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“He’s late,” said Tim, overlaying Martin’s previous, and noticeably disappointed statement of “He’s not coming.”
“He will,” said Sasha, nudging her elbow up against Martin’s. “Tim’s a very good coaxer – aren’t you Tim?”
“The best,” he said, raising his pint glass skyward.
They were in a dingy Spoons; the air musty and sticky with the sour smell of the plastic cocktail pitcher that sat between the three. The room was loud, a heavy vibrato of conversation that hung over them as the other patrons drank, and cheered, and celebrated the welcome return of Friday night. Most of them swayed and laughed as if it were the most marvellous thing to happen, and not just the reliable passage of time.
Martin’s shoulders raised slightly, his arms bracketing the glass of half-melted ice, tinted blue from the remnants of whatever the hell Sasha had ordered. He wasn’t disappointed.
He wasn’t.
He hadn’t, upon hearing that Jon would be joining them for Friday-Night-Drinks, rushed home to change, and clean himself up into something more respectable – whilst also casual, it was very important to remain casual. It wasn’t the easiest line to balance between, but Tim had welcomed him over to their table with an exaggerated wolf-whistle, that, he hated to admit, had made him blush quite furiously.
His shoulders shot upright with a sudden cheer, as Tim bellowed out a greeting across the pub. Martin’s head shot over to where he was looking – over to Jon, who had just entered. His face was twisted into discomfort as he weaved between the tables and drinkers who littered the floor. His coat was drawn tightly around him, and his hands clutched the strap of his messenger bag as if it was a lifeline.
“You’re late!” chastised Tim with a broad smile.
“Hey, Jon,” said Sasha, toasting him with her glass.
“You came,” said Martin, the words falling out in a surprised breath.
“I was invited,” stated Jon, shrugging his arms out of his coat, and hanging it up on the back of his chair. Jon’s brow raised, and he shot a quick look over to Tim. “Was I not?”
He said it in his same dry tone, but Martin could hear the small waver of uncertainty that rang beneath it. “Of course! I was just – I wasn’t sure, is all. You don’t usually – you know, come.”
“Well, it’s been quite a week,” said Jon, simply. “Could really do with a drink, in all honesty.”
“That can be more than arranged,” said Tim. “Martin’s buying.”
“I am?”
“Sure.” Tim smacked an arm down against him, and gave his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Why don’t the two of you head up, and bring the table back something?”
“Oh, it’s alright,” said Martin, quickly, stumbling to his feet. “I can go up myself.”
Jon, however, had already risen, and was looking at Martin with a tired expression. “I don’t expect you to carry everything back here yourself, and besides,” he had started to walk now, and turned to make sure Martin was following, “you don’t know my order.”
Martin’s height at always been an advantage at pubs, always towering over the bustling crowd that lined the counter with ease. He could easily catch the attention of one of the bartenders, if he just simply held his hand up – but, well, Martin always felt awfully guilty about doing that.
Jon, however, a foot smaller, with narrow shoulders that cut through the crowd with ease, felt no such guilt. He had managed to worm his way to the counter, one hand pressed firmly against the sticky surface as he turned back to Martin to say something. His words were eaten behind the swell of the crowd, and the tinny muzak played from the speakers above.
Jon repeated himself, to no avail, and Martin just replied with a weak shrug. A moment later, Jon was remerging from the crowd, skinny fingers wrapped vice like around the stem of a wine glass, and the plastic handle of another pitcher, and pinching two glass tumblers in his other.
He handed over the two glasses, giving Martin a slightly tense look as he did. “Don’t tell Tim, but I think I may have slightly put my finger in his drink.”
Martin snorted, feeling the slick condensation of the glass run across his hands. “It’s probably one of the cleaner things to go into this glass.”
Jon lips quirked upwards, just for the briefest of moments. “I fear you may be right about that.”
They fell back into their chairs, arranging the drinks in the centre, as hands reached forward to claim them. To Martin’s surprise, Jon placed the wine glass down in front of him.
“Oh,” said Martin. “Is that mine?”
Jon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s Pinot Noir, it’s – it’s one of the – its got the least tannins, comparative to other wines. But, I – ” He looked down at the table, gesturing vaguely towards the mostly empty blue-cocktail pitcher form earlier. “I don’t suppose that was as big a concern tonight. I probably should’ve asked.”
Martin felt his face redden. “Oh, I – no, that’s – that’s great. Thank you, Jon. And – Oh, Christ. I was meant to pay. I can – do you have PayPal, or something? Or I can go to a cash point, or – or -”
Jon was shaking his head. “It’s quite alright, Martin. I don’t mind paying.”
Martin’s hand tightened on the stem on his glass. “If you’re sure.”
“Does it matter?” came Tim’s voice. “We have drinks, we have Jon for once – the perfect evening!”
Jon’s wrinkled his nose up at that. “Hm, you may want to up your standards there a touch, Tim.”
“I’m a simple man.”
Sasha snorted. “A simple man in one of the most hideously patterned shirts I think I have ever seen. Seriously, Tim – where did you get that? The Cbeebies’ costume department?”
Tim looked down at his shirt, where garishly fluorescent colours looked back at him. He wiggled his shoulders, the fabric shifting as he did. “Wanted to look dapper for tonight. Much like our dear Martin here.” He clapped a hand down on Martin’s back, sending him spluttering into his glass. “Say, Martin – is that a new shirt?”
“No,” lied Martin, his face already warming. “I just – ” he shrugged. “Don’t wear it to work, is all.”
Sasha reached her hand across the table to smack at Tim’s arm. “Leave off. You look very lovely, Martin.”
“Thanks.” Martins eyes were set on the deep red liquid before him, and he had no doubts his face was a similar shade.
“What do you think, Jon,” asked Tim, leaning his elbow down on the table. “Doesn’t Martin look lovely?”
“Tim!” the words escaped Martin in a squeak, his eyes shooting towards his friend, with his whiskey-flushed face, and grinning smile. Tim, however, was looking over towards Jon – something Martin couldn’t quite bring himself to do.
“He looks,” started Jon, and Martin felt his chest seize, “nice.”
Nice. That was something. At least he hadn’t said that Martin wasn’t entirely repulsive, but … nice.
The table was silent, and Martin, desperate to escape, raised his glass and downed it in one. Pushing his hands down against the table, he jumped to his feet. “I’ll get the next round.”
Tim’s hand shot up, and tugged him back down, gesturing towards Sasha with his other. “Our turn, Marto. Same as before?”
Martin just nodded, feeling quite out of sorts to do anything else but. He could feel Jon across from him, his presence a burning flame. Martin drummed his fingers down against the table, and cleared his throat. “So – ”
“I have something for you,” said Jon, pulling his bag out from behind him and placing it on the table.
“You do?”
“Yes.” He pulled something out of his bag. A manilla folder, bustling with loose papers and held together with paperclips. “You forgot this when you left earlier. Thought I’d bring it tonight so you can look over it during the weekend.”
“Oh.” Martin couldn’t hide his disappointment as he reached forward to take it. “Thanks.”
Jon nodded, giving Martin a smile that might have been apologetic. He picked his bag up, and as he did, Martin caught sight of a pin – 4 lines of colour that looked remarkably similar to a Pride flag. Though, he couldn’t say he recognised it.
“I like your pin,” said Martin quickly, pointing towards the bag. “Nice, uh – nice colours.”
“What?” Jon’s brow furrowed, and he pulled the bag back in front of him. His features deepened for a beat, before fading into realisation, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Oh, I – my bag – my other bag, the strap broke. So, I – I sort of fished this out of my wardrobe this morning. Haven’t really used it since my uni-days, really.” He tapped his finger against the plastic shell of the badge, and let out a small laugh. “Evidentially.”
“Is it – I don’t want to pry or anything,” said Martin, his fingers twisting nervous shapes in the air, “but it sort of looks like a, uh – a pride flag?” There was a beat of silence, and Martin rushed forward to fill it. “Obviously, you don’t have to answer that! I just – I don’t recognise it, is all. I, uh – I know about flags.”
I know about flags?
“I mean, everyone knows about flags – in general! Or, well most do. There could be some, uh – some people who – who don’t. Of course. But – I do. Know. About flags, that is. Just not – not that one.”
“Martin,” said Jon, looking rather amused, “I assume this is a very round-about way of saying that you’re queer?”
“Oh, I - yes.” Martin let out a tight and nervous laugh. “I mean, you know how it is, sometimes. Not that I – I didn’t think you were homophobic, or anything. But – ”
“I get it.” Jon gave him a small smile, and then looked back down at the badge. “It’s the Asexual pride flag.”
“Asexual?”
Jon nodded. “People who identify as Ace – I - it’s when you don’t experience sexual attraction, or desire. It’s not – I still experience romantic attraction, it’s just – that’s different. I feel no inclination or desire to – ” he shrugged. “I don’t feel that way about sex. That way being, uh – wanting it, I suppose. It’s – there are many different ways to be Ace. Some folks are more inclined, and some are entirely opposed. I suppose I would fall in the latter category.”
Martin blinked. There was a word for that?
“Oh,” said Martin, sitting up a little straighter. “How did you know? That you’re Asexual?”
Jon looked at him for a moment, a gentle curiosity on his face. “How did you know you were gay?
Martin swallowed, and gave a wide shrug. “I don’t know. I just sort of - when I’d like a guy, I’d just want to be around him, in a different way than how I wanted to be around girls. It wasn’t – I never liked a guy because I thought he was hot, or anything.” He drew a hand across his cheek, and could feel it burning. “They just made me feel, I don’t know – nice? Happy?”
“I suppose that’s the way I felt,” said Jon. “I just never felt any of the other stuff.”
“I don’t think I did either. Or do. I don’t know.” He took a long sip of his drink, before he remembered it was empty, and shot a look towards the bar. “I wonder what’s taking Tim and Sasha so long.”
When his gaze returned to Jon, he was surprised to find him looking directly back. Jon leant back in his chair, holding his glass in his hand, pressed tightly against his chest. “We don’t have to talk about it more if you don’t wish to, but I – I found when I was unsure, that talking to someone helped me work it out. Or I could – I have some articles. If you – if you are curious. I know it can be quite confusing.”
Martin swallowed. “I – yeah – maybe. That would be nice. Thank you, Jon.”
Jon smiled back, wide and warm, and Martin felt the feeling in his chest grow a little larger.