Work Text:
Jon doesn't put up the ad because he wants a roommate.
Jon puts up the ad because a researcher's salary is ridiculously low and no one at the Institute seems remotely interested in unionizing and he needs to pay his damn bills. So the ad goes up.
ROOMMATE WANTED, the ad lies blatantly.
Martin is the first person to call. It's Friday afternoon.
"Hello, I'm Martin Blackwood," says Martin. "The ad said you wanted a roommate?"
"Hm," says Jon, noncommittally.
Martin moves in on Monday.
To be clear, Jon is not remotely interested in having a roommate. He's really not. Roommates are work. They're strangers with bizarre habits, and more importantly, they are in his space. Existing. Making tea. Ominous business, having a roommate.
But Martin moves in on Monday.
"Thanks for helping me carry all this stuff upstairs," Martin says, smiling warmly.
"I have work," says Jon, turning sharply on his heel. "Don't bother me." He doesn't come out of his room for three hours. Jon actually left all his work at the Institute this afternoon because he knew Martin would be moving in.
"I made tea," Martin offers when Jon finally slinks back into the kitchen. Martin blinks slowly, like a cat.
Jon wants to die. He blinks back.
"It's Earl Grey," Martin says. He's leaning against the tiny island in the center of the kitchen. He looks cozy, blowing gently on his warm drink, wrapped up in his soft sweater. Martin has made himself at home already and it's only been three hours.
"How has your day been?" Martin asks.
"Fine," Jon says. Jon really, really wants to die.
Instead, he grabs the tea and wanders back into his room, pretending as if nothing happened.
This becomes routine.
Jon leaves the flat around the same time that Martin stumbles out of bed. Jon gets home an hour before Martin does, hanging out in the kitchen until Martin walks through the door at six-fifteen on the dot. Martin makes tea. Martin says, "How has your day been?" Jon says, "Fine." Jon hides in his room until he feels less Seen.
This is a good routine for Jon because it means that he spends less time in the office. That means more time for reading fiction, listening to Georgie's podcast, and cooking.
This is an awful, terrible, cataclysmic routine for Jon because it means he spends less time in the office and more time thinking about his mental health and his relationships with Georgie and Melanie and Tim and Sasha, and his relationship with Martin--
It's. It's just that. Well, Jon isn't a very likable person. Anyone who pretends to like him must have some kind of ulterior motive.
So Jon says, "Fine," in a snippier and snippier tone, leveling a caustic glare at the back of Martin's soft, fluffy head as he sips his tea.
Martin always seems to be sipping tea. It's a ritual for him.
It's five-fifteen on a Thursday, the sixth Thursday since Martin moved in, when Jon comes home to find Martin curled up on the couch.
Which is. No. Martin is not supposed to be here. That isn't. That isn't how this works. Jon comes home at five-fifteen. He was planning to make curry chicken and rice tonight. Martin was supposed to step through the door at five-fifteen with a smile and start making tea while Jon plated the meal. He was supposed to say, "How has your day been," and then Jon was supposed to glare at him and very forcefully say, "Fine," and then they were meant to finish eating while Martin softly chattered about his day working at the library.
Martin is not supposed to be at home at five-fifteen, wrapped up in a blanket burrito on the couch, surrounded by empty mugs, and staring mournfully at Natural World reruns on Jon's shitty little television. Prairie Dogs - Talk of the Town is playing. Martin is not sipping tea. Martin is watching the prairie dogs.
The prairie dogs on the screen make little noises, scuttling about. Martin sniffles, his big eyes bigger and redder than usual.
Jon walks into the kitchen. He goes to pull out the rice cooker but finds that he has accidentally pulled out the electric kettle instead. He goes to pull out the chicken but finds himself with a messy handful of teabags.
Less than five minutes later, Jon stands in the doorway to the cramped little living room, awkwardly cradling a piping hot mug of peppermint-something-something tea.
Martin sniffles again, watching the prairie dogs. The host of the documentary says something about tunnels and engineering.
Jon hands the tea to Martin.
Martin doesn't look at him, just carefully cradles the tea and stares at the prairie dogs.
"Are you," Jon says. "That is to say--"
Martin is silent.
Good start, Sims, Jon thinks to himself. Now to stick the landing.
"Are you," Jon says again. He pauses, getting his breathing under control. "Okay?"
Martin shakes his head, making the surface of the tea wobble dangerously against the edges of the mug.
"Do you--" Jon starts again, pausing to clear his throat. "Want. To talk. To me. About it."
Nailed it.
But Martin only shakes his head again. He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"My m--" Closes it again. Shakes his head.
Jon nods. He turns to go when--
"Could you--" Martin says, sniffling a bit. He starts over, this time more clearly. "Do you mind staying with me? Just for a little bit?"
Jon does mind. Jon minds very much. Jon is going to make curry.
Jon finds himself on the couch, sitting stiffly on the farthest part from Martin's warmth. It's a loveseat, so their knees clack together painfully whenever Jon adjusts himself. Or at least, their knees would clack together, if Martin wasn't curled up in fetal position. As it is, Martin's shoulder blades and spine press up against Jon's upper thighs and right hip. Jon takes a deep breath. And another. And another. He's fine. This is fine.
Martin adjusts the blanket and takes a sip of the tea before setting it down on the coffee table. He has to move an empty mug to the floor to make room.
Jon isn't entirely sure what to do with his hands. He can't touch Martin, that would be-- he can't touch Martin! But leaving his arm slung over the back of the couch is uncomfortable and he certainly can't keep that up for much longer.
"You can touch me," the Martin-shaped lump of blankets suggests with a pitiful voice. "I'm not going to bite."
Jon blinks slowly, glad for the blanket barrier in between them.
He lowers his hand to rest on Martin's back. Martin shudders but doesn't move. Jon's hand naturally moves in a gentle patting motion. This is fine. Jon is fine.
There is a commercial break and then The Wild Places of Essex starts to play. They must be doing an event of some kind, Jon thinks deliriously. A Natural World marathon. Jon wouldn't have pegged Martin for a documentary enjoyer. Martin isn't-- he's cozy. He's nice. He's not like Jon. When Jon told Tim that he likes documentaries, Tim rolled his eyes and said, "Of course you would."
Even Georgie had just giggled at him and said, "That tracks."
It's-- Jon is-- Martin is cozy.
So why is Martin watching a Natural World marathon on cable television?
Martin shifts his weight, readjusting the blanket idly. He brings the tea to his lips.
The next morning, Jon wakes up on the couch with an awful crick in his neck. Martin shuffles out of the kitchen with two warm mugs. The living room is clean.
"Did you--" Jon starts just as Martin says, "Jon! I made tea!" It is almost threatening. Jon, I made you some tea and now you are going to drink it or else.
"I can see that, Martin," Jon says, his voice still rough from sleep. He's definitely not stalling for time.
Martin goes a little pink.
"Did you clean everything up?" Jon asks.
Martin nods.
"I should explain," Martin says.
"You don't have to," Jon says. "Please, please don't."
"I was having a sick day and my mum called," Martin sets down the mugs on two neat coasters that have appeared. Jon reaches for the closest one. He's not awake yet. Jon freezes, hand stuck lifting the mug to his lips. A sick day, the words reverberate around Jon's head.
"We, um," Martin chuckles humorlessly. "We had a bit of a row."
Jon doesn't remember what his parents were like. And his grandmother never really cared enough for arguments to pop up other than the everyday annoyances, and when Jon moved out, those petered out as well.
Still. A sick day.
He makes his decision. Jon chugs his tea, burning his tongue and making his teeth ache. He stands up, joints popping into place. His neck creaks as he tries to twist it into submission.
"I am going to take a shower," Jon declares. "And then I am going to work."
Martin nods along.
"Yes, wouldn't want you getting sick too," Martin says. Then, lower, "God forbid you take a day off."
Jon marches into the bathroom, ignoring this. He stands there for four minutes, hyperventilating at the mirror. As he presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, Jon focuses on the feeling of his heartbeat.
Jon fell asleep on top of Martin. He can still feel the tingly warmth in his extremities.
Jesus Christ.
Jon fell asleep on top of Martin! He just-- he just went right to bed! On top of his roommate! His-- Martin--
Martin is warm, Jon thinks, focusing on his fingertips.
Jon mechanically begins to wash his face, the cold water jolting him out of the dissociative episode.
He breathes out slowly.
Martin-Martin-Martin-Martin, says the little voice in the back of Jon's mind. Martin-Martin-Martin-Martin--
Good Lord. Jon must be coming down with something. Sick day, Jon thinks.
Jon shimmies out of his clothes, climbs into the shower, and sets the cold water to blast.
Jon goes into work feeling wrung out.
By noon, he's sneezing a suspicious amount. By four, he's used up the box of tissues that Tim keeps in his desk. Four-forty-five, Jon leaves work with a stuffy nose and a red face.
A sick day!
Martin makes soup for dinner. It's chicken noodle out of a can. When they sit together on the couch, this time Jon is the one curled up in a pile of blankets.
"Why didn't you warn me," Jon bemoans through a scratchy throat.
Martin just sprawls across his side.
"Budge up," Martin says. He nestles himself between Jon and the edge of the loveseat. He's so warm and soft, draped across Jon like an extra blanket.
They spend the weekend like this. That is to say, they spend the weekend together. Drinking tea, watching documentaries, fighting over the blankets. Jon spends a decent portion of it asleep.
Jon's fever breaks Saturday evening.
He goes back to work on Monday, and when he gets home at five-fifteen, Martin is not there. Jon has to check the thermostat four times to convince himself that the flat is no more cold than usual.
Martin arrives at six-twenty-one, ranting about the weather. He immediately heads to the bathroom, and when he comes back out again, he is rubbing his rain-soaked hair down with a hand towel. Martin looks like a wet pomeranian-- soaked to the bone, unhappy about it, and absolutely adorable. Jon is-- Jon is not charmed. Jon cannot be charmed. Why is it so warm in here? Jon checks the thermostat again.
"Jon, I'm making tea!" Martin calls from the other room. Ominously. Jon, you will drink this tea.
Jon frowns at the heating unit. Ostensibly, the temperature is the same.
"What are we having for dinner?" Martin asks, leaving the towel draped over his shoulders as he crosses the room.
"Takeout," Jon says. "The-- uh-- the Lebonese place? The one--" The one that Martin likes. The one that Martin introduced Jon to.
"Yum," says Martin. "You know my order. When--?"
Jon does. Why does Jon know Martin's order?
"Twenty minutes, then I'll go--" Jon clears his throat, trying to find the words. "--pickup."
Whatever. Jon is tired. He can deal with this later.
They drink their tea together on the couch while a documentary on some serial killer plays in the background. Apparently, Martin likes true crime. Who knew? Besides Jon, obviously. Jon knew. Jon knows a lot of things about Martin. Sometimes Jon can't shake the feeling that he Knows too much-- but that's to be expected, isn't it? Roommates, especially roommates who don't get along, tend to pick up on each other's interests and hobbies and habits. Jon Knowing-- Jon knowing something about Martin should not be unexpected.
"Do you like true crime?" Martin asks, nudging Jon with his shoulder.
"Not particularly," Jon says. "It's not bad, entertainment-wise, but it can get quite messy-- legally speaking. And I cannot support any media that sensationalizes the real experiences of-- well-- real people."
"I like it quite a bit," says Martin. "Something about the fact that you can always turn it off-- it allows me to have some sense of control over the whole situation. I get to engage with it on my terms, you know?"
"Fair enough," says Jon.
"What? No judgment to make? You don't want me to go fetch your soapbox for you?" Martin is smiling, sly and clever and friendly and hopeful and Jon wants to throw himself out of the window. He wants to roll up in a ball underneath his bedframe and never be seen again. He wants to jump into an active volcano. He wants to steal cake from Elias and go drinking with Tim and hide inside of Georgie's closet with the Admiral until she notices and kicks him out for being an awful boyfriend and an even worse ex. He wants to die.
"Ha ha," Jon says dryly, instead of dying. "I'm not that bad, am I?"
"No, no," Martin says, his eyes crinkling as his smile widens and softens and-- Jon has to look away, for his own physical and mental health. "You just-- you've obviously thought about this a lot. And you're a very opinionated person."
"Well, it-- this documentary is about an event that happened in the sixties, for one. No one alive today is being traumatized by it," Jon says. "And, I mean, you clearly are getting something out of it. Isn't that the point of documentaries-- or even art? For us, as viewers, to get something out of it? Information, yes, but also catharsis? Or confidence? Or-- I don't know-- existential dread or whatever it is that you get out of it."
"You watch a lot of documentaries that give you a sense of existential dread, Jon?" Martin's laugh is-- Jon hides his face in Martin's shoulderblade. Pressed up against his back, Jon can feel Martin's breathing and his ever-steady heartbeat.
"Shut up," Jon says.
"Okay," Martin says, not shutting up. He pats Jon on the back in a placating manner, pre-emptively cutting off most of Jon's grumbles.
"Only two," Jon ends up saying. The tension bleeds from his frame as Martin's pats slow down until they're just resting like that, mushed together on the couch, Martin's arm across Jon's torso and Jon's face pressed into Martin's shoulder.
They don't move for half an hour.
"Shit," Jon says, bolting up from the couch. He scrambles to the door, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his keys. "Dinner!"
"Dinner!" Martin cries, smacking himself on the forhead. He leaps to his feet. "Your phone!"
"Martin, I could kiss you," Jon says, stuffing it into his pocket with his wallet on the way out the door.
"Okay!" Martin says, waving. "See you soon!"
Jon only realizes what words came out of his mouth when he's driven halfway to the restaurant.
"Good Lord, Sims," Jon says aloud, smacking his head on the wheel of his car. "Good Lord."
Wednesday, the rain stops. Clouds still hang in the air, threatening but still.
Jon makes dinner. It's ready and plated by six.
Usually, there is more breathing room. Jon starts making dinner at six, Martin arrives at six-fifteen, Martin starts the tea at six-seventeen or so, and they drink the tea as Jon finishes cooking. By the time that dinner is ready, they've both long since finished their tea.
Today, Jon is feeling antsy.
So dinner is ready at six.
The broccoli is perfectly steamed. Jon slides a plastic covering over the dishes in order to keep them warm. He leaves the warmth of the kitchen to sit on the couch. Jon's laptop is waiting for him, humming warmly.
When Martin doesn't arrive at six-fifteen, Jon isn't too worried.
When Martin doesn't arrive at six-twenty, Jon doesn't notice because he's too wrapped up in his work.
When Martin crashes through the door at eight-fifty-four, Jon very deliberately does not jump off of the couch like a startled cat.
"Martin!" Jon says, not startled or confused or freaked out at all.
"Jon, are you okay?" Martin says, placing a burning hand on Jon's shoulder.
"Yes," Jon says. "You-- you're late."
"Yeah," Martin says.
"Are you-- do you want to talk about it?" Jon says.
"Yes, um. Sorry, I just-- I write poetry?" Martin squeaks. He's smiling. His hand is-- Jon takes a deep breath. "I was recording some poetry at the park near my workplace and I lost track of time."
"Well," Jon says, somewhat at a loss. "The food's cold."
"We'll have to heat it back up," Martin says.
"Could you--" Jon stops himself. Was he just about to--
"Could I?" Martin asks.
Jon feels a bit lightheaded. Maybe he should go sit down.
"I'm going to go sit down," Jon says. "I feel a bit dizzy."
"Okay," Martin says.
Jon sits down.
He was going to ask Martin to text him next time. Oh God, there was going to be a next time. God. Jon was worried! Jon-- Jon!-- asking someone else to contact him! Voluntarily! To ease his mind! This is not normal course of business. This is not normal at all.
That's when some things start falling into place.
The ritual-- the daily routine of arrive-tea-dinner-hide has been replaced. Home-tea-dinner-Martin. Martin-Martin-Martin-Martin.
Good Lord.
"Martin," says Jon.
"Yes, Jon?" Martin says from the other room.
"I think I might be in love with you," Jon says. "Just a bit."
"Oh," says Martin. "Well, I'm making tea."
"Okay," says Jon.
"Tea is my love language," Martin says. "Acts of service, gifts, and whatnot."
"Hm," says Jon. "Mine is time spent."
"Jon," says Martin. "I'm not being very clear. I'm sorry about that."
"That's okay," Jon blinks.
"You are one of the most important people in my life right now," Martin says.
"Okay," Jon says.
"I would like to date you," Martin clarifies.
"Okay!" Jon says again.
Martin sighs.
"Jon," Martin says, very serious. "Today, I did not lose track of time. I wanted to be left alone, so I hid out at a cafe for three hours. I am struggling with depression. Sometimes I need distance. Sometimes I need companionship. I am contradictory. I like true crime. I will make you truly gratuitous amounts of tea and the caffeine will keep you up for days. I write poetry in my free time."
"Okay!" Jon is-- Jon isn't used to smiling like this. It aches. Happiness aches.
"Don't tell me that you love me until you're sure," Martin says.
Jon nods seriously.
"Okay," then he smiles again. "I really like you, Martin."
"Okay," Martin exhales, smiling fondly. "Let's-- let's make plans."