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Martin isn’t paying attention to what Tim is saying. He’s pretty sure it’s some long-winded rant about whatever project Tim is working on, but none of the words make landfall in Martin’s head. He’s too busy trying not to stare at the man standing by himself in the corner of the room clutching a wine glass and fidgeting his phone in and out of his pocket. The annual Magnus Institute holiday party was held in the largest reading room in the research department, with all the tables pushed to the room’s edges for the occasion. Martin watches as the man tries in vain to wedge himself in between one of these tables and the wall. He watches as the man’s gaze wanders the room, and he’s still watching when that gaze lands on him, the man’s eyebrows quirking down to find it returned.
Martin glances sharply away and refocuses to catch the tail end of Tim’s story.
“–and I said, ‘Your Majesty, you know I agree that age is just a number, but you’re a married woman.’ Of course, now I’m wondering if I made a mistake passing that up. What do you think, Marto?” Tim looks expectantly at him.
Martin blinks.
“Oh, well I guess-” The words finally arrange themselves into order in his head. “Sorry, what?”
“My opportunity to have a scandalous tryst with the Queen! Don’t tell me you haven’t been paying attention.” Tim’s eyes gleam. “I can guarantee Jon doesn’t have any stories nearly as interesting as this.”
Martin feels his cheeks flush, and his voice is rather higher than he intends when he replies, “W- who said anything about Jon?”
“I did!” Tim’s tone is far too jovial. “Just now! I noticed him arrive too, Martin, and I know how laser focused you get when he’s within a hundred feet of you.”
Martin’s flush deepens and he can’t resist glancing back over to where Jon is standing. He tries, and fails, to not be disappointed to find Jon’s eyebrows now quirked down at his phone rather than at Martin.
“Um–”
“God, this is painful. Talk to him.”
“I can’t!” Martin carefully does not shriek. “We haven’t talked even once! I can’t just approach him out of nowhere now. Also, he hates me.” He crosses his arms and levels what he hopes is a defiant look at Tim.
“It’s a party! It’s the perfect time to chat to someone you fancy for the first time.” It’s no use; Tim has developed an immunity to Martin’s stubbornness. “And he does not, no matter how many times you insist you’re his arch-nemesis, or whatever.”
“Okay, that’s a bit dramatic.”
Martin could write the length of one of the institute’s formal reports with evidence of Jon’s contempt. One of his favorite tasks in the library is manning the front desk. It’s where he feels most useful, and he thrives on the relieved expressions stressed researchers give him when he manages to find just the book or document they’ve been looking for. Martin has never received one of these expressions from Jon. The most Martin will get from him is a frown before he seeks the help of whichever of Martin’s coworkers happens to also be at the desk.
Once, Jon had entered the library while Martin was alone at the front. Emma, who was supposed to be working with him that day, had called off sick, and Martin found he was enjoying the solitude. The slow day allowed Martin time to work his way through a new poetry collection an acquaintance had recommended. He had been absentmindedly chewing on the end of his pen while he read, head tilted to enjoy the afternoon sun filtering through the window, when he heard a sharp inhale of breath ahead of him. He startled, looking up to see Jon frozen a few steps past the door, eyes wide. Martin had a mental catalog of the many different types of Jon’s frowns, from distracted to irritated, and had spent not a small amount of time imaging how Jon might look at him if he one day asked Martin for help with his research and Martin triumphantly produced the book Jon had desperately been searching for. The expression Jon was giving him now was so unlike any of those that Martin found whatever had frozen Jon had crossed the space between them and locked its vice grip on him as well.
For a breathless moment, their eyes remained locked. The spell broke with the sound of Martin’s pen clattering to the desk, and before he could so much as open his mouth to greet Jon, the man had gripped the notes in his hand so tight they crumpled and spun on his heel to flee back out the door. Martin blinked at the spot where Jon had been for several seconds before slowly, carefully returning his gaze to the poetry book, his breathing suddenly heavy.
Tim has one eyebrow raised. Martin huffs out a breath.
“Tim, you’ve seen how he is when I’m in the library.” He sounds tired. “It’s just not worth it.”
Tim continues to look at him, but the teasing gleam fades from his eyes and is replaced with a soft smile.
“I’m going to get another.” He lifts his empty glass. “Do you want anything?”
Bless Tim.
“Nah, I’ve still got about half my last one, and I’m pacing myself tonight.”
“Boring.”
Martin rolls his eyes but grins at Tim as he makes his way to the drinks table. Martin allows himself one last look at the corner Jon occupies before telling himself sternly that he will enjoy this party and pay more attention to the people he talks to.
Half an hour later, Martin has been largely successful at this goal. He stands in a group of library staff listening to Fionn tell a story about the secondary school student they’d had to deal with the week before. Martin watches the banter between Fionn and his other coworkers with a contented smile. He’s on his third drink of the evening and is warmed both by the alcohol and by the company. He hasn’t thought about Jon at all.
Well, not much.
This restraint goes out the window when Fionn shifts their weight, giving Martin a clear view of Tim talking animatedly.
To Jon.
While gesturing towards Martin.
The warmth that had filled Martin evaporates. He excuses himself from the group all but sprints across the room. Why had he thought Tim would drop it? The man is a menace.
“Martin!” Tim throws his arm around Martin’s shoulders and flashes a devilish grin. “You’ve met my pal Jon here, haven’t you?”
He had thought Tim was a friend, a good friend even, but evidently Tim wanted him dead.
He doesn’t want to see how Jon was taking this intrusion given his feelings towards Martin, but risks looking over anyway. Any thoughts that had begun to piece themselves together in his head dissolve. Jon… is smiling at Martin. More than that, he’s beaming.
“Martin.” Jon draws out the name as if he’s tasting it. He’s clearly drunk, swaying slightly where he leans against a door frame, a faint flush across his cheeks, and Martin wonders if that’s why he says Martin’s name like he’s savoring each syllable.
“Er, n- no not officially,” Martin stammers in response to the question Tim already knew the answer to. “But uh, yeah, hi! I’ve- well I’ve seen you in the library. Um. B- but obv-, uh, obviously never-” Maybe a hitherto unknown fault in the floor will emerge and cause it to open up beneath Martin.
Jon opens his mouth to reply, pushing off from the doorframe as he does so, and promptly loses his balance. Whatever he had been going to say turns into a yelp of surprise, and his arm flails out in an attempt to right himself. Martin reacts on instinct alone, staggering forward to catch Jon’s elbow and halt his fall. For a beat, they are so close Martin can feel the tickle of Jon’s breath on his neck. He abruptly lets go of Jon and lurches back, thumping into the other side of the doorframe behind him.
“Sorry!” Martin exclaims, but Jon seems not to hear him. He’s staring at the point where Martin had touched his arm.
“Well.” Tim’s voice startles him. He’d forgotten Tim was there. “Would you look at that!” He’s looking at a spot above Martin’s head with a mischievous glint in his eye. Martin follows his gaze and sees a small bundle of a green, leafy plant tied with a red bow attached to the top of the doorframe where Martin and Jon stand.
Oh god.
“Mistletoe,” Tim continues as if Martin doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at. He’d done this on purpose. Tim had trapped Jon in a conversation at this exact spot knowing it would lure Martin over, and he had probably somehow also caused Jon to trip and–
He's spiraling. Martin shakes off the train of thought as best he can. The mistletoe doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fun, seasonal decoration, and they’re all adults who recognize they can just laugh about it and move on. He tries to formulate a non-awkward way to say this and looks down from the mistletoe, stopping short when he meets Jon’s gaze. It’s intense, and turns from questioning to decisive as Martin stares.
“Jon, we don’t-” but he’s cut off by Jon placing his hands on either side of Martin’s face and pulling him gently but insistently down to meet him.
Jon’s lips are chapped. Martin can’t tell if he’s more surprised by that or the fact of Jon kissing him at all. He remains frozen for a moment, not convinced this isn’t an especially realistic dream. Then Jon’s lips move against his and he stops caring. His hands find their way to Jon’s waist, and he kisses Jon back, the noise of the party around them fading under the sound of Martin’s own heart racing.
It feels like hours have passed when they pull apart. Jon’s hands slide from Martin’s face to his shoulders, and he stares up at Martin like he’s a newly discovered star. Martin’s head swims from the kiss and the recontextualization of every interaction he’s ever had with Jon, who, it seems, handles crushes like a year one student.
“Martin,” Jon says again, and the warmth in his voice nearly sweeps Martin off his feet.
“I was thinking–”
“Do you want–”
They both cut off, the flush on Jon’s face deepening. They have yet to move away from each other, Martin’s hands still resting just above Jon’s hips. Martin thinks he might be happy to live right here.
“Well, this is just adorable, but I think I heard Sasha calling my name.” Tim grins as he turns to walk away. “Happy Christmas!” He winks at Martin, and then he’s gone.
The bubble that had surrounded them pops, and Martin drops his hands and takes a hasty step back.
“So,” Martin begins. Jon fiddles with a button on his shirt and darts glances at Martin’s face.
“It’s getting late, I should–” Jon pauses “Well, I should probably go home.”
“Oh!” Martin marvels at his new understanding: this is Jon nervous. “I’ll walk you out.”
Jon looks up at him, surprise on his face that slowly turns to a small smile. He nods, and they walk together out of the Institute.
“Can I call you a cab?” Martin asks when they reach the sidewalk.
“Oh, no. Thank you, but it’s not a long tube ride.”
They lapse into silence again, looking at each other under the streetlight. Martin still can’t quite believe that the evening had happened, that Jon really hadn’t hated him all along. He takes Jon’s hand.
“Do you want to get coffee sometime?” It comes out faster than he means it to, and he takes a breath. “I know we’ve skipped a few steps. People normally have a conversation first, I suppose, but I, well,” he trails off.
The way Jon smiles at him then is so tenderly hopeful, and Martin can’t help the way his heart breaks just a little bit.
“That sounds lovely, Martin.”
Martin thinks he could subsist entirely on the way Jon says his name.
“Great! That’s- um, yeah! I’ll call you?”
Jon nods, still smiling, and squeezes Martin’s hand. Too soon, Martin is left in front of the Institute steps, watching Jon make his way to the tube station. After Jon has faded from view, Martin brings a hand to his lips and laughs.