-there pressure of his fingers and Jon nods once more. A shaky sigh escapes his lips as the hand curls and provides gentle pressure, pulling him closer still.
Here Martin ducks his head, tracing a line from cheekbone to temple with the tip of his nose. “What about this?” And before Jon can answer, the barest hint of a kiss is being pressed just below his ear.
Jon swallows. “Yes,” he responds, little more than a rasp. “More than.”
Martin’s lips trail lower, each one a question of its own—a whisper against his jawline, the slightest touch to the side of his neck, and right back up to the center of his forehead, applying just slightly more pressure here as Martin exhales and the breath tickles at Jon’s hairline. Jon answers each one with a contented hum.
There’s a shift, one that leads to Martin leaning his forehead against Jon’s own. Hovering just barely in front of his lips, there is a question: “Jon?”
And Jon wants to say yes so badly. Wants to say the hell with it, let go and forget about everything—forget that there’s practice in the morning, that the frequencies of these practices are only about to increase as they get closer and closer to the end of the season and their playoff standings become more and more of a concern. It wouldn’t be fair though, to forget. Not to either of them, but especially not to Martin.
Jon meant it when he said Martin deserved more; he’s simply too good to let him get swept up in the middle of it all. Regardless of intention, Jon wouldn’t be able to give them the right attention if they started something real right now. It was best to keep it…however it was. With the handholding, and the kisses so soft they were almost nonexistent, and the…well, when he keeps thinking about it, it sort of sounds exactly the same as genuine dating.
But if they kiss, like this, for real, then they have to call it that. And Jon wants to call it that, so badly he thinks he could explode—he is calling it that, to be fair, and Martin is too, but…
Look, Jon knows it sounds insane. You’re admitting you’re dating, Jon, you both like each other and you both consider yourselves to be dating, why don’t you just do it? But the thing is, if they just do it, then the most they have for now is whatever time they have in between practices, the hour-and-a-half breaks between training meetings and batting practice, the forty-five minutes before first pitch when Jon is too focused to give much of anything his attention anyway.
And it’s not enough. Martin deserves a proper date. Something they can take their time with, something that doesn’t revolve around the ever-convoluted schedule that is inherent to the playoff structure. This one thing, the two of them—it can’t be as haphazard as everything else.
“Might be a bit too much,” he answers finally.
Martin nods, nose brushing against Jon’s as their foreheads are still leant together. “Yeah, you might be right,” he says, sounding far more reasonable than he has any right to be, for the situation. Jon certainly feels like Martin should at least be half as breathless as he is at the moment. “For now.” And when he pulls back, far enough now that Jon can make eye contact without his eyes crossing, it is with a smile full of so much understanding that Jon thinks it would knock him over if he wasn’t still supported by Martin’s hands—one still curled over his waist, the other resting against his neck, just below his jaw.
“For now,” Jon agrees, matching the smile with one of his own. “Actually, so long as we’re talking about ‘too much…’” He trails off, worried about ruining the levity of the moment, again, but it’s important that Martin knows where he stands when it comes to things like this. Martin doesn’t answer, just keeps his gaze fond as he waits for Jon to continue. “I’m, um—you know I’m asexual, right?”
“Oh!” Martin says. Interestingly, he brightens up further. “No, I didn’t, actually. Thank you, though, for telling me.”
Jon blinks. “Oh, you’re—you’re welcome. You don’t—?” He trails off, unsure what to say next. He’s never had a partner react quite like this before—even Georgie, supportive as she was, had her questions.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Martin fills in for him, “not if it doesn’t matter to you. I assume, based on the ‘too much,’ that you would prefer things not move beyond where they’re at right now. That’s okay—more than.”
Huh. Jon’s never had anyone understand him so clearly before, not without having to muddle through his own explanations while trying not to make a fool of himself. He thinks he likes it—he didn’t know it could be this easy. “To be clear,” he says, trying to regain composure, “I do still want to kiss you one day, properly. I’m not opposed to that.”
Martin looks rather a lot like he’s been cracked open. He smiles, all teeth, and raises a hand to brush Jon’s hair back behind his ear. “I don’t want to be rude here, Jon, but I could definitely tell that much. You looked like it was physically killing you to tell me no.”
“I’m choosing to ignore how embarrassing that is because I’m too happy right now,” Jon says.
“Good call.”
The clouds outside move just enough that the remaining rays of sunlight for the evening stream weakly through the window. Martin notices, startling just a bit as it clues him in to the late hour. Combing his fingers through Jon’s hair one last time, he pulls backward, looking suddenly shy and turning to stretch his legs and push himself up from the couch cushions. “So I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow then? Morning practice?”
Jon follows Martin’s movement, reaching out to grab at his hand. He keeps his tone as light as he can manage as he plays with Martin’s fingers, ducking his head to focus on that instead of making eye contact. “Actually, you could—if you want, that is, you could stay.”
He can’t see Martin’s expression when he answers, is still steadfastly focusing on their hands and willing himself not to feel too nervous. When he speaks, though, Jon can picture it clear as day. “Sure that doesn’t count as ‘distracting’?”
Jon lifts his gaze to see Martin looking down at him with that infuriating little twinkle in his eye, visibly straining to keep his expression neutral. “Martin—”
“Kidding,” Martin rushes to clarify. “Please don’t uninvite me.”
Jon rolls his eyes but grips tighter on the hand in his own. “I wouldn’t. Infuriating as you are.”
“So I’m the infuriating one? You won’t stop teasing me about how I admired you when we were both rookies, but it’s me who’s doing too much?”
“I will make you sleep on the couch, Martin.”
“Please, you—wait there was another offer on the table?”
Jon merely gives the hand in his own a squeeze, smiling lightly as he walks into the kitchen to rifle through the drawers in the refrigerator. “Are leftovers okay with you? I’m afraid I haven’t had time to go shopping to cook anything new for tonight.”
“You—Jon, please, you can’t just gloss over that!”
And yet gloss over it he does, removing mismatched containers from the fridge—plastic takeout containers he’s accumulated over the years to use in place of real tupperware—and setting them out on the counter, all in a row like some sort of off-brand buffet spread. He leaves Martin sputtering in the living room, demanding explanations that Jon intends to withhold from him for at least another ten minutes or so, however long it takes to reheat everything.
And for the first time in a long time, Jon feels like there’s nothing much for him to worry about.