Work Text:
Martin’s written poetry for as long as he can remember - he thinks the first poem he wrote was in year one, probably with some questionable rhyming and no actual link to whatever the task even was, but he had enjoyed it, a lot, and had entered every poetry competition (under a pseudonym) right up until sixth form.
Then, in year twelve, one of his teachers had lent him a photography guide and Martin became obsessed with the idea of taking pictures to go with his poetry. He would have liked to stay and learn photography, but his life was flipped on its head and he had to drop out. So he did the next best thing: he got a disposable camera and took pictures in his neighbourhood.
It was an… adequate solution - he could take the pictures when he had to walk to the shops or had to wait for his mother somewhere, and he could nip into Boots to get them developed when he was in town. In the few years between dropping out of sixth form and joining the Institute, though, he didn't have much chance to write, let alone have time for photography.
By some miracle, having a stable, full time job changed that because just after he got his first payslip, Martin found a vintage polaroid camera in a heart foundation shop not far from his house - it was quite dear, especially considering that he had to find the right parts, but it gave him the kick he needed to start taking more photographs (trying to get his money’s worth and all that).
He started off taking pictures on his way to and from work. He kept a small notebook with him all the time and tucked the polaroids in between the pages (to stick in at a later date) and would write his poems on the corresponding pages. He had briefly entertained the idea of taking a few pictures inside the institute, though he quickly decided against it - Jon would no doubt have been angry, and Elias seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.
His next venture was more nature based and he took to spending most of his time in various national trust parks and gardens with his camera and notebook, though it was at this point that most of his poetry was touched with elements of his feelings for Jon. And various horrors he read about in the archives. It was a weird time.
It had become such a habit, carrying the camera everywhere he went, that it was no surprise that he ended up with more than a few pictures of him, Tim and Sasha together, though these went in a little photo album rather than his notebook.
Sasha and Tim would tease him about his hobby - not in a malicious way, mind you, and, in fact, it turned out alright for Martin in the end because Sasha had nicked his camera once, when they were all at Tim's and took one of Martin's favourite pictures.
He and Jon had been in a not-so-heated debate about something - he can't remember what anymore - and they had completely forgotten that Tim and Sasha were even there until the camera flashed from over the coffee table and the pair of them had started cackling at the absolute horror on Jon’s face. He had tried to tell them off, but their laughter was infectious and he hadn’t been able to keep a straight face for long enough.
Sasha had given the picture to Martin and told him to put it in his photo album, and Tim had joked he should mark this momentous occasion - “the first and only time a picture of the elusive archivist has ever been taken.”
It was a lovely picture. Jon wasn't scowling at him, which was a nice change, and it was clear as day how utterly besotted Martin was - all soft smiles and heart eyes. He had intended to stick it in his photo album, really, but he decided against it - something about it capturing his feelings so plainly made him want to hide it away.
So he put it in his wallet. Maybe it was a bit weird, but it's not like anyone knew he had it or anything, and likely no one would ever need to know it was there. It wasn’t until a week later he decided to get some double-sided tape and paper to stick a poem to the back.
Wish
I wish that you didn't have to know,
I wish that my thoughts would slow,
I wish that you would see,
How much you mean to me.
~~~
It wasn't until he and Jon were safely tucked away in Scotland that Martin was reminded of the polaroid in his wallet.
“Martin, I’m going to the shop. Do you have any cash?”
“Should do - have a look in my wallet. I think it’s on the coffee table.” Martin called back from the kitchen.
There was silence for a moment and Martin went back to the washing up.
“Martin?” Jon said, the vaguest hint of laughter in his voice. “What’s this?”
Martin lifted soapy hands out the sink and used the back of his hand to push his glasses up before turning around. Jon was standing in the doorway holding up a polaroid. The polaroid. Fuck.
“Uhh…”
They both stood there for a moment. Martin was convinced he was actually about to die of embarrassment.
“Sorry? I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything, I just-”
“Martin, it’s alright. It’s… actually kind of sweet.”
“You think? I mean, I thought it was weird when it was taken. I never thought it would be sweet, I mean, who keeps pictures in their wallet anyway? I don’t-”
“Yes, Martin, I think it’s sweet. Now, do you need anything from the shop?”
~~~
A few nights later, Martin couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep most nights, but this was a bad one, one that found him sitting on the little bench outside in his thin pajamas for most of the night. He stared blankly into the horizon, barely registering the sun rising in muted orange through the thick fog that had wrapped around him.
Martin had never been one to indulge, but since his time with Peter he allowed himself this one luxury. Being here, alone… there was cold comfort in it, a tender stiffness settling in his bones, keeping him firmly in this place - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here, but it was familiar; it was safe insofar as he could navigate it.
He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, which was soon replaced with a blanket.
“It’s cold, Martin. Come inside?”
Martin hummed noncommittally, slowly becoming aware of how the stiffness was actually near painful, the cold comfort was not comfortable, just deceptive, and he couldn't completely tell where the empty landscape ended and he began. Except it wasn’t empty. It wasn’t empty because Jon was there, perched sideways on his lap and half wrapped in the ratty old blanket that had been on Daisy’s sofa when they arrived. Because it was freezing and Jon’s fingertips and lips were already turning a funny grey shade.
He swallowed, throat dry, “Sometimes I think that I'll wake up and you won't be here. Not… not because you don't want to be, more because I still don't know what I did to deserve this. I can’t tell if this is real.”
“You don’t have to earn this, Martin,” Jon frowned, brushing dew-soaked curls from Martin’s forehead, “You’re allowed to be happy,
Martin didn’t seem to hear him, eyes drifting in and out of focus on something neither of them could quite see, “I- We don’t even really know each other, Jon.”
“We have time, Martin, we can learn. For example, I know how to make your tea properly now - it’s very complicated but I know it’s important to you.”
Martin laughed shakily at how proud Jon sounded of himself, and absently started rubbing Jon’s hands between his own to try and warm them up.
“I wish that you would see, how much you mean to me, Martin.” It was Jon’s turn to laugh now, Martin’s cold-kissed cheeks burning up with an embarrassed blush.
“You’re shivering, come on, I’ll make tea.”