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“So,” Peter begins, cheerful as ever, “The Archivist, then?”
Martin shuts his eyes, counts to ten, and exhales, turning his head toward Peter. “What?”
“The Archivist. Not too surprised, really…” Peter hums, not quite making eye contact with him, seated in the comfortable chair in front of Elias’s old desk as Martin sits on the floor and organizes a file cabinet for him. “Jon?” Martin asks, as if there is anyone else, and Peter makes a noise of assent. Martin shoves down a sigh. “What about him?”
“You’re in love with him.”
Perhaps it speaks to how deep into this he is that Martin doesn’t flinch, or tense, or react much at all, save perhaps the tiniest skip to his heart’s typical rhythm. Instead, he keeps moving, slipping donation forms into their proper manilla folders. “Yes.” He responds, simply, blandly, and ignores the ache in his chest. “Don’t tell me I’ve ‘ got to let it go, for the sake of- ’ well, for the sake of whatever I’m supposed to be doing here.”
“Oh, certainly not,” Peter assures, waving an absent hand through the air. Martin scoffs. “No? Nothing about how ‘ sentiment will disrupt the Lonely?’ ”
“No,” Peter repeats, contemplative. “In fact, it’s quite helpful, don’t you think?”
Martin raises an eyebrow, although he isn’t facing Peter. “How is that helpful?”
“Terribly lonely, being in love,” Peter responds, cheerful as ever.
“I- yeah, sure.” It’s an uncomfortable conversation. Martin didn’t particularly enjoy speaking about his romantic afflictions before he was waist-deep in The Lonely, not even with people he remotely trusted. But he’s felt so numb lately, it doesn’t matter much. “Why are you asking, Peter?”
“Would you not believe I was simply curious?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Martin scoffs, although there isn’t much heat behind it. There isn’t much of anything behind it. “I have never once known you to make small talk.”
“Of course not.” Peter chuckles, and Martin grimaces. “No, I don’t mean anything in particular by this line of questioning. Although it is interesting, to an extent. I wonder if our patrons cater to it.”
“To what?” Martin sighs. “Peter, really, I can’t read your mind.”
“I should hope not. I only mean relations between people like us, and people like them. The Forsaken and The Watcher.”
At this, Martin glances up. “Pardon?”
“That’s why it’s not terribly surprising, your- infatuation, let's say, with Elias’s Archivist.”
“Just call him Jon, Peter.” Martin exhales. “I’m still not sure what you mean.”
“It’s a- mutually beneficial relationship, I suppose.” Peter waves his hand vaguely, “Elias watches me, I make him miss me while I’m away. Feeds our patrons, and, well, feeds us. I’m sure it could be similar with you, Martin, although it takes a solid will.”
“Wait, what?” Martin blinks. “Sorry, Elias? ” He turns to face Peter, who doesn’t quite make eye contact. “Well, yes,” Peter responds, eyebrow raised. Martin resists the urge to gape. “Just- just to be clear-” He shakes his head, “Just to be clear, you’re in love with Elias?”
Peter winces. “I’m married, at the least. Or-” He raises his left hand, blinking in brief surprise at the lack of a ring, “Actually, not at the moment. Elias went and murdered his previous Archivist, which has gotten in the way of things, as he’s in jail, and unable to attend our dates.”
“ Married ,” Martin repeats, dumbfounded. “To Elias.”
“Yes, Martin.” Peter sighs, exasperated. “I’m not sure what you don’t understand about this.”
Martin splutters. “It’s- don't understand is an understatement, Peter.”
“We’ll have to invite you to our next wedding, Martin,” Peter continues absently, running his thumb against the base of his ring finger, in the place where an engagement ring might be, “Typically I’m against guests, just the principle of the thing, really, but you’ll not cause much of a presence. Elias will enjoy having someone there to watch.”
“Ugh.” Martin shudders. He can feel Peter’s eye roll, even without looking at him. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, Martin.”
“Believe me, I’m trying.” He grumbles, turning back to the filing cabinet determinedly. “Disgusting.”
“That’s a terribly old-fashioned way of thinking, Martin. Men can be married now, you know,” Peter remarks cordially, and Martin nearly upends the drawer as he glares. “I’m not homophobic. Obviously .”
“Sarcasm is the fool's weapon, Martin.”
“Shut up, Peter.”