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“Did you know,” Jon says, carefully neutrally, “that I can have six to ten kittens?”
Martin chokes on his piece of toast. “Pardon?”
“Sounds like quite a lot, doesn’t it? Six to ten,” Jon mumbles. His eyes focus on the wall behind Martin, unfocus again. “Up to twelve, but that’s uncommon.”
Martin makes a sputtering sound, like a lawnmower failing to start up. There’s an obvious wrestle of emotions on his face for several seconds and then it settles into a look of mostly blankness. “Okay. Back up.”
Jon blinks. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just thinking.”
“You were – okay. Are you,” Martin blinks as well, opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Are you in heat, Jon?”
Jon squirms on his chair. “Yes,” he says guiltily, and then, after a second, incredulously, “you really can’t smell it?”
Martin squints at him. He sets his fork down. “Did you forget to take your suppressants? Or did you run out?”
Jon blushes. “No,” he says. “Or, yes, I forgot, and then by the time I remembered I was already going into heat and it was too late, and I didn’t want to bother you, since, y’know, maybe –”
Jon wraps his tongue around the rest of the sentence and swallows it, heat settling over his cheeks. Martin gapes at him.
“Sorry,” Jon says. Sighs. “Sorry, just – I don’t know what I was thinking. I just – I was reading, and – did you know that there can be six to ten? Or,” he waves a hand, “up to twelve? Sometimes? Isn’t that just way too many?”
“Jon,” Martin interrupts him. “Are you asking me if I want to have a baby with you?”
“Well, sort of. And like I said,” Jon says helplessly. “Six to ten babies.”
Martin puts his head in his hands and sighs. There’s a few moments of complete silence, Jon’s ears twitching as he tries to hear any sort of a noise coming out of Martin, but there’s nothing. Just the sound of silence as Jon thinks about sinking into the floor and through it. Maybe melting right into the linoleum. Like plastic held over open fire.
“Martin,” Jon says. “We don’t have to. I know we haven’t – or, we did, but I know it’s been a while since we had that discussion, maybe you changed your mind, about – and it’s so abrupt, too – and there’s,” Jon bites his lip so he doesn’t say it again, six to ten, “I don’t know what got into me, or I do, it’s the heat, and, Martin – I’m so sorry.”
Martin’s shoulders start shaking, then, and for a second Jon thinks he’s made him cry, but then Martin reaches across the table with his hands and clasps them over Jon’s. He’s laughing.
Jon bristles. “Well, I’m glad you’re amused,” he says. “You didn’t have to laugh.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Martin says, tears still leaking out of his eyes. He pushes on Jon’s knuckle gently to get the claw to poke out there, just the barest hint of it. “I just can’t believe that’s how you asked me.”
“It’s true,” Jon mumbles.
“Yes, Jon,” Martin says. “I believe you.”
“Good,” Jon says.
“Good,” Martin repeats. His hand folds gently over Jon’s hand. “Just – Jon, god. You know I want,” he inhales. Closes his eyes. “Let’s talk, though? Later?”
“Fine,” Jon says, and then deflates a bit. “Yeah, alright. And I’m – I’m sorry to spring it up on you like that.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Martin mutters. “Are you going to finish your toast or just hold it in your hand?”
“Oh!” Jon takes a bite of his toast. “Yes.” He bounces on his seat a little bit.
“Later,” Martin says. He smiles. His hand withdraws. “Later.”
They make eye contact. Jon smiles, too, helpless and bashful. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Later.”
––
“How are you in heat again?” Martin asks from the doorway.
Jon blinks his eyes open slowly, reluctantly. The sliver of light coming into the closet from the hallway makes them hurt, so he closes them again. “I’m not,” he mumbles.
“What are you doing, then?”
Jon stretches his whole body, legs out, back rounding into the shape of a croissant, tips of his fingers reaching towards his toes. “Just napping.”
“In a pile of clothes? In the closet?” Martin enters the closet as well. He grabs the closest shirt he can find and holds it against his chest. “Is this the shirt I’ve been looking for for the past week? The one you told me you hadn’t seen?”
“I didn’t see it,” Jon mumbles. “It’s dark in here.”
Martin tries to frown at him but it just turns into a giggle. “Jon.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. He flops onto his side, rolls a little bit. It’s hard to force his eyes to stay open when what he’s lying on is so soft. Warm and comfortable.
“So,” Martin says. “What are you doing in the closet?”
“Safe,” Jon says before he can think about it too much. He nestles further into the pile of clothes, purring starting back up. The clothes smell like Martin, and after him sleeping on them they smell like him as well. They smell like safety. They smell like family. He opens his mouth to add something, but his train of thought is interrupted by how strong Martin’s smell is in the dark, enclosed little room now that he’s in there too. He chirps quietly.
“Jon,” Martin’s voice comes out very, very level. “Do you think –”
“Mm?” Jon asks. He twists and rolls again, bares his belly in invitation for Martin to touch and pet. “Come here,” he says when Martin doesn’t approach.
Martin takes the two steps he needs to cross the floor, and sits down, one hand going to Jon’s stomach, but not petting.
“What?” Jon asks. He tries to push himself into the touch but Martin doesn’t get the hint. “You’re just sitting there.”
“Jon,” Martin says. Like there’s something Jon’s missing. Jon frowns, eyebrows knitting together, and Martin pets an insistent little circle over the soft, fuzzy expanse of his belly.
“Oh,” Jon says. “Oh.”
––
“Eight,” says the doctor. “Could be some hiding behind these guys right here but that’s how many I can see.”
“Eight,” Martin repeats. He’s a little pale.
“I told you,” Jon points out. “Six to ten.”
“That’s right,” the doctor says. “Well, or –”
“Up to twelve,” Jon finishes the sentence, and then flushes. The doctor smiles at him. His ears flatten, tip of his tail twitching a bit, but she says nothing, just turns to look at the screen again. She moves the probe a few centimeters. The image changes, but only a little bit. Jon watches as it does, unblinking, pupils dilating, trying to cement it to memory.
The sound of Martin’s shaky voice rips him away from the sight of his kittens on the little screen.
“Eight,” he mumbles. “Jon.”
“Are you okay?” Jon asks. He grabs Martin’s limp hand between both of his own. “What’s wrong?”
“I,” Martin starts. He sighs. Looks up at the ceiling. Blinks rapidly.
“Look at me,” Jon says. Distress bubbles up inside of him like a kettle boiling over. “Martin.”
Martin wrenches his gaze from the ceiling and at Jon. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, “just, when you said six to ten, I don’t think that actually registered? I don’t – eight?”
“It’s quite common for parents to get nervous when they first see the babies,” the doctor says gently. “It does sound like a lot.”
“It is a lot, isn’t it?” Martin laughs tearily. “Jesus, Jon.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. He folds his hands over the small bump of his belly, right above where the ultrasound probe is resting. The skin is cold and damp. He wants, more than anything, to wash the lubricant off. To be clean and dry again.
Martin puts his hand on top of Jon’s, and then the other one as well, and then he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says quietly.
“I love you,” Jon replies immediately, ferocious. “And,” his voice falters, softens, “I love them.”
Martin giggles. “Yeah, I know you do,” and then, quieter, “did you look at them? They’re just little beans.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. “But they’re our beans. See?”
Martin looks at the screen, face frozen in a hesitant, teary smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That one looks like you.”
Jon’s face scrunches up. “You can’t see that.”
“No,” Martin admits. “But it could.”
“Don’t call them it,” Jon says. “They’re little bean people.”
Martin giggles. “Bean people?”
“You’re the one that called them beans,” Jon defends himself. “And they do look like beans. Just a little bit.”
Martin’s hand, still trembling slightly, lands in Jon’s hair. He cards his fingers through it, scritches the base of one of Jon’s ears. Jon leans into the touch gratefully. “Don’t leave me,” Jon says airily, “now that it’s real.”
Not that Martin would. Martin never would. Martin wouldn’t.
“Never,” Martin exhales, “God, Jon. Never.”
“Good,” Jon says. He swallows around something that hadn’t been in his throat a second ago. “You better not.”
––
The nest Martin helps him build is –
It’s fine.
There’s blankets. There’s pillows. They picked them out together. They picked new duvets, even – soft and thick, the winter ones. Fancy ones, too – Martin had suggested real feathers, but they smell too strong, Jon’d found, and besides, he wonders about claws on them. The kittens won’t have any claws to speak of for a long time, just little soft things, barely bigger than needles, but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to control himself. He’s worried about a lot of things lately.
So:
The nest they build is fine. It’s soft and fluffy and warm, and Jon curls up in it, and it’s comfortable, and Martin curls up behind him, chest to Jon’s sore back, and Jon sighs.
“What’s wrong?” Martin asks.
“Nothing,” Jon claims, but his swishing tail reveals his agitation.
“I don’t think so,” Martin says, sing-song. “Let’s try again! What’s wrong?”
Jon squirms. The kittens squirm, too, little feet kicking against the sore skin of his belly. He scowls. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Something’s off.”
Martin shoots upright. “With the kittens?”
“No,” Jon rushes to reassure him, “no! The kittens are fine. With,” he hesitates, “the nest.”
Martin lies back down. He carefully slings his arm over the curve of Jon’s belly again. “What’s wrong with the nest?”
“I don’t know,” Jon mumbles. “Nothing. But – something. Something’s wrong.”
“You picked all the materials,” Martin points out.
Jon sighs. “I know. Well, we picked the materials.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be better? Family? Group project?”
Jon makes a displeased sound at the description. “Yes, but,” his nose twitches, “it’s not.” He sighs. “This is going to make no sense to you. It’s not family enough?”
Martin’s face scrunches up in confusion. “What?”
Jon waves a hand around. “I told you,” he says. “Just – it needs to be more. I think that’s it.”
“More what?”
Jon twists around aimlessly. “More – more home. More familiar. More –”
“We got all new stuff,” Martin interrupts him. “Could that be why?”
Jon is quiet for a moment. “Maybe,” he says. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. He can smell Martin, and himself, but everywhere around them the plush pillows and soft blankets smell like nothing. Like other people’s hands. Like vacuum sealed plastic packaging.
“What if we wash them?”
Jon makes a little sound. “Maybe.”
They’re quiet for a little bit. “Remember,” Jon starts, hesitant, “the nest I made? Earlier?”
“In the closet?”
Jon nods. “With the shirts and towels and old blankets.”
“Yeah.”
Jon wiggles his hips gently, then his legs. “That might work.”
“I’m not going to shut you in the closet,” Martin says. “Pick another place.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Jon whines.
“I’m not getting in the closet,” Martin says. “Spent enough time there already.”
Jon punches him in the chest lightly. His mouth twitches. “Then – under the bed,” he says in a rush.
“What?”
Jon hides his face. “It’s dark and confined and it’s against the wall and safe and hidden,” he mumbles. “And I can see the door.”
“It’s – hold on, when have you been under the bed?”
Jon looks away pointedly.
“Jon –”
“I just wanted to see,” Jon grumbles, “if it would be better.”
Martin glances at the canopy they’ve hung over the pile of blankets and pillows. “Not the same?” he says softly.
“No,” Jon whimpers pitifully. “I didn’t realize how much better it was, before – or the closet, I swear –”
“Oh,” Martin exhales. “It’s – okay. Jon. I can’t fit under the bed.”
Jon makes a mournful little sound. “I know.”
He can barely fit himself; his belly brushing the slats on the bottom of the bed frame, his body struggling to curl up underneath. But oh, how safe it’d felt –
“Let’s try the closet,” Martin sighs. “But we need to add a mattress to the floor. Do you want this one or the one from our bed?”
“From our bed,” Jon sighs. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“That’s okay,” Martin says, “but you’re not giving birth there, either.”
Surprisingly enough the words strike a nerve Jon didn’t know was still there, ready for poking. Jon’s tail swishes angrily, ears glued to his head. “I know,” he says. “You’ve told me.”
“Just figured I might need to specify for every possible nest,” Martin says. He pulls away slightly. “Should I start listing places you’re not giving birth in?”
“No,” Jon mutters. He kneads the pillow between his chest and the wall furiously. “I won’t.”
“Good,” Martin says. “You seem unhappy about it.”
“I’m not,” Jon says. He stabs the pillow with his claws petulantly, watches some stuffing try to come out. “I already said I won’t.”
“Okay,” Martin says. “Do you want to move all our stuff now or later, then?”
Jon’s tail swishes. Martin grabs a loose hold of the tip of it. “Jon.”
“Later,” Jon says. He melts against Martin. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Martin says. “I get it.”
“Mm,” Jon hums.“If you say so.”
“Hormones, instincts, whatever,” Martin says. “Just don’t bite me.”
“If I could roll over I would.”
Martin’s hand appears right in front of his face, then. Jon leans forward and closes his mouth around it. “Mm,” he mumbles, “salty.” His fingers wrap around Martin’s wrist, and then he pulls it away enough that he can lick it instead.
“Apex predator, are you?” Martin asks, deadpan, and Jon scowls, bites him again. His claws peek out, just a bit, the tips of them digging into the flesh of Martin’s hand. “Thought I told you not to bite me.”
Jon bites him for the third time. “Stop it,” he says, and licks the teeth marks furiously. The sound of his raspy tongue over Martin’s soft skin is audible. “You know I’m going to bite you.”
“Yeah,” Martin admits, and then giggles. He wiggles his hand, and Jon lets go of it. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“Maybe,” Jon says. “Will you stay?”
Martin shuffles in closer, chest against Jon’s back, pushing him forward until Jon’s chest is almost flush against the wall, with only a pile of pillows separating the two. “Of course,” he says softly. “Always.”
––
Jon bolts upright.
“They need names,” he says, tone feverish. “Oh God. Martin.”
Martin, startled and wide eyed, sits up as well. “Right now?”
Jon’s hands wave furiously. “They’ll be here any day. I can’t believe we’ve left this for so late –”
“We do have a list,” Martin interrupts him gently. “A long one.”
“We should narrow it down,” Jon mumbles. Energy drains out of him slowly. ”They need names. We need to be ready –”
“We’re ready,” Martin says. He grabs Jon’s wrists into his hand, presses them together. Jon stills. “Okay? We’re ready.”
Jon nods mutely. His posture rounds out slowly, slowly, his breathing evening out. A little stressed purr rumbles its way throughout his ribcage, stops again. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“Do you want me to hold you?” Martin asks. Jon nods, and Martin lets go of his wrists so that he can open his arms instead. Jon falls into them gratefully.
“I think I’m going a little, uh. Bonkers, you could say,” he whispers. “I keep thinking they’ll be here and I won’t know what to do.”
“You will,” Martin says. He presses a kiss onto Jon’s temple. “You are the most prepared parent I’ve ever met.”
“Mm,” Jon says, ears twitching, but he presses in closer. “Not sure you can prepare for it.”
“Maybe. But I can’t wait to meet them,” Martin says softly.
Jon chews on the idea. Nods quietly. Grabs Martin’s hand and puts it on his stomach, palm down where the kittens haven’t stopped moving for hours. “I think they can’t wait either,” he says softly.
––
And then, finally –
––
“I can’t believe you made them,” Martin murmurs.
“You did too,” Jon protests. He’s exhausted. Every part of his body is sore, from his ears to the tip of his tail.
“Hardly,” Martin says dismissively. “Look at them.”
Jon does. The six on him, each attached to a nipple, nursing hungrily. The two in Martin’s arms, equally hungry, latched onto the nipples of the bottles Martin’s holding for them. “They’re beautiful,” he exhales, and then he tears up.
“What’s wrong?” Martin asks, alarmed. “Jon? Are you in pain?”
“They’re so small,” Jon chokes out. “What if something happens to them?”
One of the kittens on him unlatches from a nipple and lets out a pitiful little mewling sound, like they’re preparing to start crying. “Oh,” Jon exhales, hands scrambling to pick them up. He settles them in the crook of his neck, between his shoulder and chin. They’re soft and warm and so small.
“Nothing’s going to happen to them,” Martin says, although Jon can hear the lump in his throat as he says it. Like he’s scared, too. Like he’s pretending he’s not, just for Jon’s benefit.
“Jon,” he says. “Nothing’s going to happen to them. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jon repeats dutifully. He reaches down with the hand that he’s not using to hold the kitten against his neck. It lands on Martin’s thigh. “Okay.”
––
“Hey,” Martin says softly.
Jon turns his head to look. “Hey,” he whispers. On his chest one of the kittens stirs briefly, makes a little noise, and then settles back in, little paw-hands twitching. Jon’s purring quickens and stutters lightly, just for a moment, and when he’s sure the kittens are all asleep again it evens out again.
“Are they all asleep?”
Jon looks down at the pile of kittens on him. His eyes cross slightly. “Think so,” he says. He knows they are. Just makes sense to leave room for ambiguity. Just in case just the affirmation wakes them up again.
There’s a rapid series of emotions that cross Martin’s face. “Good,” he says. “You might be a wizard.”
Jon chuckles. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Of course,” Martin says with mock seriousness. “I won’t even mention it again. I’ll pretend they’re not even here.”
Jon smiles. “Are you all done downstairs?”
“Mm,” Martin hums. He climbs onto the bed carefully. Jon tenses his muscles in preparation to make sure the motion doesn’t jostle his body. “Washings all done. Laundry’s in the washer. Figured the noise would keep them from falling asleep, so didn’t start it yet. And I don’t think I have it in me to wait up to hang them up tonight. Last thing we need is mildewy clothes.”
“Good thinking,” Jon says softly. “Thank you.”
“Well,” Martin says. “Considering you’re wrangling all of these,” he points a single finger in the general direction of the pile of kittens, waves it lightly, “I think it’s more than fair for me to take care of all that.”
“You know I’ll still wake you up when they get hungry,” Jon says mildly.
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Martin replies.
Martin’s body is warm and soft and grounding against Jon’s when he curls against his side. He can’t wrap his arms around any part of him, not right now, but he nestles against him and the contact is enough. Martin leans in, kisses the exposed stretch of skin his lips find on Jon’s neck. Jon’s purring hitches up, gets louder. Martin, if he could, would purr too.
––
“Okay,” Martin says. Jon watches his hands hover in midair for a moment, almost like he’s preparing to clap them to divert all attention to him. He thinks better of it right before he does, hands dropping back to his sides.
Good, Jon thinks. Very little chance Melanie would take that well.
“Schedule’s on the fridge. There’s bottles in the fridge. Um, warming instructions on the fridge as well, and there’s more milk in the freezer, but you shouldn’t need that, unless you drop a bottle or something, which, please don’t – oh, and if you do, please try to clean it up immediately, sometimes if you get milk on the floor they’ll try to lick it up, it’s disgusting – and there’s formula in the cupboard, but you shouldn’t need it, just in case, and the instructions for that are on the package –”
Jon pinches Martin’s side lightly. “Martin,” he says fondly.
“Right,” says Martin. He makes a face, and then another face, like he’s trying to get himself under control.
“Don’t worry,” Georgie says from the playpen. One kitten crawls across her lap and she picks them up gently. The kitten yawns, limbs squirming in displeasure. Georgie sets them back down again, and they crawl off immediately. “They’ll be in good hands.”
“Right, right,” Martin agrees, “just, make sure that it’s heated evenly, y’know, and make sure it’s not too hot, you know how microwaves can be –”
“Right,” says Jon. He leans to kiss Martin on the cheek. “You wrote all of this down already.”
“I did,” Martin mutters. “It’s on –”
“On the fridge,” Melanie finishes the sentence. “We got it. Really. And we’ll give you a call if there’s anything we need.”
It’s funny. It’s Jon who gets anxious about leaving them, usually, whose ears flatten and twitch at the idea of someone else holding his babies. Feeding them. Making sure they’re happy and healthy. You never know, he reasons. You never know if they’re happy, if you’re not with them. It’s dangerous and unpredictable.
But it’s Georgie. Jon’d rubbed his cheek against her shoulder in the threshold, first thing, and Georgie had grabbed him by the wrist, rubbed hers against the heel of his hand, right above his pulse point on his wrist. Georgie had entered the living room and spotted the kittens in the huge playpen, crawling over each other, making little noises, and she’d crossed the floor in four big steps and climbed right in, plopped herself down in the middle.
“Hello,” she’d said.
“Mew,” the kittens had said.
“Not talking yet, then?” she’d said, eyeing the pile of them critically.
“They’re two months old,” Martin had said incredulously, eyes bulging out of his head comically.
“She’s joking,” Jon had said, fond and amused. He’d linked arms with Martin, knocked his elbow against his side. “It’s okay.”
And it’s fun to see Martin in his element – fussy and nervous and in charge, all at the same time. Jon had watched him through half-lidded eyes as he’d scribbled down notes and then copied them neatly onto a huge sheet of paper, attached that to the fridge carefully. Magnet on each corner. Neat and tidy.
Not that it’s fun to see Martin nervous. Just – he cares so much. He loves them so much. Jon nuzzles his face against Martin’s neck, and Martin’s hand finds his head automatically, scritches the base of his ear. A little chirp breaks its way out of Jon.
“Are you going?” Melanie asks. She’s made her way over to the playpen as well, one hand reaching into the pit of now awake and alert kittens. Two of them are climbing over each other, trying to reach her fingers with their razor sharp baby teeth.
“Don’t taunt them,” Martin says in distress. “They’re babies.”
“They’re gremlins,” Melanie says, but her voice is soft. One of the kittens catches the tip of her finger. “See?” she says. “This one’s biting me.”
It’s River, Jon knows. Melanie probably can’t tell any of them apart. The thought makes him angry for a second, and then he forces himself to relax again. She’ll learn. Georgie will learn, too, and Daisy, too, although so far she’s been reluctant to get too close to them the few times she’s visited.
(Actually, she’d taken one look at the lot of them, crawling all over Jon who’d been lying on his back in the middle of the playpen, and said “okay, there really are eight of them.”
“That’s what I said,” Martin’d said, and then, conspiratorially, “they’re color coded. See? We have a chart and everything.”
“You can’t tell them apart?” Daisy’d asked dryly.
“It’s for visitors,” Jon’d said mildly from his spot on the floor. “Behave.”
“You behave,” Daisy’d shot back. “You’re no fun.”
“Martin will be no fun if you piss him off,” Jon’d said. He’d only mouthed piss off. Daisy’d stuck out her tongue at him.)
“Melanie,” Georgie says, amused. “You’re working him up.”
“You’re teaching them bad habits,” Martin mumbles. “We don’t let them bite us.”
“They’re two months old,” Melanie points out. She wrestles her finger out of the mouth of the kitten that doesn’t seem to know whether they want to bite her or suck on the tip of her finger. “You can’t let them do anything. They do what they want.”
Martin makes an unintelligible noise. If he had a tail it’d be swishing around. Jon puts a hand on Martin’s back, gentle and reassuring, and Martin leans back into the contact.
“They’re fine,” Jon says softly. “Trust me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Martin sighs. “Fine. But if we come home to a total chaos, okay, then –”
“It’s always a total chaos here,” Jon mutters.
“Point taken,” Martin says. He sighs. “Fine. Okay.”
“Okay,” Jon repeats. “We’ll be going, then.”
“Bye,” Melanie says flatly. She’s picked one of the kittens up – River – and is holding them gently, carefully. The kitten themself is looking up at her with rapt attention.
“Yeah, I have blue hair!” she says, her voice pitched up high. “You’ve never seen that, huh?”
The kitten blinks, and then yawns.
Jon’s never heard Melanie use this tone. When she notices him staring she scowls at him, and then turns to smile at the kitten. “You’re sleepy,” she says. The kitten yawns again, bigger this time. “Yeah! What’d I tell you?”
There’s a little teacup inside of him. It’s white, and patterned, and it’s full of warm liquid. Jon sees the way Georgie watches Melanie while she talks to River in her silly, gentle baby voice, and the teacup inside of him wobbles, spreads warm steam everywhere. He smiles, slow, gentle.
“Jon?” Martin calls from the doorway. “Are we going?”
“Sorry,” he calls back. “Yes. I’m coming.”
––
“Jon,” Martin says, “hey.”
“Hey,” Jon says quietly from the doorway, and immediately tears up.
“What’s – Jon?” Martin lifts his head slightly, face twisting into a look of worry. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t move,” Jon says quickly. “Just – stay exactly like that? I need to – I just want to look.”
Martin lays his head back down with a confused look. “Okay,” he says.
And Jon looks –
Martin, his hair fluffy and ruffled. His eyes sleepy, but not exhausted. The soft light of the reading lamp illuminating the immediate area around it, just gently, just enough that he can see Martin. That he can see the kittens, piled on his body.
Two of them are snuggled up underneath Martin’s chin, right on top of his neck. Four of them are lying on his soft belly, parts of their bodies overlapping slightly. One of them – Jon can’t see that well, but he’s pretty sure it’s Sage – is nestled carefully underneath Martin’s arm, and the final one – River, probably, – is slowly crossing the length of Martin’s chest with quiet determination, on their way from four of their siblings to the two others.
There’s the quiet sound of soft, high pitched purring. It’s only been a few weeks since they started doing it. It breaks Jon’s heart every time. Puts it back together. Breaks it again. Hammer to brick wall.
“I can’t believe they all fit,” Martin says quietly. He smiles. “They’re getting so big.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. He wipes away a tear furiously. “God, they really are.”
“Are you okay, Jon?”
“I just,” Jon inhales sharply. Chokes out a teary chuckle. “I feel like I miss you all. Like you’re right there, but I miss you.”
“Come here, then,” Martin says softly. “We are right here.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, and climbs onto the bed, limbs trembling. “Yeah, yeah, yeah –”
He crosses the width of the bed, the distance between them closing with every inch, and when he gets close enough Martin reaches towards him to pull him towards his body. He ends up right next to the baby that Martin’s got between his side and his arm. It’s Sage, just like he’d thought.
“Hi, baby,” Jon says quietly. Sage chirps at him sleepily. Jon’s hand wavers. Thinks about picking them up. Taking them in his arms. He decides against it, and closes his eyes instead. Up so close all he can smell is Martin and their babies and himself.
“Do you still miss us?” Martin asks softly.
Jon inhales, exhales again. How is he supposed to explain that the self changes constantly? That any version of someone only exists for a split second? That you look at someone and you love them and then you blink and the person in front of you isn’t the same person they just were? That it’s hard, and important, and impossible, and necessary, and the only way to love someone?
“Always,” he says. “Every second.”
Martin pulls him closer. “I love you,” he says. Says I know. Says I understand. Says I’m still not going anywhere.
––
“Did you know,” Jon starts, head on Martin’s belly, “that they should be starting to lose the kitten teeth?”
“What?” Martin asks.
“Here,” Jon says. He shoves the book at him, somewhat frantic. “Eight to eleven months.”
Martin squints at the page. “There’s still time,” he says. “They just turned eight months.”
Jon makes a distressed little noise. “What if they don’t?”
“Don’t what? Lose the kitten teeth?”
Jon puts his head in his hands. “Yeah,” he says pitifully. There’s the sound of his tail repeatedly hitting the mattress. Thump, thump, thump.
“I don’t think that’s a thing that can happen,” Martin says carefully. “Is that a thing that can happen?”
“Never heard of it,” Jon mutters, “but they could be the first ones. What if they grow up and they never lose their kitten teeth? What if they just run around forever with them? Then what?”
“If they never – if they never lose their kitten teeth?” Martin repeats uselessly. “Again, I don’t think that’s something that can happen?”
“We can just pull them out,” Jon continues weakly. “We do have pliers.”
“Okay,” Martin says, “first of all, no. Second of all, if they don’t lose their teeth their pediatrician would catch it. And besides, would that even make them grow proper teeth?”
“Good point,” Jon mumbles. “Then they’d just have gums.”
“What if they had two sets of teeth?” Martin asks. He opens his mouth, gnashes his teeth together twice. “Or what if they grew a new set of kitten teeth? Like sharks. Or alligators.”
“Isn’t that crocodiles?”
Martin turns over onto his side. Jon’s head moves to rest on the mattress next to Martin’s belly. “I think it’s both.”
“Mm,” Jon says with light distress, “I’ll look it up later.”
There’s the sound of the baby monitor turning on, and then the sound of loud crying.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if that was because their baby teeth are coming in?” Martin says weakly, already halfway up.
“We need to start knocking on wood before and after we talk about them,” Jon mutters.
Martin sighs. “We really do.”
––
“Are claw caps inhumane?” Jon asks.
Daisy turns around to face him, very slowly. “What?”
“Claw caps,” Jon repeats. He gets on his feet, tail twitching. “Just – they keep getting their claws tangled into the curtains. And they keep trying to climb them, too, and I just – that’s a safety risk. But it seems cruel to just keep them from using their claws.” His own claws come out of their sheaths, disappear again. “It wouldn’t be all the time, of course, they need to – they need to use them, and we trim them already, y’know, it’s basic kitten care, but sometimes –”
“What do your kitten books say?” Daisy asks blandly.
“That they’re controversial,” Jon mumbles. “I need your opinion.”
Daisy shrugs. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” Jon says. His tail thumps against Daisy’s side. He stops circling her for a moment and sighs. “Melanie told Martin we should just declaw them and Martin thought she was being serious and now he won’t listen to anything either of them says.”
Daisy pinches the bridge of her nose. “Melanie said – okay. Is Martin okay?”
“Define okay,” Jon mumbles. “Focus. Claw caps.”
“I don’t see the issue,” Daisy says. “What is the controversy?”
“Same as with harnesses. Y’know. Because they’re for animals. And you’re, you’re stopping them from doing – you know, like I said, they do need to use their claws. For traction. They’re still crawling part time.”
Daisy shrugs. “Rather treat kids like animals than let them run into traffic, you’d think?”
“I don’t want to treat them like animals.”
Daisy’s posture rounds out a little bit. Her face doesn’t soften, but she does smile a little bit. Sharp. “Hey,” she says. “You’re a good dad.”
“I know,” Jon mumbles, but he deflates a little bit anyway. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Nobody does,” Daisy points out.
“I suppose.”
Jon starts pacing again. Daisy grabs a hold of his tail. “What?” he spits out, immediately agitated. Daisy doesn’t let go.
“Get the caps,” Daisy tells him. “They’re going to climb all the way to the ceiling and you’re going to have a heart attack.”
Jon nods silently. Daisy lets go of his tail.
––
Melanie brings cookies with her. “Chocolate chip,” she says nervously before Martin can say anything.
“Melanie,” Martin says. He’s not icy, but he doesn’t sound very happy to see her either.
“Martin,” Melanie replies. She sounds unsure.
Jon gets to the door as well, a few steps behind Martin, the baby he’d been feeding still in his arms. “Hi. Jon, hi.”
“Hi,” Jon says. “What are you doing here?”
“Who’s this?” Melanie asks, and reaches towards the toddler in Jon’s arms with one hand, before thinking better of it, her hand falling back by her side.
“Oh,” Jon says, “this is Harper. Say hi, Harper!”
“Hi,” the baby repeats dutifully, face breaking into a wide grin. They wave, too, slightly uncoordinated in their motions, turning to look at Jon questioningly.
“That’s right,” Jon tells them, “you got it! Good job!” He turns to look at Melanie again. “What’s up?”
“Hi,” says Melanie to the baby, and then looks at Jon again. “Wow, they’ve gotten so big – look at those ears!”
Jon smiles, pets one of the fluffy ears with a single finger, up, then down again. “Oh, yeah, they’re all pointy now, aren’t they?”
Melanie opens her mouth again, presumably to finally explain what she’s there for, but abruptly there’s the sound of running footsteps, and then something falling, and then the sound of crying from inside the house.
“Ah,” Jon says, alarmed, “uh oh, excuse me.”
–
Martin comes in a few minutes later, box of cookies in his hands, a conflicted look on his face. Jon, sitting on the floor, has three barely calmed down toddlers on his lap, the rest of them on the couch, fully immersed in Sesame Street, mostly piled on top of each other.
“What’d she say?” he asks quietly. Harper tugs on a strand of his hair, gently, and Jon props them up better so that they can nestle against his chest more closely.
“Just apologized,” Martin murmurs back. “I think Georgie gave her a lashing. Or maybe a few.”
Jon chuckles. “How do you feel about it?”
Martin shrugs.
“Tell me,” Jon insists. Martin sits down in front of him and holds out his arms. Charlie, cuddled up against Jon’s side, opens their eyes and spots Martin. They crawl out from half-underneath their siblings and across the floor. Martin scoops them up gently, and the toddler nuzzles their face against Martin’s immediately.
“What’d they do?” Martin asks instead of answering. Jon gives him a look but doesn’t say anything.
“Ran into the coffee table,” Jon says softly. Bee, tears still drying on their chubby cheeks, hisses against Jon’s shirt. They’ve been using it as a tissue for the past ten minutes. Jon hasn’t had the heart to ask them to stop.
“Both of them?”
“No,” Jon says. “Bee did, and then Charlie got upset because Bee was upset.”
Martin smiles. Jon tracks the motion of his face as he does. The way it starts at the corners of his mouth, spreads to his cheeks, crinkles up his eyes. “Poor babies.”
“Poor babies,” Jon agrees and cuddles both of the toddlers in his lap closer. “Martin.”
“Tell you later?” Martin sighs. “She apologized, and I feel a little better, but can I process it for a little bit?”
“Of course,” Jon replies.
“I was really upset,” Martin mumbles. His free hand comes to cradle Charlie’s head against his chest. The baby makes a little meowing noise. Their little tail swishes once and then calms down.
Jon makes a sympathetic face. “I know.”
“It was a really messed up joke to make.”
Jon, with some effort, slips a hand free, puts it on Martin’s knee. “I know,” he says earnestly. “I know you were really upset.”
“I think she gets it, too,” Martin mumbles. His arms visibly tighten around the toddler, for a second. Like he has to make sure they can’t disappear. He opens his mouth but instead of saying anything he just lets out a shuddering breath. “God,” he exhales, “I’m being really dramatic right now, aren’t I?”
“No,” Jon responds immediately, “I don’t think so.”
“You weren’t mad at her.”
“I’m not you.”
Martin is quiet for a little while. “I didn’t think she was actually telling us to do it,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t think – it wasn’t an okay joke.”
“I know,” Jon says. “She shouldn’t have said it.”
Martin sighs. “No,” he says. “No, she shouldn’t have.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Jon asks. “Do you want to be alone?”
Martin smiles, exhausted but sincere. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
Jon smiles back. “Maybe a tad.”
“No,” he sighs. “I’m alright. How long have they been watching that?”
Jon shrugs. “Almost an hour.”
Martin hums. “I think it might be bathtime,” he says. “And then story and bed.”
“Okay,” Jon agrees. “Works for me. I think these,” he gently lifts Harper up, watches their ears twitch sleepily as Bee yawns, their head nestled firmly against Jon’s belly where they’re draped over his lap, “are falling asleep on me.”
Martin smiles. “Meet you upstairs?”
“Okay,” Jon agrees. He sets Harper down on the floor gently. They make a quiet, displeased noise, somewhere between a cry and a meow. “I know,” he says softly, “daddy needs to pick Bee up, too.”
One of their little hands finds Jon’s hair and grabs a hold of it. “I know,” Jon says again, and gently picks up the kitten in his lap. “God, they’re like little snakes, aren’t they?” he mutters when they almost slide out of his arms immediately.
“Who do you think they get that from?” Martin asks, amused.
Jon thinks about Martin carrying him around, his body boneless in his strong arms. How he would throw him onto the bed, or the couch, or the floor, sometimes, just to see him bounce back up for more. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s done that. He misses it, he realizes suddenly. “Fair enough,” he mutters.
Martin smiles at him brightly. “Go on, then,” he says. “Go throw your bones up the stairs.”
“What a strange way to phrase that,” Jon says. Goes anyway.
––
“Can you stop that?”
Jon looks at Martin. “Stop what?”
“Thinking so much.”
“I have to think, Martin.”
“That’s why I said so much.”
Jon shrugs, rolls his shoulders. It feels good. His muscles are so sore. “Why?”
“Hold still,” Martin says, and then his hands are on Jon’s shoulders, kneading the sore flesh firmly. “You’re all in your head. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. Martin’s thumb finds a knot of muscle and immediately digs in. Jon hisses, and tries to move away. Martin follows him.
“It’s alright, just tell me what’s going on,” Martin says, and then, after a second, “please?”
“Yeah,” Jon mumbles. The knot of muscle loosens. Jon sighs, and Martin moves his fingers a few centimeters to the side of it, hunting for more aches to fix. “Sorry, I just feel like I’m a million miles away.”
“I can tell,” Martin says, but his voice is softer, now. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Jon says.
“Have you eaten?” Martin asks. “Sleep okay last night?”
Jon looks away guiltily. “I had tea this morning,” he says, and winces. “Don’t say anything.”
“You know I’m going to say something,” Martin says airily. “Do you need me to make you a schedule? Set alarms?”
“No, just – I know. I took the kids to the nursery, and then I figured it was nice outside, so I wandered around for a bit, and then it was noon, and then you got home, and I wanted to spend time with you, and – what?”
“Let’s get lunch,” Martin says. He takes his hands away to check his watch. Jon pouts, instinctively, and Martin pets his hair, gently, once. “It’s not even two yet. I’ll order something.”
“Fine,” Jon mumbles. He doesn’t quite bristle, but he wants to, half heartedly. “I’m okay.”
“Aren’t you always,” Martin mutters, but he presses a kiss into the soft curls. Jon’s ear twitches. Martin doesn’t tell him he’s getting too skinny, but Jon can feel him think it. Take better care of yourself, he can hear Martin say. For the kids, if nobody else. Jon fidgets with his fingers. It’s never on purpose. Just something that falls to the background, sometimes, without anyone reminding him to, and being reminded is –
Jon looks at Martin. Sighs. “I’ll set an alarm,” he mumbles.
“Okay,” Martin says, and pats his head. “I’ll call.”
––
“Can you imagine,” Jon asks gently, “what it’ll be like when they’re all teenagers?”
“Please don’t make me imagine that,” Martin groans. “Oh god.”
Jon cracks a smile at him. It’s a little crooked. “Your hair’s going to go grey, too.”
“Think it already is,” Martin mutters. He tangles a few of Jon’s curls around his fingers. “I thought they were supposed to clean up before bed.”
“Georgie said they fell asleep on the floor,” Jon tells him, “which you would know if you hadn’t rushed up the stairs first thing to make sure they’re all still alive.”
Martin makes an unintelligible sound. He tugs on the strands of hair around his finger. “Did she say if they ate?”
“Macaroni and cheese,” Jon says, all conspiratorial. “Looks like Georgie’s easier to persuade than we thought.”
Martin smiles. “Did they talk her into dessert, too?”
“No,” Jon says. “I think that’s where the falling on the floor bit comes in, though.”
“Oh?”
Jon buries his face in Martin’s neck, rubs his face against the skin. He smells good, right there, all warm and safe and cozy. “She let them watch telly all night.”
Martin gasps. “Georgie did?”
“Mm,” Jon agrees. “Can you believe it?”
“No,” Martin says. “All night?”
“After dinner,” Jon confirms. “She looked so guilty about it, too.”
“Is she going to be in trouble?” Martin asks. He sounds a bit unsure.
“Should she be?”
Martin shrugs carefully. Jon’s cheeks squish a little bit between Martin’s shoulder and jaw. “She did get them to go to bed before we got back,” he says.
“True,” Jon agrees. “All of them, this time.”
Martin smiles. “And they’re all in their beds, too.”
“Mm.”
Jon’s arms wrap around Martin’s midsection, hands disappearing under his shirt. The skin there, right above the dip of his back, is warm and soft. His hands, without him meaning to, start kneading the flesh gently, and almost immediately he finds a sore spot – Martin hisses at the touch, tries to flinch away. Jon bites gently at his neck with just his canines in warning, keeps kneading, and Martin relaxes his muscles reluctantly.
“Why didn’t you say you’re in pain?” Jon asks, mouth still attached to Martin’s neck by the teeth. The tip of his tongue peeks out to lick a short line down it.
“I’m not,” Martin protests. “I swear I didn’t even notice until you started doing that.”
“Jesus,” Jon mumbles. He pulls away. “Lie on the floor,” he says. “And take off your shirt.”
“Very romantic,” Martin mumbles, but he obeys anyway. Jon moves to straddle his hips, hands brushing over his lower back, settling into a firm kneading pattern.
“Tell me where it hurts,” he tells Martin.
“Oh,” Martin says dryly, “you’ll know.”
Jon leans forward to close his mouth around Martin’s neck again, his body stretching over the length of Martin’s body. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles. "Sorry." Jon pulls away, satisfied.
He works in silence, accentuated only by Martin’s moans of discomfort, and then, when the tension finally disappears, of relief. Eventually he only has a few stubborn knots of muscles he’s working on, ears pulled back in concentration.
Another knot dissolves with a hiss and groan from Martin, and Jon abruptly realizes that he’s purring, the sound filling the entire length of his throat at the satisfaction of making Martin feel better, almost a physical thing.
“Oh,” he says, tries to stop, “sorry.”
“No,” Martin mumbles, cheek against the carpet, “don’t stop.”
The purr stutters and stalls in Jon’s mouth. “Just feels inappropriate.”
“It’s nice,” Martin says. “I can feel it on my back. From your hands.”
Jon looks down at his hands, the contrast of their skin tones where they’re working, the motion going from the palms of his hands against Martin’s back to the knuckles of them against the flesh, kneading the muscles into submission with determination. “Oh,” he says. “It’s just,” he fumbles for words, “just feels right?”
“Mm,” Martin agrees. “You know I love it when you do that.”
Jon hums, his purring amplifying the noise. “That’s good, at least.”
“You know it.”
“Just like hearing it.”
Martin turns his head to look at him. His eyes, dark and hooded, betray the smile he’s trying to hold back. “You always act like you’re starving for affection.”
“Maybe I am,” Jon defends himself. “Maybe I’m a well. A bottomless pit.”
“Aw,” Martin says. “Wells can be filled.”
“Mm,” Jon agrees. “You should do that.”
Martin laughs. “I am!”
“Good,” Jon says, pleased. “Keep doing it."
––
“Who are these little hooligans?” Daisy asks as soon as she’s kicked off her shoes and entered the living room.
“You’re being silly,” Sage, with the tip of her tail trembling uncontrollably in delight, points out. “You know us!”
Daisy’s nicknamed her Daisy Junior. Jon doesn’t really know how to feel about it, but Sage likes it, at least for now. It’d been an issue, for a bit, actually – the rest of them upset and jealous, unhappy about not being given the same prestige and glory. Where Melanie is what to them amounts as a fun big sister, Daisy is the cool aunt. Daisy comes in and a hushed silence falls, all eight tails pointing straight up, curled at the tip to form a question mark shape. That’s just how it is.
“Maybe so,” Daisy says. She puts her backpack down on the floor, and falls into the armchair. “How’s school?”
“They’re all doing great,” Martin says from the kitchen before the gaggle of them can descend into a sea of excited chatter. “I think me and Jon are struggling more than they are. Guys, someone set the table, please.”
One of them – Sasha, this time – gets up reluctantly. They slink into the kitchen, tail twitching, and Daisy watches them go with a little smile on her face. She stretches luxuriously. Jon, towel slung over his shoulder, looks up from the sink where he’s dutifully washing pots and pans and measuring cups as Martin’s done with them, makes eye contact, smiles.
“Okay, I know I said someone but someone else needs to go as well,” Martin says when nobody else gets up. “The faster you do it the sooner you get to show Aunt Daisy the drawings you made for her.”
Poppy shoots to her feet with an anxious look on her narrow face. “I’ll go,” she says, and disappears into the dining room, where Sasha’s making a whole lot of noise with the cutlery. There’s a one in two chance that it’s because they’re unhappy to be setting the table and one in two chance they overestimated the amount of things they could carry at a time.
“What are you making?” Daisy asks. “Smells good.”
“Stew!” exclaims one of the kids.
“Really?” asks Daisy. “Do you like stew?”
The circle of cat children nods eagerly in unison.
“Good,” Daisy says, pleased. “I do as well.”
There’s the sound of excited chatter. Jon watches, with a little lump in his throat, as they politely wait for one another to finish their sentences – for the most part, at least – before interjecting. The conversation seems to be going in the direction of telling Daisy all about how sour cream is made.
“Done,” says Sasha. They link arms with Poppy and the pair of them skip their way back into the living room.
Martin peeks into the dining room. “We need a bigger dining table,” he mutters, but finds the table setting satisfactory, since he doesn’t call the kids back in to fix anything.
Jon looks as well, just to see for himself. “Oh, God,” he sighs. “I don’t think the salad’s going to fit.”
“Not a chance,” Martin mumbles.
“Why don’t you just leave it on the counter,” Harper says. They point at the few inches of uncovered wood between the sink and the stove. “See? There’s space right there.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Martin says. “That is a wonderful idea.”
Jon hides his smile into his sleeve. “Yes,” he says. “Wonderful.”
He looks into the living room. Daisy’s got her mouth open, teeth bared. The children, cross-legged on the floor by her feet, are trying to get a look at them. Jon could swear he can hear numbers, like they’re counting the teeth in her mouth.
He has a sudden thought of tiny kittens being carried around by their necks by a huge wolf. He bares his own teeth, for a split second, all instinct.
Daisy, as if sensing his discomfort, looks at him, mouth still open, a long suffering look on her face. Different picture, Jon thinks. Kittens chasing the tail of a sad golden retriever.
Jon smiles at her. Daisy pretends to roll her eyes.
––
“Do you miss it?”
The sunshine hits Jon squarely in the face where they’re sitting. The grass is so green it might as well be fake. It’s a very idyllic picture, this part of the park, and it’s unbelievable how few people come here. Still hard to believe they seem to have been the first to discover it.
“Do I miss what?” Martin asks. His sweater has ketchup stains on it. Jon counts them, displeased.
“When they were little,” he says. He looks away again. At the green grass. The slow trickle of the stream in the distance, where the mallards and the swans like to swim.
Martin looks over at where the kids are running around, screaming. Tag, Jon thinks. Or some version of it, at least. They seem to still have some trouble with grasping the rules of it. Guess seven year olds get to get away with some rule breaking, he thinks. Doesn’t matter that much to him.
“Yes,” Martin says slowly, “but I also don’t.” He turns to face Jon. “Does that make sense?”
Jon hums gently. “I think so.”
“I don’t want them to be small again,” Martin says. “But I miss when they were small. I miss how tiny they were. And how you could pick them up and hold them and they couldn’t do anything about it. And they didn’t want to do anything about it.” He smiles. “Remember how whenever one of them would fall they’d all get upset? And we would have to kiss all of them better, even the ones who didn’t get hurt at all.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. “And Bee used to fall all the time.”
Martin wraps an arm around Jon’s waist. Jon nuzzles his face against Martin’s shoulder.
“They’re still small,” Martin says gently. “And I wouldn’t want to trade them for any other version of them. And,” he says, voice going softer still, “I’ll miss this, too, in a few years. And I still won’t want to trade them for this version of them, either. Does that make sense?”
Jon thinks about all the changing, fluctuating versions of people, again. The little kittens on Martin’s body, crawling over each other. Sucking on Jon’s fingers when he’d put his hand too close to their faces. Daisy with her arms full of kittens, all meowing at her, trying to reach her face with their little hands. Georgie trying valiantly to teach them how to pet The Admiral nicely, without pulling.
All of it important. All of it real. All of it gone, now.
He closes his eyes. He can still see it all. All of it still his.
“Yeah,” Jon exhales. “Yes, it does.”
––
Martin’s the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes.
“Hey,” Jon says. His voice comes out a little raspy. Martin reaches a hand towards him, and Jon moves closer to meet it halfway.
“Hi,” Martin says. He scratches behind Jon’s ear, and then when it starts twitching with overstimulation he slides his hand down so that he can cup Jon’s jaw instead, rub his thumb over the curve of it.
“What time is it?” Jon asks, eyes sliding shut.
“Early,” Martin says softly. “Still early.”
Jon nods, careful to not make Martin move his hand away. To his delight, Martin’s other hand joins the first, cups his jaw, moves over his face in a curved line, feather light and slow. His cheek. His nose. Other cheek. Jon leans forward, and Martin’s lips meet his in a soft, closed-mouthed kiss.
“Do you want to sleep longer?” Martin asks him. Their faces are so close together Jon can feel the vibration of the air against his skin. “We have time.”
Jon nestles in closer. Martin is warm, and big, and soft, and safe. The volume of the first purring sound that comes out of his mouth is almost a surprise to Jon himself. How insistent. How happy.
“Jon,” Martin says. There’s a tone of wonder and awe in his voice. Jon imagines little tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Sweetheart.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Jon mumbles, “I just love you so much.”
“I love you,” Martin sighs, “I love you, I love you –”
Jon’s ears twitch, try to point towards the sound of his voice, greedy and eager, almost selfish with how badly he wants to hear it as clearly as he can. The sound of his own purring gets in the way, almost, and he tries to hold his breath, but it doesn’t work. He could can the sound of Martin saying it. He could put it in a jar and keep it on the dresser. In the china cabinet. In his pocket.
Outside, where the sun has yet to rise all the way up, the birds are waking up. Jon hears them sing songs of love and ownership. Saying this place is mine. This tree is mine.
He nestles in closer, face pressed into the fabric of Martin’s shirt, inhaling hard as he can. Sings his own song, thready and breathy.