Archive of Our Own ^beta

The City of London took Christmas very seriously. 

There was barely time for a post-Halloween breath before decorations went up over every road, and Christmas hits floated out of every shop door on Oxford Street. Jonathan Sims was just glad he’d never bothered with a TV license, because being met with Christmas specials and Hallmark movies in his own home might have been the final straw.

To say that he wasn’t a Christmas person would have been a gross understatement. In the past year, his general distaste for the season had evolved into a fully-fledged dislike that teased further into hatred with every twinkling light and carol. He couldn’t stand it. If he had his way, they would skip straight from November first to January second, daylight savings-style.

“Good morning, Ebenezer,” Tim—the barista at the Starbucks at the end of the street who always seemed to have the early-morning shift—greeted him with a grin. “Steal any kids’ presents recently?”

Jon reached for his phone to pay. “That doesn’t happen in A Christmas Carol.”

Tim waved off the payment, as he did every morning. Jon getting his phone out was more of a courtesy at this point. “You’d know that, wouldn’t you? I bet you’ve studied the text very closely.”

Jon walked to the end of the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets. The bright white Christmas lights from the street reflected in the side of the espresso machine as Tim made his soya milk hot chocolate. 

“I sold five copies of your book yesterday," Jon said.

Tim whipped his head up, and the smile on his face warmed Jon’s heart a little; as much as he was a bit of a twat, Tim was a really fantastic writer. He deserved to be on the shelves of places much bigger and better than the hole-in-the-wall independent bookshop Jon supervised, but he was doing well enough there that Jon knew his next book would fly off the shelves at Waterstones. At least, it would have been if Tim could source a good publisher, but psychological horror was a fairly specific niche to sell in when you were trying to do it alone.

“Thanks, Jon,” Tim said, “for giving me a chance.”

“Don’t thank me. Elias has the final word.”

“And you didn’t twist his arm at all.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

Tim topped off his drink with vegan whip and slid it across the counter. “Not even in exchange for unlimited hot chocolate?”

“Not even for that.” Jon put the lid back onto his KeepCup. “Anyway, you know I come here for the conversation.”

“Oh, of course! Am I the only person you talk to regularly, or do you actually have a life I don’t know about?”

“I speak to Sasha.”

“Your assistant doesn’t count. Also, I’m pretty sure I speak to Sasha more than you do.”

“Since when do you speak to Sasha?”

“Jealous?”

“I’m going to leave now. I’m leaving. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“Smell ya later, Mr Scrooge.”

Jon chuckled despite himself as he headed to the doors, and was quickly sobered by the biting morning air. It was barely seven, which was over an hour earlier than he technically had to be there, but a big delivery had come in last night, and he was certain Elias wouldn’t have done anything about it.

At least, he told himself that was the reason he was here so early, and that it had nothing to do with how little he’d slept, or how little he could stand the silence of his flat.

The bookshop was dark and quiet. Jon locked the door behind him and took a deep breath, pleased at the smell. He grew accustomed to it quickly, so he liked to make the most of these first moments when he could still smell it strong and clear. It followed him all the way into the back, through the wooden door that led to Elias’ office-slash-stock-room which was maybe Jon’s favourite room in the building, if only because it was the only place untouched by the twinkling lights from the street.

As expected, there was a wrapped wooden pallet sitting just in front of Elias’ desk. Jon glanced at the invoice before filing it away and taking his trusty box-cutter to the tape. That same smell from the shop erupted from the box, and Jon smiled a little as he looked over the books inside.

He began sorting them into neat piles; A Christmas Carol; How the Grinch Stole Christmas; A Visit from St Nicholas...

Great.

Sasha arrived at ten, and instantly noticed the full cart of books sitting beside the counter.

“That’s not like you,” she said. “Long morning?”

“I don’t know where to put them,” he said, “not enough shelf space.”

She plucked a copy of A Christmas Carol from the cart and examined it. “I’m pretty sure Elias said something about a display.”

“I’m not making a Christmas display.”

“Of course you’re not.” She shed her scarf and coat and hung them up on the hatstand. “I am, obviously. Like I do every year, because you’re weird.”

“I’m not—”

The cart squeaked as she rolled it across to their main table display and started dismantling it with ease. “No, maybe miserable is a better word. Or—wait, no, I’ve got it! Heartbroken.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Georgie loves Christmas.”

Jon ground his teeth so hard he could hear it. “It’s been nearly a year since we—since she...”

“Exactly,” Sasha said flatly, “and you’re still moping. It’s alright to grieve, but I don’t think she’d want you literally becoming Ebenezer Scrooge.”

She had definitely been talking to Tim. Traitor.

“She’s not dead, Sasha."

“Neither are you!” She waved a copy of Little Women —arguably, not a Christmas book, but Jon could debate that particular subject for hours. “So why are you acting like it?”

Maybe because Georgie had been the only serious relationship he’d ever had. Maybe because as soon as he met her, he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Maybe because they lived together for three years straight out of uni, and adopted a cat, and when it fell apart he was left in an empty flat with no partner and no Admiral. Maybe because she’d been well on her way to convincing him to finally like Christmas, and now every time he saw Christmas lights he wanted to call her. 

Maybe the worst part of it all was that she would answer. She would answer, and she would listen to him talk about how much he missed her, and she would say that’s okay, it’s a perfectly normal way to feel, but she wouldn’t say I miss you too, or I’m sorry, or I love you, as she used to end every call—even his most neurotic ones.

He couldn’t exactly say all of that to Sasha, so instead he said, “I don’t know.”

She nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully. “I think Tim might have an idea for how to get you out of your rut, but I know you’re genuinely upset, so I can shut him down if it’s going to make it worse.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jon said, “I don’t think Tim could upset me if he tried.”

The bell above the door chimed, and Jon became preoccupied with guiding university students around the textbook section.

That afternoon, there was a supplier issue that forced Jon into the office for most of the day, and by the time he had sorted it out Sasha’s comment about Tim had totally slipped his mind. It didn’t occur to him when he ducked his head all the way to the tube station, or when he slept fitfully, or even when he saw Tim the next morning. The whole affair didn’t come up again at all until Tim came into the shop during his lunch break.

He brought a Signature Breakfast Roll for Sasha, and a fruit pot for Jon. Jon let them both sit on the counter without complaining and peeled the apple slices with a plastic knife as they chatted around him. He wasn’t really listening—focusing mostly on losing as little of the apple’s flesh as possible and wondering when it had become normal for Tim to eat with them—until Tim commented on the Christmas table and matching window display.

“I thought Jon would have nuked any sort of festive joy,” he said lightly.

Sasha chuckled, “It was all me. I practically had to wrestle him for the chance.”

“Not true,” Jon said, “if we wrestled, I would win.”

“I beg to differ.”

Tim sucked his teeth, “Yeah, sorry buddy, Sasha would totally win.”

“She said you had an idea,” Jon said, popping a grape in his mouth. “I think it’s ridiculous that you two talk to each other about me, but…”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself; we only talk about you when we’re planning an intervention.”

“Is that what’s happening?”

“Yes, actually,” Tim beamed, “would you like to hear it?”

“By all means…”

“I got you a date.”

Jon gasped, and a piece of apple hit the back of his throat at high speed. He spluttered and banged twice on his chest with his fist until it dislodged, and grimaced—half against the feeling of it, and half at Tim’s proposition.

“You—excuse me?”

“I actually got you… multiple dates.”

Jon choked again.

Sasha handed him her napkin. “You don’t have to go. It was just an idea, since Tim knows a lot of people and—”

“—and you are a miserable bastard who needs to get laid,” Tim said.

“I—” Jon twisted the black band around his middle finger. “Right. Who exactly are these people?”

“That’s the catch. Your dates are blind.”

Jon thought instantly of Melanie—the host of that godforsaken ghost hunting show that haunted his YouTube recommended page, who had shared a house with Georgie in second year—and wondered whether she still lived in London.

“They’re… blind people?”

“Oh my god.”

Tim jumped down from the counter and circled the Christmas display table a few times, tugging his hair at the root with both hands. Before Jon could ask what was wrong, he met Sasha’s gaze, and she was laughing.

“Blind dates, Jon,” she said, with some sympathy but not a hint of condescension. 

Jon scowled. Dating wasn’t something he generally enjoyed, and the idea of a blind date filled him with a kind of dread usually reserved for the moments before diving out of a plane, or something equally as death-defying. For him, a blind date was perfectly comparable to skydiving; he liked to know things, he liked to plan out every variable and consider every potential outcome before jumping into anything. Facing the unknown was about as terrifying as it got.

As expected, the first date was a disaster.

Michael was thin and blonde and wore a vintage waistcoat. He was tall, very tall, tall enough that they could have picked Jon up with ease. The kind of tall that gave Jon vertigo. He was also young enough that his cheeks were rounded with it, despite how lanky he was otherwise, and when they started discussing how much work he had to do for his university course, it was the final straw. Where was Tim finding these people? And in what world did he think Jon would be interested in a twenty year old English Literature student?

The fact that he was doing an English degree was really the only saving grace, since it gave them something to talk about which wasn’t how mightily awkward the entire affair was. Jon was stuffy and awkward and Michael could tell—also, he didn’t exactly seem like Michael’s type, if the fact that he kept getting distracted by the rugby match projected onto a roll-out screen in the bar was anything to go by. Jon had no interest in sport or the men that played it, so every time Michael drifted away to watch the match—or, more likely, the men playing the match—he took to watching the people around them. 

Due to Tim’s insistence of getting Jon into the holiday spirit, he’d booked them a table at an open-air bar at the Southbank Christmas Market. Michael had been enamoured with the lights and the smells, but their attempt to cling onto Jon’s arm as they walked parallel to the Thames had been stumped by the height difference, so they had ended up walking awkwardly side-by-side. Jon hadn’t worn a coat with pockets, so he didn’t have anywhere to put his hands, and Michael’s tote bag kept swinging into his ribs. It was awful. The fact that Christmas music sent Jon into something of a fugue state really didn’t help, and he spent much of their time in the bar trying not to dissociate in between their sporadic conversation.

The bar had dark, sticky tables and fake grass on the floor. Jon didn’t really know what they were going for with the design other than fitting as many people in as possible. The fairy lights strung up over the place didn’t do much to counteract the night that blanketed them, and much of the light came from the projector screen. Around them, people huddled in their scarves and hats and spoke with whitecast breath. Jon didn’t really drink anymore, but he’d ordered an overpriced glass of red wine just because he knew it would make his face warm. He was sure his cheeks had a childish, pink glow by now, but it wasn’t like Michael was looking at him enough to notice.

“You said you own a bookshop?” Michael asked at half-time, when the hubbub of conversation picked up around them.

“I don’t own it,” Jon said, “I’m a supervisor, but I practically—I’m the assistant manager.”

Michael quirked an eyebrow, “So, are you the supervisor or the assistant manager?”

“Legally speaking, my job role is supervisor. Morally and ethically, I do about as much work as Elias. Maybe… well, maybe more. Sometimes.”

“Elias is the manager?”

“Yes, Elias Bouchard.”

“Isn’t he the…?”

“Yes, that Elias Bouchard.”

“Right…” Michael drummed their fingers against the side of his Christmas martini. “So if someone wanted a job…”

Jon had to admire their work ethic; if the date was going poorly, solicit a job instead. Very smart. “That would probably be Elias’ domain, I don’t have any, uh—I can’t really make big decisions like that. I could probably put in a good word for you, though, if you dropped your CV in.”

“You would do that? Even though this has been a disaster?”

Jon laughed, very relieved that Michael felt it too. The confession seemed to dissipate some of the awkwardness.

“Yeah, you can—you can consider it my apology for being a terrible date.”

“You’re not a terrible date! You’re just—”

“Old?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Yes.” Jon swiped his thumb through the condensation gathering on the stem of his glass. “I don’t exactly know why Tim—I mean, I’m probably… I’m ten years older than you.”

Michael dropped their head into their hands. “That’s horrifying. I’m a baby.”

“I am an old man,” Jon corrected, “and I’m dreadfully sorry that Tim thought I was your type.”

That made Michael laugh. It was kind of a disconcerting sound, and Jon was very glad there were no romantic prospects in their immediate future because any feelings he might have had would have been dashed upon hearing it. 

“Yeah, sorry. The—uh—the whole sad professor thing isn’t really my vibe.”

“That’s alright,” Jon said. Please don’t laugh again. “Maybe we should call it a night, then?”

“Yes,” Michael agreed, “that’s probably for the best.”

“So…” Tim asked the next morning, wiggling his eyebrows. “How was your date?”

“They were a child,” Jon said bluntly.

Tim’s expression twisted. “How—how old are they?”

Jon groaned into his hands. “Oh my god, Tim, you didn’t ask? Michael is twenty.”

“Twenty isn’t—that’s not—”

“If you’re about to say it’s not that bad…”

“It’s that bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

“Right, well…” Tim sighed, clinging onto the handle of the steam wand as if for support. “I’ll make sure to age check the others.”

“The others? I’m not doing it again, Tim, if I might remind you that it was a total disaster—”

“The next one won’t be! I promise! I think you’re really gonna like him.”

“And you know how old he is?”

“I have a… general idea.”

“Tim.”

“He’s older! He’s… he’s at least twenty-five.”

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was better than having no idea at all. “Fine. Where is this date happening?”

Tim grinned. “Covent Garden. I’ve booked you guys a dining dome for dinner on Thursday.”

Just the word dinner made Jon’s stomach turn. It had been alright with Michael, when all they were doing was wandering and drinking, but dinner came with insinuation and expectations that Jon couldn’t live up to. Dinner meant researching the menu and deciding what to eat beforehand after googling every ingredient and potentially still not getting it right and ending up having to go home early, and spending the night in a world of hurt all because Tim booked them a fucking dinner dome and of course he can’t say no do you even realise how expensive that is, Jon.

By the time Thursday rolled around, Jon was freaking out.

Well, he wasn’t. He was nauseous. Freaking out and being nauseous were two entirely different things.

He was also texting Georgie.

Jon 6:48PM
I just can’t believe Tim would book dinner. Of all things.

Maybe: Georgie 6:48PM
have you actually spoken 2 him about it? couldn’t u have set some boundaries beforehand?

Jon 6:48PM
He set me up with a twenty-year-old. I hardly think a discussion about boundaries is on the table.

Maybe: Georgie 6:48PM
don’t knock it til u try it mr grinch

Jon smiled a little despite himself, wondering whether that was still his contact name in her phone. Doubtful; hers was still the suggested title from Apple, after Sasha had insisted the best thing he could have done was delete her contact. He didn’t have the heart to put it back, even if it didn’t hurt that much to see her name anymore.

Maybe: Georgie 6:49PM
srsly, it’s gonna be ok. u r literally disabled dude.

Maybe: Georgie 6:49PM
if he doesn’t get it he’s ableist and do u REALLY want 2 date someone like that anyway???

He sighed through his nose. Georgie just understood; she had been there for his diagnosis and the very worst of his flare-ups and, by the end, nothing would have phased her. Meeting somebody new and getting them to that point was an entire process that he would rather avoid altogether. How could he explain inexplicably having to sit down because of the worst gut-wrenching pain? Or avoid eating on a date without looking unbelievably rude? The last few people he’d been on dinner dates with—in the months when he was still reeling from the break-up, before he swore off dating entirely—hadn’t been that understanding, and the fact that he wasn’t at all interested in sex had made the whole affair something of a write-off. Georgie assured him that this guy wouldn’t be like that, but the fact that he was even talking to his ex-girlfriend about his struggles to replace her wasn’t a good sign.

He puffed out his cheeks and his breath came out white. God, he missed smoking.

No, he didn't. Georgie would be so mad if he started again.

But he wasn't thinking about Georgie.

He turned off his phone.

He was standing at the end of King Street, the quietest spot he could find in the busy West Piazza. The flood of people heading in and out of the market and skirting around the street performers made it difficult to tell if any of them were heading directly towards him. Occasionally, he would see a man who looked like he was heading in Jon’s direction, only for him to divert at the last minute, or turn to whatever friend or family member he was with. Jon tried not to freak out about it; he was very, very early, which he had thought would give him time to collect himself and had only ended up giving him more space to overthink and stress himself out further.

When his date arrived, Jon didn’t actually see him coming. 

“Jon?” came a voice from behind him, causing him to turn. 

Another write-off. Tim was really bad at this.   

The guy was tall—not as tall as Michael, admittedly, but tall nonetheless—and had a scruffy mess of ginger hair styled into something like a short mullet. His height was slightly more inviting than Michael’s, offset slightly by the softness of his body. He was dressed completely in black, and tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of his jumper. 

He was, to put it simply, not Jon’s type. Not that Jon really had a type, but if he did, he could categorically say it wouldn’t be the man standing in front of him: he didn’t like tall people, and he didn’t care much for tattoos, and he had always thought stretched ears were kind of gross, even though they were small. 

“I’m sorry for my, uh”—the guy gestured vaguely at himself—“I came straight from work. I thought I’d have time to change, but my last appointment had a—it ran over, so I couldn’t… sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jon said. “You must be…”

“Martin.” The man grinned, and it pushed all the puppy fat up in his cheeks. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise. Should we go, then?” Jon said, and tried to make it sound as little like let’s get this over with as possible.

Martin’s grin didn’t falter. “Yeah! I’ve heard the food is really great.”

Jon tried not to grimace, and headed towards the market.

Covent Garden always went above and beyond for Christmas, which was why Jon usually avoided it. Now, thanks to Tim, he was powering right through the middle of Apple Market with Martin on his heels, looking up at the lights and other glittering decorations strung up around them like a child overcome with wonder. 

They made it to their dining spot with time to spare. The waitress that greeted them was blonde and peppy and wearing a Santa hat with a bell on the end that jingled every time she moved her head, which was often.

“We have a reservation for Sims,” Jon told her.

“Of course!” she said, making the bell chime. She scrolled through the iPad in her hand for a second, and then frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t have a reservation for Sims.”

“How about Stoker?”

“Stoker...” she repeated thoughtfully, typing it in. “Ah, no dice, unfortunately.”

That bastard. 

Jon sighed. “Try Scrooge.”

She raised one eyebrow, but typed it in anyway. 

“Oh!” she smiled. “That’s the one! Two people, seven o’clock. Right this way!”

She led them into the dining area, past the big, multicoloured domes and the Christmas trees that stood between them. It was supposed to be a forest of some kind, Jon thought, but he wasn’t all that impressed.

Martin, however, made small noises of amazement as they traversed through the dining area. When they arrived at their very own snow globe-esque dome, he was grinning widely. Despite his excitement, he let Jon into the booth first, and slipped in after him.

The waitress talked them briefly through allergen procedures and took their preliminary drink orders, and then disappeared along with the sound of her bell, leaving Jon with Martin and silence.

“This is so cool,” Martin said. “Thank you.”

“You should thank Tim,” Jon said.

“Oh, yeah, I—uh—I have to ask…”

“Go ahead.”

“Scrooge?”

“Oh! It’s sort of… an inside joke, I suppose. I’m not… I don’t really enjoy Christmas, which Tim seems to take as some sort of personal affront.”

“So he calls you Scrooge? That’s…”

“Hilarious?” Jon supposed flatly.

“I mean…” Martin chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second. “It’s a bit—it’s not your fault that you don’t like Christmas. You don’t have to enjoy things just because everyone else does.”

Jon stared, as the cheery twinkle of the waitress headed back over to them with their drinks. Martin thanked her politely, entirely unaware that he had just told Jon something he had never heard.

Martin had ordered a fruity cocktail of some kind. He sipped it through the straw and made a happy little sound, and Jon drummed his fingers on the stem of his wine glass. Maybe he had been a little quick to judge Martin; he seemed… kind, genuinely so. He seemed to be acutely aware of how much space he took up, and was constantly attempting to make himself smaller. If he wasn’t wringing his hands, he was hunching his shoulders, or hugging his elbows. He didn’t move much on the bench, but Jon could feel it shifting a little as Martin bounced his knee.

“Do you?” Jon asked.

Martin looked up, and the paper straw fell out of his mouth. “Do I…?”

“Oh, uh—do you like Christmas?”

A smile broke across Martin’s face, although it was slightly more reserved than his previous ones had been. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a total Christmas person. Unfortunately.”

Jon shook his head. “It isn’t unfortunate.”

“Right,” Martin chuckled, a little awkwardly. “I—yeah. I really like Christmas. I didn’t really enjoy it—uh—as a kid, but I… yeah. It’s the happiest time of the year, right?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jon said, and when Martin deflated a little, he continued, “but I’m glad that it can be, for you.”

“I just like that it can be what you make of it, y’know? When I realised I didn’t have to spend it with family, or do a big dinner or presents or anything, I actually started to enjoy it. Just for… I don’t know, the twinkling lights and indulgent capitalism.”

That made Jon laugh, if only for the irony of it. Twinkling lights and indulgent capitalism were some of the exact reasons he didn’t like it.

He didn’t think that would be a great thing to say, though, and he certainly wasn’t going to mention the other reason it was his least favourite time of year. 

“You said you, uh—you said you had an appointment,” Jon said, aiming for casual and landing on stiff. “What is it that you do?”

Martin’s face glowed a lovely, warm pink. “Oh! I’m a tattoo artist.”

He didn’t sound exactly sure. It wasn’t as if he was lying, but like he was unsure of himself in a far more general sense—perhaps he was anxious about what Jon would think of his career? Jon couldn’t imagine why, although he had been fairly judgemental of Martin when he’d first approached. In all honesty, the fact that it was his career made Jon a little less wary of his appearance, which he felt a little embarrassed about now. He seemed… sweet, and it wasn’t as if his tattoos and piercings were so much as to be overwhelming or intimidating.

“That’s very interesting,” Jon said, instantly realising how academic it sounded and adding, “I’m a useless artist.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Martin said. “I mean, art is… it’s subjective, right? As long as you’re creating something, it’s art, it doesn’t matter if it’s any good or not. I mean, what does good even mean? And anyway, art is only a part of it—a pretty small part, too!—most of my job is about safety procedures and scheduling and maths. Like, well, my last appointment today decided she wasn’t happy with the sizing, even though we’d been over it over and over again in our emails! So I ended up printing, like, five different stencil sizes and she wasn’t happy with any of them, which is fine because it’s going to be on her body forever, y’know? But for every failed stencil I had to wipe it off, sanitise everything, print off another stencil, change my gloves, and then I had to totally re-evaluate the price for the new sizing, so… yeah, I—uh—I didn’t have time to go home and change.”

Martin snapped his mouth shut. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

“Not at all,” Jon said. “I… well, if you don’t mind, do you have any photos of your work?”

Martin blinked. “You want to see it?”

“Yes, I suppose I… yes. If you’re comfortable.”

With some obvious trepidation, Martin took his phone out of his pocket. He tapped on the screen for a second, and then placed it face-up on the table between them. He’d brought up what looked like his own Instagram page—other than the username blackwood_tattoos at the top of the screen, Jon was looking at a wall of skin and ink. Although Jon didn’t know anything about tattoos and had never had much interest in them, Martin’s skill was obvious; his lines were steady and clean, and his work had a clear theme regardless of how many different skin tones and textures he worked on. 

“I… wow. You’re very talented.”

“Really? Thank you, that—that really means a lot. Do you have any?”

“Tattoos? Oh, god, no,” Jon said, too quickly. By the time he had realised how quick his answer was, Martin’s eyebrows had shot up. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Martin’s expression dissolved into one of amusement. “I know. I kind of… guessed? You don’t really seem like the type.”

“I could be the type!”

It was far more defensive than he’d meant for it to sound, but it only made Martin smile wider. Which, really, could only have been a good thing.

It took about as long as their food did to arrive for Jon to realise that he was actually enjoying himself. Martin seemed to be, too, if his unshaken smile was anything to go by. Jon was a little comforted to notice that Martin’s cheeks heated up in the exact same way that Jon’s did when he drank, and it gave him the confidence to finish his wine and by the time their food was in front of them, he had a pleasant buzz that spurred him to order another. Martin ordered yet another cocktail, which he held out for Jon to try.

With Martin’s fingers on the stem of the glass, Jon took the candy cane-striped straw and sipped from it. It was hot, with a proper alcoholic kick. Apparently, it was rum. Jon grimaced.

“No?” Martin guessed with a laugh.

“It’s—” Jon shook his head. “I can’t even lie. Absolutely not.”

Martin laughed again, and it was a proper laugh, one that tipped his head back and exposed all the lovely softness of his jaw. Jon had been far too harsh on him.

Jon barely touched the food, but Martin didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy talking to do much else than pick at it anyway, and Jon was quite happy to leave the best parts for Martin to enjoy; he seemed to have had a much longer day than Jon had, and was also drinking quite a bit more. 

Settled and tipsy, Martin was an incredible conversationalist. With only traces of the nervous disposition he had displayed earlier, he engaged with Jon intelligently and brilliantly, and Jon almost forgot that they were supposed to be on a date. 

For dessert, the waitress jingled over an apple crumble with dairy-free clotted cream—Martin was apparently lactose intolerant, and made an aborted joke about them being meant to be when Jon said he was too. Jon decided that he didn’t have to disclose the rest of the dietary restrictions that he had omitted, not yet—and they shared it. It was warm and sweet and didn’t make Jon’s stomach turn, and when it was finished they continued their conversation over the plate’s empty carcass. 

It was almost ten o’clock by the time Jon realised that their dinner slot was only three hours long, and they were threatening to overstay their welcome. He also realised, with no small amount of distress, that he didn’t want the evening to end; he wanted to keep talking to Martin, feeling as if they had not yet exhausted every thread of conversation possible. 

Martin didn’t seem too tired, or sick of Jon’s company, so Jon posed the question. 

“Would you like to go on a walk? I feel they might be on the verge of kicking us out.”

Martin, in no uncertain terms, lit up.

“Yeah! Uh—yes. I’d really like that. We could walk over to Leicester Square and look at the lights?”

While Jon had no interest in looking at lights, it had slowly become clear that he was interested in Martin, so he nodded, and they set off.

As it turned out, dusting off multiple glasses of wine and barely any food did not make for a proportionate experience, and standing up after three hours proved to be very interesting indeed. Jon’s light buzz had turned into something slightly more serious, and he found himself swaying close to Martin as they walked. Martin didn’t notice at first, too busy talking about a “multiple session cover-up” that he had been working on for a client, but he finally did when someone slammed bodily into Jon’s shoulder, ruining his already delicate balance and sending him right into Martin’s side.

Unexpectedly, hitting Martin was like hitting a brick wall. He was entirely unwavered by Jon’s unceremonious topple into him, and stayed firmly rooted in place even as Jon’s shoes slipped on the damp cobblestones and sent him falling even further. Martin caught him and, with very gentle hands, stood him back upright. His hands stayed on Jon’s shoulders—not grasping or holding, really, just there.

“Thanks,” Jon said, hot with embarrassment.

“Don’t mention it,” Martin replied, and let go.

He hadn’t felt any sort of physical or emotional reaction to Martin’s touch, not really, but the absence of it left a sort of… ache. They kept walking, with Martin keeping a slightly closer eye on Jon than he had before, and Jon couldn’t stop thinking about that cold absence of touch. Staring at his own shoes against the cobbles put Martin’s hands right in his peripheral vision, and it would be so easy to…

He took Martin’s hand before he could think about it any further. Martin’s speech faltered for a second, and Jon kept his gaze firmly on the ground. Then, Martin interlaced their fingers and squeezed, and Jon’s heart skipped. 

God, this was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. What was he doing, holding Martin’s hand? Why was he getting flustered over it? He wasn’t sixteen anymore. He was pretty sure he hadn’t even done this when he was sixteen.

They reached Leicester Square after a long, slow walk. The entire place was kitted out in twinkling, sprawling lights that stood stark like stars against the pitch black canvas of night; Martin tipped his head back, and his grin was big and white and lovely. He was so pale that they should have washed him out, but they only served to light him up, highlighting the high blush of his cheeks and the light smattering of freckles that Jon hadn’t been close enough to notice before. His round glasses reflected the light, but beneath them Jon could see the way they turned his eyes honey-gold. 

He squeezed Jon’s hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed, squeezing back.

They exchanged numbers, because eventually the night did have to end, and headed to the nearest tube station. They walked as far as they could together, but Jon had to get on the Northern Line back to Clapham, whereas Martin took the District. Knowing this, they stood in a sort of liminal space at the section of the station where the platforms split, and they would have to separate.

Martin hadn’t let go of his hand since he’d taken it—well, since Jon had taken it, since he had been the one to initiate it. The touch had become so familiar that it would inevitably feel strange to be without it, and Jon wanted to live in the strange comfort they had created for just a little bit longer.

“I’ve had a really great night,” Martin said. He was standing close for fear of obstructing access to the platform, and the proximity made their height difference—although it was only six inches at most—very clear. It meant that he could speak quietly, like his words were laced with secrets.

“Me too,” Jon said, with a similar sort of reticence. “Thank god for Tim, ey?”

“That might be the only time anyone ever says that,” Martin chuckled, as a train blew into the station with a burst of cold wind. He glanced up over Jon’s shoulder. “I think that’s yours.”

“Yes,” Jon said, “yes. I—I should probably…”

He dropped Martin’s hand with no small amount of hesitation, and stepped back onto the platform.

“I’ll see you soon?” Martin said.

Jon nodded, perhaps a little too eager.

“Thank you, Martin,” he said, and got onto the train just before the doors slid shut.

He sat facing the window, and Martin waved at him, caught in the breeze of an oncoming train.

Jon unsent
Thank you for tonight.

Jon unsent
I had a good time tonight!

Jon unsent
You’re reall

Jon unsent
Did you mean it when you said you’d see me soo

Martin unsent
i had so much fun tonight

Martin unsent
i’m sorry if i’m a really bad date. you’re a really good date

Martin unsent
i’d really like to see you aga

Martin unsent
can i please see you again?

Martin unsent
can we

[NO SENT/RECEIVED MESSAGES. Start a conversation with Martin ?]

“I knew you’d like him!” Tim shouted across the empty Starbucks the next morning.

“Huh?” Jon replied.

He approached the counter, sleepy and a little hungover, but mostly content. At least, he had been content until now. Had Martin told Tim about their date? He hadn’t seemed like the type that would go gossiping to their mutual friend the moment it was over, but he guessed he couldn’t be certain...

Tim just grinned. “Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything. You just have that look.”

“What look?”

Jon got his card out. Tim waved it off. “The night after a good date look. Dinner was good?”

“Dinner was good,” Jon said tightly. “How much did it cost?”

“Don’t worry about it. As long as you had fun.”

Jon nodded, and it felt a little like his head was going to overbalance and fall right onto the counter. 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I had fun.”

“Alright, alright!” Tim put up both of his hands. “Good lord, Jon, hold back on the details!”

Jon gave him a withered look and took his hot chocolate. “Thank you.”

Leaning against the coffee machine, Tim smirked. “For the hot chocolate or for the date?”

“For ending this conversation,” Jon replied, and left.

It was a cold London morning, but the stiff, dewy breeze actually did wonders to wake Jon up. He hadn’t slept much after the date; he spent most of the night staring at the blinking caret on his phone screen and composing text after text, all of which went unsent. When he’d woken up a few hours later to his alarm clock, it was to find himself still in his clothes, with a very dead phone in his hand.

While it was good for his head, the cold was no good for his hands, and Jon fumbled to get his keys out of his pocket. As he floundered to get a grip on it he looked up and, for the first time, took note of the sign that swung overhead, just to the left of the bookshop. It read: Pinhole Tattoos.

It wasn’t as if he’d never noticed it before—he had enough people wander into his shop to pass the time before or after an appointment there—but it had never seemed particularly significant up until now. Not that Martin worked there, of course; there were probably thousands of tattoo studios in London, so the probability of that was ridiculously small. Regardless, Jon noticed it. He would undoubtedly notice every tattoo studio he passed from now on, at least in some small way.

He found his key, and let himself into the inviting warmth of his shop.

Martin still hadn’t texted him. It was fine.

Tim had another date lined up for him on Sunday. Jon very nearly didn’t go.

He was glad he did, in the end. The guy—Oliver Banks—wasn’t perfect, and he certainly wasn’t Martin, but it was enough to take Jon’s mind off the fact that his aforementioned good date hadn’t contacted him at all since that night on the underground. It definitely helped that Oliver was Jon’s type, as far as he had one; he was intelligent and self-effacingly handsome, with lines on his face that were proof of his age and his past. They talked about Oliver’s degree in Economics, and his previous position at a bank, and by the time Oliver admitted that he now worked at a new age shop selling crystals and tarot, Jon was too deep into the bottle of Malbec they were sharing to turn his nose up at it.

He drank a lot. At least, a lot more than he had on any of these other dates, but he was having fun. He was having fun, and it didn’t matter if Martin was going to text him or not, because Oliver was smart and handsome and guided him into a sheltered doorway when it started to rain. When he kissed Jon, warm and solid, Jon thought that it was nice. Oliver’s touch didn’t leave a cold ache in its wake, but it was nice. He could get used to it, if he really tried.

Oliver wanted to get a taxi home; he lived in Kensington. Of course he did. Jon told him that he had work the next day, as if that was the only reason he didn’t want to go home with him, and walked to the tube alone.

His phone was on 4%. He stared at the empty message screen as the train rattled on towards Clapham.

[NO SENT/RECEIVED MESSAGES. Start a conversation with Martin ?]

Jon 12:02AM
Did you mean it when you said you would see me soon? 

Jon 12:02AM
I’d really like if you meant it

The next morning, Jon didn’t remember sending the texts. Considering that he slept right through his alarm and woke up forty-five minutes before the bookshop was meant to open with a hangover that felt like a nauseous vice, the text really was the last thing on his mind as he rushed to get ready and to the tube station. He had never, in his five years of supervising Leitner’s, been anything short of an hour early for a shift; there was too much to get done, and he was the only one who would do it. 

This morning, he didn’t even have time to stop at Starbucks. He powered right past the door, through which he briefly saw Tim drowning in the 8:30 rush, and headed up to the bookshop. 

One of the best things about getting to work early was that he usually avoided anyone else on his commute, and his neighbours in the surrounding shops were a bit of a mystery to him. That was why he didn’t immediately recognise the dark-clothed person standing near the bookshop as an employee of the tattoo studio, until he realised that they were unlocking the door. They had their back to him, and wore a wool hat which obscured their hair and most of their face. Jon didn’t particularly care about seeing them, or saying hello; he needed to get to work.

His hangover had, apparently, stripped him of the fine motor skills it took to unlock a door, because he immediately dropped his keys. His headache surged as he bent to pick them up, and—

“Jon?”

No fucking way.

It was Martin. 

For a moment, Jon seriously considered the possibility that he had died, and this was some sort of weird, hangover-induced mirage. It couldn’t be Martin standing in front of him with flushed cheeks and a cold-bitten pink nose and a soft, surprised expression. It couldn’t be Martin holding a set of keys in his hand, a set of keys for the tattoo studio that was next door, that Jon had convinced himself he couldn’t possibly work at.

Then, he remembered the texts. The texts he had drafted while drunk after a date with someone who wasn’t Martin, sent with the very last of his four percent charge. The texts that Martin had so far left unread. 

He couldn’t face it.

He swept up his keys and got them into the rusted old lock with haste. Martin called his name again, but he was already inside and halfway to the counter. He could face him later. He could sleep under Elias’ desk. Maybe Tim would bring him enough food to sustain him for a couple of days. After that, he’d have to sneak out under the cover of night. Perhaps through the back service entrance that he hadn’t seen opened in the years that he’d worked there. He’d have to find the key first, but at least he could avoid Martin. 

The next step would be, obviously, getting rid of his phone. He wasn’t sure exactly how polluted the Thames was, but he didn’t think one disposed of iPhone could do much more damage.

Sasha didn’t look at him weirdly when she came in for her 10 o’clock shift, but she hesitated more than usual. Rather than getting straight to work, she buzzed close to the counter, hands hovering and twitching around Jon’s (Elias’, allegedly) ever-growing stacks of paperwork. She repositioned a delivery invoice four times before Jon had enough.

“Just ask,” he said.

The sound of his glasses clattering to the counter startled her. She pushed her own up her nose with a knuckle. “What happened? Tim said you were late.”

“Nothing happened. I can be late. People are late all the time.”

He wasn’t even late. On time wasn’t late, no matter what his own brain had to say about it.

“You’re not. What happened?”

Jon drummed his fingertips on the counter. The wood was old and faded, scratched with years of use—he pressed his thumb to a sharp white mark that could have been made by a pen, or a pocket knife. 

“I…”—he pressed his lips tightly together for a moment—“I had a date.”

“Right. And it didn’t go well?”

“No! It was… well, it was lovely, actually.”

“Okay…”

“But I don’t… I’m not…”

“You don’t like him?” After a beat of silence she sighed, and sat in the chair beside him. “It isn’t the end of the world if you like him, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon said, avoiding her eyes. He could feel them on him, peering kindly from behind her thick tortoiseshell glasses with their swinging, multicoloured chain. In his peripheral, her warm brown hand sat palm-down on his paperwork, not quite reaching towards him—almost an olive branch. If he told her, she would understand; she always understood, but she didn’t know about Martin. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to know, or if this little indignity was something he would prefer to keep firmly to himself.

The bell above the door chimed. The still air of the bookshop was disturbed by the street’s gentle breeze, and Jon looked right up into the face of the man he was trying—not trying, planning, scheming —to avoid. 

“Martin.”

A smile crossed Martin’s soft face. “Hi, Jon.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Martin fell silent for a long moment. Something glinted in his anxiously clasped hands, jingling like their waitress from so many nights ago. “Uh—I just came to… you left these in the door. I was going to bring them earlier, but I had an appointment that I was already nearly late for, so I… yeah.”

He then did something that Jon could never have seen coming: he threw Jon’s keys across the shop. They curved up in an arc that was almost impressive until they landed several feet to Jon’s right, absolutely nowhere near where he had aimed. The Admiral glared up at Jon from the keychain, visibly resenting the camera shoved in his face. Jon loved that photo. He loved that cat.

“Shit, sorry,” Martin said.

Jon leaned over to pick them up. “It’s alright. I—uh—it’s good to see you.”

“You too. Uh—busy day?”

Martin tucked his hands into his pockets and then crossed his arms instead. He eventually dropped them back to his sides and picked at the hem of his jumper instead. It was thick and brown, well-made and evidently loved.

“Not really,” Sasha piped up when Jon didn’t. “We’ve got a week or so before Christmas really kicks in. I’m Sasha, by the way.”

“Martin,” he smiled, “it’s nice to meet you. I think Jon mentioned you…”

“Sasha is my assistant,” Jon said, before Martin could say on our date.

Her face twisted. “I’m literally not.”

That made Jon smile. That was right, that was normal, that wasn’t the imminent threat of exposure. Not that there was much to expose, considering that Jon had no qualms with his orientation or who knew about it, but it wasn’t that; perhaps it was his reluctance to admit that he had been wrong. Against all odds, all of his retaliation against the suggestion that the only way to get over a break-up was to begin a new relationship, he liked Martin.

He liked someone, finally, and they didn’t like him back. What a sad reality.

Martin was smiling too, although he was also twisting his fingers together, around and around. 

“Well, um—I have another appointment soon, so I should go,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jon said, and then, “I mean—um—it was good to see you. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean you should leave, I just meant...”

“No, yeah! I got it! Don’t worry, I didn’t think—” Martin paused, took a breath, collected himself, “It was good to see you too. I’ll see you soon?”

“Yes! I mean, you will, since you…” Jon gestured vaguely to the left, in the general direction of the tattoo studio. 

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, “I can’t believe we didn’t—anyway, sorry, I really have to go.”

“Bye, Martin.”

“Bye, Jon. It was nice to meet you, Sasha.”

Oh god, Sasha. Jon dared to look at her, and she was grinning ear-to-ear as she raised her hand in a wave. “See ya!”

Martin left with the chime of a bell and left behind a total, all-encompassing silence. 

“Don’t,” Jon said.

“Holy shit, Jon.”

“I said don’t.”

“Okay, okay.” Sasha was quiet for a long moment. “Just… one question. Was that him? From last night?”

Jon shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Oh— oh. Oh, Jon.”

“Yeah.” Jon tucked his face against his palms. “Yeah.”

Martin 7:32AM
of course i meant it! when are you free next?

Jon 10:52AM
Thank you for returning my keys. I’m available most evenings. Would Wednesday work?

Martin 12:38PM
wednesday sounds perfect :-) do u have anything in mind?

Martin 12:38PM
also, you’re welcome :-)

On Wednesday evening, Jon waited outside Pinhole Tattoos. There wasn’t any reason for him to stand outside in the cold; he could have waited in Leitner’s until Martin was ready, but there was something so… discourteous about that. 

Not that Jon had ever been courteous; Georgie had once told him that he wasn’t Prince Charming material.

He ground the stub of his cigarette into the floor with his heel, and the door of the studio swung open.

There was Martin, flushed and lovely, at the bottom of a carpeted staircase. He was wearing a lighter grey jumper today, and there was a smudge of black ink on the right cuff. 

“Jon!” he said, a little breathless, as he wrestled his backpack on. “You waited.”

“Of course,” said Jon, “are you ready?”

Martin nodded, and off they went.

Millbank was really a lovely place to walk through, and their stroll took them not only past the Tate, but a fair way down the Thames. Martin was just tall enough to see over the high concrete wall that separated the pavement from the river, and Jon felt a little bit like a kid walking alongside their parent as he described what he could see—not much besides water and the hotels that lined the opposite bank, a couple of ducks on a ‘leisurely outing’. Jon couldn’t begrudge it, though; Martin looked so happy as he described their journey, and what must have brought them to this cold river on this cold day. He wondered if it would be weird to hold his hand again.

He hadn’t plucked up the courage before they reached the small, cosy coffee shop that Jon had scoped out. It wasn’t Tim’s Starbucks, because he wasn’t actively suicidal, but it was lovely inside, incredibly warm compared to the biting cold of the November evening. The staff seemed to be preparing for close, as most of the cakes had been cleared away or covered in plastic wrap, and all of the customers sitting down were drinking out of cardboard takeaway cups.

“Jon,” Martin said, noticing, “are you sure we should—?”

“Hey there!” said the barista before he could finish worrying. “What can I get started for ya?”

Martin made a low humming sound, blushing all the way up his neck and cheeks. He ordered a standard breakfast tea, although his eyes widened a little at the large selection of flavours chalked onto the menu board, and Jon had his usual: hot chocolate, soya milk, some marshmallows if they had any. Martin insisted on paying, which was fine, even though the coffee shop had been Jon’s idea, and they headed back out into the still evening with drink-warmed hands.

“Should we sit somewhere for a bit?” Martin asked, words coming out white.

Jon nodded, and his chin brushed against his scarf. “There’s a park just around the corner, on the way to the tube station. It’s not much, but it has a—uh—a fountain, and some benches, and it’s quite well covered so it shouldn’t be too col—”

Martin took his hand. “It sounds lovely. Lead the way.”

The park was small, less of a park than a courtyard for the big Chelsea houses that fenced it in on two sides. They took a short walk around it, kicking up sticky wet leaves and drinking and squeezing each other’s hands, and eventually sat on the stone lip of the fountain. Jon crossed his legs up under him and Martin rested his palm on Jon’s knee. Jon slotted his fingers into the divots between Martin’s knuckles, lining their hands up; considering how much taller he was, Martin’s hands weren’t that much bigger. They were as soft as the rest of him, but Jon could feel the sinewy twist of muscle and the sharp promise of bone beneath his skin.

“I’m… sorry that it took me so long to get in touch,” Jon said, eventually.

 “A couple of days isn’t really a long time, Jon.” Martin noticed Jon’s scowl, and his voice softened, “I’m sorry, too, I, uh—I drafted a couple of messages, but none of them really felt… right. I guess I was worried that you didn’t like me as much as you said you had, so I thought it would be easier to just leave you alone.”

Drafted, like a poem.

“I do really like you,” Jon said. “Maybe that’s why it took me getting drunk on a date with someone else to finally get the courage to contact you again.”

A small line appeared in the middle of Martin’s brow, “You went on a date with someone else? How did it go?”

Shit. “It was… okay. Uh—he was a banker.”

Martin burst into laughter. “Oh!”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Sorry, I just—” he cleared his throat, “is it wrong for me to say that I’m relieved? I mean—your face! He’s… obviously, bankers aren’t your type.”

“Obviously,” Jon said, allowing himself to laugh too, hoping maybe it would prolong the lovely sound coming from Martin. “Although, he isn’t a banker anymore. He works at a… a new age shop.”

That only made Martin laugh harder, and Jon was flooded with an immediate sense of relief that he hadn’t ruined this entire thing by bringing up Oliver. 

“Well…” Martin coughed out the last of his giggles. “I’ll let you know if I take up tarot.”

“Please do, so that I can never speak to you again.”

Jon squeezed his hand twice to show that he was joking. Martin chuckled along in kind.

“So…” Martin said, eventually. “How was your day?”

It sounded like small talk, but it was laced with a genuine interest. Jon almost felt bad that he didn’t have a more interesting tale of a Wednesday in a bookshop.

“It was alright—mostly students from the university and tourists looking for the Tate. As usual. Sasha was shopping for Christmas decorations, so…”

“I thought you hated Christmas?”

“Mhm,” Jon hummed into a sip of his hot chocolate. “But Elias doesn’t, unfortunately, so although he’s never really around, he still makes the call.”

“About that…” Martin furrowed his brow, as if searching for the words. “Elias isn’t… he—did he…?”

“Kill the previous owner for his inheritance? No,” Jon said, laughing a little. “All conspiracy, I’m afraid. Although it would probably make my job a lot more interesting if he had. I think he likes the mystery, though; it’s… ah… good for business.”

“God, that’s… bleak.”

“My boss is a very interesting man.”

“You don’t say.” Martin squeezed his knee, seemingly just because he could, and started to trace the pressed line of Jon’s wool trousers with one finger, making him shudder. “Jon, I…”

Jon couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward and—taking Martin’s soft chin between his thumb and forefinger—kissed him. 

Martin made a soft, surprised sound. He squeezed Jon’s knee again, as if holding it for purchase, and relaxed into the kiss. His hand came up between them, the back of it brushing against the centre of Jon’s chest. He could feel it even through his layered shirt, jumper, coat, scarf, and it warmed him from the very middle, all the way out, until all he had was Martin’s warmth and Martin’s mouth and the ever-gentle flow of the fountain.

When they pulled back from it, Martin rested their foreheads together, so that the cold tips of their noses just barely touched. “I, um—that… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, closing his eyes. “Me too.”

A week later, Martin was in his flat. Through no fault of Jon’s own.

While Leitner’s was independently-run and on the lighter side income-wise, Elias had incredible standards for the books that they sold. Each book went through a rigorous examination process before it was considered shelf-worthy, and any sign of a bump, scratch, or transit-crumpled page would have it cast to the reject pile, which staff were free to choose from as they liked. It was a brilliant concept in theory, but in practice, they only had two regular staff members, and one of them shared a house with six other girls, so her space was limited to one bookshelf in her bedroom. This left the pile entirely up to Jon.

If he left the reject pile to its own devices, it would soon overtake the entire back office until there was room for nothing but rejected books, so, on the first day of every month, he would take them home to be sorted into his own shelves and boxes for the local youth shelter.

Due to Christmas season panic stock, this month’s reject pile had become more of a reject stack, and Jon found himself leaving his shift armed with two large cardboard boxes that were far too heavy for him to take on the tube. He tried to balance both boxes on one hip, convinced that if he put them down he’d never be able to pick them back up again. It almost worked, but as he twisted to get his key from his back pocket, the box on top wobbled—and wobbled—and fell to the pavement with a deafening crash. Books flew out of the now-open lid and scattered out across the damp pavement. Jon’s arms finally gave out under the weight of the other box, and it joined its companion on the ground.

“Oh my god, Jon!”

And there was Martin, abandoning his own lock-up to rush to Jon’s aid. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Jon said, shaking out his aching arms, “I just—books.”

Martin followed his gaze down to their feet, which were surrounded by now-definitely-ruined books. 

“Books!” he agreed incredulously, and crouched down to start picking them up. “Why do you have all of these?”

“Elias,” Jon said, by way of explanation. “You really don’t have to…”

Martin had already restocked the box, and was hoisting it easily under one arm. “Do you need me to carry the other one, too?”

“Martin…” Jon said, unsure if he was stumped more by Martin’s kindness or casual demonstration of strength. “I can’t ask you to carry that all the way back to my flat.”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” Martin said. “Do you want me to take the other one?”

The other one was significantly lighter, probably more so now that Martin had taken the books that had fallen out of it. Jon scowled at it. “I’ll be fine.”

So, that was it, they were in Jon’s flat. Martin was in Jon’s flat.

He looked oddly at home in the space, which Jon tried not to read into; his jumper and fluffy hair and glasses just… worked, somehow, amongst all of Jon’s things. He was outlined quite brilliantly by the bookshelves that took over one wall of Jon’s small living room, as he looked over the spines. Jon perched on the arm of his old sofa and watched him regard the rolling ladder with the wonder of a child.

“This is so cool,” Martin said, “can you really not reach the top without it?”

It wasn’t supposed to be an insult. Jon laughed. “It’s—uh—the ladder just seemed easier.”

“I like it, it’s very… uh… mad professor.” Martin smiled to himself, mindlessly rolling the ladder back and forth a few inches. He stopped, eventually, as if interrupted. “I should probably get going.”

“You don’t have to.”

Martin turned to him, expression soft and almost surprised. As nice as Martin’s face was, that was perhaps Jon’s least favourite expression, because it meant that Martin was doubting himself, and how much Jon enjoyed being around him. Jon couldn’t put that into words that sounded right, so he just caught Martin’s sleeve instead.

“Don’t go,” he said, tugging gently.

Martin stepped towards him, and that face turned into a soft smile. “You want me to stay?”

Jon nodded, and leaned up just in time for Martin to kiss him. They kissed, and kissed, and Martin’s hand was on his jaw and Jon’s was on his chest and then Martin was on the couch, and Jon was on him, and Martin was touching his waist and the kiss was so good and so warm and so right that Jon didn’t want it to ever stop.

Martin tucked his fingertips beneath the hem of Jon’s shirt and tugged upwards a little, exposing his lower back to the cold flat. It had been so long since Jon had been shirtless in his own company, let alone in front of somebody else, and he was suddenly distinctly aware that he wasn’t alone, but seated quite comfortably in Martin’s lap, and that there was a conversation imminent that he really, really, didn’t want to have. Not yet. He wished he could live in Martin’s blissful ignorance for just a little while longer.

“Jon.” Martin squeezed his sides, just a little, with an inquisitive sort of look. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Jon replied, realising that he had planted his hands quite firmly on Martin’s shoulders, holding him back with a considerable force. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

Martin’s expression was kind and curious, barely masking his clear concern. Jon chewed on his lower lip until it hurt.

“Martin, I need to… I have something to tell you.”

“That sounds scary,” Martin half-joked.

“No, no! It’s not…” Jon swallowed. “Well, I don’t think so.”

Martin softened back to sincerity. “What is it?”

Jon forced himself to breathe steadily. 

“I’m not attracted to you.”

Something broke in Martin’s face, and he dropped his hands from Jon’s waist. A flush crept quickly across his cheeks.

“Wha—what?”

Shit. Good work, Sims. 

Jon squeezed his shoulders. “No, no, that came out completely wrong. I am attracted to you. I didn’t mean—I… can I start again?”

Martin nodded, still wide-eyed and red. He looked very much like he was about to cry. “Please do.”

Jon’s chest seized. The last thing he wanted to do was upset him.

“What I meant to say is that I’m not exactly… attracted to anyone. In that way.”

“I—oh.”

Jon nodded. “I think you’re very handsome—attractive; I’m attracted to you romantically. I enjoy being romantic with you, but I don’t want to… I mean, I’m not interested in… I don’t see sex as a necessity. I could have sex, probably, I’ve done it before and it was okay, but most of my enjoyment would come from you enjoying it, and I don’t always feel… comfortable enough to do it. Most of the time I don’t, actually. Are you okay with that?”

He couldn’t look Martin in the eyes as he said it; he hated explaining himself, he hated putting it into words. He stared at his own fingers and how they left small divots in the plush wool of Martin’s jumper.

When he finally got the courage to look up, a small smile had taken the place of Martin’s upset. “I like being romantic with you, too, Jon. And it isn’t a case of whether I’m okay with it, Jon; I don’t have to ‘be okay’ with anything, I just want you to be okay. Okay?”

“Yes,” Jon said, and chuckled, “okay.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “God, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, does it?”

“No.” Jon tucked his face against Martin’s shoulder, which shook with gentle laughter that Jon followed happily. 

Martin 10:34AM
i think i left my jumper at ur flat

Jon 10:36AM
[IMG_186]

Martin 10:36AM
thief!!!!!!!!!!!!

Martin 10:38AM
it suits you :-)

Martin 3:21AM
hyde park winter wonderland yes or no

Jon 3:24AM
In general, or…?

Martin 3:25AM
obviously for a date

Martin 3:25AM
feel free to say no

Jon 3:25AM
Just don’t expect me to ice skate.

Jon 3:25AM
Also, go to sleep.

They decided Tuesday would be the best day for Winter Wonderland, since the weekend was bound to be an absolute write-off and Martin preferred to avoid crowds. He’d made some off-handed comment about how being in a crowd reminded him of how much space he took up, and Jon had kissed the end of his nose in response. I like your space, he’d said, with his arms around Martin’s middle. Yeah, Martin had chuckled, you definitely like sharing it.

It was the memory of that fond little laugh that kept Jon tucked up close to Martin’s side when the tube got busy. Martin held onto the handrail and Jon held onto him, swaying into him with every movement of the car. Every time the crowd pulsed, and Jon felt Martin slipping away, he clutched onto his jumper and stumbled in closer, as if by accident. He wasn’t sure if Martin knew what he was doing, but he smiled and kissed the crown of Jon’s head every time: I’m here. 

Hyde Park wasn’t quiet by any means, but it was far more bearable than the tube. They ambled through slowly, with no real sense of direction besides wherever Martin wanted, which was perfectly fine for Jon. It took them past the rollercoasters (no fucking way, they had both agreed) and the street food stalls (absolutely not, Jon’s stomach supplied) to the aptly named Santa Land, which seemed to be mostly populated by young families, but made Martin light up so much that there was no way Jon could really refuse.

“Come on, Jon, just one game,” Martin ended up begging.

If Jon wanted to let go of Martin’s hand, he would have crossed his arms in indignance. He settled on scowling instead. “No, Martin. It’s against my ethics.”

“It’s hook-a-duck.”

“Exactly! There’s no… skill or nuance involved, it’s a game of chance. It’s a scam, and I won’t fall for it.”

“Then I’ll do it,” Martin said. “I’ll even win you a prize, like… that cow. Look at that cow, Jon, he’s so cute.”

The stuffed cow was pretty cute, even if it was suspended over the duck pool by its neck.

Jon sighed, and dropped Martin’s hand. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“Yes!” Martin shook both fists in victory, and turned to look for an attendant.

As it turned out, Martin took hook-a-duck very seriously. He turned it into a test of his profiling skills, eyeing up each rubber duck with a critical eye as they floated past his hook, to the point where Jon thought the attendant might have a go at them for taking too long. Martin wouldn’t be rushed, though, as he chose his target.

“She looks good,” Martin said, gesturing to an unassuming smaller duck wearing a painted-on red scarf. “I think she might be the one.”

“How do you know she’s a she?” Jon asked. “They could be anything.”

Martin furrowed his brow, “You’re right, but I think they’re lucky.”

Jon couldn’t really see anything special about the duck or the paint peeling slightly off its face. “If you say so.”

Martin hummed under his breath and lowered the hook down to meet with the one on top of the duck’s head. He lifted it with all the concentration of a crane operator, and—

—the hook broke, sending the duck back into the pool with a splash.

“Oh!” Martin exclaimed, staring slack-jawed at the broken hook in his hand. 

“I’m sure that still counts,” Jon said, looking at the attendant. “That still counts, right?”

The large, bald attendant just shook his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin said, although his childlike excitement had been replaced with something like disappointment.

“No, it’s not alright, Martin!” Jon turned back to the attendant. “Excuse me, could you not just—show us whether it was a winning one? He got it.”

“That’s not how it works,” the attendant replied.

“I understand that, but it wasn’t his fault that it broke. If anything, that’s your fault. He paid you for the privilege of hooking a bloody duck, and you won’t even tell him whether he had the chance to win anything?”

“Look, sir, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I am calm, I just don’t think it’s fair that you wouldn’t make an exception in a game that is already rigged!”

“Sir, please—”

“Do not tell me to calm down again.”

“Fine. If I give you a prize, will you leave?”

Jon took a deep breath. He was shaking a little bit. “Yes. Yes, I think that would be a fair deal.”

Martin chose the prize he wanted, and the attendant handed the cow over without further argument.

Jon was still shaking with the argument as they walked away. Martin, clutching the almost comically oversized stuffed animal under one arm, bumped their shoulders together.

“My knight in shining armour,” he said lightly.

Jon scoffed, “Hardly.”

Martin just put his free arm around Jon’s shoulder. “Do you think his accent was real?”

Jon burst into laughter, remembering the attendant’s shoddy Cockney twang. “Definitely not.”

“He sounded like Dick Van Dyke, but worse!”

“I think that’s an insult to Dick Van Dyke.”

Jon reached up and interlaced his fingers with Martin’s hand that hung over his shoulder, and felt any leftover tension from his almost-fight immediately dissipate. He wasn’t a knight in shining armour, he never had been, and arguing with an employee was something he would usually never do; he didn’t know what it was about Martin that brought that out in him.  

They wandered into the large marketplace, which was much busier than Santa Land had been, and Martin got distracted by the stalls that they passed. He spent time talking to each vendor about what they were selling, and Jon just watched him shine; Martin didn’t even know how radiant he was, how people just melted into conversation with him, and it really was a crime that he couldn’t see it for himself.

Eventually, they made their way to the food and drink stalls, and Martin passed the cow to him.

“I’m going to get mulled wine,” he said, “do you want anything?”

“Mulled wine sounds lovely,” Jon replied, trying to situate the cow comfortably in his arms and failing—it really was inconveniently large.

Martin grinned, pressed a kiss to the cow’s head and then one on Jon’s mouth, and headed over to get in line for the bar.

Jon moved aside to a quieter spot, so that he wasn’t right in the middle of the busy walkway, and watched the people pass by him: families with young children, groups of teenagers forced to wrap up warm by their parents, couples obviously on dates. He wondered if any passers-by could tell that this was technically only his and Martin’s third date, or whether they looked more comfortable than that. He would have hoped they looked comfortable; he certainly felt it.

“Jon?”

Lost in his thoughts, Jon had stopped paying attention to the people passing by. In his inattentiveness, he’d missed Georgie passing by, and looping back to head right towards him, calling his name.

“Georgie!” he said, chest suddenly tight. “I—wow! It’s—it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”

“Ah, yes. It isn’t exactly my scene, but my—uh—Martin wanted to see the lights.”

Georgie quirked one eyebrow, the corner of her lip twitching in kind. “Your Martin? Where is he?”

“He’s getting mulled wine.”

“You hate mulled wine.”

“Yes.”

Next to Georgie, a shorter blonde woman with a white cane interjected, “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Georgie smiled. “Jon, you know Melanie, right? She was in—”

“Ghost Hunt UK, isn’t it?” Jon said.

She nodded. “That’s me. I don’t do hugs, or handshakes.”

“Me neither,” he agreed. “I’m Jon.”

“I know.”

Jon hadn’t seen Georgie for almost nine months, since she’d come into Leitner’s with the last of his stuff from the flat, and he almost couldn’t believe that this version of her—with shorter hair and new glasses and a shirt he’d never seen—was the same person. She looked… happy. Genuinely so. When she smiled at Melanie, her eyes crinkled in the corners in that way they had only done at the very start of their—

—oh.

Somewhere between Jon’s world falling apart and his heart finally, finally loosening its grip, Martin handed him a styrofoam cup.

Jon didn’t know if Martin could sense the tension. He could barely look at him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to tuck himself into the space at Martin’s side that felt like it was made for him and never leave it again.

“Are you going to introduce us?” Martin asked, after a moment.

“Oh, uh—” Jon finally looked up from the deep red liquid in his cup. “This is Georgie, and her—and Melanie. Georgie, Melanie, this is Martin.”

Georgie’s lips closed around an ‘oh’ of realisation. She looked Martin up and down, not unkindly, and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Martin. Did you win that?”

She was gesturing at the cow in Jon’s arms. Martin grinned wide enough to show off his dimples. 

“Almost,” he said. “There was a bit of a problem, but Jon came to my rescue.”

“Really, Jon came to the rescue?”

Martin’s face faltered, and he laughed in surprise. “Yeah, is that—is that so hard to believe?”

“No, no, sorry.” She shook her head. “I just… you must bring out the best in him.”

“I’d hardly say fighting with amusement park staff is the best in me,” Jon protested. “We should get going, Martin.”

Martin looked at him as if to protest, but any confusion died when he saw Jon’s face. He nodded instead, and pressed one hand between Jon’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, it’s getting late. It was lovely to meet you though, guys.”

“Really lovely,” Georgie agreed. “We should all do something soon. Get Jon to text you my number.”

“Will do,” Jon lied, and steered Martin away.

They had to talk about it. Jon knew this, but he wished he didn’t. He pulled Martin’s duvet up over his head and wished he could just stay there, surrounded by Martin’s smell and his home and his life and not have this conversation. His entire contribution to this relationship so far had been a conversation waiting to happen, but he just wanted to bypass this one.

The door clicked open and shut as Martin returned from the bathroom, and Jon listened to the muffled sounds of him getting ready for bed: drawers opening, the rustle of fabric as he dried off and dressed, the click of the body cream he applied religiously to stave off seasonal psoriasis—it had been a real revelation for Jon when he realised that was why he smelt of sandalwood all the time.

Eventually, the lamp clicked off, and Martin joined him underneath the duvet. He shimmied down until he was comfortable, and folded his arm up underneath his head. Jon shifted forward and rested his cheek against Martin’s elbow, so that their faces were level.

“Cosy under here,” Martin said quietly.

“Mhm. I was thinking of starting a new civilization.”

“The ‘Martin’s bed’ civilization? Can I join?”

“You can be our king.”

Martin chuckled, breath minty and warm. Jon kissed him, just because he could.

“Jon,” Martin said softly, when Jon pulled back.

Jon closed his eyes, although it didn’t make much difference in the dark. “Please don’t.”

Martin brought his other hand up, to push his thumb across Jon’s cheekbone. 

“We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. I won’t make you. Just let me know you’re okay, yeah?”

“You’re really good, Martin, do you know that?”

Somehow, he could feel Martin’s responding smile. 

“You looked really upset tonight, when we met Melanie and Georgie. I’ve never… I’m sorry, if I put you in an awkward situation,” Martin said.

“God, Martin, no,” Jon replied, grasping at Martin’s pajama shirt, “you didn’t—I’m sorry I didn’t explain. I should have told you who Georgie was.”

Martin made a small noise of understanding. “You dated her.”

Jon nodded. “For six years. We broke up last year—well, she broke up with me.”

“Okay.” Martin started moving his thumb again, the soft pad brushing over and over Jon’s cheek. “I don’t have a problem with that, if you were worried.”

“Thank you,” Jon said. “It’s less that I—well, I don’t know if Tim told you why he set you up with me, but he wanted me to… he thought I was struggling to let go.”

“And were you?”

“Hard to say,” Jon sighed. “I… the way we broke up—the reason we broke up, it was… hard. Harder than it maybe should have been.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about it?”

Jon shook his head. Sasha knew enough, as did Tim, but he’d never gone into specifics. He didn’t really have anyone else to be specific to; the only person he would have wanted to tell was Georgie, which was painfully ironic.

“Would you like to tell me?” Martin asked, very soft and very open, like it wouldn’t matter Jon said no. 

It would matter, of course it would. It would turn from an omission into a secret, into a lie, and Jon couldn’t handle that. He didn’t want Martin to think he was hiding anything from him, he didn’t want there to be any seeds of doubt to grow.

“We… Georgie has this, uh, this condition. CIPA, or, uh—Congenital Insensitivity to Pain and Anhidrosis; she’s never felt physical pain. It’s hard, because without pain she’s never really had anything to fear, so she doesn’t really feel fear, and she kind of… forgets that other people do. They didn’t know if her lack of fear was another symptom or if it was something psychological, but adrenaline shots didn’t do anything, so…” He swallowed thickly. “Anyway, last year, my grandmother died. We’d never been that close, but I lived with her after my parents, so I still took it hard; I mean, she was the last family I had left. I got pretty existential; I was the only one left to really remember her, and I didn’t even like her that much. So I started thinking about life and death and developed a pretty severe fear of it.”

“It?”

“The whole thing: existence, death, the End—capital E. Everything just felt so… bleak. Then Georgie, she… well, she couldn’t understand; she doesn’t fear anything; she doesn’t overthink; she doesn’t feel anxious. She struggled to comfort me because she couldn’t empathise with it, and we ended up arguing a lot. In one of the last—one of the worst ones, she said, uh— ‘the moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one, so why does it matter?’. That—it really got to me, for some reason.”

“Of course it did,” Martin said, “it’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who’s grieving.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jon agreed, “but that’s the problem, Georgie is… she’s absolutely lovely. She was the best, for a long time, and then… she wasn’t. I wasn’t. She doesn’t feel pain, and she doesn’t feel fear, and I am constantly in pain and I’m scared all of the time. Of course it wasn’t going to work; the worst in me naturally brought out the worst in her.”

Spent from the tale that he had never told anyone, Jon breathed deep and steady, very glad that he’d chosen to do this entirely under the duvet so that it was too dark to see Martin’s face. Martin’s thumb didn’t stop moving over his cheek, even as he leant forward to kiss Jon’s forehead.

“I don’t think your pain or your fear are the worst parts of you at all,” he said against Jon’s skin. 

“That’s very nice,” Jon said.

“I’m telling the truth, Jon, hey”—he pulled back—“hey, look at me.”

Jon opened his eyes, and his eyelashes stuck together a little with the few tears that he’d shed. He could only just see Martin in the darkness, but he knew he had that determined look, the one that showed how fiercely he could care.

“You’re good,” Martin said, very serious. “You are good. You’re a good person, and a good boyfriend, and you’re really good at winning stuffed animals.”

Jon laughed, still a little watery. “C’mere.”

He shuffled in closer and tucked his arms around Martin’s middle, while Martin brought both arms up around his shoulders to pull him in close against his chest. He kissed Jon’s forehead, and his hair, and Jon kissed the middle of his chest in kind. 

“Alright?” Martin asked softly. Jon felt it more than he heard it, vibrating through Martin’s chest. He was warm and soft and kind, and he thought that Jon was good. Jon still didn’t know if he agreed, but he would spend his whole life proving it to Martin, if it came down to it.

“I think… I think I’m okay,” he said. “I think I’m actually okay.”

Christmas rolled around in a few busy, sleepy weeks. The street seemed to be constantly bustling with tourists and gift-buyers alike, and the only time Jon really got to see Martin during the day was when he did a quick coffee run during his break, or when Martin managed to pop his head into Leitner’s for a quick kiss and a hello, Sasha before his next appointment.

It was alright, though, because at the end of the day, Jon got to lock up Leitner’s and head up the stairs into Pinhole Tattoos. Martin would finish up whatever he was doing—usually sanitizing and closing up his station, but sometimes he would still be working, etching someone’s skin with that careful line of concentration between his eyebrows—and give Jon a kiss at the door. They bid Gerry, the owner, goodnight, and headed home.

Home was wherever they decided it was that night. It didn’t matter that much anymore; they had left enough things at each other’s flats, and Jon definitely wasn’t opposed to stealing Martin’s clothes when he ran out of clean outfits for work. As night rolled in with its darkness and cold, Jon got to step into the warmth of Martin’s side and watch his eyes twinkle under the lights overhead.

“I’m going to miss them when they take these down,” Martin would say.

Me too, Jon wouldn’t say, I’m going to miss the way they make you look.

On Christmas morning, Jon woke up in Martin’s arms. Jon had always been a quick riser; when he was awake, that was it, whereas Martin came around much slower and easier. He was quite obviously dancing that line between conscious and asleep when he blinked half-open eyes at Jon and smiled sleepily. Jon kissed that smile, and it grew a little wider.

“Merry Christmas, Martin,” he said, because he knew it mattered.

Martin took a deep breath that might have been a yawn, “Merry Christmas, Jon.”

They kissed lazily for a long while, at least until Martin was lucid enough to roll them over and pin Jon down with his entire weight so that he could kiss all over his face. Warmth filled Jon’s chest mostly unrelated to the physical warmth covering him, and he pressed a final, languid kiss to Martin’s mouth, pulling him in by a hand in his curls. 

Eventually, Martin pulled back. He folded his hands on Jon’s chest and rested his chin on them as Jon took to his hair with both hands, moving over his scalp in swooping circles.

Martin closed his eyes and made a satisfied little sound. “This is nice.”

“This is nice,” Jon agreed. “I forgot what it was like to have a lazy morning.”

“You’re always working,” Martin said.

Jon hummed, focussing on separating out Martin’s curls where they had tangled together overnight. “I might talk to Elias about hiring more staff. I know Sasha is feeling the pressure.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Martin scoffed. “Not today, though.”

“No, not today.”

Tim arrived at twelve on the dot, wielding an IKEA bag’s worth of board games in one arm and a vat of potato salad in the other. His Santa hat had slipped down over his eyebrows, but he didn’t have a hand free to move it back.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he called into the hallway when Jon let him in. “It’s the ghost of Christmas present, here to instill some yuletide fear!”

Jon crossed his arms. “I’m beginning to doubt that you’ve ever read A Christmas Carol.”

“I’ve seen the Muppets, Jon.” Tim’s hat slipped down over his left eye. “Where should I put these?”

“Just give me—” Jon took the potato salad from him and turned back to the living room. “Martin! Tim’s here!”

The living room opened right out into the kitchen, where Martin was standing over the stove. He grinned over his shoulder at them, “Hey, Tim. What games did you bring?”

“So many games,” Tim said, dumping the IKEA bag on the coffee table, “Cluedo, Cards Against Humanity, there’s one called the Chameleon which I think you’ll be terrible at…”

“Hey!” Jon said, at the same time Martin said, “Jon isn’t allowed to play Cluedo.”

“That’s just rude,” Jon pouted, bringing the potato salad into the kitchen to go with their other side dishes, “I was going to defend you.”

Martin leaned over for a kiss. “I’m sorry, but it’s true; you’re too good at it.”

“That’s sweet.” Jon kissed him again. “But you being a terrible liar isn’t a testament to my skills.”

“You are literally impossible to lie to,” Martin countered.

“That’s true,” Tim piped up, leaning against the back of the sofa. “It’s kinda creepy, actually.”

Jon put both hands up. “Right, well, sorry I forgot it was Insult Jon Day.”

“Did I hear that we’re insulting Jon?” That was Basira—Martin’s roommate—coming into the living room, seemingly fresh from a workout. “Oh, hey, Tim.”

“Basira!” Tim replied. “I made potato salad!”

“I bloody love you,” she said, heading right for the bowl.

Basira didn’t celebrate Christmas, but she’d made it perfectly clear she was not missing out on any of the food up for grabs today. She just about got away with stealing a roast potato that was cooling on the counter before Martin swatted her away with the spatula, and she disappeared back into the hallway for a shower.

Tim got an all-day Christmas music channel playing on the TV, much to Jon’s chagrin, and managed to get Martin singing along to Last Christmas, which wasn’t that much of a hardship. Jon wished he could begrudge hearing Martin’s singing voice, which was surprisingly low compared to his speaking, but he managed to keep a straight, unamused face whenever Martin looked at him—keeping up appearances, it was very important.

Daisy, who was Martin’s other roommate and a transient figure in all of their lives, joined them for dinner, which was a pleasant but not unwelcome surprise. She’d cut her hair again since the last time Jon saw her, last week. She sat next to Basira and scowled when Tim suggested they do mad-libs, which Jon had to respect.

Dinner didn’t involve turkey, or crackers, or stupid paper hats. It was all but a typical dinner, with the welcome addition of Tim and Daisy. They shared some stories, and Tim made some off-colour jokes that went down about as well as Jon would have expected. At one point, when their plates were almost empty and Martin had begun contemplating dessert, Tim made a quip about Mari Lwyd which made Daisy roar with laughter, and the very rare sound was nearly enough to convince Jon that some form of Christmas magic did exist.

Daisy and Basira left shortly after the food was done, and Tim facetimed Sasha so that they could wish her a merry Christmas. She showed off her parents’ cat and her little cousins, and then was dragged away for family photos.

Happy and full, the three of them parked themselves on the sofa with some bottles of alcohol that Martin had received as gifts from clients. Tim came up with a Christmas movie drinking game which carried them into late evening, and by the time he left Martin practically had to carry him to his taxi.

Tim fought against Martin’s attempts to wrangle him into the car, and Jon couldn’t help but laugh at Martin’s flushed, afflicted expression. He leaned against the open doorway, grinning, when his phone buzzed.

Maybe: Georgie 8:12PM
merry xmas scrooge :) x

He stared at the message. Last year, a message like that would have sent him into a spiral of self-doubt—hell, last month it probably would have been enough to ruin his day. Now, though, still chuckling at Tim’s drunkenness and pleasantly giddy from the booze himself, it just made him smile.

Jon 8:12PM
Merry Christmas. Say hello to Melanie from me and Martin :)

Georgie 8:12PM
she says hello and happy xmas too

Georgie 8:13PM
i’m really happy for u, jon. he’s really good for you i think

Jon 8:13PM
I know :)

Jon 8:13PM
Thank you Georgie. Have a good night x

Georgie 8:13PM
<3  

With Tim finally sated and safe in the taxi, Martin climbed back up the front steps to join Jon on the porch. Jon tucked his phone away, and Martin pressed him up against the open door, wine-warm and humming the Home Alone soundtrack into Jon’s mouth. Jon got a leg up around his waist, and Martin had one hand on his thigh and the other on his face, pulling their mouths together in a hot, easy drag, when someone cleared their throat from the hallway.

“Oh—” Jon peeked over Martin’s shoulder at the little old woman. “Hello, Angela.”

“Good evening, Jon,” she said, with a glint in her eye. “Martin.”

“Hi, Angie,” Martin said, pressing close to Jon so that Angela could get past them, out of the door. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, boys!” she replied through a fond chuckle.

As soon as she was gone, Martin collapsed forward into Jon’s chest in peals of laughter. Jon cradled the back of Martin’s head and tipped his own head back, laughing in kind. He tried his best to ignore his hip’s protest as he dropped his leg back down. Martin kissed the dip of his sternum where it was exposed past the stretched neckline of his jumper, and then dragged his mouth up Jon’s neck to his jaw.

Jon sighed contentedly, and squeezed the back of Martin’s neck, “Come on, you, let’s go to bed.”

He felt Martin’s smile against his skin, and then saw it when Martin raised his head. They were almost inside and warmed by the wine, but Martin’s breath still interrupted the cold air with a cloud of white fog. He looked at Jon with a gaze that sparkled like all of the twinkling lights in the world had found a home in his eyes, and pressed his hot forehead gently to Jon’s. Jon closed his eyes and tipped his head back so that their noses touched.

“Merry Christmas, Jon,” Martin said.

“Merry Christmas, Martin,” Jon replied, and kissed him.