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Jon liked people, in theory. He would have been very sad if they were all suddenly erased from existence, leaving him alone with his books and his peace and an awkward, aching emptiness.
He liked people: but he didn’t at all enjoy the experience of physically interacting with most of them. It was usually an exhausting and frustrating affair, which he came out of with a whole new layer of self-loathing to add to the collection and a desire to curl up into a small space, like a wounded animal, until the scratchiness and discomfort eased away.
Finding Georgie Barker, a bright, funny, caring woman, who somehow discovered things in Jon that she liked - who actually noticed that he had a sense of humour and appreciated it, unlike almost everyone - had been such a relief, that he had dated her for three months, before realising that certain little things (like the fact that Georgie was passionate about sex, Hungarian food and ghosts, while Jon had precisely opposite feelings on all three) meant that they were probably better off as friends, than lovers.
Sasha James and Tim Stoker were the only two other people he had met, during his first year of university, who didn’t make him want to chew his own ears off, or just plain run, when speaking to them for more than five minutes and, surprisingly, they had somehow not hated him in return.
Which was how they had ended up as housemates, in the second year, an arrangement that Jon had not had cause to regret; until now.
“It’s an emergency, Sasha. A boredom emergency. If we don’t form a band within the next five minutes, I may just collapse in on myself from the sheer unbearable emptiness of existence.”
“Hm. I can see some plus points to your collapsing. You wouldn’t be able to steal my homemade taramasalata, for one thing.”
“Sasha, I’m wounded to the heart. And if you don’t want me to steal your taramasalata, you’ll just have to stop being an actual culinary wizard.”
Sasha rolled her eyes, and tried not to smile.
“Fine. I guess I can give you a bit of my dazzling keyboard action. You’ll be the sultry lead guitar, I’m guessing?”
“Of course. Got the pout, got the incandescent hotness and I’m pretty sure I can remember at least three chords. But we also need a drummer, stat.”
Two sets of beseeching eyes turned in unison towards the table which Jon had - unwisely - chosen to do his work at, that evening; having had that nagging urge for just enough company to stave off loneliness, without it getting too close and intrusive.
Unfortunately, this seemed to have failed.
“I can’t play the drums.”
“Pfft. A minor quibble, Jonathan, easily remedied.”
“I don’t know, Tim, he doesn’t really have the physique for it …”
Which was a pathetic attempt at manipulation, quite unworthy of Sasha. Jon was rather touchy about his intelligence and the common perception of himself as a middle-aged man in disguise - either of which she could have usefully used against him here - but he was relatively at peace with the fact that he looked like a half-starved Victorian orphan (only one of which things was true).
“Exactly. You’ll just have to scrape up a drummer elsewhere.”
Sasha eyed him speculatively, with a light in her eyes he didn’t much like, but Tim just sighed.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Sims. Note that down for the record.”
Then he went out of the front door - dressed in his ‘Bi-disaster’ t-shirt, shorts and flamingo slippers - and vanished for just under two minutes, before returning, triumphantly, with a large, confused-looking man of about their own age, who gave them the smallest, most awkward, wave known to humanity.
“Everyone, this is Martin. I found him on the streets. Doesn’t he look like the perfect drummer to you?”
He looked perfectly scared, to Jon, but, then, he might be projecting his own feelings, because having sudden new people thrust upon him, in evening study time, when he wasn’t mentally prepared, was … less than ideal.
He cycled through a range of instinctive responses; dismissed ‘fleeing like a gazelle, pursued’, as just slightly overdramatic, in the circumstances; and settled on scowling: which didn’t do much to settle Martin’s nerves, but Jon couldn’t help that. Nor did he feel a small lava pit of guilt building over the matter, which curdled and worsened the scowl.
“Great. So, we have keyboard, guitar and drums. It could do with rounding out a little,” Jon felt heavy eyes on him again, but he stoically ignored them, “but I guess we can call it a band.”
“I don’t know, Tim. I think we can do just one better.”
Jon had been so distracted by Tim and this new, unwelcome stranger, shuffling on their carpet, that he hadn’t kept track of Sasha at all; plainly a terrible mistake.
For, in her hands, was his prized antique violin, which he had bought cheap, as damaged goods, and personally restored, when he was going through his obsessive baroque period (actually, he was still in his obsessive baroque period, but he’d bored enough people that he usually managed to keep it contained these days).
His violin, which he had very much kept hidden, in his locked trunk in his room, which Sasha must, therefore, have casually broken into. He stared at her, in utter betrayal, while Tim beamed round at them all, so brightly and happily, that it almost made up for the whole thing.
“Perfect! I knew you were more of a classical sort of a guy. Right then. Let’s grab a few beers, while we sort out the next and most important step. The bandname.”
~~~~
No one who knew Martin would have thought that he was lonely. He knew everyone, had a ready smile and a wave and was ‘just really sweet’.
But he was the type of person people remembered when they had a favour to ask and rarely at any other time. Good old Martin would come through for them - and he did - but they felt no need to come through for him, in return. No interest in getting beyond the vague impression of comfy jumpers and the sort of friendliness you could use at will.
So, really, being practically snatched off the streets to become a drummer, was nothing too out of the ordinary, except for the fact that Tim actually seemed to genuinely like him. He even made a point, while Martin was helping him fetch some beers from the fridge, of checking that he was actually okay with all this.
“I get a little carried away sometimes, but if this isn’t actually your idea of fun, then you really don’t have to play along, yeah? You can go, or stay for some beers and a chat and forget the whole drumming thing.”
“I … well, I think I’d like to stay for a bit? See how it goes? Actually, I did do a little drumming, once, when I was younger, rhythm’s always fascinated me, but … my mum …”
He trailed off, mentally cursing himself. It was best not to bring his mum up in conversation, because there was always a risk of getting emotionally complicated, which was the last thing anyone wanted from him.
But Tim just looked sympathetic and patted him lightly on the back.
“Then let’s drink to childhood dreams, resurrected.”
“But, I’m afraid that I don’t have any drums …”
“Not a problem. My little brother, Danny, has already passed through the rock band phase - he did it at fifteen - so I happen to have one full drum kit in storage, lightly used. It’d be a shame to leave it there to moulder, dreaming of the glory days of doing Led Zep covers and Nirvana … ”
Tim having neatly disposed of Martin’s instinctive protestations that he couldn’t possibly accept a whole, nearly new, drum kit, he decided to just … go along with it. At least for a little bit. While he seemed to be needed.
He wasn’t sure, just yet, whether the unbearably cute scowling guy, who looked distinctly uncomfortable when Martin diffidently offered him a can, was more of a draw or a drawback, in this decision.
“I don’t drink.” There was a beat of silence, before he dropped his eyes and coughed awkwardly. “Um. But thank you.”
“I can make you some tea, instead?”
Martin was halfway to his feet, before the tall woman - Sasha - stopped him.
“You’re a guest, Martin. Jon can make his own tea.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m perfectly capable of wrangling a kettle.”
Ah. Well that was another thing he’d done wrong then.
But Jon hesitated at the doorway to the tiny kitchen.
“Though, I, er … appreciate the offer.”
He looked like he was swallowing glass as he said it, but something about the whole thing struck Martin as oddly sweet, in a way he couldn’t define. And his eyes were … intense. The deep, dark, beautiful sort of intense. Martin kind of wanted to stare into them forever, a bit.
So, okay. Cute scowling guy was a definite plus, then. And Martin was already aching to get a few drum beats down, the rhythm all tangled with the poetry in his head. His words - stilted, awkward, derivative - had never quite satisfied, but the underlying sense of them, the music at the heart, itched at his soul.
“Right. Names. So far, I’ve got it narrowed down to The Fighting Owls, The Stupendous Stoker Symphony and Leftover Jam Tarts. Any thoughts?”
Martin had not expected to have opinions so early on in his acquaintance with these people - he usually kept them politely inside - but it turned out that he had quite strong views on Leftover Jam Tarts. And, what’s more, it was actually kind of fun to air them.
It was even more fun when Jon rejoined them - curling up on the soft, worn, couch, with an adorable cat mug clutched primly in his hands - and added his own dry commentary; before making even worse suggestions.
“We’re not having any band names with that many syllables, Jon. Just because you’ve escaped from a different century, doesn’t mean the rest of us have.”
Jon pursed his lips at Sasha’s teasing, but he didn’t seem to really mind it.
“Fine. But we’re not having ‘The Unforgettable Sasha James (Plus Three)’, either. Or ‘Good Cows’.”
He directed that last to Martin, who … yeah, okay. It wasn’t one of his best, but he’d been distracted by Jon looking gorgeously pensive - which he did like nobody’s business - and sort of panicked.
Tim grinned at them all.
“So, Joe Spooky it is, then.” He ignored the splutter of three people protesting in unison. “Now … as to who’s going to write the songs …”
It wouldn’t come to anything of course. But this was quite the nicest evening Martin had spent in … possibly forever.
He kind of hoped it lasted; just for a little while.
~~~~
Jon was far too busy for a band. Unlike Tim and Sasha, who were effortlessly smart (as well as funny, beautiful, kind-hearted and all the rest), Jon had to work hard, if he wanted to get a good degree; which he desperately did. His grandmother had had to put up with so much, in raising him, he just had to prove that he was worth something at least.
But Tim and Sasha were good friends, which was something that meant far more to him than he wanted to admit. As for Martin, he was … not so bad, actually, when he relaxed a bit, and rather beautiful too (not that that mattered) with his kind, sweetly rounded face, touched by some underlying sadness, which Jon wanted to snarl at and chase away; his strong arms; and that indefinable air of dependability and courage, mixed with a dash of sunshine.
So, yes. Rehearsals for The Architects of Fear - their godawful current name, for no reason he could remember, except that it wasn’t Joe Spooky - were … difficult to turn down.
It didn’t help that actually getting to play his violin - other than in brief snatches, when he was certain everyone else was out, and he could tear himself away from his essays - was like a drug; the feeling of music coming to life, that sense of allowing emotion to pour through him freely, and in a form he understood and could actually express, being indescribably wonderful.
He had lost himself in that very first rehearsal and ‘woken’ up to find the others looking at him in silence, before Tim made a crack about having to step up his game a little, to defuse the weirdness. After that, he’d tried not to get too carried away, but music was something he was passionate about and he had never been good at keeping his passions in entirely, despite his Grandmother’s best efforts at helping him try and be normal.
(He’d never have told a soul that his insistence on full dress shirts, at all times, was a way to contain all of that, to button himself in neatly and tidily, so the annoying parts wouldn’t escape).
As for song-writing; that was a whole other thing.
“Obviously we’ll have to do some covers to start with and for practice, but I also want to bring something new to the table.” Tim had waved his arms in an expansive gesture. “Take the music scene by storm!”
Unsurprisingly, this optimism was not borne out by events: their first efforts being more like a mild drizzle. They had all made separate attempts and, while each had something to them, there was a whole lot of nothing in the mix.
“Well, how about we work together?” Martin shuffled their scribbled attempts into a pile. “We can bounce off each other, prune off the bad and work out the good bits into something better.”
That, surprisingly, worked really well. Instead of diluting their ideas, it served to build and expand them, with songs they could actually get excited about, forming under their collective efforts. There wasn’t quite a cohesive style there, but perhaps that didn’t matter. They had something which felt like them, a collection of songs which told stories, not quite so personal as to be unbearable, but not so distant as to feel disconnected and sterile.
Something about having their own songs really seemed to help with the playing together and Martin’s initially clumsy drumming quickly tightened up and formed the backbone of their music, while Sasha’s overly precise keyboard playing got a little looser, as she found her confidence and a sense of personal style.
As for Tim, he had so much charisma and - what Jon would have to reluctantly concede was ‘pizazz’ - that his fairly average guitar playing didn’t matter.
Jon was the weak link, with his old, creaky, patched-up violin and his tendency to get a little distracted when the music pulled him in, but no one had yet mentioned kicking him out; and he was too selfish to offer to remove himself.
Because he was, against all odds, having fun.
Which was clearly a mistake to mention, when he met up for one of his irregular lunches with Georgie.
“Okay, hang on, let me just double check that the End Times haven’t come. Hmm, no Apocalyptic horsemen, no dark, unholy sun, no rains of blood. We’re probably good.”
“Very funny, Georgie. I’m perfectly capable of … of achieving fun.”
Georgie was one of the few people Jon was okay to have laughing at him, because she did it so affectionately.
“So, having won your ‘fun achievement’ merit badge, when’s your first gig?”
Jon grimaced. This was the biggest drawback to the whole thing, even more than the fact that it cut into his study time. He’d known, theoretically, that the intent was eventually to play for an audience, not just themselves; but that was very different from the thing becoming an actuality.
He would have backed out, or suggested waiting, except for the fact that the others were really excited and, well; Jon just couldn’t let them down.
“This Saturday, at the Barking Bishop. Apparently Tim sweet-talked someone into giving us a spot. Hopefully a quiet one.”
“Well, you can count on one fan in the audience. I can’t promise Melanie will be as enthusiastic but I’m sure she’ll come along too.”
Jon almost choked on his sandwich. In retrospect, he should have realised this might happen, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Georgie might actually want to come and watch what he was suddenly convinced would be the most humiliating experience of his life. And, worse, her new girlfriend Melanie, whom he had (inevitably) got off on entirely the wrong foot with and who now verbally eviscerated him, whenever they met.
There seemed little chance there wouldn’t be some video-based blackmail material in his immediate future.
“That’s really not necessary. I wouldn’t want to spoil your plans …”
“Oh, no plans. Hanging out with Mel and some live music sounds great, actually.” She checked her watch. “Whoops, I have to run. Say hi to Tim, Sasha and your Martin for me, okay?”
“He’s not my Martin,” Jon yelled after her, as she disappeared through the cafe door, but there was no response.
He would have to reiterate the point next time he saw her. Georgie was really rather apt to get the wrong idea about these things.
~~~~
Getting a band together wasn’t quite the whim that Tim had let it appear to be. Heaven forbid that anyone should think he had plans and ambitions (and - shudder - a work ethic), instead of the sort of charm which just propelled him down the stream of life, without any of that unseemly paddling.
Tim was passionate about a few things: being fiercely proud of his little brother, like it was his job; films, especially comedy ones (he could easily rival Jon in the nerdiness stakes, when it came to movie quotes and trivia); living life to the full; his friends, in general; and Sasha James in particular.
They’d had sex after less than a week’s acquaintance and then that had been enough for Sasha - who didn’t do romance - while Tim (who did) had just had to try and navigate their relationship from there. He was pretty sure they loved each other and that was enough.
Music didn’t quite make Tim’s list of passions, but he had learned guitar to help out his brother’s band and he still enjoyed it well enough; and, as for Sasha, she loved it. It lit her up from the inside, in a way he couldn’t get enough of, when she talked about bands she enjoyed and made him listen to them, in exchange for the films he shared with her.
But she’d never been as confident on the inside, as she seemed on the outside; and Tim knew that she’d never start a band of her own accord; just as he was absolutely certain she’d love the experience.
Being a good band didn’t matter. Tim had a publishing career in mind and Sasha had more than enough smarts to do something academic. It was all about the now, the fun of it, the not looking back and regretting not having a go.
And it had worked out better than he’d even imagined. Sasha was enjoying it just as much as he’d hoped and throwing herself into the playing, with a passion that struck him right to the heart and hung around there, switching him to almost permanent ‘goofily happy’ mode. As for Martin, he had proved an absolutely stellar find; an utter sweetheart of a person and a nascent demon on the drums. Clearly Tim had untapped powers as a talent scout.
What he really hadn’t expected, though, was Jon. Jon had always been part of the plans, of course: he worked far too hard - forehead always creased, eyes perpetually shadowed from stress and too little rest - and Tim figured that being in a band at least had a chance to chill him out a bit. Or, at worst, wear him out enough that he might get a little more sleep. But he hadn’t anticipated him even being the slightest bit genuinely musical.
Most of all, he hadn’t anticipated him being really, really good, a proper chills down your spine sort of a deal. Though in a specifically Jon sort of way, of course, with his old-fashioned instrument, which seemed initially out of place next to the electric keyboard and guitar and the very modern drum kit; yet somehow, when they’d all become used to working together, it proved a perfect fit, the warm tones and deep heart of it, curling protectively around the rest and giving them something extra; something special.
They all meshed quite beautifully, in fact. Somehow, Tim had struck lightning in a bottle and he was a whole lot more excited about the actual ‘getting out there and gigging’ part, than he’d expected to be, with his casual, strictly-for-fun(-and-for-Sasha), little group.
“Okay, everyone happy with the setlist and who’s singing what? I’m using happy as a relative term here, Jon, I know it’s an emotion that pains you.”
“Why does everyone assume that I’m incapable of enjoying myself?”
“Maybe it’s because no one has ever seen you smile. For the whole first year I knew you, I thought you were just really committed to being some sort of Buster Keaton tribute act.”
Jon shot him an unimpressed glare, thus bolstering Tim’s argument. It wasn’t quite true, of course - Tim had seen Jon around cats, his one true weakness, and there had been a few other, very rare, occasions when a small, reluctant smile had slipped through his defences - but it was not nearly as much of an exaggeration as Tim would have preferred.
Come to think of it, though, he’d sort of smiled a whole twice at Martin last week. And they’d been talking a good bit more than Jon usually managed. Yes, that was very interesting … Tim made a note to keep an eye on this development.
But, more importantly, he was keeping an eye on the way that Sasha was setting up the equipment, with the ease and exhilaration of someone who was absolutely born for this.
“We’re going to knock the socks off everyone in the place.” She beamed at him, head cocked just a little on one side, hair tied back in dramatic bunches, which suited her perfectly. “There’s going to be a full-blown sock apocalypse.”
Anyone who didn’t know her might assume arrogance, but Tim knew this was just her way of pep-talking that part of herself which was riddled with self-doubt; of grinding it fiercely into the ground, so it didn’t get in her way.
“That’s the spirit, Sash.”
Jon, predictably, rolled his eyes, even as he lifted his violin.
“We’re far more likely to leave the place with its socks not just firmly in place, but thoroughly underwhelmed and wishing they’d stayed at home and enjoyed a good washing cycle, instead.”
“Then they don’t deserve our genius.“
Privately, Tim figured that predictions of an all-out sock apocalypse were a little premature, at least for their first gig. But if they played like they had in rehearsal …
Well, they were going to take the Barking Bishop by storm.
~~~~
Georgie and Melanie were right there in the front, of course, waving cheerily and sarcastically, respectively. There were a few of Georgie’s friends, too, and people Jon knew from class, whom he would have to see again on Monday, regardless of how miserably this went.
Maybe he should just cut his losses and run. The others could probably manage perfectly well as a trio. Maybe even better, in fact.
But then Martin caught his eye and smiled; and, damn, he was good at that, the smiling. Jon found himself smiling back, before he’d even noticed his mouth curving up, in a pleased little echo. And then Tim was introducing them - after his baffling determination to take them on a tour of all the possible Archi- names (from Archipelago to Architrave to Archibald) they had settled on ‘The Archivists’ as the least worst of the bunch - and Jon was too busy focusing on his part to worry any more.
The music washed over him; and he was gone.
~~~~
The music pulsed through him and he was on fire.
Martin had always been fond of words and pretty good at using them. You needed all the tools you could get when you grew up overweight, in a not especially tactful peer group, and weren’t especially good at anything (useless, his mum had called him, more and more as he grew into his teens; overriding the good memories which he was starting to believe were a dream; the ones where his dad hadn’t left and she wasn’t increasingly ill and increasingly bitter; when she’d still loved him).
Poems were something he loved with all his heart, but he’d never really thought of writing songs, not even in his brief, giddy, drummer phase (which had proved too much for his mum’s headaches; though he wasn’t sure now if it was the noise, or his rare display of joy, which hurt her more).
But this was like magic, weaving a spell with words and music he’d shared in the making of, and he was filled with a sudden confidence in his drumsticks, his movements, the way his music fit together with the others and lifted it even higher.
Sasha was giving it her all, the notes dancing from her fingers, and Tim’s stage presence was truly phenomenal. And, as for Jon; well, Martin would have to just file everything away and process it later, when he could put together some private words for how he felt about the way Jon so fluidly moved his bow; eyes closed; body lightly swaying; the music seeming to pour out from all of him, not just that small, unremarkable instrument.
(And when he sang, well - Martin was rather proud of himself for not melting all over his drums).
They’d come a long way from that first, awkward meeting. Jon required a bit of time to adjust to new people, Martin was learning; but, when he had accepted you as a friend, he was as willing to give as he was to take; rather more so, in fact.
And with him and Tim and Sasha, Martin was finally starting to feel like he’d been seen at last. Like they knew who he was, the real Martin Blackwood, not the insubstantial version which floated at the back of the minds of almost everyone else who knew him.
He twirled a drumstick in sheer joy, hit the cymbal dead on the beat and, when the applause rolled over them, he, actually - amazingly - began to feel like, just maybe, he genuinely deserved it.
~~~~
“I’m disappointed, Sims. I was really hoping to mock the hell out of you, but you gave me no material to work with.”
Jon blinked at Melanie, who was already turning to say hello to the rest of the band, before he could work out how to respond.
Georgie distracted him, though, by pulling him into a hug.
“You were amazing, all of you. And I can see why you like Martin.”
“I do not …” Jon paused, because it was hardly true to say that he didn’t like Martin and he didn’t want to get into a juvenile argument about the particular degree and flavour of that liking. “He has his moments. And thank you.”
The gig seemed to have gone well. Very well, given that he hadn’t actually physically dissolved into a puddle of raw humiliation, which had been one of the outcomes he’d seriously considered.
Sasha was practically floating with energy and life; Tim was gazing at her like she was the only thing in the room - in the universe - and, as for Martin: he looked quietly happy, utterly filled with it, in a way that Jon realised he’d never seen before, because of those parts of him which had always seemed reserved for a soft, lingering sadness.
Jon would do a lot, he thought, to let him have that completeness of happiness always; and … ah, right, apparently Georgie wasn’t entirely wrong about this one. He would have to mention it to Martin, he supposed - “So, it turns out I’m in love with you, sorry” - but not now, not when he was having this moment of pure joy.
Sometimes, Jon thought - just rarely and for a single pinch of time - you were allowed to have feelings without consequences, without the guilt and complications and anxiety of ‘afterwards’ seeping in and spoiling them. This seemed like one of those moments.
“A toast! To the first, but absolutely not the last, public appearance of The Archivists, destined to be the greatest band of all time. Probably.”
Tim raised his glass and the table followed suit, Jon clinking his slightly flat coke against Martin’s glowing amber beer and basking in the warmth of him, in that sweet little bubble of a moment, before possibility resolved itself - almost certainly disappointingly - into actuality.
He didn’t need them to be the greatest band of all time. Just to have a little more of this: shared music and friendship and even the bittersweetness of love; and Martin smiling at him just like that, so soft, that his heart might break; and he really wouldn’t mind at all.
(But, later, when he gives his awkward love apology and Martin stands stock still for a moment, eyes wider than the moon, then reaches out and tenderly strokes his cheek, like it’s porcelain, and asks if he can kiss him - he can and he does and it’s nervous and sweet and wonderful - Jon realises that he would have minded after all, would have minded more than anything, and he pats his thankfully intact heart in his mind and apologises; and kisses Martin again; and again; and again).