Chapter Text
The place Jon picked for their date is nice. Understated, not too expensive, good variety of menu options. Jon ordered tea and left it untouched on the table before him, steam wafting gently and fogging his glasses as he looked down at his hands. He's been fidgeting since they sat down.
"Is anything wrong?" Martin finally breaks down and asks.
Jon hunches in on himself, and Martin's heart sinks. "Is this a date?" Jon says. He sounds resigned.
Shit. Despite himself, Martin flinches. He manages to recover with a, "Do you want it to be?"
Jon rakes a slightly trembling hand through his hair. "See, that's where it gets complicated. I don't..." he hesitates, looking around them. The place is fairly empty, so Jon says quietly, "I did want to play with you, and I still do. But dating, relationships..." he spreads his arms helplessly.
Okay, this is salvageable. Martin rallies. "So, you're saying you're looking for a play partner but not a romantic relationship?"
Jon's mouth purses. "I want to be friends, though. I mean it. I'm not interested in playing with someone if we can't hold a conversation or, ah," he darts another look around and lowers his voice, "cuddle."
Martin was hoping for a romantic kind of connection, he won't deny it, but he likes Jon, who cuddles so shamelessly when drunk and shies from the very word when he’s sober. "Sure," he says. Friends with benefits can be fun, so long as they were actually friends.
Melissa's forehead wrinkles as Martin tells her about the encounter. "I know what you're going to say," Martin forestalls her. "But it's not like we're exclusive. I'm not giving up anything by scening with Jon. You did say I should have more friends."
"I meant outside the kink scene," Melissa says, exasperated.
Martin has his doubts about that. He'd gone through two other therapists before Melissa, one who turned out to be a TERF and a CBT-focused one who did absolutely nothing for him. Turns out that when you're already used to ignoring what you're feeling and getting shit done, you need therapy that isn't focused on behavior. Melissa's helped him a bunch, but she's a bit over-wary about the kink scene and where Martin connects with it.
"Anyway, if you're having sex," Melissa continues, "I'm not sure that's exactly friendship."
"Friend with benefits," Martin repeats. "Friendship's right in the name. And we're not having sex, anyway, he's not into that." That had come up later in the date. Which wasn’t a date.
Melissa's expression goes from dismay into confusion. "Kink... but not sex."
"Yes," Martin says slowly. "Like most of what I've been doing recently." Christ, was she even listening to him? Maybe it was time to shop for a new therapist. Except Martin knows he doesn't have the energy to bring a new one up to speed, and Melissa's rates were affordable. "Probably impact - he showed interest in my paddle when we first met."
Melissa hummed. "I see. Well, alright, so long as you're having fun. But I worry, Martin. You get attached very quickly, and not always to people who are worth it."
"That's assuming I'm worth it," Martin jokes. Mostly jokes.
Melissa's gaze turns serious. "You are." She says it with such intensity that he almost believes her. Maybe that's why he keeps going to her after all. “You have so much love to give, Martin. You deserve someone who’ll return it.”
So he keeps his options open. Two days later, he makes eye contact with an older white man who saunters to him and makes roundabout conversation. Martin can only make out every third word he says over the loud music, but it doesn’t sound like he’s missing much.
On the other hand, the guy leans suggestively close. His body is warm and Martin was never very good at delaying gratification. He follows the man home.
The man - Peter - seems resolved to shove Martin as fast as he can toward the bedroom, but Martin’s distracted by a bag of cat food. “Oh, you have a cat?”
“In the other room,” Peter says. “It’s not allowed out when I have… company.” He rakes his eyes blatantly over Martin’s body. Martin weighs his options and lets Peter hurry him along. He can try to pet the cat later.
For all of the next morning and some of the afternoon, Martin is curled up on his bed at home. He can’t seem to get warm. At least he didn’t have to go to work today.
Peter… Peter was fine. Hadn’t pushed, hadn’t crossed any boundaries.
And hadn’t let you stay for so much as a cup of tea after, Martin thinks, and shakes his head. This again. What did he expect, going home with a random stranger whose name he barely caught?
He eyes his phone with misgivings. Melissa emphatically said to call her if it happened again. But he feels weird doing that. The sessions he pays for, but this? It feels an awful lot like an imposition. Besides, what if she just uses the opportunity to say I told you so? He couldn’t stand that now.
He just needs to hang in there. This mood will pass. They always do.
Fuck, Martin’s cold. He’d do anything for someone to hold, just now.
“You didn’t.”
Jon’s got his face buried in his hands, but Tim’s disbelieving voice follows him to this meagre hiding spot. “I assure you I did.”
“Jon, I hate to ask this, but what’s wrong with you?”
“I wish I knew.” Jon lets out a heavy sigh. It might have explained that whole mess with Georgie, as well.
“Hey.” Tim’s large hand lands on Jon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, and I shouldn’t have said it. There isn’t anything wrong with you.”
Jon’s mouth twists, but he lets that debatable statement go unchallenged.
“It’s just that you like him. I can tell. Anyone with eyes can tell.” The table creaks lightly as Tim attempts to park his arse on it, despite Jon’s many attempts to explain that his kitchen table was not a sofa. “He’s into you, and he seems like a genuinely sweet person. Why not date him?”
“Because it will end horribly!” Jon straightens up all at once, throwing his arms in exasperation. “All of my relationships this far have ended with me never talking to that person again.”
“Jon,” Tim says carefully, “you’ve dated two people in your entire life.”
“And now I’m not talking to either of them, am I?” Jon crosses his arms. “100% failure rate. That’s not promising.”
“That’s also not a sample size.” Tim tugs on Jon’s sleeve. “Come to the sofa, will you? You always talk more sense when somebody’s cuddling you.”
“That’s not what you said when I was in Martin’s lap,” Jon mutters, sour, but he follows Tim in a docile enough fashion.
“Alright, you always talk more sense when I’m cuddling you.”
For form’s sake, Jon protests, “You start petting my hair and all I can do is make incoherent noises.”
“See? Loads more sense than what you’ve been saying.”
Jon’s about to contest this, but Tim’s hand is making its way to his nape, gripping strongly and turning his brain into goo. “Dating is weird,” he mutters with the last remains of his verbal ability.
“Mm, that it is.” Tim’s scritching him in the nape.
Jon should stick to having cuddle buddies. Those work for him. He hadn’t messed up his relationship with Tim yet, right?
Martin’s on his way back home from work when his mobile rings. He curses and nearly drops the groceries he picked up into a puddle.
He doesn’t recognize the number, which makes him answer quickly. Could be one of the nursing home’s attendants calling from their personal device; it’s happened exactly once in all the time his mum's been there, there had been some issue with the local phone network, but it could happen again. No knowing.
The call cuts before he can get his phone. He listens to the voicemail right away, though.
“Hello, Martin.” The voice has a weird jovial air, a little too cheerful, like he’s trying to sell Martin something.
It’s a different tone than that voice has had last time Martin heard it, but he’s good with voices.
“You seem like a very responsible person, so I thought I’d ask you for a little favor,” continues Peter’s recorded voice. “As you so astutely noted, I have a cat. And now I find I have to be away on business for some time. If you could feed the cat and water my plants, I’d be very much obliged.”
“Excuse you?” Martin says, tromping up the stairs to his flat with more force than strictly necessary.
“You will, of course, be compensated - I’ve left a sum of cash in my flat for your troubles. The key is under the houseplant beside the door, and the main door code is four-three-two-one.”
The sheer stupidity of giving a near complete stranger the keys to your home is only just rivaled by the audacity of asking said stranger for a long-term favor. Or, no, not even asking: informing him he’ll be doing it. Martin would be well within his rights to hang up and think no more of this.
He would, he absolutely would, but there is that sum of money. Peter hadn’t named the amount. Judging from his flat, he was loaded. Martin’s no longer so poor it hurts, but every little bit helps, right? Even if it turns out to be a measly amount.
It’s late in the evening by the time Martin makes it to Peter’s flat. He considered leaving it for another day, but he wants to familiarize himself with the commute and the territory.
It’s just as evidently expensive and barren as Martin remembers. It’s also much bigger than one man, even one with a cat, should need. Martin pokes his head into ugly, minimalist rooms, and on reaching the last room a grey streak shoots out between his legs. Martin curses and hopes devoutly he remembered to close the front door.
When he turns around, though, the cat is right there. The pale gray of its fur is patched with white, and it turns green eyes on Martin. He crouches and reaches out a tentative hand. “Pspsps?”
To his surprise, the cat comes, bypassing his hand to rub its face on Martin’s knee. It startles a little when he shifts into a sitting position, but as soon as he does, it climbs unerringly into his lap and begins to aggressively purr.
Martin sits with it in its lap until his legs fall asleep, thoughts whirring. It occurs to him that Peter didn’t mention any backup plan, hadn’t so much as considered Martin might not come to feed his cat. Peter didn’t even say the cat’s name. The open room which housed it has a food bowl, a water bowl, a litter box, and that’s it. Not so much as a catnip mouse in sight.
Martin’s resolve steels itself. He starts to get up. The cat meows plaintively, but doesn’t dig its claws into Martin’s legs, allowing itself to be dislodged with an expression that seems almost resigned.
A long rummage through Peter’s closets yields a vast array of men’s clothing in dull colors and rather more kink equipment and accessories. No carrying case Martin can find. He ends up stripping the pillow cover from the one on Peter’s bed and putting the cat in it. The cat goes so trustingly that Martin’s heart breaks a little. “There,” he whispers. He’ll have to come back for the rest of the equipment.