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"Martin? Have you seen my jumper?"
Leaning out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still dangling from his mouth, Martin watched Jon dig through the huge bag he had brought to the safehouse. It held practically everything Jon still had to his name although half its contents currently littered the floor of the bedroom.
When Jon looked over to him, he could only shrug and raise a questioning eyebrow.
"It's oversized, wine red... I know I packed it..."
Martin retreated to the sink to spit before walking back out to the bedroom.
"When did you last wear it?" He asked.
"...day before we left maybe?" Jon looked upward as he thought, "I definitely remember putting it in here though."
"I'll check the washing machine."
"Thank you."
Martin went to the kitchen and squatted on his hunkers to peer into the barrel of the washing machine.
He had only put it on for the first time last night. The ancient model had rumbled away nearly until dawn and Martin still wasn't sure if the things they had chucked in were clean. He started pulling them out to inspect them and to prep them for drying. There was an old washing line out by the back of the safehouse that still seemed fit for purpose. The weather was dry but dull, it would take some time to get the water-logged things sorted.
It was an odd sensation to know that they had that kind of time now.
Buried under the worn jeans and mismatched socks, Martin saw a flash of colour and dug through the pile to pull out a dark maroon jumper. It was nylon mimicking wool, with thick cable knit patterns running through it, and clearly well worn. Unfurling it, Martin tested it for dampness and checked that the washing machine had actually done its job.
Martin had never seen it on Jon before, but a dull sense of familiarity sounded in the back of his skull.
It was a nice top, sturdy but soft, but it was far, far too big for Jon’s frame. He had always been slight and ever since he had woken up, he had become even more diminished. There was no way this fit him.
“Ah, you found it, excellent.”
Looking up, Martin watched Jon round the corner to the kitchen and walk over to him, grinning.
“This is yours?”
“Yes?”
“It’s huge!” Martin stood and held the jumper up against Jon, “You’d disappear in it!”
Jon huffed and backed away from the damp material.
“It’s comfortable.”
“I would hope so,” Martin chuckled.
Jon rolled his eyes even as he failed to hide a smile and bustled about the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Martin tossed the rest of the clothes into a ratty wicker basket to carry them out. The jumper was delicately placed on top of them, its wrinkles smoothened out by a sweep of his hand. Jon pretended to be unimpressed by the theatrics, but he undercut his own scoff by pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek as he passed by him with the basket.
Standing in the overgrown grass behind the house, Martin took a deep breath of the country air. It was fresh and bracing in the early hours. He shook the morning dew off the thin rope stretched between two wooden stakes and started to hang the washing.
By some minor miracle, Daisy had left washing pegs in the safehouse. There were no glasses in the presses and a series of unidentifiable stains in the carpet, but the means to clean clothes had been provided to them.
Martin supposed it made sense that Daisy would have needed to frequently wash her clothes here, but he decided not to think too hard about what could have caused them to get dirty in the first place.
By the time they were all hung and he had had his fill of air, Jon had put breakfast together and they sat at the table chatting as they made their way through it.
"It looked like rain out there," Jon remarked, "Hope it'll stay dry for the clothes..."
"Worried about your fancy jumper?" Martin joked.
Jon sniffed haughtily and sipped from his mug.
"Perhaps."
Martin laughed.
"Where did you even get it anyway? Seems awfully casual for the office."
"I don't just live in business suits, Martin."
"Could have fooled me, first few months in the archives."
"Oh hush."
Another chuckle.
Jon stirred the dregs of his porridge and finished off his tea before he spoke again.
"I, uh, I borrowed it. From, from the lost-and-found."
"...we have a lost-and-found?"
"Well, we have a box in the bottom of a press where we toss things nobody else claims."
"Ah, right."
"After I... woke up... Most of my wardrobe was gone. Basira... helped get me some things but I... supplemented... a bit. With leftovers."
"Who did you nick the jumper from then?" Martin asked.
Jon fell silent.
Looking up from his toast, Martin saw Jon shrink in on himself and avoid his eye.
"Jon? You alright?"
"...yes."
"...you sure?"
"Mm-hmm."
Martin squinted at him.
Over the past week that they had been in Scotland, Martin had added a multitude of expressions, body movements and tones of voice to his internal dictionary of understanding Jonathan Sims. The little guide had helped him decipher most of the things Jon had said and done over the years they had known other and, although Martin wasn’t quite fluent yet, he thought he had a pretty good grasp on the man sitting in front of him.
Looking Jon over, Martin could see him fiddling slightly with his spoon and hear the brush of his sock against the kitchen tile as he bounced his leg up and down. He didn’t seem upset – the tell-tale furrow of his brow wasn’t visible – if anything he seemed a little embarrassment. It was a new look for him. Martin carefully filed it away as he tried to puzzle out how he had caused it.
Asking about a piece of clothing seemed innocent enough, even if it was easy to tease Jon for being so precious about it, but the more Martin thought about it, the more he wondered who it had originally belonged to.
Size-wise, there were only a handful of people in the archives it could have come from. Basira wasn’t the type for jumpers, she preferred to layer up. It could have been Daisy’s, before she has lost all that weight in the coffin. Occasionally, Melanie liked to wear things two sizes too big as a ‘fashion thing’.
The brand Martin had spied on the tag in the collar as he hung it on the line had been for men’s clothing but that didn’t rule out one of the three women owning it.
The only other option would be-
Familiarity rang in his mind again.
The realisation was not so much of a lightbulb moment as a dimmer switch moment; slow but inevitable.
"Oh my god."
"What?"
"Jon, is- is that jumper mine?"
Jon slumped further into his seat, hiding his face behind his empty mug.
"T-Technically..." He murmured, "Technically... no."
"Jon!"
"It sat in document storage for nearly two years! Practically a-abandoned!"
"Haha!"
"Don't laugh at me!"
"Sorry, sorry, I'm not... hah," Martin wiped a tear from his eye, "God, you're ridiculous, why didn't you just say so?"
Jon huffed.
"I-I didn't think it was that important."
"I guess not," Martin shrugged, "Honestly, I didn't even recognise it at first."
"Not exactly your usual style either."
"Hah, no."
"Where did you get it then?" Jon groused.
Martin grinned at his tone even as he tried to remember. When the memory came back to him, the smile slipped from his face.
"Ah."
"Oh?"
"Umm, I think, I think... Tim got it for me."
Jon stared at him.
"After I- yeah, it was after I moved into the Archives."
Jon frowned sympathetically.
"Couldn't exactly go back to my flat for clothes so he... he picked some stuff up for me."
"Right..."
Now that he had said it out loud, the memory grew clear in his mind's eye. Tim holding out a bag of shirts and trousers with a proud smile as Martin squatted on the lumpy camp bed shoved into document storage.
He had thanked him profusely and waited until he left to examine them. The selection Tim had chosen for him was nice -he had good taste- but they hardly suited Martin. They were a mish-mash of strong colours and tight cuts. Even though Tim had gotten his size right (and that thought in and of itself made him want to curl up and die), the clothes fitted too-well, moulding to his body in a way that drew attention to every part of himself that he tried to hide with loose fabric and layers.
He wore those clothes as little as possible and after he moved back out of the archives, he had lost track of Tim's gifts.
"I thought that stuff got destroyed when Jane attacked," He said out loud.
"Most of it was, I think?" Jon sighed, "But that jumper had fallen behind one of the shelves, found it covered in dust and old paper scraps."
"And you chose to wear it anyway?"
"W-Well! It was hardly the dirt that appealed to me, Martin!"
He laughed.
"It was- Oh, nevermind!" Jon bit out defensively.
"What, no tell me!" Martin urged, "Why did you pick it up?"
"No, you've had quite enough fun."
"Oh c'mon, I won't laugh, I promise."
Jon gave him a leery glare before his face softened and he looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and cautious.
"It was... I mean, by the time I... w-woke up... Your desk had been cleared out, your mug was gone from the kitchen, it was..." He sighed, "That jumper was the only bit of you left in the Archives."
"Oh... Oh, Jon..."
Jon hunched over, wrapping his arms around his waist.
A pang of heartbreak echoed in Martin's chest. Some ratty, old jumper was all Jon had of him for months.
He laid his hand palm-up on the table between them.
Without looking, Jon lifted his arm and placed his own hand in Martin's. He squeezed it gently and rubbed a thumb over Jon's knuckles.
"I'm here now," He said, a reminder for both of them.
"Yes," Jon's voice was weak with relief, "Yes, you are."
They finished breakfast silently and, as they stood to clear away the dishes, Martin tugged Jon close with the hand he still held and kissed him softly. The other man sighed against his lips as they separated, and it made Martin's heart sing to see Jon smile.
The morning passed quickly after that and the rain held off long enough for the clothes to dry properly on the line.
Martin held onto the maroon jumper for a moment as he took it down. Mixed feelings warred in his chest as he looked at it.
It was flattering that Jon would want to wear something of his but that affection was smothered by guilt. He had known how much he had been hurting him by keeping his distance for the past few months, but it was a completely different thing hearing Jon actually talk about it. He had sounded so small, as if by keeping his feelings quiet he wouldn’t be judged for having them.
Regret tasted sour in Martin's mouth. He swallowed it back as he took the rest of the clothes down. He couldn't change the choices he had already made. He could only strive to make better ones now.
He placed the jumper on top of the pile. Looking at it now, it was obviously his. It was far too big to fit anyone else and in his mind's eye, Martin could see how the shape of it would cling to him. Shaking his head of heavy thoughts, he headed back into the house.
Jon was elbow deep in the storage cupboard by the front door, and as soon as he saw Martin, he started complaining about Daisy not owning an iron. He trailed after him into the bedroom and they sorted through the clothes together, Martin listening to his grousing all the while.
("No-one is going to see your wrinkly trousers, Jon."
"You will!"
"Okay; I don't care about your wrinkly trousers, Jon.")
When the rest of their things were folded, Jon laid a hand on the wine jumper and, after a hesitant glance at Martin, picked it up and pulled it on.
He let out a content sigh as his head popped out of the neck hole. The material draped over him like a blanket. He seemed to be buried in it. He rolled the sleeves up so they didn't dangle, and his bare forearms stood out in contrast to the bunched cloth.
He caught Martin staring.
"...what?" He muttered.
"No, s-sorry," Martin stammered, "You, uh, you look really... nice. It- It suits you."
"Oh! Hah, well," Jon ducked his head bashfully, "I don’t think - T-Thank you."
Nice was an understatement. Martin thought Jon looked gorgeous in the jumper. The deep, rich colour brought out the warmth of his skin tone. The folds of fabric fell around him artfully, the softness complimenting his sharp features. Even just sitting cross-legged on the bed, he looked like a model for some hipster fashion blog.
More than that, watching Jon wearing something of his made him feel giddy. It was wildly domestic to see his boyfriend wearing his clothes, something so mundane it seemed surreal to him.
Not for the first time, he was bowled over by how lucky they were. To be able to sit and chat, to do household chores, without some crisis or monstrosity breathing down their necks seemed like an impossible dream. But they were living it, surrounded by the faint scent of fabric soap and far, far away from anything that might want to hurt them.
Jon squirmed in place.
"You're still staring," He was clearly trying to sound put out but his grin gave him away.
"You still look nice," Martin countered.
Joining him on the bed, Martin leaned in to wordlessly show him just how nice he thought he was.
They spent the day like that, wrapped in each other’s company and making their way through Daisy's paltry book collection.
(Jon scoffed at her shelf of bodice-rippers and then read three of them in one day.)
That evening, Martin threw a ready-made lasagne in the oven for dinner and began to set the table as Jon set a timer and hopped into the shower.
With ten minutes left on his phone, Jon still had not reappeared so Martin popped his head into the bedroom. The sound of running water came from behind the bathroom door.
He knocked on the doorframe to give him a reminder.
“One second!”
Turning to walk out, Martin saw Jon had left his clothes lying on the bed. The jumper sat pride of place at the top of the pile. Martin had a feeling Jon would be wearing it as often as he could, now that he had it back in his hands. He caught himself grinning at the thought.
Curiosity prompted him to pick it up and look it over again. Jon’s wear of it throughout the day had lightened the smell of detergent and left the faux-wool feeling soft and warm.
Martin wondered if it would still fit him.
The idle thought nipped at him. Following the thread of mild curiosity, he pulled it on over his head.
It was tight, particularly around the arms and he tugged on it carefully to avoid causing any damage. The hem barely passed over the top of his trousers, and he could feel the material hugging his body at every side.
There was no full-length mirror in the bedroom, only an old table mirror that stood on the large chest of drawers. Martin tilted it slightly to try and get a better look at himself. Stepping back, he stared at his reflection.
His head was cut off from the angle of the mirror but he could feel the smile fall from his face.
Where the jumper sat artfully loose on Jon, it clung to Martin, highlighting his large gut, his spare tire, his saggy chest. The sleeves were far too tight to roll up and his upper arms looked even bulkier than usual. What had before seemed fashionable now looked frumpy and Martin shut his eyes for a moment as embarrassment rose in him.
He never thought much about his body. He knew he was fat -he always had been- but he had told himself that he didn’t dislike how he looked.
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Most days, he knew how to dress to avoid highlighting the parts of himself he didn’t want others to see, and he was well-practised in the art of avoiding people’s attention. If he just kept his head down and hunched his shoulders, he could stay below their level of notice. Coming hand-in-hand with that however, was the issue that whenever he caught a glimpse of himself it always caught him off guard.
He always seemed somehow wider than he remembered, and he would feel cold at the thought that someone else might have noticed the same thing.
His chagrin wasn’t helped by the fact that he knew exactly how Jon looked in the same piece of clothing.
It hadn’t registered with him that there was such a difference between them. Jon was slim of course, but he was barely half-a-head shorter than Martin and he had always been larger-than-life in his eyes.
He couldn’t help but wonder what Jon saw when he looked at him.
Distracted by the stretch of the cable knit over his torso, he didn’t hear the bathroom door open behind him.
“Oh.”
With a flinch, he whirled around to see Jon, still steaming from the shower and already dressed in his sleep clothes. He was staring wide-eyed at him.
“Uh- I-I was- um,” His mind drew a blank, waiting for judgement.
Jon didn’t blink but his gaze turned soft and a smile grazed his lips. He walked slowly toward Martin and placed his hands on his shoulders, rubbing his thumbs against the fabric of the jumper.
“Hello, handsome.”
It took all of Martin’s will not to cringe at the compliment.
Jon was his boyfriend; he had to say things like that. The fact that he was obligated meant it certainly wasn’t true. Going out of his way to talk up his appearance only convinced Martin that he must think the exact opposite.
Leaning back from Jon’s touch, he screwed a polite smile on his face.
“J-Just seeing if it fit,” He kept his tone light.
“I suppose I’ll have to share now,” Jon pretended to grumble.
“Haha, nope!” Backing away completely, Martin took off the jumper as quickly and as carefully as he could, “You’re more than welcome to it, doesn’t suit me.”
He folded it carefully and placed it back among Jon’s things. When he turned around, Jon was still looking at him, a slight frown on his face.
“I thought you looked rather... stylish,” He murmured.
That got a genuine laugh out of him.
“Style is for thin people, Jon,” He half-joked, “Not- not people like me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Jon looked abruptly stricken, staring at him in horror. Before Martin could take back his own words, a cheerful electronic tune blared from the kitchen.
Saved by the bell.
“Food’s done.”
“Mar-”
Martin practically ran from the room.
He was already dishing up by the time Jon emerged from the bedroom and couldn’t quite meet his eye as he handed him his portion.
They ate in silence. Martin could feel Jon watching him as he chewed.
He cleared his plate, mopping up any leftover sauce with a piece of garlic bread. Despite what countless weight-loss programmes and his own mother had said to him over the years, he had never managed to feel guilty about eating.
In his mid-twenties, living alone for the first time, Martin had put himself on every diet under the sun. He had exercised until he grew light-headed. He had fasted and fretted over every calorie. It never made a difference. His weight stayed the same and he eventually gave up on trying to lose it.
On his worst days, a good meal was one of the few things he looked forward to and, as much as he avoided thinking about the physical effect on his body, he could never regret eating properly.
Jon was quiet throughout the meal but Martin could practically hear the cogs in his head turning. His brow was deeply furrowed and his knees bounced restlessly. It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and even clearer that he couldn’t find the words to say it.
Selfishly, Martin hoped he never would.
He didn’t want to talk about the jumper, or anything he had said. They could just go back to ignoring the elephant in the room and they would both be better off for it.
Once the food was gone and the dishes were clear, they both quietly decided to turn in early. Martin was glad for it; the day had worn him down.
He showered quickly and got changed in the bathroom. By the time he was done, Jon was already lying in bed with the lights off. As soon as Martin lay on his back, Jon was on him. He wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and pulled him close so he could curl against his side.
“Um, hi?”
“S-Sorry, is this alright?”
“Y-Yeah, no, yeah, it’s fine... you alright?”
Jon sighed and tightened his grip.
“Are you?”
“I, heh, I asked you first,” Martin tried to joke.
Jon’s silence was stony.
“I’m fine,” Martin said instinctively.
Jon huffed in his ear and lay his head on his shoulder.
“Well, I’m not. Someone insulted my boyfriend today.”
“Jon...”
“Is that really how you think of yourself?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” Martin groaned.
“Well I-!” Jon bit off the end of his own sentence, aware that he was starting to raise his voice.
With another sigh, he pressed closer to Martin. He lay almost on top of him, one leg twinned with his and his face buried in his neck.
“I’ve been thinking...” He mumbled, “And I, uh, I don’t know how to say this without sounding... crass.”
Despite himself, Martin’s curiosity was piqued.
“I... I... like your body,” Jon whispered, “I like your shape and your height and your warmth...” His grip loosened slightly as he moved one hand to rest on Martin’s stomach, “I think you’re lovely, I really do.”
Martin tried his best to stay still, to not squirm under the unexpected affection.
“I... I didn’t realise you... thought otherwise. Caught me by surprise, I suppose.”
“...Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Jon moaned, “I just... M-Martin, you’re gorgeous.”
“You have to say that,” Martin couldn’t help but spit out.
“No, I don’t! A-And even if I did, it’s the truth!”
Martin barely held in a scoff. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t actually start arguing with Jon when they were both trying to sleep.
“You don’t believe me,” Jon sounded scandalised.
“I... I believe you feel that way,” Martin said evenly.
Jon groaned.
“Alright, alright, fine, it- it doesn’t even matter what I think because-!” He paused and the ire dropped from his voice, “Because you’re here. Every bit of you. You’re alive and well and s-safe. That’s what matters. That’s a g-good thing, Martin. You... believe that, at least... don’t you?”
Martin kept his mouth shut. If he opened it, he wasn’t sure if he would laugh or sob.
In his mind, he understood the point Jon was making. What did his weight matter when he had just escaped the clutches of an eldritch entity? In the grand scheme of things, it was surely the least of his worries.
In his heart, however, that fact was more difficult to accept. It didn’t matter how many monsters he out-manoeuvred or disasters he survived; there would always be people who judged him for how he looked. Even knowing exactly what his body had been through, he was sometimes one of those people.
Jon wasn’t. Martin had never thought he was, but there was a huge difference between thinking something and hearing it said out loud.
Jon loved his body; he was grateful it existed. It was an overwhelming idea. Martin could feel his eyes getting wet.
Jon’s hand pushed gently down on his stomach and he made a quiet, questioning noise. Martin hadn’t answered him.
“Right,” He quickly scrubbed a hand across his eyes, “Right, let go a minute.”
Jon pulled his arms back and Martin turned to face him, immediately pulling him into a tight hug.
“Oh! Oh.”
Returning the gesture, Jon held him closely and spread his hands over the expanse of his back as if his grip could protect him from his own thoughts.
“Than-Thank you,” Martin muttered into the side of his head.
“Thank you,” Jon whispered back.
He didn’t question him. He only held him close to his body and kissed his cheek softly.
They stayed huddled together until Jon drifted into a fitful sleep, and even then, Martin only loosened his grip slightly so he could toss and turn if he wanted.
In the dark of their bedroom, surrounded on all sides by quiet countryside, Martin sighed and tried to will his mind to rest.
Once upon a time, at some dead-end job in a bookies, Martin had spent an evening on the office computer falling down a rabbit hole of weight-loss journey blogs instead of watching the cameras like he was supposed to.
He had stumbled onto the ramblings of some American mommy blogger dressing up her personal anecdotes as universally applicable advice. Most of it was nonsense to him -he wasn’t exactly concerned with the pressures of small-town California or raising three kids- but there was one gem of advice hidden amongst the platitudes that had stuck with him years later.
“I might not like my body all the time but always I’m grateful for her- She made me three healthy babies, a head to hold upright and a heart to praise God! Thank your body every day for what she gives you!”
Martin had only tried to follow that advice once.
He had stood in front a mirror in his old flat without a shirt and thanked his body out loud. Even without anyone else to see, he had gotten so embarrassed that he immediately hid under his duvet and didn’t look at his reflection for a week.
Now, lying in the arms of the man he loved and a world away from who he used to be, Martin tried again. A general sort of thanks felt bland and useless, he had to understand what he was grateful for.
He was grateful that his height had gotten him jobs that he was too young for when he needed to pay the bills.
He was grateful that his fat kept him warm when Jane Prentiss’ home invasion destroyed his heating.
He was grateful that his legs worked every time he had to walk away from Jon’s hospital bed.
Being honest with himself, part of the seduction of Forsaken came in the form of not having to be seen- the peace and impartiality that invisibility gifted him.
It is hard to remember now, but Martin thinks he did lose his body for a time on that endless, impossible beach. He was glad –as glad as he could have been- to be rid of it. Just another thing for people to judge him for, easy to discard. He had abandoned flesh for fog and convinced himself that it was better that way.
His voice had been one of the last things to go.
That, and his eyes.
He was so, so grateful that he still had his eyes when Jon asked him to look and tell him what he saw.
Reluctantly, Martin could concede there was a lot to be grateful for. Especially when it had all led him here, embracing true peace in the night with Jon in his arms.
It would take a long time to undo the patterns of thought he had carried with him most of his life. He wouldn’t love his body tonight. He wouldn’t love it tomorrow.
But he could be glad that it existed. That it had carried him through the worst moments of his life to arrive where he was.
Besides, he thought as he felt Jon’s hands tightened their grip on him in sleep, his boyfriend would make it very difficult to think otherwise. Even if he couldn’t understand the feeling, knowing Jon thought him beautiful made his heart flutter. It was harder to hate himself when someone else loved him so much.
Taking deep breaths, he filled his lungs with sleep-warm air and shut his eyes. There was time and space in this house to learn how to be kind to himself. The thought was welcome and exhausting in equal parts. He drifted to sleep making peace with the task ahead of him.
They didn’t talk about it in the morning. If Jon acted a little more tender toward him as they rose, if he hugged him tighter and his kisses lingered on his skin; Martin didn’t comment on it.
Their day was set to be another quiet one; Martin had to pop down to the village to pick up their post and some other necessities but other than that, they had no plans. If the weather stayed dry, they might take a walk.
Martin peered out of the bedroom window as he brushed his teeth after breakfast. It was still dry, and the sun shone bright but he could see trees swaying in the wind. He would need more then a thin t-shirt for the half-hour walk down to the town.
Experience had taught him that the only coat he had -a layered, dull rain-jacket- would be too heavy for the mild breeze. He had spent far too many afternoons staggering back uphill to the house, bags of shopping stuffed under his arms and sweat dripping out of every pore.
Rinsing his mouth out, he hunted around the bedroom for something more suitable.
He found the solution folded in one of the presses, right where he had left it. Hesitating for only a moment, he tried not to think too hard about it as he took it out and pulled it on.
In the living room, Jon was just getting settled on the couch when Martin walked out of the bedroom. He turned in place to greet him and froze.
Standing straight with his head pointedly held high, Martin came out wearing the red jumper. He looked warm and well, the wide neck framing his jaw and the rich colour offering a keen contrast with his pale skin.
As Jon watched him, he could feel a smile growing on his face.
“You, uh,” Martin fixed his gazed on a spot just over Jon’s shoulder, “You are going to have to share, after all. I-I've decided.”
He tried to march past him to the front door, his stiff gait betraying his faux confidence, but Jon grabbed his hand and pulled him down to the couch.
With a delighted chuckle, he kissed him soundly, and thoroughly agreed that some things were meant to be shared.
~
Bonus! Martin in the jumper
