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Jon woke up from a restless sleep, his lower back complaining as he sat up straight. The plastic chair he was sitting on creacked at the movement, and he threw a glance at Martin, worried the loud sound woke him up. He rarely got comfortable in his sleep these days, often waking up multiple times in the middle of the night, and Jon was careful not to even breathe too loud, in case it disturbed Martin. The steady up and down of Martin's chest didn't change, and Jon let out a breath of relief as he leaned back, not bothering with trying to get more comfortable.
The clock on the wall displayed 8:35 pm. A vibration from the pocket of his trousers reminded Jon he was meant to call Basira, let her know if there had been any updates, but he ignored it, too busy wondering if Martin was cold. He didn't look cold, he was under a rather thick cover after all, topped with a crisp white linen sheet, but maybe it wasn't enough.
Another vibration. Probably a text from Georgie. He ignored that as well and took to examining Martin's hands. His left hand, on the side where Jon was sitting, was resting palm-down on Martin's chest. A needle connected to an IV bag was protruding from the top, steadied with a piece of white tape wrapped around the palm. Needles weren't an unfamiliar sight as of late, but it still made Jon uncomfortable to see the soft skin so violently disturbed. His right hand was bare, resting on the edge of the bed. Too close to the edge, if you asked Jon, but he didn't dare move it.
They had been at the hospital for almost 10 hours now, and the steady beeping sound of the machine that was displaying Martin's vitals had blended into the background by now. Just another noise. Despite the doctor's reassurance that they would be able to go home in an hour or two, Jon was growing impatient.
Before, he hadn't really minded hospitals. They weren't something he had an definitive opinion on, just a place where people went if there was something wrong with them, and usually be cured. A rather childish approach, he recognized, but he never had cause to change it. He had been too young to visit his parents at the hospital, and his grandma had died at home, in her sleep.
He supposed he still didn't have an opinion, but he certainly didn't like them. Not when they couldn't offer the one thing they were supposed to.
The doctors were nearly ready with the results, he Knew, and as if he read his mind, Martin's eyes gently fluttered open. He squinted at the bright overhead lights for a few moments and turned to look at Jon. "Any updates?" he croaked and graciously accepted the cup of water Jon was passing him from the bedside table.
"They're finishing up the results from the blood test just now," Jon informed him, taking back the cup after Martin was finished. "I didn't See them," he added.
"We already know what they say Jon," Martin pointed out.
"We might not."
"Well, it can't get any worse, and it certainly can't get any better."
Jon sighed. "I know." He took Martin's hand into his own, careful not to move the needle. "How are you feeling?"
Martin entwined his fingers with Jon's. "Better. Not dizzy at least. I could probably walk on my own."
Jon gave a half smile as a certain piece of information popped into his head. "Well, you won't. They give all patients a wheelchair on the way out."
"Christ, that's so embarrassing. I'd rather have you carry me out bridal style than leave in a wheelchair," Martin said, making Jon smile a bit more.
They hadn't had the chance to talk about it, with all the questions they had to answer for the doctors and all the tests they had to do to Martin. It had taken a while to contact Martin's own doctors, too, and then some more time to give the hospital a rundown of his medical records and the various medications he was on. It then took another hour for the doctor to bring the final results, and tell them what they already knew. By the time Martin was finally discharged and escorted out of the hospital -in a wheelchair, despite his protests- it was nearly midnight.
The drive back home was quiet, but not awkward. More tired than anything. Jon took a breath and kept his eyes on the road as he broke the silence. "You scared me today." Before Martin could respond, Jon continued. "It's not an accusation. Obviously. It's just- that's how I felt. It was scary."
"I know," Martin reassured him after a beat. He ran his right thumb over the bandage on his left hand where the needle had been. "I was scared, too," he admitted quietly. "I didn't even see it coming. One moment I was fine and the next I wasn't. I was fine when I woke up, you saw me before you left."
He did seem fine, Jon thought. But that scared him even more. If seeming fine was now not enough, if Martin went from being fine to collapsing withing minutes then...
"Jon."
"Hm?"
"Stop thinking about it."
"About what?" Jon feigned ignorance, as they stopped at a red light.
"About what would have happened if you hadn't called. If you hadn't been there in time."
The light turned green and Jon pressed the gas pedal with a shaky leg, making the car tremble slightly. "I wasn't."
Jon kept his eyes on the road as Martin turned to look at him, resigned . "Sure."
They drove the rest of the way home in an uneasy quiet. Martin dozed off from time to time, still exhausted despite his nap, as Jon focused on the road, making a mental note to call Basira as soon as they arrived.
Pulling himself away from the Lonely was the most difficult thing Martin had ever had to do.
He was nearly gone, he knew that. Jon was almost too late. He vaguely remembered following Jon out of the Lonely and into a destroyed Institute, where Basira hurriedly informed them about the plan. Martin only caught pieces of it, something about pulling away the Fears, alternate dimensions, Annabelle Cane and Hill Top Road. He listened to Jon and Basira as they formulated a plan of action, and he knew that he should feel scared. Hopeful. Maybe even relieved. He also knew that it would be a while before he could properly feel those feelings again.
In the end, they succeded. Jonah Magnus was dead, the Fears were gone, and everything went back to normal. Everything except Martin.
Basira helped him find a new place to live, and brought him up to speed on everything he had missed while he was in the Lonely's grip. He listened, nodded, occasionally gave single-word replies, and cried. He couldn't help it most of the time, feeling his cheeks dampen inexplicably as he cooked, as he texted Jon, as he went to sleep.
He still felt cold, too, a bitter kind of cold that came from within and left him shivering uncontrollably. Jon made sure to bring him as many blankets as he could, and always made steaming hot tea for Martin when he visited. It was understeeped and too sweet for Martin's liking, but the soft gesture always warmed up Martin's insides better than any cup of tea could ever manage. Jon was there almost every day, talking to Martin even when he didn't have the strength or the courage to respond, and holding him when he thought he might fade away.
The cold did, eventually, dissipate, and so did the residual, overwhelming feeling of loneliness Martin felt. Jon thought his heart might leap out of his chest when Martin snickered at a joke Jon made in passing, and felt giddy when Martin could hold conversations normally once again. The blush on Martin's cheeks when Jon told him he had missed his voice was hard to miss, and Jon smiled, changing the subject into something less testy.
By the time Martin felt like himself again, the Institute had been relocated and restructured. It now occupied the third floor of a large, unremarkable commercial building in Hammersmith, above an obscure law firm and below an accounting firm. It consisted of a spacious document storage, a bullpen with an adjoining kitchenette, a dimly-lit yet decent sized Library, a small spare room that was converted into an unofficial Research Centre, and after a unanimous vote, no Archive, and no Archivist.
With the Fears gone, true paranormal incidents were few and far between, only small manifestations of their once tremendeous power, a residual force that grew weeker as more time passed. Now, all Jon, Martin and Basira had to do was to document these incidents, file them away, document any statements from people that seeked them out, hunt down and destroy Leitners, and stay far, far away from tape recorders.
Jon tried very hard not to judge the new Institute too harshly. Certainly, the lack of an all-seeing Entity that fed from them was an improvement, and the absense of an Archivist was a relief. He did, however, miss the prestige the previous building held, with its white, imposing marble structure and sharp design. "I probably had more books in my collection back in university," he often joked to Martin whenever they had to work in the Library and, knowing Jon, Martin fully believed him.
Jon's favourite feature of the Institute was, by far, the fact that it was only fifteen minutes away from his place, and twenty from Martin's.
He had been the one to reluctantly suggest that they meet each other every morning on the crossroads that was in the middle of the distance between their apartments, and walk to the Institute together. Martin had eagerly agreed, blood rushing to his cheeks once again. Basira had rolled her eyes the first time she saw them entering the Institute together, playfully arguing about one thing or another.
And all the while, Jon's pleading words in the Lonely were hanging above them like a heavy, yet very fragile cloud.
It was during one of those morning walks that Martin brought it up. Their interaction in the Lonely was still muddled in Martin's head, but he did remember Jon's words as he was trying to bring him back. He asked Jon if he meant what he had said. If he still meant it. The blush that dusted Jon's cheeks gave it away long before he actually spoke the words, that yes, of course I meant them. Still mean them. They were late to work that day, much to Basira's amusement, entering the Institute looking embarrassingly disheveled and red-faced. It was the happiest day Martin had had in years.
They got their own apartment shortly after their one-year anniversary. It had gotten to a point where Martin couldn't remember the last time he had slept in his own apartment, or when exactly his clothes began occupying half of Jon's closet, or when he began calling Jon's apartment our house. It simply made sense for them to move in together.
Jon's apartment was smaller, but closer to work. Martin's was bigger and brighter, but his upstair neighbors were loud, and his landlord was notorious for his ridiculous housing rules. Neither apartment allowed pets, a serious obstacle in their plans to get a cat in the near future.
In the end, they opted for a new apartment. It was spacious enough, with tons of natural light coming in from the living room windows, two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a small balcony. They thought it was perfect.
"We should have a housewarming party," Martin had said as they were taking the last of their stuff out of cardboard boxes.
Jon chuckled. "I don't think we have enough friends for it to be considered a 'party'".
"Oh really? How many do we need for it to be a party, then?"
Amused, Jon searched for an answer. "Most people consider it an official 'party' when more than ten people are involved. A few consider it a party at eight. Now, if you ask me, anything above five people is a party. And unecessary."
"A housewarming hangout, then," Martin insisted with a fond eye roll. "A gathering. Wait, is a gathering a smaller unit than a party? Whatever, I'll mention it to Basira at work tomorrow. You call Georgie and Melanie."
"Do you ever think," Jon gently said one night, long after they had turned off the lights and settled into bed, arms wrapped around each other, "what our lives would have been like if we had met earlier?"
Martin hummed. "I do, yeah."
"We could have met at university."
"I didn't go to university, Jon."
"Yes, yes," Jon said. "I know. Just a thought. We could have met in the library."
"I don't think we would have been friends," Martin admitted after a beat, and Jon turned to look down at him with a frown. "It's the truth," Martin insisted. "We had the opportunity, back when it all began, and you hated me."
"I did not," Jon tried, unconvincingly.
"Mmm no, you did," Martin insisted, no trace of sharpness in his words. "I listened to the old tapes, I know what you were saying about me. Then again, I wasn't exactly the easiest person then, and you were literally paranoid. You had every reason to be, but still. We simply weren't compatible."
"Regardless," Jon said after a moment, tightening his hold of Martin ever so slightly. "We're here now. And I love you. That's all that matters."
Martin sank into Jon's arms, and smiled. "I love you, too."
Martin thought it was bizzare, with how much he actively avoided anything that might give him a headache, that he was having his third one within a week. It had began building up since that morning, a slow throb at the front of his skull that made it hard to focus on his work.
He thought, in passing, that it might be a migraine. He'd heard of people who had the same migraine for weeks, or even for months. But he never got headaches, let alone migraines, so he didn't entertain the thought much longer.
It was as he was rummaging the cabinets of the Institute's kitchenette for some painkillers that Basira saw him, coming in for her lunch break. "Tea's in the top left cupboard."
"Oh, I know. I'm looking for painkillers. My head is killing me today."
Basira raised a brow. "You've got a headache? That's new. I thought you never got any."
"Apparently I do," Martin sighed, still looking through drawers and cupboards.
Basira went over to the fridge. "I think we ran out of Ibuprofen a while back. I'll tell one of the interns to put it in the budget."
Martin gave up his search then, and thanked her as he returned to the statement he had been examining. After what seemed like only moments later, he jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry, didn't mean to spook you," came Jon's apologetic voice from behind him.
"It's fine, don't worry," he said, his heart slowly returning to its normal tempo. "I needed a break anyways." He didn't miss Jon's frown. "What?"
"It's five pm."
"Wha- oh." Already? he briefly thought and glanced at his phone. Sure enough, it was time to go home. "Right. Sorry, I got caught up with-" he pointed at the general direction of his computer screen. "Let me finish up here and I'll join you."
"I'll be waiting at the lobby," Jon said as he turned to leave, but not before taking a long glance at Martin as he gathered the mess of papers and files on his desk.
They became more frequent the following week.
Martin woke up with a start at the sound of his alarm clock, the noise piercing his head and making it pound more and more. He quickly turned it off and flipped his pillow over on its cool side before falling face first onto it, in search of some kind of relief.
Jon was already getting out of bed, mumbling 'good morning' as he went to the bathroom. By the time he was done with his shower, Martin was still in bed, in the same position he left him. He climbed back onto the bed and gently nudged Martin. "Aren't you going to get up?"
"Mmmph," came a muffled response.
Jon frowned. "Martin? What's wrong?"
"My head hurts," Martin said, attempting to lift himself up onto his elbows.
Jon slid back under the covers, brushing away a few strands of hair that were falling in front of Martin's eyes. "You're warm," he noticed as his fingers brushed against Martin's forehead. "I'll get you some painkillers," he offered, trying to keep his voice as low and gentle as he could.
Eventually, Martin got up, dragging himself out of bed and into to the shower, the cold water doing nothing to alleviate his pain. When he was done, a pill and a glass of water were waiting for him on the kitchen table, along with a mug of warm tea and some biscuits. He thanked Jon with a kiss and took the painkiller, wishing for it to work fast.
It was the same the following day, and the day after that.
He realized he had spaced out for the better part of an hour when an intern dropped a file on his desk, the sudden thud bringing him back to reality. They did a double take at him, asking if he was alright, and went back to their desk while mumbling something about being 'burned out', and 'not being paid enough for this'.
Martin stared at the file on his desk. What was he supposed to do with it? He picked it up and adjusted his glasses as he read the label at the top. Case #0222503. Right. He was supposed to make a few calls, corroborate the statement of Miss., um, Miss. He paused. Ledger. Or was it Webber. He opened the file. It was clearly Martin's handwriting on the papers, but he didn't remember writing any of it. The statement, the info sheet, the supplemental material. He figured he had done it a while back, that's why he couldn't remember.
He wrote down the necessary phone numbers, then the corresponding names. He made the calls, writing down as much information he could retain, and transferred it into the file. All the while, his head still felt heavy and foggy, the constant pain dulling his senses. He decided to make tea.
After several trips from the Archives to the kitchen and back to bring everyone a cup, Martin placed his mug down on his desk and headed towards Jon's office with his own tea. He gave a perfunctory knock before entering and shutting the door behind him, and placed the mug on the only empty spot on Jon's desk.
"Thank you, Martin," Jon said without really looking up from the open folder in front of him. "Did you bring the Webber case?"
"Hm?"
"0222503? The Webber case. I told one of the interns to give you the file, did they not-?"
"Oh. Um. They did, I think. Yeah, they probably did."
"Good. Did you bring it?"
"Um, no I-, I think it might be on my desk-"
At that, Jon looked up. Martin was, to Jon's surprise and concern, genuinely confused. Any other day Jon might have joked about it, teased Martin about his forgetfullness. But not today. Not when Martin looked almost scared. "Martin, are you okay?"
"Hm? Yeah, I'm fine," Martin said, giving Jon a tight smile. He rubbed his eyes, his hands cold and clammy against the hot skin. "It's nothing, just a bit of a headache."
"Again?" Jon rolled his chair back and got up, his heartbeat picking up as he rounded the desk to approach Martin. "That's the third one this week."
"I know, Jon, but honestly I'm fine."
Jon's frown deepened. "Do you want to take the rest of the day off?" he asked, inching closer to Martin, close enough to see the exhausted, foggy look in his eyes.
"Yeah, okay," Martin replied with a nod, wincing again at the movement. "I'll see you at home," he said, and Jon's heart dropped down to his stomach in fear as Martin left without any pushback.
Basira found him dry-heaving into the toilet the following day, his glasses discarded on the counter next to the sink. She wordlessly handed him some paper, brought him some water from the kitchen, and waited with him until he could manage to control his breathing.
When he was done, he joined her as she leaned against the sink, her arms crossed. "Sorry about that," Martin said as he washed his hands. "Lucky you missed the gross part," he tried to lighten the mood as he reached for his glasses. Basira didn't laugh, still staring at him with questioning eyes mixed with worry. "I'm fine," Martin reassured her. "Must've eaten something funny."
"Yeah, probably." She gave him a thorough once over. "Are you sure you're alright? First the headaches, and now this..." she trailed off.
"I'm alright, don't worry," he said, giving her his best attempt at a smile.
It was clear as day Basira wasn't convinced, but she could tell Martin didn't want to talk about it any longer. "If you're sure," she said reluctantly as she headed for the door. "Let me know if you need anything."
Martin nodded with another unconvincing smile. "Will do. Thank you."
"Basira told me what happened today," Jon said that night as they settled into bed.
Martin let out a quiet groan and turned to look at Jon, his eyes already fixed at Martin. "It's nothing, I must've eaten something funny."
"I don't think it's nothing," Jon insisted. "You've been getting all these headaches, you've been distracted at work, you're making mistakes that weren't there before, and now nausea?"
"Are you calling me sloppy?" Martin asked, trying for levity.
"I'm serious, Martin."
It had gotten to a point where Martin could recognize that it was, potentially, serious. He never got sick, never got headaches. He rarely made mistakes in his work. There was no point denying it. "Alright. I'll make a doctor's appointment."
He went to turn off his light, but Jon spoke again. "When?"
"When what?"
"When will you make an appointment."
Martin fell back on the mattress with a heavy sigh. "I don't know, Jon. Tomorrow. The day after. Whenever I get a moment."
"Do you want me to call-"
"For Christ's sake, Jon, I said I'll make it!" He immediately regretted raising his voice, the headache that had subsidized earlier coming back full force. "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes to relieve some of the tension.
Jon took Martin's hand into his own. "I just want to make sure you're okay. That's all," he said, voice calm and steady.
"I know," Martin said. "I'll call tomorrow morning."
Jon nodded, then opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. Martin raised an eyebrow. "Jon?"
"I could, you know -and it's just a suggestion, we don't have to- but maybe I could, you know. Know." Before Martin had the chance to reply, he spoke again. "Just to see if there's something wrong. I would never See anything you wouldn't want me to See," he clarified.
"I know you wouldn't," Martin reassured him and, well, it wasn't a terrible idea. He could skip the doctor, and it would be significantly quicker. "Alright," he decided. "You can look through me, Dr. Sims."
Jon sat up, eyes fixed on Martin. "Are you sure? I want you to be one hundred percent-"
"I'm sure," Martin said and sat up as well, entwining their fingers. "I love you," he said, and gently squeezed Jon's hand. "Do it."
[CLICK]
Jon
Right. I... uh. I was returning home from work today when I saw an old electronics shop, with an old tape recorder on its window. It felt right, at the moment.
It's been a week. Since, uh, since we found out. I gave Martin a couple of days off, to try and process all of it. Although, I'm not sure a few days are enough to even begin to... I, uh, I decided to not take any days off myself. Work has always been a decent distraction.
Martin doesn't know this, and he probably never will, but the other day I visited Annabelle Cane. I Knew where she would be lurking, so I went to see her. I... don't know what I was expecting to hear. I know the Web is gone, it is essentially incapable of exercizing the kind of control it once did over the future. I wasn't thinking straight, not really. I asked her if this was her doing, one last attempt of the Web to twist and pull our strings and make our lives miserable once again. If it was some- some sick act of revenge. She was surprisingly forthcoming. Turns out, the Web had no more involvement in this than fate. Or luck. Human bodies, she said, even those touched by Entities beyond our comprehension, are not always immune to human fates. Sometimes... people just die. Bad luck, she called it. And isn't that the truth. It seems like Martin and I ran out of good luck a while back.
(pause)
It was strange, having to Look at Martin. I'd never done it deliberately to him, and I knew I needed to be careful not to See something he wouldn't want me to. It's hard to explain exactly what I saw, because it wasn't seeing as much as it was sensing. I could sense his immune system as a whole, his cardiovascular and respiratory system. I was feeling his heartbeat and his blood pressure, the numbers within the usual limits. I could feel his immune system trying to fight something, the way a spike in white blood vessels in a blood exam tells you the same thing. Then, I saw his brain. A pulsating, dark mass of cells, right at the centre of his cerebellum. I'd never heard of the medical term before, but I knew what it was in a moment. Intercranial glioblastoma. A tumor.
The symptoms matched up perfectly. Headaches, dizziness, fatigue, disorientation, nausea, all of it. I didn't believe it, at first. Or rather, I didn't want to believe it. I must be wrong, I thought, it has to be something else. Panic, I suppose, and fear, can make one believe all sorts of things. I guess my expression must have mirrored that, because Martin immediately knew something was wrong. I think I was crying when I blurted it out, and I think Martin was crying, too. The moments after that are all a blur.
We took the next day off, as we hadn't really slept or processed any of it. To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I have, yet. Not completely. I mean, how do I accept that Martin looks perfectly normal, yet he's not? That he...
You know, I've actually yet to say the words out loud. Saying them makes it real. It gives them gravity. But there's no point in delaying it. It's not like it's not going to happen if I don't say it.
The reality is, Martin is dying.
We went to the doctor two days later. Multiple doctors, in fact. They did PET scans, MRIs, an absurd amount of blood tests. They all said the same thing. Stage four glioblastoma. Symptoms usually include dizziness, nausea, headaches -which Martin has experienced-, and loss of vision, weakness, paralysis, sometimes seizures -which he hasn't. Yet, that is. Then the doctors started talking about possible treatments and medication. Surgery was almost immediately dismissed, as it is considered a 'complicated and unecessarily dangerous procedure' at this stage. Their words. Chemotherapy, on the other hand, is still on the table, and up to Martin to decide whether he wants to try it or not. We haven't discussed it yet, although I'm pretty sure I already know his answer. Survival rates for this type of cancer, at a stage like that, are notoriously low. Life expectancy undetermined as of yet, but probably around, um. Around six months.
We told Basira the day after we found out. Needless to say, she didn't take it very well. I think it was the first time I've ever seen her cry. Georgie and Melanie had the same reaction when we told them. I don't know who else in the Institute knows by now, but judging from the looks of sympathy I get every time I talk to the interns, when I go to the library or to document storage, most of them probably do know. It's... fine.
(long pause)
I've been scared for the better part of my life. As a kid, I was scared of bullies, of the Spider. In university, I was scared of falling behind as my peers kept moving forward. When I joined the Institute, fear became second nature, something to study and at the same time sustain. I was the victim of humans, entities and everything in between. I was scared for my life and inflicted fear upon others, I fed the fear and fed from it, yet I never quite learned how to live with it. Then, I stopped being afraid. And it felt good. For the first time in god knows how long, me and Martin were happy. But now... I don't think I've ever been more afraid than I am at this moment.
I missed so many signs, didn't I? I mean, it must have been happening for a while now. This sort of thing doesn't happen in a matter of days. Martin would say I'm being dramatic, but I should have known something was wrong. Maybe, if I had known, I could have... I don't know.
What I do know, is that I will be there for Martin, no matter what happens. I will not leave his side. He spent his entire life taking care of others, myself included. It's time I do the same. We'll be okay. We have to be. That... that's all. End recording, I guess.
[CLICK]
"I'm going back to work," Martin declared as he sipped his morning tea. Even with his back turned at him as he washed the dishes, Martin could feel Jon tense up, the hand holding the freshly cleaned plate hovering above the dryer. He watched Jon slowly put it down, reach for the next and wash that. "Is that okay?" Martin pressed.
"Are you sure?" Jon said, his back still turned.
"I am," Martin confirmed, getting up to put his now empty cup into the sink. He leaned his backside against the sink, facing Jon. He observed him as he finished up, dried his hands and pointedly avoided Martin's gaze. "I want to get out of the house."
"No, I mean-" Jon tried to explain, "it's only been a week. Are you feeling well enough to-"
"I am," Martin insisted. They were doing this a lot, lately. Bickering about anything, arguing over the simple things. Martin knew neither of them was doing it on purpose. It was desperation and fear that made them angry, and their only outlet was each other.
"I just think it's too early, maybe you should rest some more-"
"Jon I said I'm going back," Martin repeated, agitation and anger bubbling up inside him. "I won't change my mind."
"I know, alright, but you have to understand-"
"No, Jon, you have to understand." At that, Jon turned to look at Martin. "I'll never feel better. This is it. And I refuse to just sit and wait for it to be over."
"Martin..."
He couldn't help the tears that spilled out of his eyes, or the tremor in his voice. "You don't get it, do you? This," Martin gestured at the general direction of his body, "is my worst nightmare. I'm slowly dying, and there's nothing I can do about it. And I've already seen it, I know how it goes. I get sick, then I can't take care of myself, then I become bitter and- and mean to everyone around me."
That, he knew, Jon understood. He tried his best to compose himself, quickly drying his eyes on his sleeve. "I want to be the one responsible for myself for as long as I can."
Jon closed the distance between them and took Martin's shaky hand into his. "Martin, listen to me very carefully. You are not your mother. No, listen to me," he insisted when Martin rolled his eyes, and held his hand ever firmer when he tried to pull away. "You are not her. From what you've told me, she resented you for very different reasons, which were obviously not your fault. Her sickness only gave her an excuse to project it onto you in such a horrible way."
"Yes, but getting sick made it worse. It'll do the same to me, sooner or later. I don't want to put you through that."
Jon froze, his now limp hand loosening its grip on Martin's. "So what, you want me to leave? Is that what this is?"
"I don't want you to leave," Martin tried to clarify, distress clear on his face. "I'm giving you the chance to walk away."
"I see." Jon went quiet, avoiding Martin's staring gaze. "Do you hate me, Martin?" he eventually asked.
"What?"
"Do you hate me?" Jon repeated.
"No I don't-"
"Do you hate Basira? Georgie? Melanie-"
"No, of course not."
"And you do know that I love you, right? That we all love you."
With a mix of annoyance and understanding, Martin rolled his eyes. "Yes."
"And that we will not hold your illness against you, no matter what you say or do?"
At that, Martin's expression softened. "Yeah."
"Then, forgive me if I don't believe that you'll ever begin to resent us."
Martin shook his head. "Jon, I can't force you to stay with me."
"Well, it's a good thing you're not forcing me, then."
"You deserve to be happy", Martin insisted. "It's going to get ugly, Jon. You'll have to give up a lot of things. You don't deserve that."
"And you don't deserve to be alone," Jon replied. He inched closer to Martin, as close as he could get. "I'm not leaving you, Martin. No matter how hard things get." A few more stray tears rolled down Martin's cheeks, and Jon softly wiped them away with his thumb. "I will take care of you. That's the deal."
"That's the deal", Martin repeated, feeling the anger dissipate completely as Jon wrapped his arms around him and buried his face into Jon's shoulder.
"How about a compromise," Jon suggested. "You return to work, but only do half-days. I don't want you over-exerting yourself. Is that alright?"
Martin nodded against Jon. "It's better than nothing. Thank you."
Jon, to his credit, tried his best not to hover. He gave Martin space at work, let him work through statements, and brought him tea at his desk. Basira tried to do the same, keeping an eye on him in a more subtle way, trusting him not to push himself too hard. They gave him simple tasks, phonecalls, note-taking, sending emails. Nothing too strenuous
Still, Martin felt tired. His body was in constant pain. The bright computer screen hurt his eyes and made his brain fog worse. His hands now had a subtle tremor that never seemed to go away. He got nauseous when he got up or sat down too fast, dizzy when he stood up for too long, and barely got through a statement's worth of work per day.
It wasn't the same, and he knew it very well. Two weeks later, he stopped going to work altogether.
They were at the hospital again.
A different section, this time, but the feelings it evoked Jon were the same as last time. Hopelessness, despair, panic. And fear.
They were taking a blood sample from Martin for the second time that day, to run some more tests, and he waited outside for them to finish. He could, hypothetically, Know what they were doing in there, but he didn't bother. He realized, distantly, that he was Knowing less and less these days. Consciously, at least. Tidbits of knowledge still popped into his head when he wasn't paying attention, but he rarely seeked out information.
The one piece of information he desperately needed was, after all, inexistent.
Time seemed to be passing excruciatingly slowly, and the door in front of him was still firmly shut. He couldn't hear anything from inside, but he supposed a blood draw didn't require extensive conversation.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He hesitated for a second or two before pressing 'call'.
Basira picked it up immediately. "Any news?"
"Nothing yet. He's still in there, they're running some supplementary tests."
"Do you want me to come?"
"You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to," Basira repeated patiently. "Do you want me to?"
Jon thought about it for a moment, then replied. "No."
"Alright."
A beat.
"How are you?" Basira asked.
Jon took a moment to prepare an adequate answer for such a loaded question. "I guess I'm... okay? I'm not good, obviously. But this was a scheduled appointment, so I'm less worried than would be. Or rather, I'm as worried as I always am. Which is fine. Does- does that make sense?"
"It does," Basira reassured him.
Jon let out a long, breathy sigh. "I just wish I didn't feel so useless all the time."
"You're not useless."
"You know what I mean."
Basira sighed. "Yeah I do."
Jon continued, his voice shaky and unsteady. "I don't know what to do, most of the time. And I get it, there isn't much to do in the first place. But still. All the knowledge in the world at my disposal, and yet I don't know how to help him."
"You are helping, though," Basira insisted, continuing before Jon could protest. "You're there for him. He knows he's not alone, that he's not going through it all by himself. He knows he's still loved."
It wasn't the first time they were having this conversation, or a variation of it. Jon would tell Basira how guilty he felt, Basira would tell him it wasn't his fault, Jon would pretend he believed her, and Basira would pretend she was satisfied with his response.
"You're right. Thank you," Jon said, and tried his best to mean it.
"Don't mention it," said Basira, playing her part. "Do you think Martin would be up for a visit when you get home?"
"I'll ask him. But probably yes. He was asking for tea earlier, which is always a good sign."
He could feel Basira smile at that through the phone. "I'll drop by after work, alright?"
"Yes. Thank you." Martin's voice grew closer through the door, and Jon got up, saying goodbye to Basira on the phone as the door opened and out came Martin with the doctor.
"I was thinking," Martin said on a Sunday morning, him and Jon still in bed. It was a good day, Martin could feel it. He'd gotten some sleep during the night, and the pain was manageable. He turned to look at Jon. "I've never been to Bournemouth."
Jon turned to look at Martin. "Really? Well, you're not missing much. Rows upon rows of brick houses in the suburbs, a seemingly endless beach near the centre, a surprising amount of Victorian buildings for a town of its size. And tourists. Lots and lots of tourists. Boring enough for the locals, entertaining enough for tourists and students."
"So you hated it," Martin stated playfully.
"Honestly, I didn't," Jon tried to clarify. "I just didn't particularly care for it."
"How do you mean?"
Jon shrugged. "To my younger self it seemed like a rather dull place to live. The kids were bullies, the adults were busy, and my grandma would rather keep me occupied with anything she could come up with than actually spend some time with me."
"Sounds fun," Martin deadpanned.
"It was," Jon said in earnest. "Web-related childhood trauma aside, it was quite nice. The beach was too noisy -not to mention too far from my house- but the parks were good. God knows how much time I spent walking through the nearby parks, a book in my hand. It was nice. At least, that's how I remember it. I haven't been there in years."
"Would you like to?"
"What?"
Martin sat up, pleased the motion didn't make him wince in pain. "Do you want to go to Bournemouth for the day?"
Jon blinked in surprise. "What brought this on?"
"Like I said, I've never actually been there. I've always found it amusing that you were from Bournemouth, of all places. Very out of character for you," Martin said with a smile, making Jon chuckle. "Also," he said, a serene look settling on his face, "this might be the last good day I get. I'd love to spend it getting to know the place you grew up in." It broke Martin's heart to see Jon's smile disappear at that. "So, do you want to go?"
"You tell me. It's not a short journey, and it's the middle of June. Are you feeling-"
"I'm alright," Martin rushed. "Not too much pain, no nausea. I'll take it easy, I promise. The moment I get tired, I'll let you know and we'll be on our way home. I promise," he repeated, taking Jon's hand into his own and giving him an earnest look.
"Only if you're sure."
"I am."
Jon smiled. "Well, then. Let's visit my hometown."
It was noon by the time they arrived at Bournemouth, the hot summer sun shining above them as they parked near the beach, which was filled with tourists and locals. The air was slightly humid and smelled of salt, and Jon smiled as he got out of the car and helped Martin out and onto the pavement, then down the steps and onto the pier. "So? Thoughts?"
Martin glanced around him, taking in the endless sea and the sounds of families and tourists enjoying the clear sunny sky and the beach. "I love it," he replied with a smile. "Where are we going first?"
"I was thinking we could walk along the pier, then into the lower gardens and the Aviary," Jon suggested, looking around and taking in the familiar sights.
"Lead the way, then," Martin said with a smile, taking Jon's hand and following him up the slanted pavement and onto the wooden pier.
Bournemouth was beautiful, Martin had to admit. They walked slowly, trying to not over-exert Martin, through the Gardens and over the small streams of water that ran through it. Then, they went through the Aviary, with Martin listening carefully as Jon informed him about every single bird they encountered. They visited the tourist shops that surrounded the outskirts of the Gardens, and admired the large statues and Victorian buildings that were scattered throughout the city centre.
Martin tried very hard not to think that this was the first and the last time he visited Jon's hometown.
"What about your old house?" Martin asked while they ate lunch at a pub near a church. "Is it still around?"
"It probably is," Jon mused. "I never bothered to sell it, so I'm guessing it's still as it was."
"Wait- it's yours? You mean you own it?" Martin asked in surprise.
"My grandma passed it on to me in her will," Jon confirmed. "I actually haven't been there since she died," he admitted, his voice laced with a reminiscing melancholy.
"We should go see it," Martin decided as they were finishing up their meal. "Is it far from here?"
"About twenty minutes or so."
"Let's go, then," Martin said with a smirk, eager to visit Jon's childhood home.
While they drove, the busy streets of the city centre gave way to more quiet, less lively roads, lined with trees and brick houses with brickwall-lined front yards as they went through the suburbs. Jon's old house was no exception- a tall, red brick body with white windows, a slanted, tiled roof and an untidy yard at the front. The hinges of the rusted metal door creaked as Jon pushed it open, and led them into the unruly mess that was once the garden. He took the spare key that was still under the second flowerpot on the front door steps, and entered the house with Martin close behind him.
"It's lovely," Martin said in earnest as he looked around the living room, every inch of it covered in a thick layer of sticky dust. "Where's your bedroom?"
Jon wiped the dust off his hands after opening the windows to let some fresh air in. "Upstairs."
It looked exactly as it did when he left for university, Jon thought as they entered his childhood bedroom. He inspected the bookshelves above his desk, smiling at the memories the titles brought back. Taped above his desk was the only picture he had of his parents together, and he reached out with an unsteady hand to touch it.
He noticed, with a pang of worry that made his chest tighten, that Martin had gotten awfully quiet. He turned to see him sit on the edge of his bed, hands on his sides to balance himself, looking pale and uneasy. "Martin?" he worriedly called as he approached him.
"I'm alright," Martin tried to reassure him as a sudden wave of pain surged through his body. "I think all the walking around is catching up."
"Do you need something? Should we leave?"
Martin paused for a second, feeling a sudden wave of nausea hit him. He nodded. "In a minute," he managed to say, grabbing Jon's hand the second he sat next to him. "I like it here," he said in-between deep breaths. "Bournemouth is lovely. And so is your house," he added, leaning his head against Jon's shoulder. "It's weird to think that this is where you grew up. I can't really imagine what you might have looked like when you were young."
Jon smiled. "I will definitely regret telling you this," he said, making Martin raise his head inquisitively. "There's a photo album downstairs."
Martin's face lit up with a smirk. "Is there? Oh, we are so taking that with us on our way out."
"Speaking of, do you think you can walk?" Jon asked softly.
"Yeah," Martin said, still holding Jon as he slowly got up. He felt, frankly, exhausted, but he trusted himself to at least make it downstairs and into the car. "Yeah, I'm good."
Back home, they spent the rest of the day curled up on their bed, drinking tea and flicking through the pages of the old photo album until Martin, exhausted from all the walking, soon fell asleep in Jon's arms.
Martin was sleeping on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket with the TV still on, when Jon returned home from work. He moved around as quietly as he could, waiting for Martin to wake up. By the time he did, darkness had settled outside. He blinked, looking around until his eyes fell on Jon, reading a book at the other end of the couch. "Jon?" he croacked.
"Hey," Jon put down his book, sliding closer to Martin as he unwrapped himself from the blanket. He looked frail, Jon thought as he watched Martin, a husk of the lively person he once was. "Slept alright?" he asked, pressing a kiss on his forehead.
Martin settled against Jon's side, resting his head on Jon's shoulder. "Mhmm. How was work?"
"It was alright. We had someone come in for a statement today," Jon said.
"What was it about?"
"I don't know," Jon said. "I didn't look at it."
Martin raised his head. "Oh? How come?"
Jon avoided his gaze, focusing on the screen across the room, its brightness cutting through the settling darkness of the evening. "I won't be looking into any new projects anymore. I, uh, I told Basira I will be leaving the Institute at the end of this week."
"You did what?" Martin cried out in surprise as Jon nervously turned to look at him. "Jon, why on earth did you do that? You love the Institute, you love working there."
"I do," Jon aknowledged, eyes downcast and heavy. "But I love you more."
Martin's eyes flooded with unshed tears, a heavy weight akin to guilt settling on his chest that made it hard to breathe. "Jon..."
"I don't know how much time we have left together," Jon said in a near whisper, the TV light illuminating the tears that rolled down his face. "I don't want to miss a second of it."
"Me neither," Martin whispered back, letting the tears fall freely. He hated it, hated himself for being the reason Jon had to give up the job he adored. He hated how loved it made him feel, hated the reason behind it. He never said anything to Jon, simply took his hand into his own, and let his head fall back on Jon's shoulder. "I love you," he said, hoping Jon understood what he really meant. I'm grateful for you. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to leave you, I don't want you to be alone. I wish I could be with you forever.
Jon, of course, understood. "I love you, too."
Jon thought he'd known fear, proper fear, the day Martin had collapsed while Jon was out of the house. He thought it had been the scariest day of his life, when he called Martin one, two, three times, got no reply and rushed home to find him unconscious in the bathroom floor, then rushing to the hospital, not knowing what might happen next. He was wrong.
As it turned out, the scariest day of Jon's life was the day Martin had a seizure.
They had been in bed, as they usually were nowadays. Jon was talking about the details of the newest statement Basira was working on, which she had unofficially shared with him the previous day over the phone, and Martin was absentmindedly commenting on various details. A normal morning, all things considered.
What scared Jon the most was how sudden it was.
It was the lack of response from Martin at a particularly gruesome detail that caught Jon's attention. The very next moment, Martin's whole body went rigid, his limbs flexing and locking up, then trembling, then spasming uncontrollably. His face became red as he failed to breathe properly, and his eyes, veins popping and bulging out, kept staring emptily ahead, no matter how many times Jon desperately called, shouted, pleaded his name.
After what felt like hours, but was probably a few minutes, Martin gradually calmed down. The spasms reduced to a soft tremor, which in turn eventually disappeared. He took shaky, deep breaths as he nervously looked around, then began sobbing when he took notice of Jon, terrified and trembling, hands within reach, waiting, holding his breath. Martin closed the distance, clinged onto Jon as he wrapped his own arms around Martin, both crying uncontrollably. Martin, his body now even more exhausted, slept the entire day and night. Jon didn't sleep for two days.
Days went by, Martin got worse, and Jon was scared.
Visits from Georgie, Melanie and Basira became more frequent. Basira visited in the evenings, after work. She would share tidbits of her work at the Institute, about how they were hiring more interns to deal with the workload. How they had secured new funding, and were in the process of acquiring another Leitner. She talked, Jon and Martin listened, and they ached.
Georgie and Melanie would visit in the mornings, since their schedules were a lot more flexible. Melanie still had her podcast, now sharing it with Georgie, and they let them know of any new topics they would be discussing before they had recorded them. They brought the Admiral, from time to time, and Jon didn't let him off his lap for the entire time they were there, caressing his soft fur as they talked.
They both appreciated it, though Jon could see how Martin often recoiled at their sympathetic smiles and pitying looks. He felt the same way, though he never told any of them.
There were days where Martin was up and awake, able to make the short walk from the bedroom to the living room and catch up with them. He stayed up for as long as he could, before the exhaustion took over, making it too hard to keep up with conversation. Then there were days where he wouldn't be able to get out of bed, and they were becoming more and more frequent.
"I think Martin is recording something," Jon confided to Basira on one such visit, Martin fast asleep in their bedroom.
Basira raised a surprised eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I bought a tape recorder a couple months ago," he timidly admitted, not meeting Basira's judging stare. "It felt appropriate at the time," he tried to defend himself. With a deep sigh, Basira motioned him to continue. "I made a tape with some of my thoughts, then hid the tape and the recorder. He must've found it. I think I heard him talking to it the other night."
"He might be doing the same thing," Basira said. "Recording some thoughts."
"Perhaps," Jon absentmindedly agreed, and Basira understood. The tape was for Jon. For after.
"Jon," Basira said, and he turned to look at her. He wasn't sleeping, Basira registered, his eyes sunken and dark-circled. He was thinner than ever before, and frail. Broken, desperate. She remembered the first time she ever met him, what now felt ages ago. A paranoid, scared man, suspicious of his own shadow, yet incredibly genuine and intelligent. Funny, too, she later found out, a dark, dry humour that mirrored her own. Willing to do anything for the ones he loved. That man was gone. She didn't know what to say, so she hugged him instead, and Jon cried.
Martin didn't cry anymore. The pain was intense, he couldn't say otherwise, and it rarely gave him even a moment's relief, but the sad truth was that he was getting used to it. He ate only to placate Jon, because he hated the constant worry in his eyes. He slept a lot, because sleep was all he could do nowadays. He told Jon he loved him, smiled when Jon told him the same thing. And he waited.
It happened on a warm September afternoon.
Martin had been awake all day, a rarity as of late. He was laying with his head on Jon's chest, one of the few places that provided some comfort, neither of them talking, just breathing in sync.
The sun was already setting, and Martin knew that he was slipping away. He could feel it, his body slowing down, something else taking over. It was finally over. Gently, he took Jon's hand into his own. "Jon," he rasped.
"Hm?"
"I love you."
The sincerity in his voice pulled Jon away from his thoughts. "Martin..."
"I need you to know," he continued in shaky breaths. "I need you to know that."
Jon moved around carefully to better hold Martin in his arms, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. "Martin, please."
"You were the best thing that ever happened to me."
"No, Martin. Martin," Jon pleaded, shaking his head, "no, no, no, no, please."
Martin gently touched Jon's cheek with his hand, and Jon put his own hand on top, around Martin's as he pleaded for him nearly incoherently. The setting sun cast a golden shadow on his face, his eyes glinting with unshed tears. "Thank you," Martin said, a whisper, and closed his eyes.
And Jon cried.
He discovered Martin's tape the day after the funeral, tucked underneath Martin's pillow. The label read 'for Jon' in Martin's curvy handwriting, and Jon put it in his desk drawer, next to the tape recorder. It took him a week to listen to it, and he sobbed the entire time.
A month after the funeral, Basira tried to persuade him to come back to the Institute. "You need to get out of the house Jon," she pleaded. "It'll be good for you." Jon thanked her, and declined her offer.
He began smoking again, laughing bitterly at the irony as he took his first drag after two years of having quit.
Three months after the funeral, Jon unearthed the ownership papers for his childhood home in Bournemouth. He thought back to the day he visited his hometown with Martin, on what Martin had accurately described as his last truly good day. By the end of the year, the house had been sold to a young couple that looked to start a family in a seaside town, and Jon had filled their -his- apartment with childhood memorabilia. Old books, CDs, more albums. It overwhelmed him.
Scotland came up in a conversation he had with Basira two months after he had sold the house. Daisy, according to Basira, had a house up in the Highlands, a cabin to hide away from anyone and anything that might have come after her. Three weeks later, Basira handed him the key as she helped Jon load his car with boxes that contained the past three years of his life. She hugged Jon, promised to visit as soon as she could, and stood by, watching him as he drove away.
The drive to Scotland was quiet, except fot the sounds of traffic, which eventually stopped as Jon reached the Highlands. He passed by quick-flowing rivers and large, grassy plains. He saw, in the distance, something brown and off-white moving languidly through the fields, but couldn't stop to confirm what he thought he was seeing, and filed it away for later consideration.
He found the cabin easily enough with Basira's thorough directions. He passed through the village, making note of the shops, and drove on, then took a left and entered a secluded road with the cabin at the far end. He parked, and unlatched the front gate.
The cabin was on the small side, yet imposing, made entirely out of thick stone. When Jon stepped inside, he let out a subtle breath of relief. When he heard of a Daisy-owned cabin in the middle of nowhere, his mind conjured images of a badly-lit, claustrophobic space with hidden compartments for secret weapons and specks of leftover blood in the corners.
What he saw was nothing like that. The lower floor was sparsely furnished yet not empty, with a fireplace and large windows that creaked when a particularly strong gust of wind hit the cabin. The kitchen was small but cosy, and the bathroom was decent. The upper floor had only one bedroom with a slanted roof, and everything was covered in dust.
Jon locked the door behind him and drove back to the village to pick up supplies for the house. The people in the shops were friendly and kind, even when he eventually became too worn out from their questions to give them more than one-word answers. He loaded everything in the car and drove back. Afterwards, satisfied with his now stocked kitchen, he dusted every surface and cleaned around. Then, exhausted after the long drive and all the cleaning, he went upstairs and laid on the bed.
It was too big for one person.
The next day, he woke up early from the bright sun hitting his face through the window. He made tea, grimaced after two sips, then dumped in into the sink and took to emptying the boxes that contained his belongings. He put his books on the small bookshelf, his clothes in the wardrobe upstairs, his toilettries in the bathroom, and framed pictures of him and Martin all around the house. Then, he got into his car.
He wasn't sure exactly where he had seen what he thought he had seen, so he drove back the way he had come the previous day. Sure enough, a little further away from the nearby villages, in the middle of a sprawling field, he saw them.
Highland cows.
He put his car in park near the fence of the field, and got out. He'd never seen one in person, but he had heard of them before. Beautiful, large and fluffy all over, they roamed the field as they ate, occasionally mooing at each other. They were some distance away from Jon, all except one that seemed to approach him as it munched on grass. Soon, it got close enough that Jon could touch it, his hand sinking in the soft fur that nearly covered its eyes. It was thrilling.
And all Jon could think about, was that Martin would have loved them.