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Martin stared into the mirror. Eyefuls of someone that wasn’t him.
Was that really who his mom saw? That man? That stranger?
He ran his hands down the face of a man he hates. Despises but never knew. He could feel the touch of his own fingers, and it only made him feel worse.
He had to hold back a gag at how distorted his own body felt. He wasn’t the same as his dad. He was better than him. He knew he was.
He thought he was, at least.
Tears poured down unfamiliar features. Fell on the floor and sank into the wood.
It was wrong. He looked wrong.
How could he even know who he resembled? How was he supposed to change? How could he possibly make things better?
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t fix himself. He couldn’t fix his mom. He couldn’t fix anything. He couldn’t even do anything at all and the thought made his gut twist.
He looked back up in the mirror.
It didn’t mirror his movements. It just stared at him.
He would flinch or scream or do something if he could bring himself to be shocked.
But he hadn’t known himself for a long time.
He hadn’t even known who he was.
If all you are is what you do and he couldn’t even understand his own actions; was he really anyone at all?
Maybe he was his dad.
He wasn’t sure when he fell to the floor. He wasn’t sure when he broke the mirror. All he knew was the blood in the carpet. And the glass on the floor.
And the pain.
His hand hurt. His lungs hurt. He was gasping for air that he couldn’t quite take in.
Everyone hated him didn’t they? They all hated who he seemed to be. His mom did, his friends did, his dad obviously had, and Martin wouldn’t be surprised if Jon was lying to him. Hating him secretly too.
But.. Did that mean his whole life had been faked by those around him? His friendships with his coworkers. All those memories an ideal, yet artificial copy of what really transpired?
His relationship with Jon, just made up for the sake of stringing him along until he eventually unraveled into a state of madness?
His whole childhood?
Martin slowly dragged himself up from the floor.
It was raining outside.
—
Martin was gone.
Jon wasn’t sure what awoke him, but all he knew was that when he turned to his side, Martin was no longer next to him.
He sat up, eyeing the empty space next to him as if Martin would just materialize back next to him.
When that didn’t seem to work, Jon shuffled out of bed to look for him.
He searched the relatively small cottage, and He was nowhere to be seen. Nothing had seemed to be moved or shifted in the house either.
Despite a slight drop in temperature, nothing had changed. It was like he vanished.
Jon felt sparks of anxiety light in his veins as he registered the patter of rain from outside.
Where had Martin gone?
A few hours of Jon helplessly sitting in the murk of his own anxiety, calling Martin’s phone over and over again passed before the front door finally opened.
Jon sprang up from his spot on the floor, rushing over to his soaking wet partner and gathering him in his arms without a second thought.
‘Where were you??’ He questioned rapidly as he pushed Martin a few steps back to examine him.
Martin looked utterly shot. His eyes were red, his skin pale yet decorated with those red speckles that dawned themselves as a medal of ‘Congratulations, you just cried.’
His face was sullen, practically emotionless.
Jon knew he wasn’t all there, and knew he did have much time until he wouldn’t be present at all.
‘I just.. needed to talk to my mother.’ He mumbled.
Jon paused his erratic movements, letting out a soft, sympathetic murmur of ‘Oh, Martin..’ before pulling him back into the warmth of his arms.
This seemed to help a bit, as Martin wrapped his damp arms around Jon. Reciprocation was a good sign.
Speaking of which.
Jon led Martin into the bedroom and sat him on the bed, rummaging around in the closet for warmer clothes.
‘What did you need to talk to your mother about?’ Jon inquired, quickly adding: ‘You aren’t obligated to tell me, of course. Only if it would help.’
Martin hummed in appreciation at the sentiment, but all words died off.
Jon pulled one of Martin’s t-shirts out from the closet, placing it with the rest of the clothes on the bed.
While helping Martin out of his sweater and binder- Poor thing, must have been so uncomfortable -Martin did decide to speak.
‘Jon, you.. Know things, right? I mean.. you can Know things.’ He eyed the man.
Jon raised an eyebrow.
‘I- Well, yes. It’s not.. quite that simple, but yes.’ Jon said, handing Martin dry clothes and sitting beside him on the bed.
He shivered. Martin was still so damn cold.
‘Can you..’ Martin started. He paused for a moment as he pulled the last of his clothes on, wondering how to phrase it.
‘Do you Know if my mum really hated me?’
Jon felt his heart lurch at that. He looked over to his emotionally wrung out partner, the pain displayed fully on his face.
The words had been quiet, but so soft spoken. As if he had been scared he would break some law by saying them.
Jon could Know. But he also knew on his own.
Really, they both were aware of the truth. Martin’s asking would just be confirmation of what he already knew.
But seeing the pain and desperation for some form of relief, some sort of confirmation, grasping and holding on desperately to that last hope that he had been loved, Jon didn’t want to confirm his thoughts.
So he lied.
‘It doesn’t really work that way, Martin. I’m sorry.’
Martin curled in on himself. Jon wasn’t sure if Martin believed him, but there was no way to be completely sure.
‘Right.’ Martin sighed.
‘Hey.’ Jon said, placing a grounding hand on Martin’s knee. ‘I love you, okay?’
Martin looked at him, placing his hand over Jon’s. That was odd to think about. Jon loved someone Martin didn’t even know, but Jon seemed so insistent that it was him.
So Martin decided to try and believe him this time.