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Chapter Text

Jon wakes with a horrendous start. His tired, sensitive eyes are blinded by strips of sunlight from the odd, high windows of his office at the library, where he passed out on the deeply uncomfortable sofa the evening (very early morning) before. 

His heart pounds with the adrenaline of his nightmare, and he breathes deeply and tries to sink into the hazy space of barely consciousness that steals away the details of dreams. 

"Jon?" A soft voice asks from behind him. 

Jon flips up from lying to standing in a second, spinning to face the office door, standing ajar with a figure barely peering through the crack. 

"Martin!" Jon yells, voice hoarse with embarrassment and the lingering darkness of his night terror, not to mention no small amount of dizziness at the sudden realignment. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?" 

Martin's round face flushes pink, but his expression remains carefully neutral. "Sorry to give you a scare. I'm in early to get a head start and I heard a noise." He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, which flames with the vague shame he always feels when existing in Jon's orbit, on top of the frightened way his eyes narrow at him. "I thought maybe you were hurt. You shouted pretty loud."

"Oh." Jon slumps, wrapping his arms around himself, goosebumps flaring up along the skin of his exposed arms. His button-down is outrageously creased and the indents where the sleeves have been rolled up will likely be permanent at this point. 

Martin steps into the room, eyebrows creased in concern, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Brown eyes reflect more empathy than Jon feels is strictly necessary - all he did was fall asleep on the sofa in his office and have a nightmare. He can't possibly look that pathetic, even wrinkled and sleep-deprived. 

Still, when the taller man shrugs, reaches for the hem of his jumper and pulls it off, Jon could not be more shocked. 

"You might feel more comfortable if you feel like you're not wearing an entirely identical outfit," Martin explains as he offers it to Jon. 

His fingers are shaking as he hesitantly reaches out and takes it. It's soft and ancient, but obviously well cared for. The blue didn't really match Martin's skin tone, but it does look rather fetching clutched in Jon's swarthy hand.

Jon distantly remembers a long-ago colour theory lesson, in a different library with a different man. Black nails flying along with expressive hands and teal eyes bright as his ex had explained skin undertones and appropriate clothing palettes. 

Where does the all-black palette fit in? He had asked, teasing as he snapped a bracelet against the pale skin on Gerry's wrist. 

It's not a palette, babe, it's a lifetime commitment. He had responded insolently, smile full of teeth as he looked at Jon as if he were a particularly rare paint pigment. 

Jon shakes his head, snapping back to the man standing in front of him, each of them still clutching half the jumper. Martin has started to blush at the extended silence (and probably whatever odd facial expression nostalgia had given him) and promptly drops his hands. Jon smiles at him slowly, foreignly. After so many months of scowling and snapping at the poor man, he doesn't even know how to act vaguely decent towards him when he does something sweet for Jon. 

Delaying the words he's going to have to dredge up, Jon tugs the cosy jumper over his head, before wrapping his arms around himself to maximize the contentment the soft gesture gives him. 

"Tha-thank you, Martin." Jon feels his face heat, although he hopes it's not visible through his colouring. "I didn't mean to snap at you, I was tense from a bad dream and-" 

"You mean that you didn't mean to snap at me this time." Martin smiles at him, an oddly benevolent look on his gentle face. 

Jon stutters, indignation filling him with augmentative heat and burning away the lingering fear in his bones. 

"Don't worry about it. Here's to hoping that a comfy jumper and a nice cup of tea will chase that anxiety away." Martin actually has the audacity to wink at Jon, before turning on his heel and striding out the door. He calls back over his shoulder, "I'll go get the kettle on for that then, yeah?" 

And just like that, Jon's infuriating assistant has disappeared back into the library to make tea, leaving Jon warm, comfortable and relieved of his previous tension. 

Did Martin just… goad me out of nightmare anxiety? He thinks with a frown, even as he gathers the soft knit and holds it close to his nose to inhale the scent there. Tea leaves, bergamot, the ocean on a cold day. 

How bizarre, he tells himself, refusing to acknowledge or condone the smile that spreads across his face as he heads to his desk to start the day. 

Chapter Text

Jonathan Sims, head librarian of the Magnus Library, has very strong opinions on the consumption of food and beverages in his library. 

Which is to say, it gives him anxious hives. Nevertheless, his employees have to eat and hydrate throughout the day and as such, technically such amenities are allowed within the break room and at their desks. 

Tim makes Jon insane with his lackadaisical attitude on coffee in the stacks, always trying to sort, catalogue, and shelf with a mug nearby. Sasha is more constrained, making her tea in the breakroom twice a day, and drinking it there. 

Martin is a bit obsessed with tea, Jon thinks. There's no other reason he would make tea 5 times a day and bring Jon a cup each and every single time. 

Well, not every time. 

Martin deigns not to make Jon tea after he's been snipped at, yelled at or embarrassed. Which, the snappish librarian is proud to say has been happening less and less lately as he's relaxed slightly into his position (and pulled the stick out of his ass). Still, sometimes when Jon is having a bad day, he gets short and impatient with Martin, and then he gets no tea. 

It's absolutely ridiculous that he so much as notices. I hardly even drink it when he makes it for me! Jon thinks to himself indignantly as he paces his office and tries to estimate how many cups Jon will miss while Martin moves on from their little tiff this morning. 

The documents weren't organised correctly. He tries to argue with the rational part of himself. I had to say something. 

You didn't have to yell and called him 'a complete liability'. It responds primly. 

Jon growls at himself, face set into a fierce scowl. He holds a silly yellow stress ball, abusing it and tossing it back and forth in his hands as he wanders up and down the length of the room. 

He knows he was out of line. Of course he does. He hadn't needed to see the glimmer of tears in Martin's eyes as he apologised and took the box away to redo it or the fiercely disappointed look on Tim's face that clearly said, 'I thought we were moving on from this nonsense.'  

No, Jon knew the moment the horrible words escaped his chest that he was being a right bastard, and yet-

And yet, here they were again. A year into his new position, still making the same mistakes. Still hurting his sweet, gentle friend, who makes him tea and never yells back. 

Jon tosses the stress ball at the wall, then leaves it to bounce ineffectually across the carpet on the floor, settling under a piece of furniture. Hopefully to never be seen again. 

Is Martin his friend? Jon often feels like he is, in the moments when the larger man sets a mug of tea down at his elbow or makes sure his favourite biscuits are stocked in the breakroom. Even when Martin makes sure to sit with him at the pub when Tim drags them out for 'librarian bonding time', easing the anxiety Jon often feels at sitting in crowds without a go-to conversationalist. 

So if Martin goes out of his way to be Jon's friend, why does Jon go out of his way to turn him into his whipping boy? Even the mental image leaves him wincing with shame. Not only for this incident - but for many that preceded it too. 

And what about Martin's feelings for him? It's clear, even to Jon 'Can't catch a social cue' Sims, that Martin cares for him very deeply… it's displayed obviously in all the previously considered gestures of affection, and so many more. 

He can't even begin to understand why, but well, he can't deny that it seems to be there. 

So what to do. How to make it up to him. Jon knows he could simply wait it out. Sulk in his office for the rest of the day, and more than likely, Martin would be back to setting a mug of tea down at his elbow first thing tomorrow morning. But it feels like Jon has exhausted that unfortunate habit. Martin is not a fool, and he doesn't deserve to be treated like one. 

So Jon strides out of his office, spots his wayward assistant reorganising the bloody paperwork, and turns to head into the breakroom. It's empty, most everyone having already had their lunch and afternoon tea, which gives Jon ample opportunity to privately panic over the fact that he doesn't know how Martin likes his tea. In fact, Jon isn't even confident he knows how he likes his own tea. 

Well, the first step is to boil the kettle, which he does. He thinks to check that there's enough water in it. He puts two tea bags in two mugs. Remembers Martin hates oolong. Takes them out, puts Earl Grey in instead. 

He steeps it for precisely the recommended amount of time. His hand shakes as he guesses two sugars and plenty of milk for both of them. 

His hand shakes so hard as he picks up his mug to taste it, he has to focus so hard on the simple task, that his elbow knocks a glass left out on the small sink, and it smashes on the ground. 

"Shit, shit, shit," Jon chants, bending to frantically gather up the broken pieces. He's still shaking, now with both adrenaline and nerves, and he manages to cut a gash into the side of his hand. He makes a pitiful sound of distressed protest but keeps collecting the glass to throw out. 

"Jon?" Martin asks from the doorway, voice soaked in concern. As if he deserves to be worried about. "Jon! Oh my God, you're bleeding."

Martin hauls him upright, leaving a mess of glass shards on the floor. He manhandles Jon over to the bin, where he tosses what he had gathered between his palms away. 

"Why didn't you use the dustpan?" Martin fusses at him, examining the wound on his palm. There’s a frown line pressed between his eyebrows, born of concentration and concern. 

Jon can't think of anything to say, so he blurts out, "I made you tea," like an absolute moron. 

Martin glances over at the mugs, eyebrow raised. He catches sight of the kitchen towel and grabs a couple of sheets, holding them to the cut. "I'm surprised you even know how I take my tea."

Jon's face flames and his eyes fill with tears. Tears of embarrassment, because he doesn't. Tears of shame, because he keeps taking out his insecurities on Martin. Tears of pain, because his hand actually does hurt quite badly, now that Martin is running the cut under lukewarm water. 

When he has patted it dry again and is holding a clean piece of kitchen towel around his hand, Martin glances up at Jon's face, to find tears flowing down it silently. 

“Oh Jon,” He whispers fiercely, cupping his face and drawing Jon into a hug. It’s an odd tangle, with his injured hand still cradled between them, but Martin holds him snug, and Jon luxuriates in the closeness, for all that he deserves no comfort, least of all from the man he keeps losing his cool with. 

"I'm sorry," Jon speaks the words into his chest, voice clogged with emotion. "I'm terrible to you and I don't even know why. You're the nicest person I know."

Martin heaves a big sigh, giving him one last squeeze before pushing him away to look into his face. "Listen, I know I'm clumsy and awkward and just kind of a mess up. I get all that, and you have a right to be frustrated with me. But I would vastly prefer it if you could not be so mean about it."

"You're not a mess up," Jon replies, frowning down at his hand. They're still standing too close, body heat mixing where they press together. "If anyone is a mess up, it's me. I'm not even qualified for this stupid job." 

"You're not?" Martin asks, spare hand rubbing up and down Jon's arm. 

He shakes his head, bun starting to come undone from all the excitement. 

Martin gives a small chuckle. "Me neither." 

Jon's head shoots up, and he stumbles back a step, before Martin's hand steadies him. "What do you mean? I thought you had a master's degree in research? You're imminently qualified."

Martin blushes enthusiastically, averting his gaze as he admits, "Actually, I don't."

Jon blinks at him. 

He blushes harder and starts babbling. "Have a master's degree, that is. I know that it's terrible, but I really needed a job and I didn't even finish my A-levels, because my mother was sick-" 

"Martin," Jon tries to interrupt. He's filled with warm affection as he rambles on, cheeks flushed, one hand still cradling Jon's injured hand. 

"And no one was hiring and I started to panic. I know lying is wrong! But I like it here and I didn't want to leave and-"

"Martin," He tries again. Jon realises he wants to kiss him, quite badly. What an interesting revelation. 

"Oh God, why did I tell you, I've put you in an awful position, I completely understand if you want to fire me, I can pack-" 

Jon uses his injured hand to bring Martin's up to his mouth, where he kisses it gently, eyes glued to his the entire time. Martin shuts up, teeth clicking together with the force of it. 

"Thank you for telling me. I'm not going to fire you." Jon whispers, the air heavy with chemistry around them. "You're a good friend and a good employee. I hope you like your tea." 

Jon pulls away, watching Martin's shocked face the entire time. He tucks his injured hand in close to his chest, picking up his tea (made completely wrong, why did he put sugar in it?) and leaving his flustered friend behind to catch his breath in private.

(Martin's tea is also made wrong, but he cherishes every sip regardless.)

Chapter Text

Jon has been finding his assistants colluding.

Specifically, Tim and Martin. He keeps finding them huddled together in corners, whispering with each other. Sometimes, a seemingly casual hand rests on an arm, a shoulder. 

On one occasion, they're so close together Jon suspects he's interrupted a kiss. On another, Martin squeals with delight before tossing himself into Tim's arms.

Tim catches him. Hugs his close.

Jon ignores the dark emotion that builds in his chest. He tries to convince himself it's professional indignity at continuously finding his employees flirting instead of working.

He chooses to completely squash the voice in the back of his head that whispers that that's his Martin. That Tim shouldn't be moving in on him. Of course he squashes it. It's absurd. Martin is not his and can date whomever he pleases.

And whomever he pleases certainly wouldn’t be you, a nasty little voice in the back of his mind mutters, as Tim (who’s supposed to be his best friend, the flirt) throws Martin a secretive grin as they reshelve picture books in the children’s section. 

***

Martin places a gentle knock on Jon's office door, two mugs of tea clutched precariously in one hand. "Jon, can I speak with you?" 

Jon startles a bit, mostly because he had just been thinking about Martin and suddenly he had arrived. He gestured him into a chair, taking the offered tea. "Of course, Martin."

Martin sits across from him, holding his tea close, and Jon realises that he looks quite nervous. His leg is bouncing, his face is flushed, and his bottom lip is caught between his lip. 

Jon supposes that it's not unreasonable for Martin to be nervous to talk to him. He can be kind of an arsehole, but he's been so much better recently, after the last incident. He had actually started to think that he and Martin… well, never mind that. 

Jon stiffens, remembering the Tim situation. That's obviously what he wants to talk to me about. 

He takes a deep breath, "Now before you start, I think I may know what this is about. I can say that although it's not exactly encouraged, it's not technically a breach of contract either, and so if you and Tim really want to begin, or continue, I suppose, a romantic entanglement, I cannot stop you. Although I would ask you to keep it at home." Jon's face flames more with each word, a small part of him dying as he acknowledges the whole thing.

Martin gapes at him, shocked beyond words. "Excuse me? Romantic… Entanglement? With Tim ?" 

There's a terrible, horrible moment of silence, Jon shrinking back into his chair as he realises that Martin doesn't even know what he's talking about. 

"Yes, well." He shifts, embarrassed at how obviously he's misstepped. "I only thought, because - well, I've seen you two cavorting around the library as of late and-" 

"I'm sorry, did you say cavorting? Tim and I are not in a relationship!" Martin puts his tea down, before collapsing into giggles. 

Jon scowls, unable to see any abundant humour in the situation. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes! I think I would notice if I had a lover!" 

Jon waits as Martin works through the last of his giggles, simply taking a moment to watch him. He's flushed now with laughter, instead of nerves, brown eyes bright, blonde hair tousled and catching the limited sunlight from the office windows. 

"So then, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?" Jon tries to reign the situation back in, hoping to pretend he never said anything about Tim or cavorting. 

Martin sighs, mirth calming. He wipes at his eyes, and takes a sip of his tea, grounding himself. 

"I'm quitting. This is my two weeks notice." 

Jon's stomach drops out of his body, his head starts buzzing, his fingers go numb where they're wrapped around the mug of tea Martin only just gave him. 

"What? No, Martin, I'm terribly sorry to have jumped to conclusions, but please, you don't need to quit, I-" He panics, desperately trying to remedy whatever it is he's done to cause this. Everything I've done to cause this. 

"Oh no, Jon. I'm not quitting because you thought I was dating Tim." Martin smiles at him sweetly, eyes intent on Jon's face. He reaches across the desk and takes one hand, giving it a squeeze. "That's quite funny actually. I came in here to give in my resignation letter. I've been planning to leave for ages. Months." 

"Oh, I, ah. I had no idea." Jon's head spins, and he flounders, totally unprepared for his- for Martin to leave. His voice sounds odd and floaty, and he clings to the hand Martin wrapped around his, uncaring about propriety. "Well, I will of course provide you with an impeccable reference, if that's what you need." 

"Thank you, but I don't, actually. I'm going to open a bookstore. It's practically almost ready to go." 

Jon blinks at him, "A bookstore? But you already work in a library. There are lots of books here."

"Yes, well I do love working here, sometimes. You know, when you're not being a jerk and when Elias isn't making us miserable for his personal entertainment." Martin takes a sip of his tea, "But the reality is that I'm not in any way qualified for this position, and one day someone is going to figure that out. I want to be on my way, doing my own thing when that happens." 

"I'll protect you," Jon tells him, emphatic. He can hear the desperation in his voice. He doesn't want to lose Martin, can't bear to watch him leave and never see him again. 

"I- would you? Well, I appreciate that, but-" Martin takes a deep breath, looking away from Jon for a moment. "When I started here, that was the worst time of my life. I was broken and depressed, desperate for any reason to live, any way to support myself. I've worked here for five years now, and I'm in a far better place than I ever thought I would be. I'm… not exactly happy. But I'm content, and I want to use this step up to make something of my life. I can't keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it all to be ripped away."

He pauses, taking a few deep breaths to soothe his emotions. "I want to make something of myself, make a worthwhile contribution in the world, even if only in my own small way."

Jon looks at him. Really looks at him, sees him, perhaps for the very first time. Puts aside his own anxiety, his preconceptions, his privilege. He sees a man who has struggled and been broken, who's collected up the pieces of his life and carefully glued them back together into something worth cherishing. He suddenly hopes for a day when Martin will be able to say that he is happy, because Jon has never known a person who deserves happiness more. 

"You are a worthwhile contribution to this world, Martin, no matter what you do," Jon tells him, words unexpectedly weighed down with feeling. 

Martin blinks, looks at him intensely. "Thank you, Jon. I appreciate that you would say that."

"Will you tell me about your new business?" Jon takes a sip of his tea (made with plenty of milk, less than half a spoon of sugar), standing and moving towards the sofa. Martin follows, sitting with him. 

"If you want to hear about it," Martin whispers. They're sitting far too close. Jon wants to be even closer. 

"I really do." 

***

“Wait a second,” Jon mutters, holding up a hand to stem a tide of surprisingly well planned business logistics. 

Martin hums and raises an eyebrow, gesturing for him to go on.

“What about the Tim thing then?” Jon asks, frowning as he remembers the past weeks of them whispering secretly. 

His soon-to-be former assistant giggles, and Jon shoots him a dirty look. “Well, he’s supposed to tell you himself, but I guess I can let in on the secret now.”

Jon gasps dramatically, mostly to hide the way his heart drops, “You are dating!” 

“No, Jon, we are not,” Martin’s face flushes, dimples flashing as he smiles at him indulgently. “He’s been helping me plan. Tim is going to come work for me.”

“What? ” 

And that’s how Jon goes from three assistants to one in the space of an hour. 

He can’t seem to make himself resent it, not with the fresh realisation on his tongue that he would give anything, be anything, to make his Martin happy. 

Chapter Text

Martin has never been able to decide if he's setting up a bookstore with a tea room, or a tea room with a bookstore. 

The spaces they fill are equal in relative size, although different in shape and configuration. Full of odd windows and mismatched furniture, the building is quaint and charming - much like Martin himself. 

He remembers the moment he first saw this building, the pang of longing and the taste of purpose as he realised he wanted it for his own. And now I'm here, and it's mine. 

He jitters with nerves as he stands in the border between books and tea, and takes in the results of his hard work. The place is empty now, Tim gone home for the evening, everything set up and ready for the next day, when they will open for business for the very first time. 

Martin can't help but think that he must have missed something, that it's inevitable that everything won't run perfectly. He's made all his lists, completed the tasks, done all that he can think of, and that will have to be good enough. 

He feels a sudden sharp longing for Jon, who can pick apart anything to find the flaws and defects, and has never been shy about telling Martin what to fix and how to do it. And yet, what Martin actually wants is the small nod and practically nonexistent smile Jon would give him when a task was well done, completed in good time. 

Martin sighs, resting a trembling hand to his silly heart, and acknowledges that what he truly wants is just Jon. He knew he would miss him, of course, that's what happens when you see the man you're secretly in love with almost every day for years and then suddenly not at all. He longs to visit the library, tell Jon all about the progress he's made, the joyful tears he cried when the business loan transferred, the way his heart constricted when the first lot of books arrived. 

He wants Jon to stand just here with him, where his life looks like mismatched furniture and smells of tea and books, and tell him that he loves him. He wants to whisper all the words he's kept inside for ages, hold Jon to his chest, keep him forever.

But of course, Jon would hate that. So Martin stays away from the library, takes his clean start, embraces the life he fought for with all of himself.

Time to move on, he thinks to himself, time to seek new joy. 

***

Jon stands outside the open doors of Martin's store, panicking. 

He wants to go in, say hello, order something. Obviously, he does, that's why he came. 

But it's full of people. The tables are all occupied, the constant hum of chatter pressing into his skull like a dead weight. Apparently lunchtime on launch day wasn't the best time to pop in - social anxiety wise. 

Jon almost turns to leave, before a disgustingly huge wave of longing crashes over him as he catches sight of Martin chatting up a client as he makes their drink order. 

He's smiling. Grinning . He looks the happiest, the most in his element that Jon has ever seen him. Of course, he does, he's making someone tea, serving someone, loving them in his small unobtrusive way. Someone much nicer than Jon, who is smiling back and will offer Martin actual gratitude, in the form of money, even. 

He's wearing an earthy green sweater today, and it matches his colouring much better than the blue sweater that he once lent to Jon, blonde hair and brown eyes enhanced by the muted tone. As he turns to grab something, Jon can't help but notice that his dark wash jeans hug his curves in a very flattering way. His glasses are slightly skew, as always, and Jon's fingers twitch with the desire to straighten them. 

Jon's mouth goes dry for a reason quite opposite to his anxiety, heart pounding and head spinning as he realises that he might be in love with Martin. 

All the signs are there - for all that Jon can't say he's truly been in love for almost a decade. If nothing else, the Martin shaped hole in his life over the past few weeks, filled with pining and distracted daydreams are pretty much a dead giveaway.

It was pretty easy to ignore the caught breaths and excess of emotional attachment when Martin was a constant fixture in his everyday life, but not anymore. 

The reality is, Martin has been gone for a month, and Jon is willing (although still anxious) to brave the lunch rush at a new restaurant to see him. If that's not love, Jon doesn't know what is. 

(Jon, in fact, is not very familiar with love, having only felt it one other time, but he chooses not to dwell on Gerry right now). 

Martin is stepping out from behind the counter to clear a table when Jon walks up to him. He thinks he might pass out for a second, the swirl of conversation and the brush of strangers overwhelming him. As Martin catches sight of him, face lighting up, his anxiety immediately settles to a vague hum, focus now caught up in the exact way Martin's dimples appear as he beams at Jon. 

"Jon! You made it." Martin touches a hand to his elbow, steering him gently into an alcove of books out of the flow of traffic. The air in the little space seems almost sacred, for all that the people are still just there outside of it. "Thanks for coming. Tim said you might be in, but… well I know how you feel about crowds, so I didn't know if I would catch you."

Jon bites his lip, shy and engulfed in a flood of newly acknowledged feelings. "I wanted to see you," He blurts out, face flaming, though fortunately his tan hides the worst of it. Martin's eyebrows rise. 

Good lord, pull yourself together, man. Jon thinks to himself sternly, pinching his opposite wrist to ground himself.

"That is, what I meant to say is that I really wanted to see your store, which is lovely" Jon tries to backtrack, "maybe catch up and have a chat. It's a bit busy for that though, I've noticed."

Martin grins, successfully distracted by his business triumph. "Yeah! I can't believe how well it's all going. Tim's been a godsend, I shudder to think how I would have coped all on my own."

When he turns back to Jon, the other man has a longing, wistful look on his face, which drops abruptly as they make eye contact. 

"How are you, Jon? I miss the library."

I miss you, he wants to say. 

"It's not the same without you," He mutters, voice just this side of petulant. "And Tim, of course." He rolls his eyes, voice full of affection. "I hardly ever have to stress about coffee in my stacks anymore. What a bore."

Martin heart cracks, his brain short circuits, he forgets about this clean start and the absolute confidence that Jon could never like him. 

"Let's go to dinner." He demands, then winces at his rudeness. He takes a breath, settles his tone. Jon blinks at him in clear astonishment, fingers fiddling nervously. "Let me try that again. Jon, I miss you. Please have dinner with me, as a date." 

"A romantic date?" Jon whispers in return, stomach tied in knots. 

Martin nods, "Or a platonic date. Whichever you prefer."

"Okay." Jon croaks out, throat constricted in a vice grip. 

"Okay?" 

"Yes. Good lord, yes." Jon laughs, relief sweeping through him. Martin wants to have dinner with me. Martin missed me. "If I want to go tonight, will I seem too desperate?" 

Martin, who had mostly expected Jon to laugh in his face (and not in the sweet relieved way he had), chuckles a little, shocked that his completely impromptu date offer had been accepted. "No, I think tonight sounds perfect."

Jon tentatively reaches out to squeeze his hand, offering a minute smile. (Not dissimilar to the one Martin used to get when his work was well done). 

"Seven this evening?" 

Martin nods, smile growing and growing. "I'll meet you outside the library. I'll- yeah, I'll see you then."

Jon gives him a brief hug, just as long as he can manage without clinging to him pathetically. He almost trips out the door but keeps his feet. 

When he looks back to see if Martin caught the almost fall, there's such a soft look of affection on his face that Jon forgets to be embarrassed. 

He's almost back at the library when he realises he completely forgot the tea and scone he ostensibly went in to buy for lunch.

Chapter Text

Martin is waiting outside the library at 6:55 when Jon comes out of the front doors. There's a much greater bite to the air as the sun sets, but Martin and his green jumper look very lovely as the world turns hazy with the dusk. 

"How was the rest of your day at the bookstore?" Jon asks, Martin offering him a big, sweet grin as they start walking. Martin keeps his hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket, so Jon doesn't have to stress about the intricacies of first date hand-holding. 

(Made far more complicated by the fact that this is Martin, and his hands are quite nice, and Jon actually does want to hold one, but what if Martin doesn't like holding hands? He seems like the type of person who likes holding hands, but assuming is a terrible idea and-) 

"It was good!" Martin's voice interrupts his internal rambling. "Busy the whole day, which is wild. I'm really glad, though, because even once things settle after the excitement of opening, it looks really promising."

"Maybe the next time I come in, I might remember to actually buy something," Jon remarks, shoving his own hands into his coat pockets. 

Martin smiles at him, and they walk a few moments in comfortable silence. 

"Where are we going?' Jon asks eventually, as they head out of Chelsea. 

"Well, I was thinking about taking you to the new Italian place," Martin glances at him, probably to gauge his reaction. Jon works to keep his face neutral. "But then I thought maybe, you might prefer if we picked up take out and I took you to my favourite place."

He instantly perks up, not because he doesn't like Italian, but because Martin understands that Jon would rather not try to navigate this kind of social pressure with the weight of strangers pressing in around them. After a full day of people at the library, Jon tends to crave quiet and solitude. 

"I would love that."

*** 

They end up with burritos, which the posh Oxbridge part of Jon tries to stick his nose up at. 

"Here's the deal," Martin tells him, hands outstretched on either side in a placating gesture. "You try the burrito, and if you don't like it, I never get to pick the restaurant ever again."

Jon appreciates the ride or die attitude, and agrees to his terms. 

The food is good, which he's loathed to admit, but as they sit in Martin's favourite place, perched on the railing of a tiny bridge in the middle of nowhere, Jon can't bring himself to be bothered about admitting defeat. All around them, the lights of nighttime London seem to hum and glow, somehow ethereal instead of invasive, as they normally are. 

They each lean back against a bridge support, facing each other, their knees just barely brushing in the limited space between them. 

Jon coaxes Martin to talk, stomach dancing and twisting with nerves and hope. He settles into it as Martin describes the insane rush to get the bookstore up and running in less than a month, as well as the wild, frantic joy of a successful opening. 

He realises with a start just how much planning must have gone into the entire thing, even before Martin had quit and gone off to do his own thing, business plan in place, loan approved, storefront ready to rent. Jon is somewhat put out at himself that he missed all of it, only noticing anything was off at all because he was jealous of Martin and Tim's supposed cavorting. 

"Well, that's enough about me!" Martin proclaims, sucking a thumb into his mouth to lick a bit of sauce off. "What gossip have I missed at the library?"

Jon is not thinking about the library. Jon is not thinking at all. His brain has broken, and all he can think about is climbing into Martin's lap and letting him suck Jon's tongue into his mouth, where his thumb had been only a second before. 

(This is a very unJon-like thought. It has been a very long time since Jon wanted to climb into someone's personal space and be kept there.)

"Jon?" Martin prompts again, a concerned frown creasing his brow. 

He starts to panic. He's overwhelmed by the desire to kiss someone, Martin, his Martin, and he can't speak, or move, or do anything, because-

"I'm asexual," Jon blurts out, face flaming absolutely every shade of red it's capable of. 

Martin blinks at him, blushing himself, before letting out a nervous laugh and smiling tentatively. 

"Okay. I suppose if we're coming out, then I should probably tell you that I'm trans." The words are offered gently, as if approaching an easily startled animal. 

Jon relaxes, distracted from his bizarre desire to crawl into Martin's lap. 

"Yes, I knew that."

"And I know that you're ace, Jon."

He breaths out a sigh of relief, heart settling down slightly. He can't remember when it started to pound, but it was probably the moment he realised that he wanted physical intimacy with someone he had no boundaries with. He knows Martin would never have pushed for more than Jon was willing to give, but - 

Better not to create expectations he might not be interested in fulfilling. 

"That's good!" He responds, voice coming out unusually high and pitchy. "Is that okay with you?"

Martin barks out a shocked laugh, head shaking back and forth in disbelief. "Is it - of course it is!" 

Martin leans forwards to grasp Jon by the shoulders, shaking him a little. "I like you for who you are, and you don't owe me anything, especially not physically. If you want more of a platonic thing, I'm okay with that." 

He settles back, shrugging. "If you want more of a romantic - what was the word you used? Entanglement," He gives Jon a flirtatious smirk, "Then I'm absolutely down for that too. But… I just want you to be yourself, Jon. I know that's scary, but I've seen the worst of you already, so you might as well just relax and enjoy this for whatever it might be."

Jon gapes at him, unconsciously shifting closer to absorb the comfort of Martin's solid bulky presence. "Do you really believe that? That you've seen the worst of me?" 

"Well," Martin leans his head back, looking up into the sky as he considers. "I haven't seen you first thing in the morning as you roll out of bed, or when you go to the bathroom, or how you look when you haven't showered for a week. But those things are all new discoveries to be made, and after putting up with all the prickly, professionally insecure parts of you for all this time, I can probably learn to like anything about you."

"That's a very nice way of saying I'm a right bastard but you're still willing to find out how bad my morning breath is."

Martin releases a full-body laugh, sparkling eyes landing on Jon. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. And how do you feel about that?"

Jon shifts around until his feet swing over the edge of the bridge, cool evening air swirling around them in their bubble. The air is full of the sound of the small river below them and the smell of concrete cooling after a warm day. Martin is much closer this way and Jon leans into the warmth that radiates off his body, the smell of tea and ocean mingling in the air. 

"I feel… confused, that you could ever like me, want this with me. I still feel heavy with the way I've missed you for these last weeks. I feel content and comfortable, here in your space, with you." Jon leans against Martin's chest, eyes pressed closed and Martin's arms moving to wrap him up. "I feel happy that the next time I want to kiss you, I can ask, and I don't have to worry that my sexuality is some big secret in the way." 

"You wanted to kiss me?" Martin whispers, lips pressed into his hair. 

Jon sighs, tension leaking out of his constantly tired and overworked body. "Yes, so much. More than I've ever wanted to kiss anyone, I think."

He can feel the way Martin's lips curve against his head, and his own mouth smiles involuntarily at the sweet sensation. 

Martin tucks him in closer, drawing them together snuggly. "I'll be hoping for next time then, when things aren't in the way, and it's just you and me between our kisses."

Chapter Text

Jon enjoys their first kiss, sweet and clinging in the rain. 

Martin enjoys their second kiss, as he presses Jon against the side of his building before they head inside. 

Suddenly, kissing is a new love language, lips pressing against lips, cheeks, foreheads. 

Martin picks up Jon's hand while they watch a show, and gently kisses the back of his hand and each of his knuckles. Jon has to push away the knot of unbearable affection as it tries to choke him. 

On the first night Jon sleeps over, he discovers a trail of freckles on the back of Martin's neck as they stand at the bathroom vanity, brushing their teeth together. The moment he's done, he clings to Martin's back and kisses each and every single one, following them like a constellation on his skin. 

Martin's face burns with a persistent blush, and he holds onto the hand Jon rests on his stomach like an anchor. 

Despite the sweet kisses, the affection that sits between them, and the lovely intimacy they've learned to share, Jon understands Martin is holding back. 

Jon has known Tim for long enough to be plenty aware of the kink scene, and Martin and Tim have been drunk around him often enough for the words 'Dom' and 'Switch', and plenty of other interesting ideas to feature prominently in several of their conversations that Jon has witnessed. 

So, Jon is more than aware that Martin has plentiful hidden depths that he's holding back to keep Jon comfortable. 

Jon is feeling a little too comfortable and would like to crawl into Martin's lap and kiss him the way he had imagined on their first date, all those weeks ago. He's imagining it again now, as Martin bites his lip and scratches out something he has only just written in his poetry notebook. 

He shifts around, the sofa cushions adjusting beneath him while he frets at finding a position to settle in. It doesn't help that Jon's actually squirming from the inside as his brain helpfully supplies images of Martin's hands, and Martin's mouth and the way Martin might look if Jon bit his lip for him. 

"Martin?" 

"Mmhmm?" 

"Can I kiss you?" 

He snaps his notebook shut, eyes following Jon's twitching. "Me? Martin K. Blackwood, whom you once called 'a complete-'" 

Jon gasps, picking up a throw pillow and tossing at him. "Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don't want to kiss you, maybe ever-" He had been in the process of getting up to stomp away, but Martin grabs him by the hips before he can walk even one step, tugging him back down until they sit pressed side by side on the sofa. 

One arm wraps him close, the other holding his hip firmly. Martin chuckles, sweet and warm, "Sorry, love. Please kiss me."

"No," Jon insists, face turned away, body straining towards Martin in the opposite direction. "No more kisses for boyfriends who tease me. You obviously have better things to do with your mouth-" 

He cuts off with a groan as Martin slips a hand under his shirt, hand sliding firmly along his sensitive ribs. Kisses rain down wherever he can reach, his neck, his ear, the very edge of his cheek. His heart beats a frantic tattoo in his chest, chest burning with a longing that he was almost unaware he was capable of. 

"Come on, Jon. Kiss me."

Jon twists a hand back to tug on his hair, turning in Martin's arms to press their lips together, frenzied. He feels encompassed, surrounded, loved, desired, adored. 

He touches all of Martin's softness as he runs a hand up and under his shirt, arm pressed to his chest as he cups Martin's face with the bulk of his shirt collected over his arm. 

Hands slide from hips to thighs, Martin urges Jon up and over him as they move together, lips parting and tongues moving together for the first time. 

They turn from wild to steady, kissing in a rhythm that robs Jon of air and coherent thought. Martin's hands find his arse, tugging their hips together firmly. 

His hand slides back down, exploring the expanse of Martin's chest as he goes. Solid, straight clavicles, heart beating firmly beneath his hand, the tight little buds of his nipples, smooth scars-

Scars. Martin has scars. 

Of course he does, Jon knows that logically, but he still stiffens at the evidence of Martin's pain. 

"Jon, you okay?" Martin leans back, moving his hands to safer grounds. "Was it too much?" 

Jon tucks himself into his shoulder, hugging him close, loving him with actions, because those are words he won't be able to say for a long, long time. 

"No, it was perfect. You're perfect."

"Good. Talk to me then." Martin insists, snuggling Jon close, cheek resting against his head. 

"I forgot that you would have scars," He confesses into the skin of Martin's neck, hands clinging to broad shoulders. "Not that there's anything wrong with them, it's just that…" He tries to collect himself, but no coherent explanation presents itself. 

Martin rocks them gently, content and at ease with him tucked closed and comfortable. "Scars can be triggering for a lot of people, for a variety of reasons. You don't need to explain yourself, although I need you to be honest with me now if it's a deal-breaker for you."

Jon squeezes him tighter for a second, before leaning away to cup his face. "No, it's not a deal-breaker. It's not an issue for me at all. I just don't like the idea of you suffering."

"Okay, good," Martin smiles at him, and he leans their foreheads together. "It was very painful at the time, but I'm glad I did it, and I'm grateful for who I am now. They make me happy when I see them. So you don't have to hate them, okay?" 

He nods, swallowing. "If they make you happy, then I-" Jon almost says he loves them, like he loves everything about Martin, but catches himself. "Then I appreciate them, just like I appreciate your lovely face, and your expressive eyes, and this manic hair."

Jon plants a kiss on each cheek, Martin's eyes, gives his blonde waves a bit of a tug. He grins in return, holding him close. "If it's a part of you, then I want it, just like I want you."

"I thought I was supposed to be the poet?" Martin teases, leaning forward to capture his lips again. 

Jon can only hum into his mouth, focused on all the places they push up against one another. Martin pulls away while the kiss is still sweet, rubbing their noses together as he retreats. 

"Do you want to see them?" He asks, taking one of Jon's hands and holding it over his heart. It beats a little fast, probably with a combination of lust and the adrenaline that comes with heartfelt revelations. Jon is confident his own heart is beating wildly for those same reasons. 

He nods, moving to sit on the sofa beside him. They sit facing each other, legs overlapping as they gravitate back into each other's space. 

Jon has no issue with skin and has never had a problem differentiating between sexual and non-sexual nudity. It feels natural and intimate as Martin shrugs off his cardigan (dove grey, the same colour as soft spring clouds) and tugs his t-shirt over his head. 

The scars are old and settled into his skin now, but plenty visible. They almost seem natural, as if they've always been there and belong there, as much a part of Martin as brown eyes and dimples. 

Jon starts to reach out to touch them, and Martin takes his hands to finish bringing it to his chest. 

"What do you think?" Martin whispers, words less than a breath between them. 

Jon struggles to catch his equilibrium. His heart is full and his brain is empty, tears threatening from sheer saturation of emotions, things he's never felt, never known before. 

"I think…" He finally begins, "That there are no deal-breakers with you, Martin."

He smiles at Jon, the glimmer of tears and adoration in his own eyes. 

"Yes," Martin agrees, "That does seem to be the way with us."

Jon laughs, soft and teary. "It's a deal then."

"An unbreakable one?" 

Jon hums in wordless agreement, reaching up to hold Martin to him closely. They lay back, cuddled together as the afternoon becomes evening, hearts slowing and starting to beat in sync. 

Chapter Text

Jon never sleeps better than when he shares a bed, despite how rare that has been throughout his adult life. When he and Martin begin sleeping over regularly, he starts to feel like a human being for the first time since he can remember, really. 

He craves the comfort of a warm presence, close by, soft breaths cycling in a constant rhythm. Arms close enough that he can shift over and curl up in them if he needs to. Even if it’s platonic, as it has sometimes been with Tim, it keeps his insomnia at bay more effectively than anything else he’s ever tried. 

With Martin, it’s a real struggle for him to be balanced about sleepover days, though they still manage to become more and more common in a short amount of time after they settle into a relaxed equilibrium about sharing space. 

Still, even the most effective sleep aid fails occasionally, and Jon’s insomnia has a way of clinging to the cracks. 

"Is there a reason you're not asleep?" Martin finally asks, as Jon readjusts himself for the fifth time in thirty minutes, Jon’s old bed creaking each and every time. It’s comfortable enough, but not with a constantly shifting person in it. 

Jon, already swirling in complex emotions, grimaces as he realises that his overflowing brain is keeping them both up. "Sorry, do you want me to go sit in the living room?" 

"Hey, no," He murmurs sleepily, tugging Jon closer in the circle of his arms. "I was just wondering what's bothering you. I love having you here, even if we're awake."

He wants to lie. Stuff his anxiety down deep inside of himself and pretend it never existed. But Jon lives with a lot of different kinds of anxiety and knows if he lies and ignores it all the time, it will make him miserable. He has to be open with Martin if he wants to keep him, even if the words choke him as effectively as the anxiety does. 

"Do you have any exes?" He asks, dancing around the issue. He can almost hear Martin blink in confusion at the non-sequitur. 

He shuffles around in a way that might indicate a horizontal shrug. "A couple of teen boyfriends that burnt out pretty quick, and one long term arrangement when I was in my early twenties, no one very serious or long-lasting after that."

Jon wonders at the choice of word - 'arrangement' but Martin doesn't elaborate so he moves on. 

"Have you ever been in love?" Jon asks into the dark, stomach twisting in knots. 

There's a long silence, and he might have thought Martin had gone to sleep, except for the hand that clutches Jon's, thumb rubbing circles into the back of it. 

Finally, "No, I don't believe so."

The silence pulses again between them, full of what feels like love but that they won't acknowledge to one other just yet. 

Then, "Why do you ask? What's bothering you, darling."

"I don't have much relationship experience, probably far less than you, really." Jon confesses, and the only thing keeping him from drifting away on a current of 'what if's' is Martin's warm, reassuring hand. "But, there was… I was in love once, before."

They shift around until they are lying on their sides, facing one another, although they’re mostly just vague shadowy impressions in the dark. Martin transfers his hand to cup Jon’s cheek, his thumb sweeping over the soft skin on the ball of his cheek and his temple. He leans into the gesture like a cat being stroked. 

"Do you want to tell me about them?" Martin offers gently, voice hazy with sleep but clearly awake enough to be focused on Jon.

Jon bites his lip, desperately wanting to, but not wanting Martin to think that he’s still hung up, as he has often been accused of by previous romantic potentials, including Georgie. "That doesn't seem very fair to you."

"Why not? History is important, and I’m not overly worried by it.” Martin smothers a yawn. “If it’s bothering you, we should talk it out. Are you not over them?" 

Jon swallows, head buzzing. "I am, but there's still a lot of… Good Lord, this is hard to talk about. There's still a lot of complications there. Emotionally, there's never been a resolution."

"When was the last time you saw them?" 

"More than nine years ago, now. His name is Gerard. Gerry."

Martin hums appreciatively, "Gerry is a good name."

He takes the opening to spill his swirling thoughts out into the room between them. "I was 19. We were together for six months, and I really loved him, I think, as best as a selfish, bastard teenager can love anyone. It felt like love, although we spent a lot of time high and kissing and trying to shove all our time together even when we didn't have any spare. He was a lot , as a person, but he made me feel wild and alive, and like I was good enough."

“What was he like? I’m imagining a very hyper version of Tim right now, for some reason.” 

They laugh together, mostly because Tim certainly doesn’t need to be any more bouncy and energetic. 

“No, nothing like Tim really, other than the fact that they're both tall and flirt as easily as they breathe." Jon takes a moment, closes his eyes to picture Gerry in his mind, old as the memories are now. He still lives there, in Jon's mind, as real and solid as the final day he saw him. "He was an artist, always covered in paint or charcoal or something like that. His favourite colour was black-" 

"Is black technically a colour?" Martin interrupts to ask vaguely, hand moving to slide into his hair. 

Jon laughs, having had that conversation with Gerry many times. "No, it's a shade. But Gerry liked to wear a lot of black, he even kept his hair dyed black, although he was actually blonde and almost always had his roots growing out."

"Ah," Martin vibrates with mirth at the mental image Jon is painting. "A true agent of chaos."

"He really was. He made my Gran insane, always shirtless and reading Austen out loud in the middle of the night while we sat on the roof." Jon giggles, remembering a particular incident that had ended with Jon having Gerry's copy of Pride and Prejudice thrown in the general direction of his head. 

"So what happened, then?" Martin finally presses. 

Jon's throat closes, still heartbroken, even after all these years, though it mostly sits like a dull ache now. Despite cycles of anger, frustration and just needing to know, Jon simply still misses Gerry, like a lung he really needs to breathe but can no longer use. 

"He just left, one day, ran away from home. I think it was pretty toxic for him, but I'll probably never know why he just disappeared without saying goodbye to me."

His cheeks are wet when Martin leans forward to kiss them, affection sweet and supportive. "Have you ever tried to find him?" 

Jon grunts, annoyance at many failed attempts rising up in him. "Yes, many, many times. I've caught sight of him on the internet occasionally, mostly on other people's social media, but mostly he's like a ghost. A very irrational part of me has always suspected he's actively avoiding me."

Jon shakes himself, remembers the boyfriend curled around him, the secure adoration that fills him up every time Martin enters a room. "I'm sorry, I know this isn't exactly what you want to hear from the person you're dating. Them pining over a long-ago ex." 

He shrugs, simply tugging Jon closer and settling him under his chin. "I'd rather we talk these things through together than you just let them eat at you. Do I love that you had your heart broken? Not particularly. But it's not some dirty secret or an issue for me. Besides, I have history to tell you one day as well."

"Oh," Jon whispers, pressed against his chest, arms clinging to his shoulders. He feels much easier about the whole thing now, honestly, and he realises how much he's been stressing about Martin finding out about Gerry. A similar conversation with Georgie when they first started dating had been tense but fine - right up until they broke up when Georgie had told him that she could cope with a lot of things, but not with him being unbearably hung up on another person. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Very sure," Martin whispers, pressing a sweet kiss into his hair. "Shall we get up and have a cuppa? Might help you settle if you move around and have some tea."

Jon protests, citing Martin having to go to work the next day, how comfy the bed is, etc. In the end, though, he gets tugged up, and Martin kisses him breathless as Jon kneels on the edge of the bed. 

He makes them tea while Jon wraps himself in Martin's cardigan and sits down at the piano to play a few songs. By the time the tea is drunk and Martin is yawning again, Jon is heavy and sleepy, and when they climb back into bed, it's only a few, Martin-soaked moments before he tumbles into a peaceful sleep, and rests. 

*** 

The very next day, Gerard Keay walks up to Jon in the library, and that's when things get interesting.