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This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad.
Martin had to go to dinner with his family.
It wasn't as though they hated him, they seemed to have constructed this ridiculous idea that he was wasting his life because they keep comparing him to his cousin, Oliver. The pretty little name went with a pretty little face that desperately needed a good slap. The dickhead was the human embodiment of perfection (to them, at least). They would douse Martin in questions, like “why can’t you be more like Oliver?” “why don’t you have a proper job?” and, his personal favourite, “why aren’t you married yet?” Maybe they did hate him.
He could tell you exactly why he was not yet married at the grand old age of 29: he was gay and socially anxious. The social anxiety began at school, after the bullying from ages 4-14 (notice not '16', as Martin had made a friend who is accurately described as 'small and feisty') and had carried on to adulthood. If that's what we're calling this. But Martin had two friends, Jon, from school, and Tim, who he used to work with at 'La Bonne Vache'. Jon… Martin really liked him. He'd come to terms with this fairly early on and promised himself he wouldn't ruin this friendship. So, for now, Martin was pretty much by himself.
However, Martin was quite content living with his cat, The Captain (Jon had helped name the fluffy black creature, and Martin couldn't say no), on the seafront of the coast - that the sun never paid any attention to - and was happy with his boring little job cleaning the filthy dishes of social climbers that call themselves ‘rich’ at the Nouveau Riche restaurant, which the Blackwood family avoided due to his association with the place.
A ‘celebration’, they called it. Oliver had found someone willing to marry him - someone who had a high enough class (notice how Martin did not receive much financial help) to be acceptable to Martin's family - so they wanted to come down and whine about him being a pathetic excuse of a son. Martin planned to respond by decking at least four pints/glasses of white wine (to his surprise, they will be paying the bill for once), curse at them, storm out of the building in a fit of rage, and then fall asleep on his settee. At least he could get away from the tannins. Although this was Martin's prediction after many daydreams, he knew as a fact that at least two of those things would happen - he would drink and crash on the sofa. Oh, how he was going to enjoy it.
That was when the sound of movement and groaning, plus the appearance of The Captain from Martin's bedroom, caused his thoughts to halt. Martin realised, now, that he'd been slouched, glaring at an almost empty mug of tea, for far too long. And it wasn't particularly attractive - not that Martin would care about that if he didn't want anything to happen. Also ignoring many other fluffy thoughts… Hm. No. Stop.
He made a very calculated risk, choosing to yell, "Good afternoon!" as he walked over to switch the kettle on and retrieve painkillers from the cabinet.
“What time is it?” Jon yawned, as he came into the room with The Captain loyally following. Martin felt like stabbing himself in the leg with a fork - y'know, Pavlov it so he would stop being in love with his best friend. Jon was wearing one of Martin's jumpers: a soft, yellow jumper, that was already one size too big for Martin, drowning Jon's figure as he walked over to the table. Normally, his hair would be up in a messy bun, but Martin currently had the privilege of watching Jon's hair flowing down. That bastard.
“Well, hello to you too,” his response earned him a glare from Jon, “It is now five after the hour of two PM, on the east coast. The temperature is a balmy 30 degrees, and it looks like it’s going to be a great day for me to go and see my family.”
“I hate you,” Jon retorted to his smirk, holding his head in his hands, until Martin waved a bottle of painkillers in front of his face, “You are forgiven. Oh, you are more than forgiven," Jon gave Martin one of those little smiles he loved so much, as a mug of hot tea was placed on the table. Jon used to be much more stubborn when letting people (Martin.) take care of him, but after an incident involving a sandwich toaster, a bumble bee, and Jon's hand, he let the walls down.
"It's almost as though you were drinking last night," Martin spoke slowly, pronouncing every word exceedingly carefully. It was undeniably suspicious.
Jon gave him a sadistic smile, sat up straight (the joke being neither of them or their postures are), and, while petting The Captain like a Bond villain, inquired, “How hungover are you?”
As Jon had asked this, Martin was putting the painkillers back, and froze as though he’d just been caught red-handed.
“I wasn’t sitting by the television by myself until three AM, glugging cheap wine from the bottle. Don’t pretend you didn’t drink as much as I did, because I know you did and that your hangovers are almost as bad as mine.”
His façade fell as his body slumped onto the chair opposite. He threw his glasses onto the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. Twisting around, Jon grabbed a decent sized bucket, placing it on the floor between them. “Oh Martin…” Jon sighed. This wasn't pity, he didn't think. Martin wasn't sure.
“You know me far too well for my own good,” he stated, with the extraordinary resemblance of a small child who was upset after being told that no, they couldn’t have any more sweets until tomorrow.
“Yes, I know the itsy bitsy details of your life,” Jon moved his arms forward to cup Martin's face in his bony fingers, his big blue eyes (and blushing face) now staring up at Jon. You don't know all of them, Martin thought, trying not to melt at the touch of Jon's hands, “We've known each other for 15 years, I’m your only friend, you’re my only friend, and…?”
His look of sheer guilt was more amusing than sweet. Martin’s quiet voice mumbled something so hushed that he felt the need to repeat it before Jon had the chance to ask him to, “And, after half a bottle of Galliano, my life story comes flooding out.” Unsurprisingly, the same happened to Jon, but it took much less than half a bottle. Removing his hands, Jon searched in his pockets, beneath the jumper, for a half-pack of cigarettes - something Martin despised, and Jon was very much aware after trying to quit three times in the last year.
“At least you don’t have to go to a family dinner and listen to them complain about your lifestyle and how you aren’t a good enough human being," Martin groaned, watching Jon fumble for his lighter - intending to go outside in a moment. As sweet as it was, Jon wearing Martin's jumpers, he really wished the man wouldn't smoke while wearing them.
"What are you up to until then, then?"
“Nothing particularly. I think I’ll have a go at removing the stench of nicotine from my jumper though.” At this, Jon chose the sensible option of putting the cigarette packet and lighter away. He knew it was a coping mechanism, but he really should stop. For Martin’s sake, and for his own. “Thank you.” Jon gave him a half-smile. The phantom taste of ashes mixed with tea made him want to throw up anyway.
"If you like, I'll come with you. Tonight, I mean." Martin looked up at Jon like he'd microwaved tea. "You're only going to have a miserable time, and I'm only going to watch old reruns of Doctor Who at two in the morning. I might even consider actually eating something. I'll try and quit smoking again too, if you like."
Martin knew his family didn't want him there anyway. And they wouldn't want him to bring a friend. And they were paying the bill. And Jon did say he'd try quitting smoking again, plus he'd eat food - that was an ongoing battle too.
“Alright.” Jon beamed, knowing full well that it was that last bit that convinced Martin. Unfortunately, the moment was then ruined, as Jon's eyes then proceeded to go wide and he vomited bile into the bucket.
Martin sighed, smiled, and held Jon's hair back, “Yep. That is the correct reaction."
“How do I look?”
Martin really wanted to tell Jon that it didn't matter - that they weren’t trying to make a good impression on the Blackwood family - but he got caught at the sight of Jon’s effort to look nice: he’d done a really good job of it. “...Martin?”
“Yes. You look… nice? Smart! You look smart. Is that what you wanted me to say?” Martin opted for that adjective, trying to sound like a friend and not like someone in love. Jon was very likely wearing his work clothes, but in fairness, he was smart. His hair was tied up in a messy bun, all neat and very him. “What about me? Half decent?”
Jon seemed to choke up at this question, not that Martin noticed, appearing to think about his answer, before taking the route of “Yes, and I’m sure your socks match your nails,” Jon mocked playfully (because they both painted each other's nails an hour earlier, fight me), then he put his arm out, “Shall we?”
Martin fought a laugh, creasing his lips together, but hooked his arm around Jon’s - the guilt was overwhelming, as this shouldn’t be something that ‘friends’ did. They had been standing outside a mildly fancy restaurant for 10 minutes. Martin’s family were waiting for them. Well, they were waiting for him. It was satisfying, really: people always say that it's the little things in life that make it worth it. They really weren't wrong.
“Are you sure you want to do this? We could always wait a bit longer,” Jon suggested, unknowingly almost convincing Martin.
“No, let's get this over with.”
Martin took one step, following it with another, and another, until they had stridden through the baroque doors. Wait, wasn’t this the place Tim now worked at?
“There you are!” a voice screeched in their direction, unnervingly close. “We thought you would never make it! Sit down, both of you. Now.” It was his mother, his mother who just had bad days, who Martin believed had had it rough, who had taken to ushering them toward a large table surrounded by seven more people. Huh, the seven deadly sins, Martin smirked at the thought.
Oh, and there he was. The star of the show: Oliver.
Golden boy, Oliver. Handsome, muscular Oliver, who seemed to be a perfectly lovely human being (assuming he was human and not a snake in a trench coat), sat next to his spouse-to-be. With the ring. Oh, the ring. A however-many-hundred-carat diamond lodged into a small sparkly band, and if Martin was being snarky, he was surprised they found a ring small enough for that one’s skinny little fingers. Oliver would be on a new diet too, cutting out gluten, dairy, meat, fat, and carbs. Leaving him with a glass of water and an apple, if not mistaken. Maybe a leaf or two.
It was just infuriating, how everyone seemed to just be charmed by him, falling head over heels within the word ‘hello’. Oh shit. Jon. Martin would have to very quickly prove that Oliver was not his Prince Charming. Or they could just get drunk like the plan.
He grabbed the drinks menu without any hesitation, skimmed it, ordered a bottle of Riesling, for himself, and a bottle of Merlot, for Jon, from the nearest waiter, then finally sat down.
“Oh, how rude of me. I don't believe I have introduced my friend. This is Jon…”
There was something licking Martin's face, and whatever it was stank of fish. This led him to the conclusion that it was his cat. Either that, or yet another stray dog had found its way into his home. The next thing Martin noticed was that something sharp was digging into his ribs, and that he appeared to be in an awkward position: one arm on the bed along with his head, the rest of his body sprawled out on the floor. Thirdly, Martin came to the realisation that it was Jon, who was lying next to him in a similar position, stabbing him in the chest with his bony little knees, and snuggling into the larger man. So, human limbs can be used as weapons. The very last thing Martin became irritatingly aware of was the overwhelming desire to vomit his guts into a bucket that reeked of strong disinfectant. Martin leapt to the corner of the room, where he kept one sick-bucket.
There was a small pat on his back, then two hands holding a glass of water and some painkillers appeared in front of him. “Drink.” Jon’s voice sounded just as bad as Martin felt. Maybe he’d thrown up too; after all, it wasn’t as though Martin had been paying attention to everything else other than the reminder that vomit was hard to get out of the carpet once dried.
“What the fuck happened last night? My head feels like it’s been hit with a brick,” Martin whined, turning to look at Jon as he sat on the floor next to him.
“If I’m not mistaken, we drank a ridiculous amount of expensive wine and someone had a fight with someone else. Oh, and your mother still hates both of us.” Both of them laughed at this: as though they could have changed her mind in a few short hours!
“She doesn’t hate us, she just has bad days,” Martin gulped, changing his mind, before proceeding to stand up and make a pot of tea. Jon didn’t try to argue; it hadn’t worked ten years ago; it wasn’t going to work now. Martin didn’t want to think badly of his mother, he really didn’t. It wasn’t her fault - unless you asked literally anyone else, including his therapist. Martin heard a loud sigh, and then the footsteps of someone who would quite like a cup of tea.
Amidst all of this, they failed to notice a knock at the door, and someone entered Martin’s flat.
“Er, the door was open. You decent?” came the familiar of one Timothy Stoker, making Martin almost drop a porcelain mug onto the worktop.
“Oh good. Yes, Tim, it’s safe,” Jon called out, before quietly adding, “Well, safe from… that. Safe from pissing me off, no.” Martin tried to glare, but it only came across as fond.
Tim had kept in touch with Martin and Jon, because you couldn’t be friends with Martin without his other half following alongside, after he left his previous job at the restaurant Martin still worked at. He was now at that fancy one… oh god.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this conversation?”
Tim’s grin said too much, and Martin did not like it. The flamboyance of his Hawaiian shirt, yellow shorts, and pulled-up bi-flag socks were all too confident. T’was not appreciated. But his faux innocence still seeped through, “I came to see how the two of you are coping." He cast a concerned(?) glance at the state of Jon and Martin. “By the looks of things: not very well. Do you remember what happened last night?” the edges of his mouth faltering.
Now, that was a question Martin had been asking himself for the five minutes of consciousness he’d had that morning. Martin knew they had gotten very, very drunk. He also remembered shouting, but couldn’t decide if it was him shouting, or someone shouting at him. Tim simply took the awkward silence as a ‘no, we do not. We were far too intoxicated.’
“Well, you’ll enjoy this all the more, won’t you?” he grinned, sitting down at the table to face them both. “Allow me to paint the scene,” there were two loud groans.
“Last night, I was working a shift at ‘Bloc de L’auteur’, y’know the fancy restaurant where I bartend. Couple of the waiters were collecting drink orders for a table, and they were telling me about this awful, awful family who thought they were better than they were, until these two lovely gentlemen turned up - and, considering the fact I know both of you, it was you two - that were an absolute delight to the staff. Hell, I even brought some of your drinks over, but you were both too sloshed to recognise me.” The joy in Tim’s voice, as he told his tale, was annoying. No matter how much Martin loved him, it also made him want to throw The Captain’s toys in his face.
“And then the real spectacle began. You’d all just finished your food - including Jon, so gold star there - and I was watching from the bar, where I could just see you all. Martin, your mother decided it was the right time to start… er- critiquing you. Do tell me if any of this rings a bell: Jon, in his drunken state, began aggressively defending you,” Tim’s eyes and mouth went so wide, it reminded Martin of someone he used to go to school with. Was it Michael or Helen? It didn’t matter.
“Oh, good grief,” Jon’s head was in his hands, and Martin had gone bright red. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”
“That’s okay. Thank you,” he managed to squeak out, then coughed and turned back to Tim, “I’m going to guess the complaints were the drinking, not being married, not having a proper job?”
Tim chose, rather sensibly, to just nod at this, and not add anything else that woman said. It was the safest thing to do. “It was sweet though, Jon defending your honour, you should have seen him. But I was very impressed with the bill you racked up,” Tim produced a piece of paper from his pocket, laying it on the table in front of them. Oh, dear Lord. Talk about strength, no wonder Martin felt as though a jellyfish were living in his stomach.
Jon reached forward, picking it up for inspection. He began to murmur: “Portuguese Madeira, Petite Sirah, Vermouth, Port… the list goes on. I do apologise for our behaviour, however. It was rather rude.” Jon sat on the opposing chair, sinking back into it. Martin knew he wanted to keep as much of his dignity intact around Tim as possible, and this really wasn’t helping.
“Must have been an awkward first morning after though, right?” Tim chuckled, before looking at the confusion on Jon and Martin’s faces.
“Sorry, what?” Jon spluttered.
“Tim, how often have any of our drinking adventures not ended up with me and Jon passed out in the same flat?” Martin said at the same time.
“I may have misread the situation,” he said quickly. “I know you won’t remember this, given that I’ve just told you that story, but the way you two were looking at each other - did you not… do it?”
Martin and Jon could only stare in horror at Tim’s suggestion. Both of them could safely say that, as two asexual people, no, they had not hooked up. And anyway, why would Jon want to be with someone like Martin? They were just good friends.
It was a toss-up as to who was going to answer in a panicky way first, but Jon beat Martin to it, “Absolutely not!” then realised the tone he used, cringed, and continued, “Not that- Martin- No. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It’s not Martin, it’s me. Tim, I’ve known you for five years, has it never come up that I don’t… do that,” he waved his hands until Tim got it.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise, shit. It was just you two kept giving each other the eyes and leaning in way too close. Maybe I was wrong,” Tim frowned, his colourful outfit somehow seemed to dim.
Was Tim saying Jon was doing it back? Like, requited-ly? Perhaps Martin was dreaming. People always said that ‘a dream is a wish your heart makes’ - actually, that may have been from an old Disney flick - and Martin did dream of that too often for his own good. Then again, the hangover would prove him wrong, along with Jon reaching over to move his jaw. “You’re going to catch flies doing that.”
Martin whacked his hand away, and he stuck his tongue out like the five-year-old he was, noticing that despite Jon’s dark complexion, he was going red too. “I think we were just pissed.”
There was a moment of silence, until Tim declared, “Anywho, I should probably get going. I’ll see you two for game night on Friday!” and then he walked towards the door, only stopping to salute “Captain” as he left.
It was quiet. Uncomfortably.
Jon broke it, “I didn’t mean for that to come across badly.”
“Sorry, what are you apologising for?” Martin asked, as he’d mainly been concerned with how close he’d been leaning into his crush.
Jon shifted, uncomfortably, “Er, the thing. When Tim thought we’d, you know.” Oh, that. “I promise, it’s not you. I just don’t. God, I must sound like an idiot. You’re too good to deal with all of that.”
Apparently, a concerned head tilt made Jon explain further, “You deserve better, no matter what your mother says. I’m not starting that argument again, but she’s still wrong. Martin, oh I’m going to regret this, but fuck it I’ve started now,” Jon took one of Martin’s hands, holding it, “Martin you are the kindest, funniest, most wonderful, beautiful person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, never mind being your friend. I apologise for how I get when we drink too, I know I can’t help staring at you, and leaning in because I quite like you. I’m sorry that I’m rambling, and I’m sorry that I’m probably ruining the best friendship I’ve ever had-”
“Stop saying ‘sorry’!” Martin interrupted, nervously laughing. It had taken a few moments for his brain to catch up. His heart was pounding, but Martin knew he needed to say something because Jon currently looked a little bit like a kicked puppy. “You aren’t ruining anything. Firstly, I know you’re asexual, so am I. It’s not new,” he chuckled, Jon obviously not remembering, “I, I quite like you too. Not in a platonic way. So that’s alright, yeah?”
There was a little smile playing on Jon’s lips, as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, “Yes, that’s alright. Oh, er, could I… Martin could I kiss y-”
His words were muffled by lips on his, just as soft as Martin had daydreamed. They both stayed at the table for a few minutes, lazily kissing, until Martin pulled back, happily sighing, “Tim’s going to be insufferable knowing what he’s done.” Jon nodded in agreement, still not having let go of Martin’s hand. “I was thinking of maybe going back to bed for a bit, try and sleep off some of this hangover. Would you, heh, would you like to join me?”
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
Tim won a tenner the next day when he found out.