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Jon’s been quiet through most of the painfully-long drive up here, scribbling something down furiously in a notebook – the cheap spiral kind, like a kid might take to school. It’s got sharks on it, which is… charmingly silly. He started again as soon as they finished unpacking their small amount of luggage, resolutely ignoring the single-bedroom situation, and now he’s curled up against the arm of the sofa, tongue sticking out in concentration, writing away. He crosses something out energetically, mutters to himself, and Martin wonders what he could possibly be writing so intensely.
He doesn’t ask.
Instead Martin finds himself getting up, making his way to the kitchen. Thank god this place is somewhat furnished, he thinks as he takes out two mugs and the kettle, although he misses the archives’ collection of novelty mugs.
The whistle of the kettle is soothing. A reminder of a time when this ritual was a regular part of Martin’s day. He hasn’t felt the sort of desperate, clawing anxiety that it used to help him cope with in a while, but he’s not sure if that’s necessarily a good thing. Not when its absence was because – he shivers. Yeah.
But here he is again, brewing tea for Jon and himself like it’s his first year and he’s trying to impress his intimidating bully of a boss.
Except now he’s scared for Jon rather than of him.
He carries the mugs to the other room, sets them down, and taps Jon – who hasn’t seemed to notice anything – on the knee. Jon jumps slightly and pulls the notebook protectively to his chest.
“I packed tea, but obviously couldn’t bring milk or sugar,” Martin explains. “Sorry – I know that’s not how you take it, but I thought you might want something warm and caffeinated anyway.”
“Oh! You – you didn’t have to–“
“Nope, but I wanted to. I like making y– making people tea. It’s relaxing.” Martin settles down next to Jon, blows on his own tea to cool it a little. He rallies up his courage. Fakes casualness. “What… uh, what are you writing? If you don’t mind telling me.”
“Nothing,” Jon says immediately, defensively. Then he relaxes, just a bit, like he’s forcing himself to. “Sorry, it’s… ah, I, I was… I was trying to write a poem for you?”
The last sentence comes out all in a rush, and Jon winces.
If it wasn’t for an entire lifetime of compensating for clumsiness and poor motor control, Martin would be covered in hot tea and shattered ceramics right now.
As it is, he manages to keep hold of his mug and takes a sip of tea with all the composure he most certainly does not feel, mostly to hide his expression.
“Oh. Wow,” he says eloquently.
Jon is still fidgeting embarrassedly, but he relaxes his grip on the notebook just a bit.
“I thought it would be easier than it is! You make it seem so much easier. I mean, it’s poetry. I didn’t think it would be so difficult to… to make some lines of words sound good!”
“I’m sure it’s great,” Martin says. He can’t believe how calm he sounds (or is he being so obvious? can Jon tell he’s freaking out? God, he probably can) even though the man he’s had a crush on for years – the man he thinks he might be in love with, for fuck’s sake – just told him he’s written him a poem. Like, what kind of dream-come-true romantic novel cliché –
“I just can’t find anything good to rhyme with Martin,” Jon bemoans.
…Okay, maybe that’s more like it.
“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, Jon,” Martin says.
Jon looks at him and narrows his eyes like he thinks it’s a trick.
“Then what’s the point?”
Oh, heartbreak.
“It’s about the – you know, the mood. The feelings. The emotion.” Martin sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Can’t help but grin at Jon’s obvious skepticism. “You just say what feels right. Or sometimes what feels wrong, if that’s what you’re going for.”
“Hmm,” Jon says. “I don’t… isn’t that just… talking? How is that art? Anyway, I thought you liked Keats. He rhymed, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but – it wasn’t about the rhyme, you know? The rhyme is a tool. The poetry is what it means. Like–” he flounders. “Carl Sandburg, Fog. ‘The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.’”
“That’s not a poem. That’s – a tweet,” Jon says, and if this conversation hadn’t started with him trying to write a poem for Martin, Martin could have strangled him.
“No, you… Look. Lots of poets don’t use rhyme! Richard Siken. Walt Whitman. e.e. cummings – ‘i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it–”
“What about you,” Jon interrupts.
“Me? Oh. Uh.” It’s Martin’s turn to blush, knocked off of his roll. “I – I dabble in various styles, but yeah, I like free verse, I guess.”
“Can I… hear some?” Jon says hesitantly. “Only if you want to, of course, I just – maybe then I’ll get it.”
God. Okay. He can do this, right? He’s already confessed so much recently. This isn’t going to kill him. Fuck, is he really doing this? He can’t, he can’t, he –
“Sure,” his mouth says without his mind’s permission. Goddammit, where does Daisy keep her duct tape? “Uh, it’s… been a while since I’ve written anything, so… I’ll see if I can remember.”
Jon doesn’t respond, just claps his hands together patiently and waits, listening.
Martin clears his throat.
“So… here. Ghost, by Martin K Blackwood,” he starts.
“I have spent too long as a ghost,
Hiding, hoping, haunting your heart.
Faded into the background
Again and again and again and again
Like a word you hear so often
It disappears.
I have spent too long wanting to disappear.
I have spent too long thinking that if I disappear,
Then you would see me,
Want me,
See me.
How was I supposed to know?
Nobody had ever taught me:
That the outline of a person can be seen,
But that doesn’t matter
If there’s nothing inside to look back.
Wanting is a two way street.
Seeing is a two way street.
I see you,
I want you,
I see you.
No more waiting, no more haunting.
I am alive, I am flesh and blood and voice.
These once-cold hands are real.
I can open the door:
Will you come in?”
It’s quiet for just enough of a moment to be unbearable, which is really very little time, but it always feels like an eternity as it happens, doesn’t it? Martin’s face is burning and he kind of wishes he could still… you know… go ghost. If ever there was a use for Lonely invisibility powers: escaping the mortifying ordeal of being known. Or poetry critiques. Same thing, really.
Jon coughs gently to get his attention.
“Hmm. Quite a lot of references to seeing, I noticed.”
Martin groans. “Shut up, yes, do we need to draw attention to the fact that it’s about you?”
But he looks over at Jon, whose hand is pressed in a fist against his mouth in the way that Martin recognizes he does when he’s speechless with… gratitude? appreciation? happiness? love? It’s the way he looked every time they had invited him to come with them on an archival assistants’ night out that first year. How he looked when they threw him that surprise party, even though he claimed disapproval. Martin had caught him making that face while looking at the owl mug that Tim had gotten for him for the archive mug collection. And the last time he had seen that expression on Jon’s face – God, was it really so long ago? When Martin had admitted that he’d lied on his CV and Jon had reacted like it was the best news he’d ever heard.
Fist pressed against his mouth like all his joy is threatening to break through and he doesn’t dare reveal it. But his eyes are shining, and his smile peeks around his hand.
“Does… that clear anything up?” Martin asks.
“Yes,” Jon breathes. “Yes, I think it does.”
He’s staring at Martin so intensely, so hungrily. Not in the sharp, prying, Beholding way he’s prone to. No, more like… like he’s looking at a door he never knew could open and now wants more than anything to go through.
Martin twists his hands together.
“I mean, if you want more specific help, too – I could… could I, uh, maybe read what you’ve got so far and, uh–”
“Can I kiss you?” Jon interrupts.
Martin laughs once at that, impulsively, giddily.
“God, yes, please,” he says. “I was… I really wanted to ask you the same thing.”
Jon moves closer to him slowly, somewhat awkwardly, like he’s still unsure if he should. His hand wavers for a second, then he reaches out to take Martin’s hand. Runs his fingers over Martin’s, like he’s handling something priceless and precious, like Martin’s hand is the most fascinating thing he’s ever held.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” he says.
“Don’t be,” Martin tells him. “We’re here now.”
Jon lifts Martin’s hand and presses a soft kiss to the back of his knuckles and holy shit Martin is going to explode.
“It hasn’t exactly been the ideal environment for a relationship to grow, has it?” he says, and kisses Martin’s hand again. It’s all so painfully, wonderfully slow, as if Jon has gotten all his seduction advice from Austenian love interests. Martin wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, honestly.
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about fear and love being… neurochemically the same, or something? Maybe all… everything we went through is why this could happen.”
Jon laughs a little. “Oh, I really hope not. I hope I would have been able to see you for the wonder you are without the life-threatening danger.” He keeps stroking Martin’s hand, weaving their fingers together.
“You were kind of an idiot without the magic knowledge powers, though,” Martin teases, in order to not blurt out for Jon to just shut up and kiss him already dear God.
Jon smiles.
“Yeah,” he says, and leans in, finally, finally, to kiss Martin on the mouth. One of his hands is still holding onto Martin’s; the other comes up to cradle his head, Jon’s fingers locking into his curls.
Martin pulls Jon closer until he’s straddling Martin’s lap, feels Jon’s body meet his. He stifles a moan as Jon’s tongue moves past his lips, and he grips Jon’s hand tighter. Jon pulls back for a second, grinning more freely and widely than Martin’s ever seen on him.
“What?” Martin says, and tugs at Jon to come back.
“Nothing,” Jon murmurs. “I just like to look at you.”
Martin scoffs through his own smile, pulls Jon back towards him, presses a deep kiss to his mouth.
“You’ve done so much looking already,” he says and kisses him again. “How about we focus on the snogging for a bit?”
Jon laughs against him, running a hand through Martin’s hair. He presses even closer to Martin, like any air between them could expand and force them apart, like he’s desperate for skin against skin, breath against breath, heartbeat against heartbeat.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” he says in a breathless rush in a moment between long, hard kisses.
Martin doesn’t need to respond, not with words. Just drinks deep of sensation and touch and long-desired satisfaction.
Eventually he does move away, takes a moment to look back at Jon, observing the observer, noting the sparkle in his eyes and the glimmer of sweat on his brow.
“So am I ever gonna get to read what you wrote, or was this more of a performance piece? Cause if this was it, honestly, you might be the new Shakespeare,” he says.
Jon rolls those fucking beautiful eyes of his.
“Peace! I will stop your mouth,” he quotes. And he does.
Martin wakes up the next morning to an empty bed and the delightful thrill of the memory that it wasn’t so last night.
There’s a piece of lined paper next to his side (his side! as opposed to Jon’s side! what a world!) of the bed, folded neatly, and he recognizes the handwriting on the front as Jon’s, the way he writes when he puts in the effort to make it look professional instead of his usual scribble.
Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, it reads, regarding love.
Martin smiles uncontrollably, opens it up and begins to read.
Obnoxiously, it rhymes the whole way through.