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After his mother, Jon hadn’t assumed he’d live to see forty. She hadn’t. It didn’t make sense that he would, either. And yet—and yet. The clock had ticked onward, and onward, until it passed four AM today, and he’d rolled over to stare at it with a cold pit in his stomach, the realization that he’s finally done what she couldn’t settling heavy over him.
There’s a roiling in his gut. He shouldn’t even be here. After everything—the Eye, the coma, the fire—he shouldn’t even exist anymore. He’d expected the burning of the archives to burn him with it, ignite him to nothingness, not even death.
And yet.
Here he is, staring at the green-glowing numbers on his digital clock in the early morning darkness of his new flat’s bedroom, watching the minutes tick past, thinking about how he’s an Aries with a Virgo moon and wondering whether his Taurus mother had believed at all in astrology. He’d never asked when he had the chance. But her birthday had been May 15th. He still walks by the Thames every year that afternoon and thinks of her.
His bad leg aches.
He looks over at Martin—Pisces, his brain, and not the eye, helpfully (uselessly) supplies. And oh, Martin is a Pisces. Gentle and kind and easily moved, even now. His curly, graying blond hair is silver in the moonlight. They’ve been living together two years now, since the worms, really, though it hadn’t been official until the Archives had burned. He’s snoring softly, mouth slightly open, and Jon smiles in spite of himself.
He gets up.
The flat is quiet and dark, and he pads barefoot down the hallway from the bedroom to the small kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the hob for tea. He doesn’t have work in the morning. His mind wanders—what does someone do when they turn forty? If Tim was still around he’d be happy to just get plastered together, but as things stand... The thought makes Jon ache more. He rubs absently at the offending knee and knows the weight of guilt is something his therapist would want to probe at. He doesn’t know whether he wants to tell her.
The kettle whistles and Jon shushes it, pouring water for earl grey and adding cream and honey the same way Martin always does. Though somehow it always tastes better when Martin does it.
He takes a sip that sears the roof of his mouth and pokes at the two small round scars inside his lip with his tongue, an idea starting to form in the back of his mind.
He’d had lip piercings, back in college. He still wears all black, but he’d taken them out before he went to work for the institute—just before the interview. He remembers staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, hands shaking. Clicking open the two rings on the right side of his mouth. Removing them. Feeling vaguely naked, ever since.
Forty.
He’s fucking forty.
And he still misses those piercings.
He could shake off the remainder of the Institute’s influence today.
He stares down into his tea.
Yes.
Maybe it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t particularly care. He’s going to get them redone.
There’s the sharp sting of a needle, the second time twice as intense as the first, and then he’s up, back on his feet, thanking the piercer and shrugging on his coat.
He barely glances at himself in the shop room’s mirror—doesn’t want to see how swollen his face is.
But the jewelry feels right.
He pokes at it with his tongue—two new rings where the old indented scars used to be.
“How’s it look— oh,” says Martin, when he meets Jon’s eyes, gaze flickering down toward the piercings. And gods, Jon loves him. Jon kisses him straight on the mouth for his wide-eyed surprise. Gently. It stings a little.
They break apart and Martin grins at him, arms looped around Jon’s waist. Jon snuggles closer against his soft, worn-in black Carhartt. “You look amazing,” Martin whispers, and kisses his forehead.
Jon can’t help but make a small, happy noise. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s vaguely aware the shop staff are hiding their smiles.
Martin takes his hand when they leave, and kisses him again in the fading sunlight. “I’m glad you exist and glad you’re here with me,” he whispers. “Happy birthday.”