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Gasping, Jon snapped awake, throwing out his hand. Instead of empty air, his palm struck something soft.
“Oh, you’re up.”
With a thump, a book closed, and a hand combed through his hair. Jon peeled his eyes open, and Martin grinned down at him. “Rise and shine, Mr. Snooze.”
A long, haggard sigh escaped through Jon's nose, taking with it his panic and fear. He worked his throat, but his racing heart made it hard to come up with a response. But the cotton of Martin’s pyjama pants was soft underneath his fingertips, warmed by the heat of Martin’s skin, and Jon's pulse returned to normal.
Martin’s callused fingers carded through his hair one last time before pulling away. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m hankering for a cuppa. Want some?”
Scrubbing his eyes, Jon pushed himself further up his pillow, tugging at his scrunched up pyjama shirt. “Yes, please. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“‘Course not.”
Martin set his book down on the end table before turning out of bed, but just as he sat up, Jon reached for his sleeve.
“Thank you, by the way,” he said. “For, um … waiting for me to wake up.”
“Please, you make it sound like lounging about in bed is some great effort.”
“Still, I …” The words died on Jon’s tongue. You remember when we first got here? And I’d wake up and you were gone– to the kitchen, or the bog, it didn’t matter– I’d think you’d been taken, or you left me, and I … I would–
He swallowed it all down. Tightened his hand on Martin’s sleeve. “Still. Thank you.”
With a gentle smile, Martin took his hand, squeezing once, before letting go and sliding out of bed. Jon still felt that trace pulse of anxiety as Martin turned the corner, but he took a deep breath, two, the way Martin taught him, before settling back onto his pillow. Sleep tempted his eyes shut, the sticky fear of the nightmare having since receded, but he fought it off. Martin would be back soon.
It had been … God, almost one month since they’d arrived at Daisy’s cabin, hadn’t it? One month since Martin decided that he’d weed the garden if Jon dusted the attic, switching when Jon had found the first of the spiders. One month of toiling over shopping list after shopping list before making their weekly twenty-minute trek to the mart, only to forget something anyway. One month since Martin had taken his hand, even though their arms were full of groceries. Kissed his cheek when Jon had burnt their pasta sauce. Reached for him under the bed covers, holding him as Jon struggled to breathe through his sobbing, until they both drifted away again.
Jon didn’t know what to do with himself. For so many years, the weight of solving Gertrude’s murder, the weight of the world, the weight of being watched, bore down on his shoulders, and he’d had no one to turn to. There was always something he’d had to do, something he’d had to focus on, else risk missing a critical clue, putting himself in danger, getting somebody killed.
He’d run on fear and terror and guilt for so long …
But not here.
“Look alive, sleepyhead.”
Jon’s eyes snapped open. Martin stood by the bedside with an amused smirk, holding two mugs. Oh, blast, he’d drifted off, hadn’t he? Sitting up, Jon accepted the mug, the porcelain warming his fingers. Martin had brought the one with the little reindeers– part of a matching set they had bought during their first run to the mart. Martin, holding the other, clinked their mugs together, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “I’m really enjoying that book, by the way.”
“What book?”
“You know.” Martin gestured towards the end table. “The one you picked me up from that old bookshop last week. You know, about weird, paranormal sightings in America.”
“Oh.” A tendril of warmth curled in his stomach. He hadn’t even noticed Martin had begun reading it. “Good. It's been a while since I read it myself. I wasn’t sure if it was, uh … perhaps a little inappropriate, all things considered …”
“Honestly, I think it’s kind of funny,” said Martin, taking a small sip. “The narration's hilarious, anyway, it's got this quirky charm to it. God, the way she went off about that guy with the imported pet lion? I nearly cried.”
“Yes, exactly,” Jon said, relief coursing through him. Good. Martin really liked it, then. He brought his mug to his lips, thinking up a reply, and then paused. He took another sip, just to be sure.
“Is this … peppermint?”
“Oh.” Martin scratched at his chin. “Um. Yeah. So, I wanted to see if we could order things online from here, so I decided … um, I remember you saying you liked to drink peppermint tea when it got cold since it, you know, made it feel like the holidays. So I got a box. Picked it up at the post office when I went on that walk yesterday.”
Jon stared. Swallowed. “Thank you. That’s …” He cleared his throat. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s just some tea.”
It wasn’t just some tea, but Jon relented. Didn’t want to ruin this moment by saying something stupid. So, instead, he brought his mug back to his lips. “So, what did you think of the New Hampshire case? The one with the hornets’ nest?”
Martin smiled and settled further onto the bed.
The taste of peppermint lingered on Jon’s tongue for the remainder of the morning. Jon read, or pretended to read, at least, while Martin futzed around on their shared laptop, the radio’s static humming in the distance.
Jon tried to think of something to do for Martin, as a thank you. Make lunch? No, all they had were cans of mushroom cream soup– it would hardly take any effort. Bake a cake, as a surprise? No. He’d probably just burn it again, and Martin would insist on helping him clean up his mess. Not exactly a grand romantic gesture, giving Martin more work to do.
How did Martin make this look so effortless? Like making Jon happy just came second-nature to him?
Because, in the end, it wasn’t just some tea. It wasn’t just Martin waiting in bed so Jon didn’t have to wake up in the morning thinking he was alone, even for a moment. It wasn’t just Martin offering to do the dishes, or saying he’d left Jon an extra slice of pizza in the fridge, or throwing the towel in the dryer so it was warm and toasty by the time Jon got out of the shower.
It was Martin’s unyielding, neverending thoughtfulness. It was Martin recalling some random conversation that Jon himself couldn’t remember about peppermint tea. It was his patience as Jon struggled with the unique punishment of being himself, and doing so with a smile and a gentle kiss. It was about Martin doing something for Jon for its own sake without any thought for reciprocation.
It was about Martin making Jon feel safe, treasured, and loved. And it had been so, so long since anyone made him feel that way.
And, in the face of it all, Jon was starting to flounder.
‘how to let someone know that you care about them’
‘things to do for someone you love’
‘i love him and i need him to know that but i don’t know how and would appreciate some help’
The search results were unhelpful. Most of them were in the same vein as bake a cake. Write a card. Bring them breakfast in bed. All fine ideas, he supposed, but the problem was that they were banal. Mundane. Jon wanted to dazzle Martin. Spoil him, pamper him. Say all the things he wanted to say in a grand gesture.
One search result recommended tell them that you love them, and Jon winced. Though the words sat heavy on his tongue, the knowledge that he’d find some way to cock up something as simple as saying I love you kept them locked away tight in his throat. A voice that’s said as many awful and twisted things as his simply wasn’t allowed to say something so soft and intimate. Not yet, anyway. He’d only succeed in sounding ridiculous.
He’d just have to figure something else out in the meantime.
Another search result recommended an outing. Meaningful time spent together.
Yes. Yes, that could be … Well, they’ve spent so much time cooped up in this cabin, after all, broken up only by their shopping trips. Jon was happy enough to remain isolated from the rest of the world, having long since grown tired of London’s urban sprawl, but a little excitement could be good for Martin.
But where would they go? The only practical option was a small coastal town; anything else promised at least a four-hour ride, and there wasn’t a person alive who would consider being trapped with Jon in a camper for that long as time meaningfully spent.
He browsed through the tabs, chewing on his bottom lip until the soft skin started to peel. Biking could be good? Although, no, Martin didn’t like riding bikes, said they made him anxious. A cooking class? Martin already knew how to cook, it was Jon that was the hopeless case. A full day hike through the highlands? Ugh.
There had to be something. Something that would make Martin feel special. Something Martin could look back on as a fond memory.
That’s when he found it. He straightened up in his seat, pulse jumping as he clicked on for more information.
Now there’s an idea.
“I think I’d like to visit the coast this weekend.”
From the table, Martin’s eyes darted up from his book. “What? Where are we going?”
Jon tossed another sliver of the orange peel into the kitchen’s trash can. The pith was beginning to crust under his fingernails, and he grimaced. “The, uh, the little coastal town? Remember? About an hour out? We were going to pass through it and I decided I didn’t, uh …” He plucked off more of the pith. “Anyway, I was just thinking we could drive out there. Poke around. See what we find.”
“Was there something you wanted to buy? I can–”
“No! Um, no particular reason, anyway. I just, well …” With the orange completely stripped, he set the slices on a small plate before rounding the table. “Well, you were the one who said we should try and make a holiday out of all this. And I just figured we haven’t really gone anywhere besides the mart. Here you are,” he said as he sat, sliding the plate over to Martin.
“Thank you.” Martin tossed a slice into his mouth, chewing on it with a low hum. “I guess I did say that, didn’t I? The holiday thing.” He smiled. “This weekend, you said? Saturday?”
Jon returned the smile, his stomach fluttering.
“That sounds perfect.”
That Saturday morning, they woke up early and had a quick breakfast before loading in the camper. All throughout the journey, Jon’s leg bounced in the passenger seat, until he had to consciously tell it to stop. It wouldn’t do to have Martin catch onto his nervous energy and ask questions. That would ruin the point of a surprise.
But they arrived at the town without even one lifted eyebrow. Martin, for his part, looked rather delighted, a twitching smile curling his lips as he flipped off the engine and turned to Jon.
“So, what do you want to do first, Mr. Wanderlust?”
It was too early for lunch– Jon would have to stall. “A walk on the beach might be nice?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They both slid out of their seats, Jon closing the door behind him. When Martin wrapped around the camper, gesturing towards the walkway, he reached out and took Jon’s hand. Like it was nothing. Casual.
The stomach flutters were back. It was hardly an unusual occurrence at this point; Martin would take his hand whenever it struck his fancy. On their walks, at the mart, curled up on the couch when they were reading together. But never in a place that was so … public before. Pedestrians swarmed around them as they reached the zebra crossing.
It was good, Jon decided. While Jon didn’t much care for being watched at the best of times, it was … nice being seen this way. Together.
“Oh, God,” Martin murmured as they took their first few steps onto the beach. Jon looked up. “I’ve forgotten beaches have sand.”
“You …” Jon blinked. “You’re going to have to elaborate.”
“Beaches have sand. And that sand gets into your shoes.”
“I– Oh.” Jon snorted, and then covered his mouth. “We can do something else, if you’d like?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Martin squeezed his hand, leading them further onto the shore. “These are just the things you never really consider in your romantic fantasies.”
Something warm and pleased tightened Jon’s chest. They walked down to the coastline, sand crunching underneath their heels, Jon enjoying the taste of sea salt on the wind. The sun had tucked itself behind a grey overcast, but the slight chill only gave him the excuse of pressing further into Martin’s warm side. Through it all, Martin held his hand, thumbing small, mindless circles over scarred skin.
The pressure that had been building in his chest came back, clawing at his throat, begging to be let loose. “I’m starting to feel a bit peckish. How about you?”
“Hmm? Yeah, I could go for a nibble.”
Jon hid his smile in the soft pillow of Martin’s arm. Okay. So far so good. “There’s this hotel not far from here. They offer a high tea package; it’s supposed to be rather elegant.”
“A hotel?”
“Yes. I …” He flushed. “I looked it up in advance.”
A slow, teasing smile curled Martin’s lips. “You really are looking to make a proper holiday out of this.” Jon headbutted his shoulder, and Martin chuckled. “But, I mean, high tea? Sounds a little ritzy for us, don’t you think?”
“We can afford it,” Jon said, not actually knowing if that was true. It’s not as if they had rent to worry about, though, and they had brought plenty of cash with them before leaving London. Martin’s lips remained twisted downward though, concerned, and the bubble of enthusiasm in Jon’s chest deflated. There was hardly a point in all this if Martin wasn’t interested. “If … if you’d rather not …”
The frown was wiped away and replaced with a delicate smile. “We can do whatever you like, Jon. I’m just being a worrywart, is all.”
“I think it’ll be fun.”
Martin smiled again, and said nothing.
The hotel was on the opposite end of the park. “Two for your high tea package?” Jon asked as they approached the front desk.
“Of course, sirs, right this way.”
The waiter, an older gentleman, brought them to the dining area. Only one or two other patrons were present, and the waiter put them at a table facing the wide bay windows, providing a lovely view of the beach. Jon sank into the plush chair, running his fingers over the silky tablecloth. It may have been a small hotel in a small town, but they knew how to exemplify their more luxurious aspects.
“It’s nicer than I was expecting,” he said. Martin said nothing, staring at the small, unlit candle. “Martin?”
“Hmm?” Martin pulled his head up. “Did you say something?”
“Yes, I …” Jon licked his lips, feeling like he had missed a step. “Are you alright? You seem a bit …”
“I’m fine. I’ve just …” He smoothed a hand down his trousers. “Never done something like this before. Only time I’ve ever eaten in a hotel was getting a continental breakfast at a motel in Brighton. Liked the omelette station, though.”
Motel eggs? Jon scrunched his nose. Nothing sounded less appetizing. “Well, in that case, hopefully this will prove to be a worthwhile new experience.”
“What about you? Have you ever done something fancy like this?”
“Oh.” Jon’s face warmed. “Um. Well, actually, I, uh …” He brushed his hair out of his face. “When I was a child, my grandmother would take me to this hotel in Trafalgar Square for my birthday. Only if my grades were good, of course, as a treat. There’s … something about drinking tea from a porcelain cup and saucer that makes you feel special.” By now his face was burning, and he looked down at his fidgeting hands. “It was one of the only things we enjoyed doing together.”
A fond smile spread across Martin’s face. “That’s really lovely.”
“Yes, well–” Jon cleared his throat. He wasn’t used to sharing anecdotes about his childhood like that, even with Martin.
Thankfully, the waiter appeared, saving him from needing to respond. “Have you decided which tea you’d liked to be served this afternoon, sirs?”
Martin reached for the menu. “Sorry. Haven’t looked yet.”
He scanned the page, and Jon waited. After all, it only made sense for Martin to make the selection. As the seconds ticked by, though, a wrinkle creased Martin’s brow.
“Wow, I … haven’t even heard of half of these, to be honest.” He looked up to the waiter. “Um. Rooibos, is that, uh … that’s a green tea, right …?”
“I believe it’s an herbal tea from South Africa,” Jon said. Martin turned to him. “Very similar in taste to hibiscus tea.”
“Oh.” Martin looked back down at the menu. “Um, yeah … so …” He coughed. “Uh …”
The seconds ticked by, Martin’s eyes flitting up and down the page. It’s not a test, you know, Jon wanted to say, but then noted, with some alarm, that Martin’s expression glazed with the sort of hazy glossiness of a student during finals. The waiter stood idle, and Martin's eyes grew more dull with panic.
“We’d like an English breakfast,” Jon said quickly, “if you wouldn’t mind.”
The waiter nodded and took Martin's menu back. Jon sat back in his seat, letting out a slow breath. However, Martin was still frowning.
“What’s the matter?” Jon asked, and Martin flinched, face growing hot.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just kind of froze up. You probably wanted something fancier.”
“There’s nothing wrong with English breakfast.”
Martin ran a finger across the silver utensils, looking unconvinced. Jon struggled to say something, but he didn’t know what went wrong. Had Martin wanted something fancier? Was Jon wrong to butt in like that? Should Jon aplogise, or was it something else?
There was a clattering and Jon blinked awake. He'd let himself get distracted. Their teapot had arrived. With it came a small, segmented tower of their lunch of small finger sandwiches, small muffins, and scones, along with a scattering of biscuits.
“Well, here we are,” said Jon, reaching for a chocolate biscuit.
Martin took one of the muffins, rotating it. “This had got to be the cutest, littlest muffin I’ve ever seen.”
Jon smiled. Good. Martin was enjoying himself. “One must appreciate the effort of a good presentation.”
“Teensy weensy presentation.” Putting the muffin down on his plate, Martin reached for the teapot. He took Jon’s cup and started to pour. “Here, let me–”
“Wait, wait,” Jon said and Martin jumped back. Jon reached for the metal strainer, resting it on the lip of the teacup. “There we are. This’ll catch the debris from the tea leaves.”
“Oh.” Slowly, Martin once again tipped the spout, the filter catching flecks of debris. “Yeah, that makes sense.” When Jon’s cup was full, he pulled away with a chuckle. “I actually don’t think I’ve ever brewed loose leaves before.”
“Hmm. It’s overrated, I feel,” said Jon, pouring a splash of milk into his cup. “Not really worth the effort. But perhaps it’s nice to have more control over the strength of your brew.”
Martin laughed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you knew so much about it. All this time and you’re probably the one who should be making us tea.”
Jon had his cup half raised to his mouth before lowering it. “That’s– Don’t be absurd. Your tea is obviously superior to anything I could make, or this random hotel.”
“What are you talking about? All I do is wiggle a bag. And you haven’t even tried it yet, silly.”
“I don’t have to.”
A laugh. “You’re sweet.”
Frowning, Jon sipped from his cup. The liquid was still too hot, burning his upper lip, but he was too frayed to notice. None of this was going like Jon had imagined. Everything he did or said just seemed to make Martin’s smile turn more and more bracing.
Setting down his cup, he reached for the tower. “Have you ever tried a scone with cottage cream and raspberry sauce? It’s quite delicious.”
“I don’t think I have, no.”
Jon cut the scone in half, lapping the cream and the sauce in the center before handing it to Martin. With a delicate hand, Martin took the scone and Jon leaned forward eagerly. Martin was sure to like this.
Martin bit into the scone– and a cream clot dropped onto his jumper.
“Shit.” Martin recoiled, and the rest of the scone fell out of his hand and tumbled to the floor. “Shit.”
“It’s okay,” Jon said, scrambling for a napkin. “Let me just–”
“It’s fine,” Martin said, pushing his chair back. “I’ll just grab it–”
His elbow struck his teacup and knocked it over, hot liquid splashing over the table and staining the white cotton sheet. Martin sat frozen, staring at the stained tablecloth with glassy eyes and tight lips.
Gradually, Martin reached down to pick the scone up off the floor, setting it on his plate. He then took his tablecloth and started patting down the wet spot. Jon reached out.
“Let me–”
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.”
Jon lowered his hands, watching as Martin continued to clean until his tablecloth was thoroughly stained.
“Yeah, that’s a lost cause,” Martin said, a slight wobble to his voice. “Um. Do you think you can get the waiter for more napkins? I think, uh …” He worked his throat. “I think I’ll go wash up, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Jon whispered. Martin nodded and pushed up out of his chair, walking around the table. Jon watched over his shoulder as Martin approached the hostess, asking where the toilet was. His shoulders were curled inward, taking an inch of his height, and his eyes were to the ground as he turned the corner.
Jon turned back to the table, stomach twisting itself into knots. When the waiter returned, he asked for more napkins and did his best to pat as much of the spill as he could. Martin was right, though; it seemed a lost cause.
Not long after that, Martin came back, a damp spot on his jumper. “Right.” He reached for the tray. “Watercress for you, then?”
Jon sat there, paralyzed with fear. What did he say? What did he do? He was ruining this.
Without waiting for an answer, Martin loaded up his plate and slid it across the table. Jon stared down at the morsels, and swallowed.
“Are you okay?” he asked, softly.
“What? ‘Course I’m okay.” Martin huffed, taking a bite out of his egg salad sandwich. “It was just a little spill.”
Martin continued to chew, genial, as if nothing were wrong. Something was wrong, though, and Jon didn't know how to fix it.
He picked up the watercress sandwich, and bit into it.
It was dry.
They asked for the cheque and made their way back to the camper. The ride stretched on, minute after miserable minute. Martin had his eyes on the road and Jon continued to fail at coming up with anything meaningful to say. I’m sorry I’m such an incompetent boyfriend? That was just manipulative. Martin would come to his defence and insist it wasn’t Jon’s fault, and it was. He wanted to pull his hair out. This was entirely his fault.
What had he been thinking, really? Springing some ridiculous nonsense on Martin with no warning, without even asking if it was something Martin wanted? How could Jon be so stupid?
He opened his mouth, readying a desperate apology–
“I’m sorry.”
Jon blinked. Whirled his head around. “What?”
A weak smile quirked the corner of Martin’s mouth. “I was acting strange back there, wasn’t I?”
Jon’s mouth flapped. How did he respond to that?
“Sorry,” Martin said again. “I just feel so out of place doing things like that. You know, classy things.” He chuckled, sheepish. “I think the closest I’ve ever gotten was going to the West End on a school field trip. Couldn’t afford to go next year.” He lowered his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you–”
“No!”
Martin flinched, the wheel jumping in his hands, and Jon blushed at his own volume. “I mean– You didn’t–” He made a frustrated noise. “You haven’t done anything to apologise for. I’m the one who should be apologising.”
“What? Why on earth would you think a thing like that?”
“Because I–” The words fought in his throat, and he ran his hands over his face, wishing he could curl up somewhere and vanish. “I wanted to surprise you with something. Like the way you surprise me. You make me feel …” He took a deep breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You make me feel so special and, and loved. I wanted to make you feel the same, and I thought this would do it. And I completely cocked it up.”
A snort. Jon whirled around, eyes narrowing. Martin had a hand clapped over his mouth, but when their eyes met, a laugh ripped through his nose.
“You–” Jon blinked. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Nothing,” Martin said, wiping the corner of his eye. “No, this isn’t funny, I promise. It’s just … I don’t know. This is all just so you, you know?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Jon.” Martin took his hand, eyes warm and fond, and Jon’s chest fluttered. “You already make me feel like that. Everyday.”
“But I don’t …”
“You don’t …?”
“I mean, I-I don’t do the things you do. Like with the peppermint tea, or …”
“Hmm. No, I suppose not,” Martin murmured. “You just do things like … pick all the pith off my orange slices. Get me books at old bookstores because you think I’d like them.” His smile widened. “Taking me to high tea because it’s something you did with your grandma as a kid.”
Jon huffed. “And look how well that turned out.”
“Jon, if you had told me all this from the get-go, I think I would’ve melted right into the floor. I’m still tempted to, by the way, if I wasn’t driving.”
Jon went silent. He knew the point Martin was trying to make. He really did. But those things just didn’t feel the same. Jon didn’t put any effort into them; he did them because he knew they made Martin happy and he–
Oh.
Jon stared at their joined hands.
Oh.
Martin’s smile widened. “We should plan another trip. Figure out what we want to do together and have a grand time. What do you think?”
Jon squeezed his hand. The pressure in his chest had returned– but it didn’t feel quiet as crushing as it had before. “I think I’d like that.”
When they both tucked into bed, lights off and the world still, Jon stared up at the ceiling. Beside him, Martin breathed softly, not quite awake, but not asleep, either. Jon turned onto his side.
“Martin?”
A low hum.
“So. This hypothetical trip of yours. Is there something you had in mind?”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Jon.”
“I want to.” Jon pressed his hand over Martin’s, thumb stroking his knuckles. “You don’t have to answer right away. I just want to know the sorts of things that you like to do.”
Martin was quiet. Martin was quiet for an awfully long time. Jon’s eyelids were beginning to drift, his body sinking into the mattress, before, softly, “There is this one thing …”
Jon snapped awake, and Martin sighed. “It’s stupid. It’s this little shop all the way back in London so it’s not like we can even go.”
“Tell me.” Jon shuffled close enough that their noses brushed together. “I still want to know.”
“It’s … well, okay.” Martin cleared his throat. “So … there was this little tea shop I walked by on my way to work, yeah? Near Hyde’s park? And they had so much tea you could buy, and they would let you walk around and look at them and smell them if you wanted. And if you picked one you liked, you can go to the cafe and they’d serve it to you.” Even in the darkness, Jon could see Martin’s face colour. “I’d always daydream about us going there. You know, like on a date or something.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Yes, well, it’s not happening anytime soon anyway. But … yeah, there it is.”
Jon smiled. Kissed Martin’s forehead. “Thank you.”
Huffing, Martin slid his eyes shut. He seemed ready to slip back to sleep, but Jon’s thoughts were racing. True, they wouldn’t be making the trip back to London for quite some time, but they could still put in online orders. What was that exotic tea box set Georgie had subscribed to, back in second year? He could purchase some biscuits from the mart’s bakery, as well. They could have their own high tea.
Martin’s breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in a steady, lulling rhythm. In the darkness, the pressure in Jon’s chest grew until his throat nearly closed, eyes misting.
He pressed his lips into the soft curls of Martin’s hair.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Eyes still closed, Martin tilted his head up, kissing the corner of Jon’s mouth.
“I love you, too.”