Archive of Our Own

When he looks to the side to pick up his water bottle, Rowan’s jabbing at the grass with his little plastic shovel.

When he looks back up, Rowan is nowhere to be seen.

Not in the sand or the grass or the play area or the picnic tables.

Almost before he’s aware of what his body is doing, he finds himself dashing to the place Rowan was last playing. The shovel and bucket are gone, and there’s no one nearby. It’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday so there aren’t more than twenty people in the park - if he’d been snatched, Jon would have noticed just from the appearance of another adult in the area. Besides, he’s drilled into Rowan’s little head that if someone besides Daddy ever tries to pick him up and take him away, he kicks and punches and bite and screams and screams and screams and screams until another grown up comes to help. So the more likely bet is he’s wandered off. He spins himself in circles, trying to pick out which feature would be most attractive to a toddler brain.

It’s then he sees a very tall very solid man coming his way very fast. Jon scrambles back and the man slows, hands out placatingly.

“Have you seen a kid come by?” the man pants when he’s near enough to be heard. “She’s about two and a half, she has reddish hair in a ponytail, she’s in a grey hoodie? I looked away to grab her snack from my bag and she disappeared, please, have you seen her?”

“No. Mine wandered off, too. He was just here a minute ago.”

The man scans the area.“Okay. Okay, this - split up and shout if we find them?”

Jon’s first instinct is to say no, let this stranger handle his own problems on the off chance he’s a threat to Jon’s child, but then Jon looks him over. His face is pink and his chin looks like it may be trembling. He’s tapping his fingers on his thighs in a frantic rhythm. Those are definitely tears in his eyes. Jon would imagine he doesn’t look much better himself, at this point. Just another father having what may be the worst panic he’s ever had.

He nods and points. “You go that way, I’ll go the other. Mine’s Rowan, black hair, green raincoat, had a red bucket. Tell him Daddy is coming and don’t try to pick him up.”

“Penny, she’s got these awful hot pink shoes on. She’ll try to hold your hand and talk your ear off immediately.”

Jon starts in his direction, calling, “If you see them, shout,” over his shoulder as he goes.

He circles the play equipment first, looking out to the sparse trees for any flash of color.

Nothing.

He checks the picnic tables near the entrance.

Nothing.

He searches every little corner of the climbing frame, under the slide, in the tube, the low hedge along the fence.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

He’s about to head into the little building with the bathrooms when the shout comes.

The relief is like a blizzard twisting around him, so sharp and severe his body almost goes limp.

Jon sprints in the direction of the sound and sees the man jogging for a bench, beneath it a splash of neon green and two waving spots of hot pink. As soon as Jon reaches them, he’s skidding on his knees over the grass to drag Rowan out and hold him against his chest, and the man is doing the same with his own child and her fistful of leaves and getting a flurry of chatter in response.

“Daddy, bugs!” Rowan says as he clings to Jon’s neck. He pulls away to look at him and pretends he isn’t crying just a bit.

“Did you go looking for bugs?”

“Yes, little bugs.” He points under the bench to the patch of dirt that appears to have been stirred up with his shovel.

“Okay, you can look at bugs, that’s okay. But you need to tell me, okay? If you want to look at bugs we can look at bugs together. I was very scared when you went away and I didn’t know.”

Rowan nods and Jon’s certain he’s still too happy about the bugs to even care what he’s saying. “Okay. It’s good bugs there.”

“Good bugs, alright.”

Jon brushes Rowan’s hair back and starts to wipe away a streak of dirt on his cheek, at which point he notices the mud and ants on his hand.

It’s also at this point that Rowan grabs Jon’s wrist to look at the ants.

It’s also at this point that Rowan pokes his tongue out and licks Jon’s hand, getting a good bit of dirt and at least two of those ants.

Jon looks up at the man, hoping he didn’t see that, only to find him fighting back a smile at what’s just happened.

But Jon doesn’t feel so bad about it when that man’s kid puts an entire leaf in her mouth and starts chewing.

“Oh, don’t - Penny, do not eat leaves if we don’t know what they are, spit that out.”

He holds her out to the side and she spits a wad of leaf on the grass, but she doesn’t look happy about it. Jon stifles his own smile and wipes his hands on his jeans. They’re already covered in grass stains from his messy landing so a bit more won’t hurt.

“I think we could use some juice,” the man says as he stands, offering to help Jon up with his spare hand. He dries his own faint tear tracks with a sleeve and takes a deep breath. “You’re welcome to join if you’d like, cool down a bit from all this.”

“That would-” Jon takes the help and groans, once he’s on his feet, as he realizes. “Perfect, I’ve left everything sitting on my bench, it’ll be a miracle if it’s all still there.”

The man hums sympathetically and bounces Penny. “Well, we’ve solved one mystery today. If it isn’t, we’ll just have to solve another.”

Fortunately, his bag is where he left it, and the man had been on a bench just across the playground. It’s short work to move their things to a shady spot and get settled in. Jon sees the man has the same sort of juice, the fancy 100%-all-natural-we-promise kind that Jon springs for despite the price, and a little container of blueberries and cubed apples to match Rowan’s pears and mangoes, the only fruits he’s been willing to eat for two weeks now.

Once everyone is distracted, the man sighs and stretches. “So could I ask your name? I’ve just been calling you ‘other dad’ in my head.”

“Oh! I’m Jonathan. Jon. You’ve just been ‘that man’ in my head, if you’re willing to offer an alternative.”

“Martin. It’s nice to meet you, but I wish it was a bit less… terrifying?”

“Agreed.” Jon huffs and shakes his head. “I look down to pick up my water, look up and there’s no Rowan in sight. My first thought was ‘this is a nightmare. I’m having a nightmare and this isn’t happening to me.’ Turns out we just had to find some insects. And apparently eat them.”

Martin laughs, though it sounds to be commiseratingly instead of judgmentally. “Letting them get in the muck doesn’t do any damage, even if it’s a bit of a mess.”

“I don’t mind the mud, really,” Jon says despite his attempts to scrub the dirt away with a wipe. “He only decides to eat it occasionally, and there’s no harm in letting him enjoy being two in all its filthy glory. It’s good for them, helps their immune system and all. And he has fun stomping around in puddles and digging up worms. No trouble past a bit of extra laundry and a good scrubbing at bath time.”

“See, that's fine. I’ll deal with the cleaning after a bit of fun outside, we do that all the time. The issue is when mine decides she has to sample a leaf. It’s not every time we’re out, but it’s enough. I’ll look and she’s grabbed something and wants to taste it. I had to request a list of all the types of trees in the park, just to make sure none of them are toxic.”

“Are we safe?” Jon takes Rowan’s juice box when it’s brought to him and offers his cup, getting a vehement head shake as he flops back into the grass with Penny. “Free to graze on whatever we find?”

“Clear, unless you have allergy concerns. Which is a relief, because I hated hovering while I waited for a response. Usually, as long as I can spot her, it’s fine. I want to let her loose, go a bit wild and have fun without me over her shoulder. Be a kid, get dirty, make friends. Bit harder to do that with your dad on guard.”

Jon rolls his eyes and groans. “God, but the looks from the other parents when you don’t want to be within two feet at every second.”

“Right?” Martin turns just a bit toward Jon, but not so far the kids aren’t in his line of sight. “Went to the pediatrician for a sinus infection a few weeks ago. Lady in the waiting area starts chatting, usual stuff, and she says it must be hard for me to fit on the equipment when we’re at the park, and I’m like… I don’t fit on it? It’s not for me, I’m a grown man. It’s for children five and younger at the smallest park around so there's only a few things to watch her on. It is less than a foot off the ground everywhere but the slide, and that's the gentlest slope of stairs up with full blown walls so she can't fall over the side. She hates the swings and won't go near them, no worries there until we try to work through it when she gets a bit older. I'm not even ten feet away from her. There’s a place for me at the park, it’s the track around the play area and the benches on that track. I'm there the exact second she asks for me, and we have a talk on the way every time where we go over how we stay safe when we play, but I don’t need to be right on top of her. This lady looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

Jon’s head falls back and he gives a heartfelt sigh. “Had one a few weeks ago come over here and ask if that one’s yours. Which was a fair assumption, considering the five other sets of parents and kids are all paired up, and mine’s a full fifteen steps away in the grass picking clovers and looking at them alone. But she decides to tell me all about some friend of a cousin of a friend or something who didn’t stay with hers and they ran into the woods and didn’t come out. Which, first of all, if a toddler disappears into the woods in a public park, there would be news coverage of that. Second, I guarantee mine is having more fun than yours is, stuck suffering through her sweaty hand and dislocated shoulder because you haven’t let go or stopped jerking them along behind you since the second you got here.”

Martin slaps his knee and nods. “Exactly! I mean, half the time I’m watching, these kids are just standing there holding their parent’s hands while they chat with each other in the middle of the playground, right in the way of the kids actually allowed to move about. Just let them play! You can chat over here, they can play over there, three sets of eyes mean you can relax a bit. I mean, talking to you has been a relief, because I feel like I could tie my shoe, even, now that there’s backup.”

A pause and Jon hums and tilts his head. "Do feel a bit ridiculous saying all of this after we had a bit of an emergency not ten minutes ago."

"Well. Just means we're adding to the talk about how to be safe at the park next time."

“Done,” comes a little voice. Penny is holding out her bowl of fruit, near-empty.

“Yeah.” Rowan scrambles to his feet and brings his own over to Jon. “No more.”

Martin swings Penny up onto the bench between them. “If you’re done, then I bet you’re all sticky from your snack. Let’s clean up. Can you clean your hands and your face or do you want help?”

While they manage themselves, Jon settles Rowan in his lap to scrub off the last of the dirt and mango juice. It’s fortunate that he’s used to this treatment, because he sits patiently and lets it happen with no fuss. It’s quick work, so he watches Martin with Penny. She’s attempting to do it herself, but she keeps getting distracted and waving her hands as she talks. Martin is nodding attentively, slowly reaching with another wipe to clean her face, so easy she hardly notices. He smiles, small and soft, when she holds her hands out to be cleaned as well.

“We can go?” she asks, pointing back to the playground.

Martin looks at his watch and hums. “I think… maybe four more times down the slide, okay?”

Rowan tugs at Jon’s shirt. “Daddy, play?”

“Go on.” Jon lets Rowan down and waves him in the same direction. “You have to stay here, though, only play on the playground.”

“Yes, just on the playground, Penny.”

They scurry off again to take turns watching the other’s descent.

It’s nice, this. Sitting on a bench with another adult - not that there aren’t other adults in his life, but this is another parent, someone who knows the instincts that fill his heart because they’re the same. Another parent who doesn’t seem inclined to shame him for not helicoptering every single second, doesn’t make him feel like he’s awful for letting his kid get messy. Someone to watch his back with Rowan for a little while, and he’s willing to do the same for Penny.

He’d like to do it again.

“So,” Jon says, getting everything packed away for the trek home. “Are you here most Tuesdays?”

Martin looks up from his own organizing. “Yeah, most of them. Tuesdays and, if we make it, Saturdays are park days. You around?”

“We are on Tuesdays, if you think you might be looking for backup again.”

“Oh!” Martin smiles at him. He has a nice smile, one that spreads slowly, as though he can’t be sure of it. “That would be - Yeah, of course!”

So they trade contact details, make a plan for next week, and collect their children, who cling to each others’ hands for a moody moment before being promised they’ll play again soon.

And Rowan and Jon leave one way, and Penny and Martin the other.

And Jon spends the walk home feeling likely more excited than he should that both of them have made a friend.

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They manage to run into each other just at the entrance of the park, Rowan dashing forward out of Jon’s reach to crash into Penny, who’s just done the same.

“Woah! Big tumble,” Martin says in a way that seems intentionally nonchalant - it’s a preferred tactic of Jon’s as well, waiting for Rowan to be worried before he bothers panicking himself. “Need help up?”

They’re both on their feet before he’s finished asking and aim for the playground without another moment’s delay.

Jon gestures after them with a little laugh. “Guess not. Care to join?”

They set up on the same bench as last time. It’s still early, not many people around, and it’s shaping up to be a good, clear day, perfect for whiling away an hour or two at the park. Penny and Rowan are taking turns at the slide, one climbing up and then sliding down to where the other waits to cheer when they arrive.

“Good week for you?” Martin asks, startling Jon from his hazy contentment. Small talk. Delicious. But Jon will survive it, surely, for the comraderie he’s found here.

“Oh, fine. Same as it always is. Work, wrangle my child, repeat. You?”

“Exactly the same. Work, kid, in bed early to do it again tomorrow." He watches them spinning and pointing at each piece of equipment while they decide what's next. "She was so angry with me Saturday because she was convinced I said we would meet up next time we were at the park, not the time after that. Got a proper pout because of it. Sat in the grass and went on about my friend, by myself. Took a butterfly getting her attention to snap out of it then we spent ages chasing it.”

“Rowan was miserable when we started toward the library. Big sighs, feet dragging, the works. Might have to intrude on your Saturdays from time to time if they’re both going to be dramatic about it.”

The children have made their way to the little play panels and are furiously spinning the number blocks, from the sound of it proudly announcing which number is showing when one slows to a stop. Jon knows Rowan can only recognize one to five visually, even if he can recite one to ten all in a row if not interrupted, so he can’t imagine he’s hitting very often. At least he tries.

Martin laughs at the two of them and reaches for his bag, pulling out a little insulated bottle, tea from the smell. “You’re more than welcome to join me on Saturdays while they cause a ruckus. It’s nice to talk to another adult that’s got a kid. Almost all my coworkers are child free and plan to stay that way or sixty-plus and done with the whole mess. Of course, they all have an opinion on it anyways.”

“Mine aren’t much better,” Jon groans. “There are quite a few people in the office near my age, and they’re good with Rowan, but I don’t need another neat do-it-all product you found on instagram. And I don’t want ideas about how you raised yours in the sixties. I’ve muddled through this far. I’ll keep muddling through.”

“Yikes. Haven’t gotten anything from instagram yet. Plenty of old-timey tips, of course. Had one tell me she started her daughter on coffee at seven months and she’s loved it ever since. Don’t know how to break it to her that it’s more likely she started a debilitating caffeine addiction that her poor kid has never managed to shake.”

“Oh, the receptionist at mine insisted two cigarettes and a glass of wine each night were perfectly fine until six months, because the parent’s liver filters everything out until the baby’s grown one, which apparently sprouts fully formed at that point.”

Martin winces and shakes his head. “Yikes again. I’d imagine your partner didn’t follow that tip?”

Jon freezes for a moment, uncertain how to go about that. Martin seems pleasant enough, but it’s always a worry.

“Uh. It’s- well, I-” He waves his hands toward his own middle, trying to imply his meaning. Judging by Martin’s face, he doesn’t understand. Of course, Jon has to admit stuttering then flapping about a bit doesn’t convey much. “It was - I was the one carrying Rowan, that-”

“Oh. Oh!” Martin flushes immediately. “I’m so sorry, that’s - god, making assumptions never gets me anywhere, sorry! I shouldn-”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s- don’t worry about it, I know it’s not… frequent, I suppose.”

“Still, I am sorry. I try not to be super… I don’t know, presumptuous, I guess? Don't want Penny growing up as repressed and confused as I did. Manage to put my foot in it from time to time, though. But, uh… Guessing you didn’t break open a bottle after dinner every night either?”

Jon relaxes knowing Martin’s letting the apologies fade instead of dragging them on, and he’s content to gripe about this, at least. “Absolutely not. I had stopped smoking a year or so before I found out, so that was lucky timing on my part. I had a routine starting at… eight weeks, I think, but it was blueberry tea, celery, and butter mints. Every morning I’d wake up and it’s all I’d want. Shower, tea, a stalk of celery, three butter mints.” Jon lets himself laugh at the memory, despite his desire to gag at the thought of the mixture now, and at the grimace on Martin’s face. He swings his foot out to tap Martin’s. “Your partner end up with odd cravings? My midwife used to tell me all the weird combinations she’d hear about when I started offering her mints from my pockets at every appointment.”

“I, uh. I wasn’t there for it?”

“Oh, uh…” Jon’s brain empties immediately as he tries to figure out how to respond to that without letting his own baggage end this budding friendship immediately.

Fortunately, Martin scrambles to continue before he has to work at it too hard, waving his arms in a panicked motion.

“I didn’t, like, walk out on a partner or anything! That’s not - no, she - I adopted Penny when she was about seven months, she - uh. It’s kind of a mess. She’s my sister? Half-sister if we’re getting specific. My - you don’t need the whole story, sorry, I just. I didn’t leave somebody to go on without me.”

It’s a relief to hear, even if the vague explanation sounds like it wasn’t a nice situation for Martin. Despite there being circumstances that may have been absolutely reasonable to make Martin miss things had he been her biological father, Jon isn’t certain he’d be so content if that was the case. And if Martin was the sort who was only around twice a week to grudgingly fill a requirement? Even worse, if only because Rowan doesn’t even get that, not that he wants that to be the case at all. Maybe Jon’s a touch sensitive about the whole matter. 

Jon nudges his foot again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. It sucks, and I feel bad saying this, but I can't say I'd be willing to change anything if it meant I didn't have her, so. Y’know. We’re okay.” Martin smiles at Jon, just a bit sideways, and shrugs.

“If it helps, I understand. You know, how hard it is to do this alone.”

“Then I’m sorry you have to do it, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Martin nods decisively. “But! Now our kids have made friends at the park. So. Two things in common, even if one of them is getting nasty looks from other parents when we have to ask them  to stop blocking all the equipment.”

“Good common ground then.”

“I think so, too.”

And Martin smiles at him, and Jon smiles back, and Rowan and Penny come dashing back to show off the beetle they’ve caught, and it’s set free before anyone can try to take a bite.

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Spring drags on to summer, and their lives continue to intersect, Tuesdays and the occasional Saturday spent causing trouble at the park, or meeting at a children’s museum if the weather doesn’t hold.

They learn each other.

Penny hadn’t ever been shy. Martin tells Jon it’s a struggle, because he doesn’t want her to grow up terrified, but he also doesn’t want her to make friends with absolutely anyone at all without learning to stay safe and catch warning signs. She’ll talk to anybody in her little toddler way. Cashiers, docents, baristas, bus drivers, bus passengers, people waiting to get on the bus, people passing by to get off the bus.

She becomes particular about Jon. When they meet, she starts her stories about the days he’d missed in full detail, or as much as a two-but-getting-close-to-three year old can manage, until eventually they start each visit with a good twenty minutes at the bench while Jon learns all about what happened while she was a her friend’s - her name for the childminder for her age group - and what she’s had for breakfast and the book Pop read last night and how there’s a bird nest on their window, or more realistically, standing on the bench and luxuriating in attention from someone besides her father.

Rowan warms up to Martin, at least enough to talk to him, which is more than Jon can say for most people. He doesn't like to tell stories like Penny does, but he’ll ask questions, or answer them, and listen without his attention drifting.

Jon learns Martin, too. He’s soft, polite, gentle, just like the impression he’d given after their first little panic, but there are a few thorns, too. He’s funny. Sharp and smart and resourceful and maybe a little rude, when it’s called for. A good dad, or at least one Jon’s own parenting style works with. Attentive without being overbearing, firm without being strict, fun without being unruly.

Mid-July, as they’re watching the children huddle under the bench closest to poke at slugs, Martin clears his throat.

“So. It’s Penny’s birthday next Thursday, and I was wondering if I could talk you into doing something with us Tuesday to celebrate.”

“Oh! Of course, Rowan’ll be so excited.”

“Penny, too. I asked her what we should do this morning and we’re torn between the pediatrician, the zoo, and the moon, but it doesn’t matter as long as she gets strawberry ice cream and to eat it with Rowan.”

Jon can’t stop a laugh. He’s heard full well about Penny’s adoration of her pediatrician’s endless supply of stickers, and his heart is fluttering with joy that he’s made a friend. “Oh, well, take on all three and we have a day.”

“Start early with a full run of vaccines, pop in to check the wildlife, space by three, back in time for dessert. So, you’re in?”

“Absolutely. Tell me where the pediatrician is and we’ll meet you there.”

“Well, I’ve reconsidered the schedule. Let’s start at the zoo and see where the day takes us, how about that?”

“Any particular gifts we should avoid?”

“Oh, you don’t need to get her anything!” Martin grimaces. “That’s not why I asked you.”

“I didn’t think that’s why. But she’s turning three, and she’ll only get to turn three once. I’d like to get her something.”

Martin pauses to watch Rowan and Penny very closely for a moment - she has a leaf in her hand and Jon has seen for himself how quickly they can disappear, even if she’s started to grow out of her pica. When she drops it and sprints for the tunnel, he leans back and sighs.

“We’re starting to get into coloring books lately. She doesn’t get inside the lines yet, so she more or less just fills the whole entire page with colors. I’m sure she’d love a couple, if you really want to get her something.”

“I do, I promise!” Jon bumps their knees together. “I told you, she only gets one third birthday. I think she deserves a gift from a friend.”

Martin hums and nods. After a moment, he turns just barely toward Jon. “You know, she plays with other kids when she’s in childcare, parallel play and all that, the teacher says, but she didn’t ask for any of them to come to her birthday. I asked if she wanted her friends to go to get ice cream and she said Jon and Rowan, that’s it.”

“Rowan’s the same. Tuesdays aren’t park day anymore. I ask what we’re doing today and it’s always go see Penny and Martin.”

“Well. I have to say, it’s good to know it’s mutual. I think we’re both happy to have you around.”

Jon’s smile gets wider without his input and he bumps his knee into Martin’s again. “Us too.”

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Early September brings a sudden chill and Rowan’s own birthday. Jon considers the zoo again to celebrate, but his weather app says they’re in for horrible rain until mid afternoon. Besides, the children had both been so exhausted last time that they fell asleep scribbling in Penny’s new coloring books at the ice cream parlor, the matching stuffed lions from the gift shop sitting between them sporting drops of strawberry ice cream in their manes. In the end, Rowan just begs for them to come by so they can see their fish and Jon can hardly say no to that.

It’s nerve-racking to have them over. He isn’t embarrassed of their home, not at all - he’s always been particular and even having a child hasn’t slowed his urgent need to keep tidy. His salary isn’t stunning, considering he works four days a week and barely finished his degree, let alone find a career on his own merit, but publishing-by-way-of-mild-nepotism pays well enough that they make do without struggling. Their flat has enough room for two more people to visit, and it’s clean and warm and it does have those very convincing fish in the tank on the TV stand.

So he picks up all the things they need to make pizza so there’s a designated activity and a meal settled (a dozen toppings in their own bowls and too much cheese and four premade rounds of dough, as though the they each need their own), and bakes a small vanilla cake with Rowan (he’d hardly call it artfully done, but Rowan picked the colors for each of the four layers and helped stack them with very patient hands, so Jon thinks it might be the most beautiful cake ever made), and does another round of nervous cleaning (it isn’t until he finds himself scrubbing the grout in the shower he realizes it’s probably a bit much), and drags poor Rowan back out to pick up extra juice and little pretzels and strawberries in case the pizza takes too long (he wonders if buying a case of the flavor only Penny likes is overkill or kindness, and if they’d be back to Jon’s flat enough for them to be finished, or if he should send any left home with Martin, or if that would be an indicator that he doesn’t want them to come back, or or or or or), and collects a few last-minute decorations when he realizes he hadn’t done anything at all to indicate that there is, in fact, a birthday on (Rowan’s interest in decor is considerably less than the cake, and Jon ends up with a scattered array of streamers and pompoms in a mess of colors and not a thing that says BIRTHDAY on).

The buzzer sounds just as Jon has just finished taking down the decorations after deciding they actually look terribly sad and underwhelming instead of celebratory. After answering, he stuffs the bag of decor under the sink and rushes back to the door. Rowan is already waiting, bouncing on his toes, and the second Jon lets Martin and Penny through there are two toddlers barrelling toward each other in excitement.

“Hi,” Martin says around a sigh. “We don’t quite have a handle on door etiquette yet.”

Jon waves Martin in. “She’s learning, that’s what being a toddler is about.”

They make their way to the kitchen, where there’s a good enough line of sight that Jon can see Rowan and Penny staring at the aquarium and pointing out each goldfish in turn. He flips on the kettle and pulls down mugs and gestures to his extensive collection of teas - black, black with vanilla for special occasions, or the faded box of pregnancy-craving blueberry herbal.

“We’ve been talking about this since Tuesday. Every morning it’s we’re going today? No, not today.” Martin sets a large gift bag, kraft brown covered in crayon scribbles, on the table. “We’ve been adding to the bag every day to keep our cool. Hope Rowan likes strawberry flavors and used coloring pages.”

“They’ll go right on the fridge with the rest.”

“She’ll lose her whole mind.” Martin selects the vanilla, and Jon joins in. “When we got home after the zoo she had me put Rowan’s pages on ours. Still there, pink alligator with grey stripes and abstract orange pig.”

“You have to tell him that. He gets so proud when I put them up.”

“He should be! A budding young artist, there.”

“Well, hopefully Penny is a budding young chef, because the two of them have cooking to do.”

The pizza is a hit - Jon and Martin assemble one with only cheese on a just-in-case basis to offset the potential disaster of toddler cooking, and toss it in to bake while they act as sous chefs. Penny and Rowan pile bits of vegetables and cheese and pepperoni onto their dough wherever seems fitting, getting only a little testy when the black olives touch the one carefully applied spinach leaf. They spend ages poking around and making sure things are perfectly arranged, testing whatever ingredients they can get their hands on, bossing each other around, until it’s deemed complete.

They eat their disaster of a pizza, once it’s ready, on the floor on a ragged old blanket that won’t mind a little staining from spills. Rowan has a couple picture books that have already gone through unfortunate food incidents, so they’re pulled out and the two of them discuss their literary merits while their parents snap photos and laugh at their sauce-covered faces.

Eventually, Jon gets one that’s just-out-of-focus enough and has the perfectly petty angle, so Rowan’s face is partially obscured by his hair. He logs in to the email that only sees use once a year, attaches the picture, and sends it.

After the pizza is cleared away, Rowan gets his gifts.

From Jon, new books he thinks they’ll enjoy, puzzles and pattern matchers to work his little brain, and plenty of toys to share at the park - a second shovel and pail, wide chalk for toddler hands, bubbles, bright orange cones, which won’t have much application as toys, but he knows his son enough to know they’ll find a use. Every piece, as it’s opened, is passed off to Penny with an excited did you see? and they inspect it thoroughly before moving on.

Tim has sent along a number of books, some he’d loved as a child, some he’d picked on a recommendation from a distant colleague who works in toddler’s books, Danny, treats from wherever his most recent travels have been, their mother a collection of coloring books of artists she loves that might be a bit advanced for little hands.

Georgie and Melanie, clothes, as always, sturdy and bright and cute in a way Jon can’t ever manage to find, along with a new stuffed cat, monstrous and hideously orange, and a promise that they can come by soon to meet the real thing.

Daisy and Basira, the promise of a new handmade activity table the next time they visit, which Jon is only mildly stressed about finding space for.

When the paper bag is left, Penny is practically vibrating and Martin has gently reminded her to let him open them in the order he wants a half-dozen times.

“This is me! For my friend.” She pushes it toward Rowan until it’s practically in his lap. “Look at it!”

Rowan makes note of every little scribble on the bag, and says in just the same tone as Jon does when he pins a picture to the fridge, “Oh, it’s so nice!”

Penny doesn’t mind one bit and preens under the praise.

Inside the bag are, as promised, filled-in coloring pages. A mostly-yellow butterfly, a brown and purple peacock, a tiger with sporadic spots of blue. Rowan is so gentle when he sets them aside with the same insistence that they’re so nice. Then, just below, a stuffed beetle. It’s as big as his torso, green with hazy reflective patches of blues and reds. Rowan hugs it immediately and buries his face in the soft, iridescent shell.

“It’s bugs!” Penny proudly announces. “See?”

“Bugs!” He holds it up to show Jon, though mostly just squashes it against his own face.

“What do we say to Martin and Penny?”

There’s a muffled something-that-might-be-thank-you from behind the beetle.

“You are very welcome,” Martin says.

The two of them pay no mind to him. They’re off in almost-intelligible conversation about the toys and coloring pages spread around them.

Jon turns to Martin. “Thank you.”

“Only turn three once.”

“Still. Can’t wait to tell Georgie her stuffed cat tactic was bested in the court of public opinion.”

“Wow. Don’t bully me to people I don’t even know.”

“I’m bullying her! Should have bought a better gift!”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’ll do it to her how do I know you don’t to me? Are you out with your friends laughing over Martin at the park, huh?”

Jon knows it’s a joke. He’s aware, he’s not so undersocialized he doesn’t catch it. But it does make his heart twinge in a way he’s not very fond of.

“Not at all,” he says, far too earnestly. Martin’s eyes widen and his face goes pink. In the pause, Jon stumbles to cover his own openness. “Think they’re all a bit jealous we’re having a party with just the two of you instead of having them ‘round too.”

“Oh. That - Um. Thanks, then. For having us on the list. Never been to a party this exclusive.” Martin laughs, though it seems on the verge of something Jon can’t recognize when he’s set himself off-kilter.

Jon shrugs, tucks his hands under his legs, looks back to Rowan and Penny dropping all the safety-handled lollipops into a bucket to pour out again. “Well, we - Uh. Can’t say I’ve ever had such esteemed guests.”

Even turned away, Jon catches Martin’s smile from the corner of his eye.

When the children are finished playing and it’s time to blow out the candles on the cake, Jon decides he can maybe make a wish of his own, just in case, that he’ll keep having the privilege of seeing smiles like that.

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It isn’t unusual for Jon to be torn away from his work by Tim folding over his desk to prop his chin in his hands. Once a week or so he finds himself halfway out of the building before he realizes Tim’s dragging him to lunch. He expects this to be the same, from the sunshiny expression being turned on him

“Still craving empanadas?” he asks, letting his attention stay on this response - he’s been informed in the past that his emails come off as a bit brusque, maybe? Just kind of strongly worded? and he’s put himself in the habit of revising after a few minutes of looking away once he’s written his response. He takes a few words out to replace them with a disingenuous platitude.

“Can and would kill for empanadas, if you’re sooo insistent we need to go out today.” Tim collapses back into Jon’s guest chair - his Tim chair, if he’s being honest, seeing as it’s one Tim stole from the breakroom to cram in here, when Jon was perfectly content in his tiny office alone with Rowan, researching whatever is sent across his desk and toning down his emails, which calls for very little in the way of visitors - to cross his legs in an exaggeratedly casual motion. “But lunch isn’t what’s on my mind at the moment.”

“If you’re back about the information I sent last week, please inform him that the thing about historical fiction is that there does need to be some attention paid to the historical, and if he’s just going to disagree with the research he paid for us to-”

“I know, he’s an absolute bastard, but that’s not it.”

Jon hits send on his email and hopes it’s been made well-mannered enough. He thinks of Martin smiling and chatting and- and dimpling them into free desserts for the children on their rainy-day lunch last week, though he had insisted it was accidental.

“Then what has you pestering me at an hour like this?”

“So I was doing a little look at my calendar this morning, you know how I like to keep track of things happening in the week.”

“Of course.”

“Of course . But as I scan, I recall that once I turn the page to next month, I’ll be seeing a little star on a certain date very early in the proceedings.”

“Will you?”

“I will. And so I turn the page, just to peek - a bit impatient of me, I realize, but-” Tim shrugs in a way that seems to be meant as an indicator of how very unruly it was of him to look at what would be occurring shortly but he can’t help himself.

Jon leans back in his own chair, stretches his legs out under his desk with a sigh. “Truly, you’re untameable.”

“Truly! But I think to myself while I look, I think that maybe, just maybe, we should plan a little soiree on this date. Been a while since we have, and the guy getting older is a real gem, and might be a nice excuse to do a bit of celebrating.”

“Might it be.” He hopes his glare conveys just how unimpressed with the idea is.

He’s never been one for birthdays - or at least not his own. Growing up they were marked with a lemon cake slice sporting one of the birthday candles that were wiped clean to be reused every year up until he was fourteen, old enough not to need all the pageantry, and if he was lucky his gran would spring for a brand new book or two instead of a scattershot of second-hand. He can remember getting a bit of cash once to add to the money he’d been squirreling away from tutoring and odd jobs to buy a laptop before university, though when he found he’d had enough insurance payout locked up that he could have bought one without having to drag Jude and Michael kicking and screaming into passing history on their parents’ dime-

“Come ooon. We haven’t done anything big since August. ” Tim leans forward to fold his arms against Jon’s desk, look at him most beseechingly, wide-eyed and bottom lip out.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Don’t bother with all that. It doesn’t work when Rowan does it and it won’t work when you do it.”

“Even more reason! We didn’t have anything his birthday. Let’s make up for it.”

“Forgive me that I wasn’t certain my toddler wanted to hang around with all adults for his birthday.”

“Booooo. You know we don’t care you had a kids’ party with your mysterious Maaaartin. But we want a nice one with you for yours. Here, how about - I have a deal.” He sits up straight again, wiggles his shoulders, puts on the veneer of effortless professional charm that comes with a public-facing part of their job. Jon’s half exhausted from seeing how much one man can manage to move in a single three-minute conversation.

“Deals mean negotiations and negotiations mean the whole thing can be called off.”

His protest is waved away. “Hush, I’m trying to tell you something. Alright. We have it at yours, so you don’t have to load up the kid and go anywhere. But! You do nothing. I buy the food, I cook the food, I bake the cake, I make the drinks, I decorate, I make a playlist, I bring activities, I invite people, I clean up after. Well, probably Danny does does the cake, honestly. And Georgie’ll take over drinks, I’m sure. And Melanie probably’ll bully me out of cooking because she says I’m a monster with overcooking my veg, but I like them that way. But still. All handled, brought to your location, and only thing you and Rowan do is show up.”

And the thing about Jon is that he’s a liar. The bottom lip and puppy eyes trick works on him more often than he’d ever want to admit. This face - so eager and excited and nearly pleading -  

Jon sighs. Knows he’s lost the battle when Tim’s smile widens.

“How many people are you dragging into my flat?”

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“I think my Sasha knows your Tim,” is the first thing Martin says when he answers.

“Okay?” Jon’s put enough off rhythm he doesn’t know what to say, until he realizes how he’s responded. “Sorry, no, caught me by surprise-”

“Wait, shit, I’m sorry, that was rude - Hi! How are you?”

“Hi, I’m fine, just finished bedtime. You?”

“Great! Mine’s out on the couch so trying to get up the motivation to move her.”

“Mm. What’s this about Sasha?”

“Oh! She was mentioning earlier that her friend Tim is taking her to a birthday party, a friend of his from work, oh did she say before he’s in publishing? And she’s going over tonight to help him menu-and-music-and-activity-plan because he’s panicking that he really wants to make sure it’s perfect. Started making connections in my brain, all the dots are lining up.”

Something small and warm grows bigger in Jon’s chest until it’s wrapped around his ribs and stuck like melted caramel. Of course he’s aware that Tim’s his friend - no one is going to take a turn carrying a baby on his chest around the office for half the day to give a frazzled and exhausted Jon a break unless they’re at least somewhat fond - but knowing Tim is so insistent he have a good birthday that he’s recruiting beyond Jon’s usual social circle is good in a way he can’t quite articulate.

“That, uh. That’s actually what I was calling you about.”

“Really?”

“I’m the friend from work.”

“Oh! No wonder he wants to make it so nice if it’s for you.” The matter-of-fact way he says it sends goosebumps down Jon’s arms.

He picks at a stray thread on the hem of his sleeping boxers. Taps his toes against the arm of the sofa. “Well, part of making it nice is, uh. I was wondering if you and Penny would maybe want to come?”

A pause. Not terribly long, but enough he starts to apologize before being cut off.

“Yeah! Yeah, absolutely! Um, time and place and we’ll be there! Of course!”

“And just - Please don't think you need to bring anything or buy a gift, just - just you. And I don’t want you to worry about not knowing anyone, so I’ll make sure he’s going to bring Sasha. Well, he probably would anyways. She’s come around enough I know she gets on well with them and she can keep Melanie occupied, too.”

“Sure, yeah, that sounds good!”

“Good! It’s - It’ll be here, so you know what the address is at least, and I need to check when he’s planned it for, but. I’ll - I should know before Tuesday, tell you then?”

“Great! That sounds great. Can’t wait.”

Jon drops his head back against the arm of the couch, too giddy with a mix of unnameable feelings to hold it up any longer. “Me either.”

“Oh, sorry, sounds like someone’s waking up. Gonna try to get her in jammies and off to bed before she’s out again. But, uh - Thanks. For inviting me. See you Tuesday?”

“Tuesday. I’m bringing breakfast.”

“Great, I’ll - I’ll see you then.”

“Good night, Martin. And to Penny, too.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

And if Jon has to hold his hands against his cheeks to soothe the ache from how wide he’s smiling, no one’s awake to notice.

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Tim stays true to his word.

He and Danny show up with a half-dozen canvas shopping bags between them and enough boundless enthusiasm that Jon can’t stop himself being caught up in it.

Within an hour, they have the place looking considerably more festive than Jon’s own attempts two months prior (with Rowan’s careful direction applied when they simply aren’t doing well enough), a spread of snacks set up on the kitchen table (now pressed against the wall for mingling space and the chairs moved aside to use as coat-and-bag storage), some kind of already-cooked chicken having something done to it (maybe being shredded and reheated, it looks like, and with the promise that between Melanie and their mother there’ll be plenty of sides along soon), and Jon gets away with only a light scolding for the fact that he scrubbed every inch of the place without waiting for them to help (as though he’s ever been able to slow his stress cleaning). 

The rest don’t take much longer to show up.

Melanie and Georgie next, Georgie immediately asking Rowan’s help arranging her juices and seltzers and the lemonade and peaflower tea that always makes him bounce with delight as it changes color, Melanie off to sort her sides and bully Tim and Danny about the chicken.

Sasha, with a mountain of cards and dice and notepads that are enough for plenty of activity without needing to wrangle the whole mess of them at once for hours.

Tim’s mother, who had taken to Jon when she moved to London not weeks after Rowan was born and been more than happy to be an on-call-advice-giver-and-panic-soother through the first year, with food of her own and a belated box of art supplies for Rowan’s birthday, though she apologizes that she won’t last long before making her way back home.

A few of his better coworkers trickle in, Tim playing host far better than Jon. An apologetic text from Basira that she and Daisy can’t make it, though Jon brushes the apology away with a promise that he doesn’t expect them to come all the way from Wales for a few hours. A text from Daisy telling him not to mope too much that she isn’t there, to which he confirms that he’s been weeping inconsolably in his bathroom since three. 

And at fifteen past, just as he’s starting to feel a tumbling in his stomach, the last of them.

“We’re here!” Penny announces, holding out her arms for Jon to swing her up into a hug, which he does posthaste.

“I am so sorry.” Martin’s face is pink and his shoulders rounded. “I tripped not five minutes into the walk to the station, right into a puddle. Had to turn around. Didn’t want to show up to your birthday with germ water all over myself.”

Jon shakes his head at Penny. “Oh no! Was he a mess?”

“He had a lot of water,” she says most gravely.

“Then I’m very glad he got safe and dry and clean. Parties can wait, no trouble!”

She nods and pats his cheek. “No trouble!”

“Do you want to go see Rowan? He’s doing art with Miss Paula.”

Jon lets her down when she starts to wiggle, directing her toward the coffee table where Tim’s mother is sketching animals to pass off for Rowan to color.

“Oh, you look just like I thought you would,” Jon hears. Tim is standing, hands clasped against his chest, looking at Martin.

He sends Jon a worried glance. “Thank you?”

“You’re Martin.”

“Yes.”

“You’re absolutely a Martin. Alright, come on, Jon, bring him for introductions.”

Things go… shockingly well. Not that he’d had any reason to think they would go otherwise, but it’s still almost alarming how nice it is. Tim is entirely delighted with Martin, and Penny as well, and Jon very intentionally chooses to ignore the pointed looks. Danny is much the same, raising his eyebrows at Jon after Martin is directed to his next new acquaintance. Their mother is delighted at another toddler to spoil for the evening and promptly waves them off to have fun without worrying for as long as she stays. Sasha pinches Martin’s cheek and says she’s glad she’s found out who his Tuesday Jon is.

Georgie is wary. Melanie as well. He can hardly blame them for it, though. Even if they hadn’t been around for the buildup, they were terribly aware of the aftermath of the last time Jon allowed a new man into his life. At least they play nice. Perfectly respectable behavior for a friend’s birthday dinner. Melanie even lets Penny inspect the pink streaks in her hair for a long while, then braids Penny’s when she says she wants it like hers. 

It’s good. He feels good. His friends almost-all piled into his flat. His baby and Penny running circles around Danny. Good food, well made and plenty of it. A garishly decorated cake, with edible glitters and neon icings and instead of any traditional writing, just JON! scrawled across the top in safety green. Martin’s arm pressed against his as they crowd around the coffee table to lose miserably at every game brought up. Dancing Rowan around the kitchen and swapping with Martin to dance with Penny when the children decide they want a turn with the other.

They’re long asleep in Rowan’s bed by the time people take their leave. The coworkers earliest by far, barring Tim’s mother, who slips away with the excuse of being up by four to get her supplies ready for a day of painting at the coast. Danny next, once he’s packed up leftovers in Jon’s fridge to keep them fed for another four days, smacking an obnoxious kiss to Jon’s temple. Melanie and Georgie, off to make sure the Admiral gets supper before it’s too late, with quiet goodbyes and waves to keep from waking the children, though they’re well out. Sasha, around yawns and with the declaration that she deserves an Uber for a change. Tim is sent along before he can do any more dishes or move back the furniture, though he tries to insist. The storm that’s been threatening since noon is finally picking up despite the weather promising it would hold out until morning, and Jon would rather handle a bit of mess himself than know Tim is trudging home from the station in a downpour.

Martin aims for the door, too, but things go south when there’s a lightning strike and a peal of thunder loud enough they all jump. Rowan is unbothered, barely waking up when the door is opened to his room, but Penny’s face screws up and tears threaten to fall. She clings to Martin’s neck with a trembling chin and watery eyes and Jon doesn’t bother wasting another minute.

“She’s got a bit of height on him, but we have something that’ll fit for bed, I’m sure,” he says, leading them back to Rowan’s room. Martin doesn’t argue. In no time, both are changed into jammies and tucked back into bed. They wait and listen for more thunder, just in case, but the children are off to sleep again and the storm doesn’t pick up from a slow rumble and a gentle patter of rain just starting to fall against the window.

Jon waves away the dozen apologies and thank-yous, instead telling Martin if he helps with the kitchen it’ll all be even. With the two of them, cleanup is quick. Martin handles dishes. Jon wipes down the counters and sweeps around him. They lift the table back into place as quietly as possible and rearrange chairs. Pull down the few straggling decorations. Pin a few more colored-in pages to the fridge. Find a cardigan that Jon is mostly-sure is Sasha’s that he tells himself to send along with Martin or take to work and hand off to Tim. 

By the time he’s satisfied with the state of things for now - tomorrow will bring the big clean - it’s nearing midnight.

Martin argues his case for the sofa, but Jon can’t even stretch all the way out on it and Martin’s got an extra half-foot to contend with. After a bit of convincing, he’s talked into using a spare toothbrush from the four-pack in the cupboard and putting on a baggy old shirt Jon bought when he was horribly pregnant and refusing to wear proper maternity clothes.

Jon pointedly takes his turn brushing his teeth so Martin can duck under the covers in privacy, lest his pants be seen. If it’s also to avoid watching Martin almost certainly poke around a bit and ask questions about the knickknacks and pictures and string of carefully selected flags Georgie brought him home from pride, no one can prove it. The fluttering of his heart be damned, he refuses to let it be uncomfortable. He climbs into his own side of the bed and gets comfortable, stretches out on his front and folds his arms under his pillow and doesn’t bother pretending Martin isn’t there.

In fact, he turns his head to face him directly.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

Martin jumps and focuses on him.

“Oh! Yeah, good!”

“Not cold? Extra blankets in the closet if you need.”

“No, I’m good! Good. Thanks, though.”

“Good.”

Jon sighs, burrows further into his pillow. The lamp is still on, but it’s on Martin’s side and he isn’t sure if Martin wants it on, or he’s too nervous to ask Jon, or he just isn’t ready for sleep quite yet. He takes the opportunity to look, regardless of reason. Dark hair curling over his ear, against his brow. Long lashes, dark eyes. Freckles across his face, a trio above his lip, a mole just under his jaw, a scar splitting his eyebrow.

The silence is easier than he expected, but Jon wants to hear him, so he fills it.

“Thank you for coming,” he says.

“Of course! Figured you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t want us here, so happy to show up.”

“Still. You didn’t have to come to a party of strangers and end up stuck. I’m grateful.”

Martin finally faces him properly, rolls to his side and tucks an arm under his head.

“You asked,” he says, as though it’s that simple.

“I did.”

“Yeah. I wanted to come if you wanted me here.”

“I did.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course. Only one I actually invited, really.”

“Oh.” His voice is warbly and his cheeks go pink.

“Glad the rest came, but. Well. I was glad you did, too.”

“Yeah. Uh, no problem.” Martin shrugs one shoulder and focuses on a point past Jon’s head. “First party I’d been to in… Uh. Probably ever, honestly, that wasn’t a kids’ party. Was nice to see what the fuss is about.”

Jon’s tongue burns with questions but he bites them back. Instead, he says, “Well if everyone else is allowed a plus-one, then you’re welcome to be dragged along to a few more.”

Martin’s face gets impossibly pinker. “Uh. That would - That would be… nice. Your friends were… They were really good.”

“They are. The only reason me and Rowan aren’t stuck in a studio alone, really. They were… I don’t know I could have done it without them, once they found out how things were going. Especially once Rowan actually came. I was in the middle of a breakdown by two months and I’m not sure how I wouldn’t have gotten through it without Paula spending the week with me so I could get a few full nights of sleep for the first time since we left the birthing center.”

“God, I can’t imagine how bad the first six months would have been.” Martin shakes his head and tugs the quilt up higher. “I read all the baby books I could when I got Penny and I was relieved I wasn’t doing that.”

Jon hums and hugs his pillow tighter. “It was… I don’t want to say awful, because it’s worth it, every second of it. But… A long not-very-smooth labor, with no one in the room to hold my hand, staring down the rest of my life with no partner to help raise the baby, and no support coming because I don’t want him involved anyways, before going back to a barely-furnished flat, where I’ve only managed to get a few bags of things I need for a newborn, and since that moment I’ve not slept more than three hours in a row for nearly ten weeks? It wasn’t ideal, exactly.”

“Christ.” Martin moves again, props his head on folded arms, frowns at Jon. “Did no one come by to check on you?” 

“I think…” Jon sighs. It’s hard to articulate someone else’s motivations, especially when you’ve never asked, but he has clues he can work with.

“I think they were worried about overstepping. They helped, of course they did, but… Things weren’t good for a while before I had him, and that was enough mess that I didn’t want to ask more than they’d already given. So it was a text every few days. He still refuses to admit it, but Tim had a month and a half of Pampers and wipes shipped to my door and forgot to ask them not to include an invoice. Paula had sent her number along through Danny and promised to answer any time, no matter what, if I needed a mother to listen and help. I did, all the time. I was convinced every single thing I did was going to hurt him or give him some sort of complex later in life. The day Paula came here, I hadn’t left the flat at all except to go back for my own checkups, and they sent a nurse here for Rowan’s. Hadn’t seen anyone else face to face in months. I was hours from asking someone to take Rowan and checking myself in somewhere. I didn’t even remember calling her that time. Apparently I’d just asked her how to make him stop crying until I was crying too hard for her to understand me. Then here comes Tim and Danny’s mother with two suitcases and using language I wouldn’t ever have thought she knew to curse Rowan’s father to hell and back a dozen times.”

He expects a response, a quip or a laugh or something - it’s never funny, but the vague, distant mentions of Jon’s breakdown are met nowadays with the sort of laughs meant to show gratitude at how far away the moment is and how much better things are - but instead there’s a telling silence from the other side of the bed. The intent wasn’t to steer the conversation this direction, but now he has, there’s a broad vulnerability around them. Like Jon handed over his diary and the key for Martin to unlock.

Jon opens one eye and peeks over at him. “It’s okay if you want to ask.”

Martin flushes and cringes into the pillow. “Oh, no, sorry! I just - I was thinking that it sucks. That you didn’t have a good partner to help you out. It’s - you don’t need to tell me, it’s really not my business, it’s fine.”

“It’s not my business is how people try to tell themselves they aren’t curious.”

He rolls his eyes, dramatic exasperation that’s becoming more familiar to Jon by the day. “Okay, maybe I want to know, but it really isn’t my business. And it’s not in a judgy way either, I’m just nosy about stuff and I know I shouldn’t be.”

Jon laughs, but he doesn’t deny that.

He doesn’t know he’s ever said all of it out loud before.

There are the people who were there, of course - Danny slipping extra cash into payment for his tutoring though he didn’t actually need that summer course or the tutoring for it. Tim sweet-talking his boss into hiring him on and even giving him the tiny little office off to the side where he could stuff in a bassinet and lock the door to nurse. Their colleagues full of the worst advice Jon had ever been subjected to but still offering gentle sympathy or at worst a pleasant indifference. Georgie when she heard how hard Jon’s life had crashed after the breakup, dragging him out of the grimy month-to-month he’d landed in. Melanie, even, despite the spats they’d weathered all through their university days, taking Daisy and Basira as extra muscle to collect the things Jon had been made to abandon through means he’d rather not question - hardly worth being ungrateful when he came back to Georgie's from his appointment to find a dozen boxes of his missing possessions and the handful of shopping bags he’d optimistically filled with baby essentials.

But since then, no one has bothered to ask. Which is good, really. It’s no one’s business. New coworkers, friends-of-friends, the most they should know is Jon has a child who’s his and his alone.

He wants to talk about it.

He can admit to himself that part of it is for validation. There are few things so gratifying as being told you were right to be hurt and it shouldn’t have happened but you did so well regardless. And yes, a little, in a bid for reciprocity. He can admit he’s curious, about the scattered characters popping up the background of Martin’s stories, about the edges he shies from, about how he stumbled through the world to land here, damp haired and wide eyed in Jon’s bed. But mostly -

Jon wants Martin to know him. He wants Martin to know. He wants Martin to know the raw, ugly part of his life. The heartache and desperation and anger. How he got his hands on the perfect little person he made, asleep on the pallet on the other side of the door.

“We were in school together. I got dumped. It was… Well, Georgie, actually, who dumped me. Neither of us in a good place to start a relationship, really, and it ended poorly. She kept our friends, because they were really more her friends that let me tag along. A few months later, not terribly long after we were back to school for the year, I run into him. He’d been… sort of in the periphery of our - her friends. He was in a few clubs with a few other friends, so he was around enough that I didn’t think twice. He says he heard things went south, and he felt bad that I wasn’t hanging around them anymore, and we should go to this thing some theater group is putting on. I’m still devastated and lonely and missing my girlfriend and all the people who had been my sort-of friends, so I say yes. I really didn’t plan for it to be more than that. But a week or so later he asked about something else, then a week after, something else, then next week dinner, then the next a thing at a gallery, then the next drinks, and it kept happening. I would feel bad if he wasn’t how he was, but my heart was far from in it. I was under the impression it was all for something to do. Warm body across the table when you go to the tapas place you’ve wanted to try. But one thing led to another, I’m coming down off of my first holiday season without any family left and no friends to speak of, I let it escalate and end up going to his a few times, which was - I’m not generally a fan, overall. Not opposed, but it takes a lot more of a connection than what we had for me to want that from someone. But just… get lonely enough and it seems worth it.

“Then it’s nearing the middle of February and I feel odd. I ignore it for a few more weeks, I’ve been on birth control and made him use protection anyway, there’s no chance, until I’m sick every morning and woozy through the day, and I don’t have any other choice but to take a test.

“I was… Upset doesn’t really cover it. I was going to work for a year and go back to school, if I could. I had plans. But he promised, we’d make things work. He would take care of the baby, I could go back to school, we could make a real go of it instead of this not-really-together thing. So I tossed the number for the clinic and moved in with him. I’d tutored Danny for a while after he broke his collarbone and a handful of ribs and was out for surgery, so when he heard he offered to ask his brother if there were openings where he worked. He got me in touch with Tim. The plan was that I would be a temporary help there for five-ish months, have the baby, and start school the year after.

“Things were alright for a while. The job paid well enough. My coworkers were kind, understanding. He worked, but only sporadically and never at the same place for long. My salary was what kept us above water. I didn’t really want him to be my boyfriend, let alone the father of my child, but he wanted the baby so badly, and I didn’t want to have a baby alone if I was going to have one at all, so I put up with him. Then, halfway in, he changes his mind. He’s not ready to be a dad, he’s just twenty-three, he has so much he wants to do. Nevermind that I had plans. Nevermind that it was his idea to do this. Nevermind that his grand schemes were a dozen nonsense small business ideas that would never get off the ground. He wasn’t ready for it with a partner, so I had to be ready for it alone at twenty-two with no family, no friends, no job lined up after I’d given birth, no home because he held the lease, and a fair chance I wouldn’t manage my exams so I could graduate, with how sick I was through my second trimester and the worry of having nowhere to go.

“But I had life insurance from my parents and my grandmother. Enough to be dangerous if I needed, but not enough to support myself indefinitely. He didn’t know anything about it. I hired someone, just to figure out what options I had. It… It isn’t fair, it’s not something I could say I’m proud of, but if a father isn’t on the birth certificate, he doesn’t have parental rights. He needs a court order. So I moved out, and let him know all my updated contact details so he had full opportunity to reach out. I emailed him and sent a certified letter stating that if he wasn’t present at the birth he wouldn’t be on the certificate. He responded to the email and said he didn’t want anything to do with us except a ‘picture on the kid’s birthday to know what it looks like’ and that I shouldn’t contact him unless it was that. So he hasn’t spent any time with Rowan, hasn’t provided any financial support, and hasn’t petitioned for parental rights. Not that it would do any good. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn’t happen after that. He has to enter a parental responsibility agreement with my approval, and that isn’t happening, or get an order from the court, but he’d have to prove he’s been involved and committed, or he’d have to be legally listed as next in line for guardianship, and that would mean I’m dead or completely incapable and the rest of the insurance Tim and Paula inherited for legal representation has run out.

“Had an awful studio until I was seven months or so, but news got to Georgie by then and she hunted me down and let me spend a month at hers and helped me find this place with barely two weeks to go. She and Danny and Tim and Melanie camped in the waiting area to make sure he didn’t try to talk his way into the room if he managed to find out and show up while I was in labor considering his response to my messages, but he never did. Don’t think he’d even know Rowan’s birthday if it wasn’t for me emailing on his first. Took nine hours active labor and another three of pushing and some worries on the way, then there was my baby. Sent everyone home after they all said hello. Did a lot of crying. Nurses had to spend ages talking me into putting him in the bassinet so I could sleep. Wouldn’t latch at first and I was in a panic because I didn’t want the extra expense of formula when I didn't know how long I would have to stretch my savings, another breakdown once he started eating. Thought I was going to have to institutionalize myself getting through the first months at home. Once Paula got me back on my feet and I knew I wasn’t capable of being home all day, spoke to my boss. I was just shy of qualifying for paid maternity, but my boss had given me three weeks paid anyways and told me the second I was ready I had a permanent position. He let me start back at three months and bring Rowan with me until he was a bit past a year old as long as I finished my work. Melanie would take my calls if I had to nurse. Tim used to come in and take him so I could have lunch a few times a week then wear him around the office for hours. Oliver’s scared of babies but even he used to leave breakfast for us sometimes.

“So it’s… We’re… good. Happy, most of the time. Flat’s clean and safe. We have fish. Bills are paid and fridge is full and I don’t have to use the savings anymore. Sometimes, when things are good, we take a trip to Bournemouth for the day and I show him how different things are from when I was small. Don’t seem to care much except for getting ice cream before the ride back. Things are… We’re good.”

With that, Jon doesn’t so much run out of steam as hit a brick wall.

He intended to give Martin the truth, though ideally less of it all at once. Maybe he needed to say it out loud if he managed to vomit everything over the bed without bothering to stop. That doesn’t mean the embarrassment is easier. There’s a distant urge in his diaphragm to cry, though he isn’t certain what demands it. With a deep breath, he pushes the urge away.

He rolls to his side to look at Martin properly. His expression is hard to read. Jaw tight and brow furrowed and cheeks dark. Face still half-burrowed into his pillow. Eyes catching Jon’s the second they’re turned to each other.

“Don’t apologize,” Jon says. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I can still be sorry it happened.” Martin sounds frustrated, which is a bit of a relief. If he’s irritable about Jon’s peculiarities he can hardly pity him, even if Jon knows part of himself yearns for it.

“It’s done. I’m out of it. Glad it happened, even, now that Rowan’s here.”

Martin sighs. “Okay, then I’m sorry it took all that for you to have him. I wish you’d been able to get your exact same kid but under happier circumstances.”

“Thank you. I wish things had been happier for you, too.”

“Oh, is that bait?”

“Just commiserating!”

Martin laughs. Jon’s seen it plenty of times, through the spring, spreading through summer, tumbling into fall. He likes it best right now - Martin’s nose scrunched, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes, dimple in his cheek, tongue peeking out between his teeth, face cast in gold light from Jon’s lamp in Jon’s bedroom where he’s wearing Jon’s shirt and resting his head on Jon’s pillow.

“I’m sure you’re commiserating. Not even a bit of a hint.”

“I’m curious. I like knowing about you. You’re… You’re an interesting area of study.” Jon swallows down the twisting thrill in his throat that comes with being honest and hopes he won’t choke.

Martin’s face flushes even darker and Jon delights in the view.

“God, it doesn’t seem half bad as what you had going on. Got mine ready made and past the hardest stage.”

“Good thing we aren’t competing.”

“I know,  I just-” He sighs, adjusts his pillow, wriggles a bit until he seems comfortable again. “Tragic backstory and how I got my kid. Okay. Well, my dad left when I was… eight, I think. Might have been after my birthday, though, not sure. Uh… My mother wasn’t well, so he wasn’t interested in a sick wife and a kid who wasn’t a carbon copy of him and his dad and his dad’s dad and his dad’s dad’s dad. I look just like him, always have, but. You know. Only goes so far when I’m crying at cartoon dogs instead of kicking around a ball with him.

“Grew up, took care of my mother best I could. Got any jobs that would take me around school, then quit school when it didn’t make sense any more. Would help other people in the building where I could and picked up some cash there. Y’know, watering plants, cat sitting. Repaired clothes or fitted them a bit if it wasn’t too hard to do by hand. Chipped in with maintenance but that was mostly carrying stuff around.

“Used to spend Wednesday mornings at the library until about ten thirty then off to work. Met Sasha, at some point I mention I never finished school. Next week she has packets about A-levels as an adult learner. Sells me her old laptop waaay too cheap, gets me caught up on all the stuff I forgot since I dropped out, cheers me through it. Soon as that’s done, she says she’s nagged Gertrude into hiring a new library assistant since her last one is off doing private sales now, call out tomorrow and show up for your interview. Year into being an assistant, she and Gertrude tell me they’ve pulled some strings and if I want it I can get an apprenticeship right there to be a full-blown librarian.

“Couple years into that, I get a call that I need to come to Preston immediately because I’m the best they can connect to my dad. Barely more than a week before my birthday, actually. First I don’t think much of it, great, he’s dead, who cares? What will it help if I’m there? But then I figure at least I’ll know he’s dead. Might see what I’ll look like when I’m old. More answers than I’ve had for years. Didn’t want to talk about why I needed the time off, but it’s the first time I’ve asked without giving a week or two advance notice, so Gertrude lets me go. Tell my mother, she’s how she is, but she gets over it when I tell her I’m going no matter what she has to say about it. The lady down the hall I babysat for sometimes was a nurse so she agreed to pop in and check on her. Spent that night making up a few days of meals that just needed heating. Packed a bag, bought a ticket. Next morning I’m off. Handle details. Confirm it’s him, even though I don’t know why I was the best judge, considering it’d been over ten years. Sign off on cremation, tell them to do what they will with him after. Figure I’d hear if he had any kind of will, not that I expected much. Instead, next morning, I’m asked to come to some office and as soon as I’m in they’re showing me a baby carrier and talking about custody.

“They said a neighbor heard her crying for way, way too long and eventually went over. Car was on the street, but no one answered. She calls for the police but gets a bad feeling, goes round back anyways. Penny’s window is wide open, and it’s February, so. She climbs the trellis and Penny’s freezing, only in one layer. Gets her wrapped up, climbs out with her, waits for police. They go in and the gas was on high. Looks like an accident. The knob was turned off, no flame, half-empty pot on the eye, but the gas didn’t stop. Dishes in the sink, stuff written on the calendar, no big thing to spur something on like that. They were on the couch downstairs, not much of a chance with the doors all shut, but Penny was right under an open window with one of those rubber draft stoppers around her door. Few nights being observed and she’s just fine, all things considered.

“Looked for family. Her mother’s mother didn’t want her. Said she knew this would end in a mess when she got mixed up with an older man who refused to marry her. Her great-grandmother was ninety-odd and thought the war was still on. My dad had no one. So it was me or the system. They said I could take a week to get ready since I wasn’t prepared, and that I would get all their things, at least, so that wouldn’t be an added expense. Had to go back and ask them to not just toss the old man’s ashes so I could get them buried in case she wanted to know about it when she’s older.

“Had what was… I don’t even know how to describe the fight I had with my mother. Didn’t know I was as angry as I was until it happened. All the stuff since I was still in single digits came out. Loudly. But, I mean…I get it. It’s her ex-husband’s kid, who came around after he abandoned her with the other one and didn’t pay a bit toward him for over ten years since. But there was a lot of other stuff that got dragged up. Think it just ended up being something to push it all over the edge. Eventually, she calls her sister and says she’ll be staying with her for the next week and when she gets back there better not be a baby here. So I tell her don’t bother coming back, it’s my lease and I’m leaving and I’ll have her stuff sent along. Hired a van, cleared it all out, haven’t heard from her since.

“Sasha helps me pack myself up and start hunting. Landlord felt bad for me and let me break the lease right then, no penalties. Get a not-terrible place, good bit closer to work, even. Hire a service to sell anything that I didn’t pick out of my dad’s place for a cut. Got her stuff moved down and set up the day before the home checks. She shows up the next day. Had paternity leave and bereavement so a bit of time to work on things. Figured out how to handle a baby, let alone one dropped off with a stranger after what was still probably already really traumatic even if her brain didn’t have that kind of framework yet. And now… It’s now. Never thought I’d be a parent but here we are.”

Martin takes a deep breath as he finishes, as though punctuating.

He watches Jon with a look that might be embarrassed, the same open-chested feeling of bleeding heartache on someone else.

It simply won’t do, that there’s any ounce of worry in him, this brave brilliant man.

Jon reaches up to Martin’s arm, just below where his hand is tucked under the pillow, and wraps his hand around it. He squeezes gently and lets his hand linger.

“Here we are,” he echoes.

Martin hums and his tongue pokes out between his teeth. After a moment, he slides his arm lower until his hand is under Jon’s, the back to his palm.

Jon’s fingers lace through Martin’s. Martin’s fold into place, too.

“Here isn’t half bad,” Martin says, soft and unsure.

“It isn’t.”

The smile is bright enough Jon’s nearly blinded, but what a way for it to happen.

.

.

.

.

.

Wintertime takes the park off the menu. The week after Jon’s birthday, there’s enough shivering despite hats and coats and scarves and mittens that they end up making their way right to the museum for the sake of indoor fun. Christmas Eve brings a party much like Jon's birthday, though this time without the stray coworkers and with a gift exchange among adults - the children are a bit spoiled, Penny receiving a number of gifts that Martin thanks them for with teary eyes. The day itself is quiet for Jon and Rowan, no family but each other and their friends with their own families. Upon a phone call to Martin later in the day, he hears theirs is no more crowded, though just as festive in its privacy.

The new year always carries a bit of hectic housekeeping for both their places of employment. Tuesdays become a blessed reprieve, be they museum days or out-to-lunch days or trading whose flat they while away the hours in days.

February brings Valentine’s day. Jon isn’t so naive that he’s failed to recognize the mess of his own feelings, so the anxiety spikes before January even ends.

Fortunately, February also brings Martin’s birthday, the day before Valentine’s, so he can absolutely look away from the whole mess to enjoy Martin in a different context.

February also also brings Penny Day.

Two days before Martin’s birthday, the day she was brought home. Not necessarily a joyful affair considering the circumstances, but one he finds important enough to take note of each year. Apparently, since then, there hasn’t been a single bit of excitement to show for the moment the world received Martin Blackwood.

It takes some arguing, but eventually Jon badgers him into agreeing that he can’t just mark Penny Day, he has to celebrate his birthday, too - which means leaving Valentine’s untouched in a blessed mercy for Jon’s poor heart.

Penny Day is something altogether too special to intrude upon, so while they do as they do on the eleventh, Jon sets his sights on Martin’s birthday. Tim has already been roped in, Jon deferring to his endless desire for a night of good food and better company. Even more helpful, he drags Sasha behind, so she can wrangle any coworkers Martin might want to include, and Georgie and Melanie and Danny fall in along with them, citing Jon’s own recent happiness as reason enough to chip in to make things happen for Martin - he flounders terribly for how to respond to then, but settles on a simple thank you and leaves it at that. In the end, Jon’s job is rather simple - he insists on paying for the food and coming around for the big company-ready-clean at Martin’s day-of, while the rest is in the others’ capable hands.

It’s just as much of a success as Jon’s, if not more, judging by how late things run on a work night. Tim’s array of hearty pasta dishes and the veggies Melanie refuses to let him cook are a hit, especially considering the threat of snow flurries means everyone walks in the door shivering. Sasha’s scattershot approach to provided games is still perfect for letting people split off and avoiding a stretch of activity that prevents any socializing. Melanie and Georgie keep music running with minimal playlist swaps to antagonize each other. Danny takes his role as child-wrangler as seriously as last time and spends most of the night with a toddler in each arm.

Jon finds himself on Martin’s arm half the night. Colloquially, that is. Hovering at his elbow through introductions to his boss and his coworkers and a past neighbor who changed to his branch of the library when he moved out of their building just to keep up with him. Enduring the pointed looks traded between Sasha and Diana, and Sasha and Hannah, and Sasha and Gertrude for all of the thirty minutes she stops in. Hearing oh, Tuesday Jon? from Tom and Sonja. A peculiar little hum from the neighbor, followed by a curt nod and handshake. Tracking the shade of Martin’s blush the longer it goes on.

They eat. They mingle. They dance with the children until they get sleepy enough to go to Penny’s bed and the music is lowered. They win soundly at Kemps, though that’s largely Martin’s doing and Jon just lets himself be an observant teammate.

Martin endures opening a handful of gifts in front of people with only minimal discomfort - Jon tells himself not to be judgemental at the sight of two separate poetry collections, considering Martin’s good taste in everything besides reading material and men to share a park bench with. 

They don’t talk about Jon sticking around after the last of the guests, but he does. What dishes and leftover-management Tim didn’t wrangle, Jon takes over while Martin scrubs counters and sweeps floors and piles his gifts onto the now-cleared kitchen table.

Martin’s bed is smaller than Jon’s - in a fit of fury at how hard it was to get comfortable with an additional baby-and-accoutrement hanging off the front of him, Jon had spent more than he should have on an incredibly indulgent king, and hasn’t regretted it since. It doesn’t much matter to Jon, though. When he climbs in after taking his turn, and absolutely not lingering in the bathroom to bury his face in the borrowed shirt to smell the worn-in scent of orange-bergamot-vetiver cologne, there’s enough space for him to settle cross-legged facing Martin where he sits up propped against the headboard.

“Not tired?”

“Wiped,” Martin says in a voice that shows how true that is.

“Then what are we wasting time talking for when we could be asleep? Won’t be long before there are toddlers climbing in here to cause trouble.”

“Just… Uh. Got a gift, and I wanted to… show you.”

Jon can feel himself frowning at that, but tries to pull it back in case Martin reads it wrong. “Alright. Is it… Did someone do someth-”

“Oh, no, nothing that - It’s…” Martin sighs and turns himself to sit facing Jon directly. He passes Jon a simple kraft envelope, hand-drawn dogs in a familiar style prancing along the bottom edge. “Danny gave it to me before he left. Just wanted you to look.”

The top has already been carefully sliced open, so Jon pulls out the card. A doe-eyed spaniel on the front with a joyful yellow happy birthday! surrounding it. The message inside is simple but genuine, well wishes for a blessed year and good fortune for his family.

Jon finds an answer to Martin’s mood in the five slips of paper that fall out.

Little drawing of plates of food, wine glasses, ticket stubs, popcorn tubs on either end, in the center Paula’s tidy block print promising free babysitting for an evening of relaxation with one week advance notice. On the back, a silly little scrawl in an ad-ready cursive promises two-for-one special for the life of this coupon and a promise to keep Danny and Tim on hand for extra toddler wrangling should there be two children in her care on any special occasion.

He finds himself terribly torn between mortified at the meddling and grateful for the golden opportunity she’s offered.

Once everything is tucked neatly back into the envelope, Jon passes it back to Martin.

“Paula’s a good one. I can vouch for her. I’ve only ever left Rowan somewhere besides childcare a handful of times and all of them were with her.”

“Good! Good.” Martin looks down at the envelope and taps it against an open palm. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. “So, uh. If I was to… cash one of these in, would you may-”

Oh, he isn’t ready for it. The hunger is almost physical for how much he wants, but he can’t handle-

“Next month,” Jon says in a half panic before his brain knows what his mouth is doing.

Martin’s head whips up and his face goes horribly blank for a moment, before tumbling into an awful mix of hurt and irritation and embarrassment.

The thundering in Jon’s chest worsens.

“You’re going to ask me something.”

“Yeah.” Martin’s voice warbles in a way Jon can’t bear. “I was hoping t-”

“Not yet. You’re going to ask me something and if it’s what I hope you’re going to ask me then I’ll say yes. Next month.”

Martin shakes his head, expression shifting to absolutely baffled. “So you know and you want to but I can’t ask?”

“No. You can - Try again on…” Jon scrambles for a moment to recall the date, now half his thoughts are gone from his brain. “On the twelfth. Next month. Twelfth day of March. Ask me then. Or - That’s not a full month, it’s the thirteenth. Forget it, I don’t care - Twelfth. Of March. Then.”

“Can I ask why?”

A deep breath and a flush of embarrassment of his own.

“This is - I know full well it’s ridiculous that this was my first thought. I know.”

Martin huffs. “Okay, can you tell me that thought?”

Another deep breath, and Jon hates how pathetic he sounds when he says, “All I could think is that I don’t want to take away your birthday with an anniversary.”

He’s rather certain it’s safe to call the look Martin’s wearing lovestruck at this point. Jon hides his face in his hands before he throws himself off the bed entirely.

“Jon, you are making it so hard not to ask my question.”

“Don’t,” Jon wails.

“I won’t, it’s still scheduled a month out.”

He doesn’t take well to the laugh that follows - or, well, he does, he just isn’t capable of handling it - so he swats Martin’s chest. His hand is caught and held between Martin’s. Jon leans into him and lets himself be swept into a long, bone-creaking hug, a perfectly platonic event, surely.

When he finally pulls himself back, Jon brings up his second cause for delay, not eager to let his hopes get too high before mentioning the worry.

“Before you ask me, I think… I think it would be smart if we talked.”

Martin sighs. “Yeah. That… Yeah.”

“I just… Rowan is going to take top billing. And that’s a permanent placement.”

“I know. And Penny does for me.”

“I know. And this is…” Jon tucks his hands under his thighs for the pressure, some kind of grounding, so he’s brave enough to meet Martin’s eyes. “I can’t tell you how much I want this to work, and I hope you do too. But we’re setting ourselves up for twice the heartbreak if it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, it’s…”

“Yeah.”

Martin straightens up, nods and claps his hands together, almost alarming in how quick the change in his demeanor is.

“Okay. Alright. So I can’t ask you the thing I want to ask you. Fine. But. If we maybe plan a couple not-that-thing times where maybe the kids can have a sleepover so we can maybe get a good bit of uninterrupted time to talk it over and remain totally friendly-but-not-too-friendly…”

“Entirely normal not-that-thing dinners.”

“Entirely,” Martin insists. “And just theoretically, could I call in to schedule this coupon now so I can count on plans for the evening of the twelfth when I get to ask someone a very specific something?”

Jon doesn’t kiss the hopeful-but-still-smug look off his face yet, but he pencils it in on his calendar.