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Jon looked at himself in the long mirror hung over their bathroom door, chewing on his lip. The skirt was nice, there was no doubt about that – it was a lovely yellow color, with light, comfortable fabric that moved beautifully as Jon turned this way and that, inspecting it. The fit was mostly fine; it was snug around the waist in a way that felt secure but not too tight, but with the length came the issue: Jon was nearly tripping over it.
“Um, Martin?” Jon called out, knowing the other man was waiting for him outside the door. In one hand, he hitched up the skirt so he didn’t step on it as he left the bathroom, then let it pool back around his feet. “I think you might have messed up a measurement somewhere.”
“I went by the smallest size!” Martin complained as he looked Jon over. “I guess the pattern doesn’t account for exceptionally short people.”
“Watch your words,” Jon chided. “I know I’m short, but not exceptionally so.”
“Well, you look like it in that skirt,” Martin teased as he stood up from where he sat on the bed, grabbed his tape measure, then knelt at Jon’s feet. He began fiddling with the fabric, folding and rolling it out of the way as he tried to figure out how much he needed to cut off. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, grow an extra few inches for me?”
“Oh, well of course, Martin, just strap me to the rack and stretch me out a bit,” Jon replied sarcastically. He gently kicked Martin’s knee, barely more than a tap.
“The rack?”
“You know, the torture device created in the fifteenth century on which a victims wrists and ankles were attatched to rollers, which were used to stretch out their bodies until eventually–”
“Okay, okay Jon! You can stop there!” Martin interrupted him with a shudder. “I get the gist. But uh–why do you know when it was made ?”
Jon sighed. “Let’s call it…an unfortunate childhood fascination.”
“A fascination with medieval torture devices ?”
“You asked.”
“Because you brought it up!”
“Would you rather I tell you about the garrote instead? See, that one was more like a chair with locks for your wrists, forearms, and so on, and it used a bolt to–”
“You’re absurd,” Martin shook his head with a fond smile. “But could we talk about literally anything else while I’m trying to fix your skirt?” He pleaded, tugging at the fabric in question from where he still knelt on the ground.
“Oh, right.” Jon flushed the slightest bit, honestly having forgotten the scenario at hand while talking.
“God, Jon. I love you, you know that?” Martin laughed, the sound breathy, then sighed. “I think this would be easier if you stood on a chair or something? Yeah, go stand on a kitchen chair and I’ll grab some pins,” He instructed, pushing himself back up to his feet. He then hurried away to the little folding table set up in the sitting room with his thrifted sewing machine and various other supplies.
“I love you too,” Jon replied, the words as natural and instinctive as breathing. Then: “You want me to stand on a chair?”
“Yeah, so I can mess with the length without breaking my back bending down to the floor,” Martin explained, rummaging around in a box, his back to Jon.
It was then that Jon saw his golden opportunity. “Alright,” He agreed, and bunched up the skirt fabric as he strode over to the nearest chair. He had just managed to climb up without tripping over himself, feet proudly planted on the seat, when Martin returned to him with a little plastic bag of safety pins. “Oh, hello Martin, I almost didn’t see you there. You’re looking quite short today, you know,” Jon greeted him with a grin.
Martin was not impressed. “Oh, you’re really proud of that one, aren’t you?” He deadpanned, shaking his head and bending down to begin adjusting Jon’s skirt again. Jon poked him in the temple.
“Mad that it’s me teasing you for once?” He crooned sweetly.
“Pfft,” Martin rolled his eyes as he worked, sticking safety pins into the fabric to hold it up around Jon’s ankles. “You wish. You’re just not funny.” He grabbed Jon’s hand before he could pull it away, kissing his knuckles with a self-satisfied smile that said something along the lines of you’re going to have to try harder than that, sweetheart, before getting back to work. Jon, with an exaggerated sigh, clutched that hand to his chest dramatically.
“My pride, Martin! Oh, how you wound me,” He lamented, and he was proud to note that that did get a bit of a laugh out of Martin.
“Yeah, yeah – come on, you can get down from there. I think I’ll be able to work with what I’ve got pinned,” Martin said as he wrapped his arms around Jon’s legs. “Besides, best not let the extra height get to your head.” Jon’s arms pitched forward and he planted his hands on Martin’s shoulders as the other man lifted him off the chair and deposited him firmly back on the ground. Jon sputtered a protest but Martin simply smiled at him, ruffling his hair like he might a child’s.
“That’s better,” He said. “All is right in the world.”
Jon swatted Martin’s hand away.
“But you loooove meeeee,” Martin grinned at him, leaning in for a brief kiss. “Now take that off so I can fix it.”
Jon let out a dramatic sigh before turning towards the bathroom. “Whatever you say, Martin.”
Jon wore the finished skirt out a few days later, when he and Martin went out to celebrate their four-year anniversary. The first year they celebrated, they really went all out — still worried that their new reality would crumble, and desperate to make the most of the time they had left. But in the years since then, they’d settled into their new life, finally accepting (for the most part) that they were truly safe.
Everything really was over.
All that is to say, their anniversary celebrations had become a bit simpler since then. Tonight they’d gone out for a pleasant dinner, at a restaurant a bit fancier than what they’d usually go for, and were finishing up the night lounging on their balcony with a bottle of wine. Neither of them were much of a drinker, but they’d occasionally indulge; this day in particular always being one of them.
“I’m really glad you like the skirt,” Martin said, halfway through his glass with his head resting on Jon’s shoulder. Their hands were tangled together between them, Jon’s thumb making circles on Martin’s wrist.
“Of course I like it,” Jon replied. “You made it for me.”
Martin simply hummed in response, turning his face into Jon’s shoulder. Jon tilted his head to lay on top of Martin’s and smiled. Oh, how lucky he was to be given this life.
“Jon?” Martin asked after a while, lifting his head to look Jon in the eye. He looked almost nervous, which sparked the tiniest bit of anxiety in Jon’s chest. Was something wrong? “Can I ask you something?”
Jon nodded, then decided he should probably reply with a verbal answer and hoped that his voice didn’t sound nervous: “Y-yes, of course.” He racked his brain, thinking over the day’s events and trying to figure out where something might have gone wrong. Jon thought it had been a good day, a great day, even—
Martin interrupted Jon’s thoughts with a deep breath, scrunching his eyes shut as if he were preparing for something. “Okay,” He said, then stood up from his chair and—
Oh .
Jon’s eyes widened as he took in the scene, mouth opening and closing as he tried to speak, but to no avail. Martin, his precious Martin, was on one knee in front of him, holding up a ring box pulled from his pocket with a nervous but affectionate smile. Jon regained the ability to speak just as Martin opened his mouth to do the same, and all he could get out was a single syllable, “Jon,” before Jon blurted,
“Yes.”
Jon fell to his knees next to Martin, grabbing his surprised face and pulling him into a searing kiss. “Yes, yes, of course, yes ,” Jon laughed, and Martin threw his hands up into the air.
“I’ve been gearing myself up to do this all day, anxious as hell , and you didn’t even let me ask!” He exclaimed, though there was no mistaking his wide, toothy, grin.
“Ask me then,” Jon said, in between the kisses he was peppering across Martin’s cheek. “Promise I won’t interrupt.”
“Jonathan Sims,” Martin began again, pausing to laugh when Jon didn’t let up on his kisses. “You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Will you marry m–”
“ Yes. ”
“Jon!” Martin protested again, but seemingly gave up on getting the words out as he wrangled Jon’s left hand into his own. Jon watched Martin’s fingers tremble as they pulled the ring, a simple gold band, out of the velvet box and slipped it onto Jon’s ring finger.
“I couldn’t really, um. Couldn’t really decide what I thought you’d like best. I mean, there were so many that I thought might look pretty on you so I just thought–I thought, well, this is just an engagement ring, right? And we’d get others for the wedding anyways, so maybe we could go pick those out together?” He rambled, hopeful and fond.
“That sounds lovely, Martin,” Jon said, his voice so thick and full of affection he thought he might choke on it. So instead of trying to say more, he tangled his fingers with Martin’s and met his lips for another kiss. The fact that neither of them could stop smiling so brightly made that a bit difficult, though, so Jon settled for pulling Martin close in a tight embrace instead. Martin’s joyful laughter against his shoulder, his arms settling on Jon’s back, made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.