Work Text:
Soho, 1992
The nervous twink had drained his beer and pushed the empty glass towards Martin. “Can I have another, cheers,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder at the man sitting alone in a booth, and who had not stopped looking at the twink since they first made eye contact.
Martin refilled the glass and pushed it back to the twink, along with a wrapped condom.
The twink went bright red. “Uhm, I don’t — I’m not —”
“You hook up with someone you meet in my bar, you take a condom,” Martin said sternly. “And also don’t do it here ‘cos that’s still illegal and could get us shut down.” Martin nudged the condom closer to him. “Other than that, go for it.”
Utterly embarrassed, the twink slinked off with his beer and the condom, which he quickly stuffed into his back pocket, where it made an extremely noticeable and distinct ring-shaped protrusion. Martin watched him ask the man if he could join him, all the while looking down at his feet. If Martin were a gambling man, he’d put good money on the twink never having had sex before, and certainly not sex with another man. At least he was courageous enough to actually go for it and didn’t flee the bar at the first sign that he might actually score tonight, which was more than Martin could say of his own youthful escapades.
Martin glanced at the clock. It was time again. He plonked the small ‘be right back’ sign onto the bar and turned to the phone. He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and waited.
The phone at home rang. And rang. And rang some more.
Martin hung up. Phillip rarely picked up on the first ring, he wasn’t worried.
He wiped a few stray drops of alcohol off the bar, served a couple of regulars their usual without a single word passing between them, and then did a round of the floor to gather used dishes.
As he stacked some dirty plates on top of each other, he suddenly became aware that the conversation from one of the tables in the corner didn’t sound quite right. He angled his body so he looked like he was checking that the condiments were still full enough, but was actually eyeing the two men talking by one of the standing tables. One of them, who wore a mustard yellow bowtie, was backed all the way to the wall, and the other, who had a brown mullet, was moving ever closer. When he put his hand on the guy with the bowtie’s, the guy with the bowtie flinched, but Mullet tightened his grip around Bowtie’s fingers.
Martin left the dishes where they were and went straight over. He stood next to Bowtie and raised his eyebrows at Mullet.
“Is there a problem?” asked Mullet after a beat of surprised silence.
Martin addressed Bowtie. “That’s what I was wondering. Is he bothering you?”
“Hey, now,” Mullet protested, finally letting go of Bowtie’s hand, “this isn’t any of your —”
“Yeah, he is,” Bowtie interrupted. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest and stared back at Mullet. “I’d like you to leave, please.”
“Aw, come now, love,” said the harasser, spreading his hands in feigned innocence and taking another step towards him.
“Hey.” Martin blocked the harasser’s path. “He said no. Leave him alone.” For good measure, he flashed his fangs for a second.
With a scoff and a dismissive wave, the harasser turned and left. Martin followed him to the exit, not taking his eyes off him until the door had closed behind him.
He cast a look over his shoulder. “All right, mate?”
The man nodded, eyes on the floor and shoulders hunched. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Martin got the poor guy a drink and a plate of chips on the house, and called a cab for him after a little bit of “thanks, but that’s all right” and “Are you quite sure” and “Well, all right, I suppose that’s for the best.”
And since he was on the phone anyway, he called Phillip.
After almost five minutes of ringing, Martin hung up again, now with nerves tugging at his heart.
Martin got the empty dishes off his regulars, had a brief chat with them — one of them had tested positive a month ago but was keeping up a cheerful appearance, while his partner was already planning his funeral, by the looks of him — and then, after they left, made a list of which supplies they were running short of. And then he turned to the phone again.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more.
Martin hung up. Or at least he tried. His hand was shaking so badly he missed the cradle three times and had to use both hands.
He put the sign back on the bar and went into the back room, where Constantine was redoing his make-up.
Constantine looked up when he heard the door. His face immediately softened when he saw Martin’s expression. “He’s not picked up?” he asked.
Martin shook his head.
Constantine capped his lipstick and got up. “Go,” he said. “I’ll take the rest of the night and the locking up.”
“Thank you.” Martin squeezed Constantine’s shoulder. “I’ll pull a double tomorrow.”
“No.” Constantine put his hand on top of Martin’s. “This isn’t a tit-for-tat thing.”
The telephone thing had been his idea. Sometimes he reminded Martin to give Phillip a call, and, when the bar was especially busy, made the call himself. He knew what Martin was thinking and feeling. Three of Constantine’s best friends were in St Anne’s churchyard now.
He gave Martin’s hand a pat. “Go take care of Phillip. Give him my love.”
“I will. Merci, Constantine.”
“De rien, mon cher.”
Martin spent the entire ride on the Tube staring out into the black void of the tunnel. Unbidden, his imagination conjured scenarios of what he would find once he got home, each more terrible than the next. By the time he reached his stop, his heart was beating so hard he could hear it over the noise of a platform busy even this late.
He almost ran the short distance from the tube station to his building, and took the stairs two at a time. Once he was at the door to the flat he shared with Phillip, though, he stopped, and hesitated, momentarily paralysed by what he imagined he might find inside.
It took the bang of another door two floors up for Martin to break out of his stupor. Resolutely, he turned the key in the lock and went inside.
The flat was dark and quiet. Martin called out Phillip’s name. In reply, there came a call from the bathroom, not unreminiscent of the weak mutterings of an infant. Martin carefully pushed open the door.
Phillip was on the floor, curled up next to the toilet, his fists drawn tightly against his chest. His skin was clammy and sweaty, and he was breathing harshly. He was shaking, but Martin wasn’t sure if it was from cold or exertion.
Martin went to the sink and ran a washcloth under warm water. He knelt down next to Phillip. He reached up to flush the toilet, at the sound of which Phillip stirred. Half-passed out still, he put his head in Martin’s lap. He breathed out Martin’s name with a sigh.
Martin stroked his thin hair with one hand and cleaned his face with the other. “I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” Phillip mumbled; he had his eyes still closed and his fingers were digging a little painfully into Martin’s thigh. “I heard the phone that last time, but…”
“It’s all right,” Martin replied, discreetly shaking clumps of fallen-out hair from his hand.
“Work?” Phillip croaked.
“Constantine’s holding down the fort. And nobody is after drinks at this point of the night anymore anyway.”
Phillip managed a weak smile, though he still didn’t open his eyes. “How many condoms did you give out tonight?”
“Oh, a good dozen, I should say. We’re running low, actually, we’ll have to restock soon.”
Phillip chuckled, which sounded less like a laugh and more like a rusty saw scraping ineffectually against wood. Then he coughed. His whole body shook with the effort; he writhed and arched his back. Martin let go of him so he didn’t hurt him, but he kept one hand on his back, running it gently up and down.
After what seemed like ages, Phillip sucked in a deep breath and let it out again slowly and more or less steadily. “Fuck,” he muttered, halfway to a sob.
“Come.” Martin got his feet under himself and pulled Phillip along. He weighed less than a crate of empty bottles. “You’ll get better rest in bed.”
With Phillip as weak as he was, Martin basically carried him to their bedroom. The moment Phillip laid down on the bed, he curled back up on himself. He was still shivering, and Martin tucked the duvet around him as well as he could, and also spread the afghan blanket Lucy had crocheted out over him.
“D’you want some tea?” Martin asked quietly.
“Sure, if you’re making some anyway,” Phillip replied drowsily, and Martin smiled, a little sadly, and patted down Phillip’s hair. Martin always made tea when he came home, no matter the hour. Phillip knew, and Martin knew Phillip knew, and the question was, at this point, something like a routine gesture of affection between them.
In the kitchen, Martin poured two cups of tea. He added a generous splash of rum to his own cup, stoppered the bottle, and put it back in the cupboard. Then he took it out again, unstoppered it, and added another, more generous splash.
Back in the bedroom, Martin put the teacups on the bed stands on either side of the bed before he changed into his pyjamas. He wasn’t tired, and he knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep for another two hours or three, but he wanted to get some reading done.
But first, he headed back into the kitchen and called the bar.
Constantine picked up after only two rings. “Constantine, it’s me,” Martin said before Constantine had a chance to launch into his long-winded phone greeting.
“I thought so,” replied Constantine. “Who else would call at this hour? How is he?”
“In bed now. Hopefully sleeping.” He paused. “Other than that, I — I really don’t know. It feels like —” He had to take a steadying breath, “it feels like every moment now, it could be all over, you know?”
“I know,” Constantine said quietly.
Into the silence, Martin asked, “How was the rest of the night?”
“Oh, rather uneventful. I just watched them all wrap up their dates and trickle out, and then I locked up.”
“Thank you, Constantine,” Martin said, hoping he could hear over the phone how much he meant it, “for everything.”
“Tosh,” Constantine dismissed him.
Martin smiled. “I’ll leave you, then” he replied. “Get yourself home.”
“All right. Good night. Give Phillip my love.”
“You already said that.”
“Never hurts to repeat it.” And with nothing else, he hung up. Constantine didn’t like saying goodbye, a sentiment Martin understood even if he didn’t share it.
Back in the bedroom, he puttered about the room for a bit while taking occasional sips of tea. Phillip had barely reacted when Martin had put the cup down on his bed stand, and it appeared that he hadn’t touched it since then, either.
When Martin finally had no more clothes to sort or books to straighten, he grabbed the novel he was reading and went to bed. He propped the pillow up behind his back and opened the book.
He had thought Phillip was already asleep, but now, he rolled over and put his arms around Martin’s middle. Martin decided that the reading could wait after all. He turned the light off, lay down, and hugged Phillip back. It felt like hugging a sack of sticks.
“I’m sorry,” Phillip began, but Martin immediately shushed him and held him a little closer.
“Nothing you need to apologise for,” he told him, letting his lips brush over the shell of his ear.
For a while, they were quiet. Martin listened to Phillip’s irregular, painful breathing, chasing his own thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking,” Phillip said at long last. “Could you… I mean, if you want — could you try to turn me?”
Martin felt his own breath hitch. “Phillip, the chances for that working —”
“I know,” Phillip interrupted. He coughed. “At the end, I mean. When I’m as good as dead.”
Martin winced at his frank words. “Phillip…” He closed his eyes, trying to shake the image of the soldier in 1918 who’d still had Tetanus after he‘d been turned for it, and who’d walked into the sun. “I don’t know what would happen. For all we know, you’d be stuck for centuries the way you are when I turn you. I couldn’t do that to you.”
Phillip didn’t reply. He didn’t reply for so long Martin eventually murmured, “Are you still awake?”
“Yes,” Phillip replied. He coughed again.
“Phillip, I’m sorry, but I just can’t —”
“It’s okay,” Phillip replied, and rolled over on his other side. Martin wasn’t sure if the fact that he also rolled out of Martin’s embrace was deliberate. “I was just wondering. Good night.”
Martin sighed. “Good night, Phillip.”