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Chapter Text

The April sun streamed in through the wide cafe windows, bathing Martin in its golden light. Between the soporific warmth weighing on his eyelids and the dull ache of his feet after a long morning spent bustling about on linoleum floors, he was halfway asleep while still standing. 

“So yeah, that’s about it!” 

Martin jerked out of his dreamy haze to find his new co-worker (who admittedly had been droning on for quite a while) staring at him expectantly. He blinked and tried to look as though he’d been paying attention the whole time. “It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it,” they said. “Think you’re ready to give it a try?”

Martin nodded and his co-worker gestured to the POS system bolted to the counter. They’d introduced themself earlier in the conversation, but he’d been so nervous about keeping up on his first day that he’d promptly forgotten their name. Caden, maybe? Cami?

They tightened their slicked back ponytail and crossed their arms. “Ok, ring up a small vanilla latte for me. Iced, with oat milk.”

He punched in the order, hands shaking slightly. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It wasn’t like this was his first job. It wasn’t even his first cafe job.

It was, however, his first job since “the incident”.

His throat tightened as his finger hovered over the touchscreen. His head began to throb, a rhythmic pulse like a clock tick-tick-ticking in the dead of night, and his vision blurred, the digital screen of the POS going hazy before his eyes.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Waited for his pulse to slow.

Best not to think about that on his first day.

His eyes snapped open as his coworker craned their head over his shoulder to check his work, and he took the opportunity to check their name tag. Cara . He added their name to the avalanche of information that had been poured into his brain that morning and prayed he’d remember it. “Looks good.” They glanced around the cafe, completely empty but for a smattering of empty coffee cups on the tables. “Think you can run the register for a few minutes? I’m dying for a smoke break.”

“Sure thing.” Martin pressed a few buttons to clear the practice order from the screen.

Cara flashed him a bright smile. “You’re a lifesaver. Yell if you need me, yeah?”

Martin nodded, his answering smile tight with nerves, and Cara disappeared through the door behind the counter. 

The morning had been predictably busy, a nonstop line of customers nearly out the door as Martin had hovered anxiously over Cara’s shoulder, occasionally grabbing a muffin or croissant from the case as their hands flew to punch in orders. But as the afternoon crept towards closing time, the foot traffic had slowed, then stopped completely, leaving the cafe almost hauntingly quiet. 

Beanboozled was a rather corporate, antiseptic kind of place: stainless steel chairs with those narrow, uncomfortable seats, plywood tables plastered over with marble contact paper, a wall of plastic greenery with a pink neon sign that read “Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee.” Not exactly cosy or charming or any of the other things Martin thought a cafe should be, but he didn’t have the luxury of being picky. They had been eager to hire, and hadn’t seemed to care about the six month employment gap on his CV.

And Martin needed a job, desperately. Not just for the money, though he certainly needed that. He had long since burned through his meager savings, and was largely living off his credit card, watching anxiously day by day as his debts grew. But more than that, he needed out of his flat: away from the nightmares and the sleepless nights, away from the fits that left his chest squeezing tight around his lungs until he thought they’d collapse, away from those awful lost days, stark in his mind like missing slats in a white picket fence.

He nodded to himself. This was good. Being around people, having something to wake up and put on pants for. He had no idea where his life was going, but for now, making cappuccinos for frazzled undergrads was enough purpose for him.

Ting! The front door swung open and a slight, dark-haired man in a deep green sweater entered. He looked up at the bell, as though startled by his own entrance, and his eyes locked on Martin.

A familiar and terrible wave of vertigo hit Martin, pouring in like a breaking dam until he was drowning, clawing for the surface as the air was crushed from his lungs. Screeching steel and crashing stone and a high-pitched squeal that sounded like a malfunctioning VCR flooded his ears. His vision went green and hazy at the edges, and he swayed for a moment, clutching the countertop, prepared to collapse. 

Oh god, he was going to faint. Or puke. Or both. First day on the job, and he was going to freak out and ruin everything the first second he was left alone.

He stifled the urge to call for Cara and breathed deeply, the breath hissing through his nostrils. Get it together, Blackwood, he chided himself viciously. That odd green glow began to fade from his vision as he forced himself to breathe. 

It was just one customer. He could handle one customer, right? He wasn’t going to let the incident destroy him, not today, when he had actually made the effort to move on with his life.

He glanced up to see the customer staring at him, his eyes wide and dark. His mouth hung open, his lips trembling slightly, and his hands were clasped so tightly around the strap of his messenger bag that his knuckles had gone pale.

God, did Martin look that bad? 

 He straightened up and plastered on his best customer service smile.”Sorry about that. Just a touch of vertigo.” The man blinked rapidly and snapped his mouth closed, nodding vaguely. He was still staring at Martin like startled deer as he approached the counter.

 “Welcome to Beanboozled. What can I get for you?”

The man pulled up short and gave him a quizzical stare. Now that Martin got a closer look at him, he had quite a few scars, all faded as though they were from very old injuries. A honeycomb of pale circles dotted the side of his neck and cheek, and a clinically straight line bisected his throat. Martin wondered idly what kind of surgery would produce a scar like that. “Bean boozled ?”

Martin laughed nervously. “It’s a pun. You know, like coffee beans?”

The man’s brow furrowed further. “I understand the pun. I just don’t understand why .” He cocked his head. His voice was deep and dry, and something about it sent a nauseous thrill down Martin’s spine. “Is a cafe supposed to be bamboozling?” 

“Uh, I don’t know.” Martin glanced over his shoulder at the employee entrance, willing Cara to appear. “They didn’t really cover that in training.”

The man snorted at that, and Martin breathed a small sigh of relief. A customer lodging a complaint with corporate would have been a sour note to end his first day with. “I suppose it’ll have to remain a mystery.” 

“I guess so,” Martin said. “So, um, can I get you anything?”

“A black coffee. For here, please.”

Easy enough, for his first order. Martin began typing it in.  “Anything else?”

“No, just the-” The man paused as his phone dinged in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowned at the notification on the screen, then rolled his eyes and pocketed the phone once again. “Actually, can I get-” He glanced over at the pastry case, “-one of those scones as well?”

Martin nodded. “What kind?”

The man sighed, as though asking his scone preference was a huge imposition. “Whatever you think is best.”

“Uhh, okay then.” Martin glanced over at the dwindling array of pastries left in the display case. “A cranberry scone it is then. Anything else?”

“That will be all.” The man dug in his pocket for his wallet and handed Martin a sleek and surprisingly heavy black credit card. 

“Great,” Martin said, swiping the card and handing it back. “You can go ahead and take a seat. I’ll have your order out in just a moment.”

The man pulled out his phone, typing furiously as he walked away without so much as a thank you. Martin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

Martin kept watch on the man out of the corner of his eye as he poured a cup of coffee and selected one of the few remaining scones from the display case. The strange man took a seat by one of the windows. He was nicely dressed, a dark green sweater over a crisp white button down, tucked into a sharply pleated pair of plaid wool trousers. Martin was certain the clothes were expensive. They had that look: no sheen of polyester and spandex, but instead that soft, deep kind of color you only got from natural fibers. They also fitted impeccably, draping in a way that made the man look like he’d just walked out a Pinterest fashion board, speaking to an incredibly detailed amount of tailoring.

But despite their obvious expense, he wore his clothes carelessly. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbow, baring more honeycomb scars up his forearms and a rather nasty looking burn over his right hand, and his dark, shining hair, threaded through with gray, was tangled haphazardly into a bun. He had undone the first few buttons of his shirt, tugging the collar away from his neck as though it had personally offended him, as though he wasn’t the one who had woken up and put those clothes on that morning.

Maybe he had some kind of high-powered job with a strict dress code. Martin could understand that. It wasn’t as though he were wearing this polyester apron because it was so stylish.

Within minutes, Martin deposited the coffee and scone at the man’s table. His phone lay face down before him, and he was absorbed in a tattered paperback.

“One black coffee and one cranberry scone.”

The man glanced up, blinking a few times before his gaze focused on Martin. “Oh, thank you.”

Martin gave him a tight smile. “Sure thing.” He cleared his throat and glanced back towards the register. No customers, and Cara was still MIA. “So, uh, what are you reading?”

The man had to look at the cover, as though he hadn’t looked at the book before he picked it out for the day. “ Killing Eyes ,” he said with a grimace. “Some kind of 80s horror drivel.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “I assume it’s not up to par then.”

“That would be a safe assumption.” The man gave him an awkward smile. “That’s what I get for trying something new. I’m just terribly bored of all the authors on my shelf at home. I feel like once I’ve read one of their books, I’ve read them all.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I love a good re-read.” 

The man shuddered visibly, as though he had admitted to putting steak sauce on his ice cream. Martin barely smothered a laugh. “How can you stand reading a book that you already know the ending to?”

Martin shrugged. “There’s more to a story than just being surprised by the ending. I mean, Romeo and Juliet starts by telling you how the story ends. But it doesn’t matter, because what’s important is everything that happens along the way.”

The man set his book down at that, not even bothering to mark his place. He stared at Martin with his dark and piercing eyes, his expression difficult to decipher. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

Martin laughed nervously, glancing away to break the intensity of the man’s lingering gaze. It made him feel a bit ill, actually, though he wasn’t sure why. “Guess it’s another mystery for you to think about.”

The man didn’t even smile. “I suppose so.”

Ting! The front door swung open again, admitting a gaggle of twentysomethings with overfilled backpacks. “I better go take care of them. Let me know if you need anything.”

Martin turned and began to walk away, but the man’s voice stopped him.

“What’s your name?” He was still watching Martin with that inscrutable gaze. Martin prayed he wasn’t just asking for his name to write up a complaint.

“Martin.”

The man nodded once, smart and businesslike. “I’m Jon.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Jon didn’t respond. He just went back to his book, leaving Martin to attend to the three under-caffeinated freshmen at his register.

And if someone had asked, he would have assured them he didn’t glance over at Jon’s table before his shift ended. 

Not even once.

Chapter Text

Martin’s first month at the cafe was fairly smooth. He learned how to work the register and make all of their specialty drinks. He began to get a feel for the customers, which ones were kind and which ones were likely to be trouble. He got to know his coworkers, most of them pleasant enough, though he didn’t really try to strike up a friendship with them outside of work. He was the oldest of them, other than a sweet and slightly vulgar retiree named Linda, and he felt out of place trying to push his way into their plans. 

All in all, the job was so routine it was boring. 

But wasn’t that a good thing? Boring meant stable. And stability wasn’t something he’d had for quite some time.

So he poured drinks and heated sandwiches and wiped tables and he told himself that was enough. Because it was enough, wasn’t it? Three months ago he couldn’t leave the house for more than 15 minutes without having a breakdown. Two months ago he was still tossing sleeplessly, night after night, the exhaustion he felt each morning far preferable to the nightmares that awaited him in his sleep. Working a boring job and coming home to a boring microwaved freezer meal and sleeping a boring eight hours was progress, undeniably so.

It just didn’t always feel like progress.

So he took his small joys where he could get them. He drank an obscene amount of free coffee, just because it was there. He made up a little game where he would guess a customer’s go-to drink in his head, before they could order, and he actually got quite good at predicting people’s caffeine preferences.

But as time went on, his biggest hobby became watching Jon.

Not in a creepy way! At least that’s what he assured himself every time his eyes slid across the cafe to that slim form huddled at his corner table. It was just that Jon came to the cafe a lot , at least a few times a week. And, well, he stood out.

He was always both stylishly and sloppily dressed: a plum silk tie pulled loose around his neck, a merino cardigan dropping off a shoulder, coffee stains dotting the starched cuff of his shirt. It didn’t seem as though he intended to make a mess of himself. He just…did. He pushed his sleeves back and raked his sleekly coiffed hair into an elastic in that same far-off, absent way he did everything else: ordering his black coffee (which he always drained) and his daily pastry (which he rarely even started), reading his rotating array of books, and (more often than not) staring through the cafe window at the bustling street beyond.

Martin was desperately curious to find out what Jon did for a living, what job could possibly give him the time to lounge at a cafe for hours every week and still allow him to afford his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, and the fine-milled leather wallet that he pulled out every time he visited.

Yes, Jon stood out. And Martin wished, for his own sanity, that he could say it was Jon’s clothing or his odd habits or his prominent scars, or even his rare (but remarkably charming) smile, that had so completely captured Martin’s attention.

But none of those things mattered in comparison to what Martin felt every time Jon looked him in the eye.

Crumbling stone. Bright, burning flashes of flame. And the static , rising up in his ears like the tide coming in .

As the weeks wore on, some of the symptoms faded: the dizziness and nausea and blurry vision. But although he wasn’t passing out when Jon looked his way anymore, he was always acutely aware of where the man was in the cafe. He could smell him, that pungent odor of gasoline and old dust and copper that wafted behind him with every step.

Martin had mentioned it to Cara once. It was a slow afternoon, as it always was when Jon appeared, and the man had just ordered his black coffee and a cinnamon roll before retreating to his table.

“Do you smell that?” Martin had asked softly as Cara poured Jon’s coffee.

They’d frowned. “The coffee?”

“No, it’s like, a burning smell, I guess?”

They sniffed, as though to prove they were taking him seriously. “No burning. Maybe it’s from the bakery down the street?”

“Yeah,” Martin replied softly, his gaze darting to where Jon was sitting, staring out the window with a deep frown. “That’s probably it.”

That settled it. Whatever Jon did to his senses was odd, certainly. But it wasn’t worth reporting to his doctors just so they could tell him he wasn’t ready, that he really shouldn’t be out in the world yet.

So in the same way he might watch a snake in the grass or a spider in the corner, he kept an eye on Jon, waiting to see why he made Martin’s heart feel like it was about to shatter into pieces.

But Jon didn’t seem terribly dangerous. He seemed odd and scatterbrained and maybe a bit lonely. But none of those things made him dangerous .

And could Martin really say that he was much different?

And so another Thursday in mid-May rolled around. It was utterly indistinguishable from every other Thursday in May, except this time when Jon entered and ordered his black coffee and sat at his usual table in the corner, he pulled out, instead of a book, a pair of knitting needles and a bundle of yarn.

It was a testament to how little Martin had going on in his life that this was a rather spectacular disruption to his daily routine. Such a tantalizing glimpse into Jon’s mysterious life outside of the cafe could not be ignored. So, after glancing around to make sure there were no customers approaching, he delivered the coffee and croissant to Jon’s table and said, “You knit?”

Jon looked up from his project, a frown already creasing his face. “I’m attempting to knit.” 

“Is it a,” Martin squinted at the tangle of wool. “...hat?”

Jon’s frown deepened into a glare. “It’s a scarf.”

“Hmmm.” Martin paused, considering his options, blinking against the dull headache that Jon’s presence always seemed to give him. “They’re usually, you know, flatter?”

“I’m aware,” Jon said icily. A few weeks ago, Martin might have been worried about him asking for a manager, but it kind of just seemed like Jon was like that. A little short-tempered and snappish, but ultimately harmless.

“May I?” Martin held out his hand, and Jon gave him the scarf. 

He turned it over, examining the stitches. It was…something. The scarf (for lack of a better word) was rife with lumpy, uneven stitches, added and dropped so the whole thing bunched in unexpected places. It almost looked like he’d attempted a cable stitch, though Martin wasn’t quite sure how he’d achieved the look with two needles.

“I know it’s wrong,” Jon snapped defensively, before he could even speak.

Martin just raised his eyebrows and Jon deflated slightly, wincing as he looked down at the tabletop.

“I just don’t know how to set it right,” he admitted, much more softly this time.

Martin hummed. “Give me a minute. I think I can get you set on the right path.”

It took a minute or two at most, but with Jon’s intent gaze watching his every move, it seemed to take an hour. He untangled and backtracked, twisting the yarn back together in a few places where Jon had accidentally split it, and then starting anew until he had two serviceable rows. The whole piece was still a mess, but he didn’t want to ruin all of Jon’s hard work, and at least there was a clean starting point for him to try again.

“There you are.” He handed it back to Jon, who immediately snatched it from his hand, staring closely at the stitches as though reading script from a cramped ledger. 

“It looks just like the pictures,” he breathed, a frown creeping back in between his brows. It didn’t look like an angry frown. More a frown of concentration, of thinking.

Good lord, Martin chided himself. I’ve got to get a hobby. I can’t be cataloguing Jon’s frowns.

“It took me hours to get here, and you set it right in just a few minutes.” Jon let the knitting fall to the table, looking up at Martin with a glare he might call accusatory.

Martin shrugged and gave a nervous little huff. “Just takes a lot of practice. I messed up quite a few pieces when I first started.”

“Can you show me how to do that?”

Martin paused, his answer thick as syrup on his tongue.

The bell of the front door tinged , interrupting them with the entrance of an older gentleman who looked incredibly impatient.

“I have customers,” Martin said. He tried to smile, soften the blow, but he still caught the slight slumping of Jon’s shoulders.

“Of course. Apologies, I didn’t mean to distract you-”

“We close in 30 minutes,” Martin cut in.

Jon’s brow crinkled. It wasn’t adorable, Martin told himself firmly. “What?”

“I could teach you, after closing. If you want to wait.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew he shouldn’t be saying them. His head was pounding, his hands trembling, a feeling close to a nasty hangover. Everything about being around Jon made him feel ill, and he knew his doctors would say that seeking out those kinds of interactions wouldn’t help his recovery, but still-

“I don’t mind waiting at all.” Jon gave him a relieved little smile. The motion crinkled the skin at the corner of his eyes and rounded his rather severe cheekbones.

Martin swallowed down the taste of blood and smiled back.

~~~

“How are there two stitches now? I swear I did the exact same thing as before.”

Night had fallen around Beanboozled. The front doors were locked and the overhead fluorescents turned off, so Martin and Jon worked by the cozy glow of a corner lamp and the strings of twinkle lights drooping in sweeping lines from the ceiling. It created an island of their table in a sea of darkness, just the two of them leaned over a pile of yarn that had grown to much more closely resemble a scarf in the last hour.

“You put your needle through the yarn instead of the loop,” Martin said, pointing to the offending stitch. “Just pull there to undo it, and- yeah, there you go. Good as new.”

Jon leaned back and made a few more stitches. His thin hands twisted around the needles with a spider-like nimbleness, plying and weaving with wool rather than silk. “This is impossible.”

“That’s not true,” Martin chided. He took a sip of the tea he made himself before they started. Jon had staunchly refused a cup, saying he wasn’t really a tea person. “You’ve already made a lot of progress.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Did you expect to pick it up and instantly be good at it?” Jon’s only answer was to scowl at his needles, and Martin laughed. “It takes practice. Sometimes years of practice.”

“When did you start?”

“Ages ago.”

“Who taught you?”

Martin pulled up short at that. He twisted the cardboard sleeve of his cup as he cast back in his memory. Who had taught him? Surely it was his mother? His grandmother? Or had he maybe had an art class at school?

He pressed into the fog at the back of his mind, looking for answers. It never seemed to disperse these days, always hovering there, shrouding his oldest memories until they were nothing more than vague outlines on the horizon. Occasionally it would part, giving him a brief flash of insight. But most days it was like he was wearing blinders, only able to focus on the road ahead with no idea of what followed behind.

The doctors all assured him it would pass with time.

“Oh, you know,” he demurred, taking another sip of his tea. It was starting to cool. “Just kind of picked it up.”

Jon hummed, not taking his attention away from his knitting. Martin was glad to let the subject drop, and a comfortable silence enveloped them for a few minutes. Jon’s needles clicked softly, and for a moment, Martin just let himself relax and enjoy Jon’s company.

He wasn’t sure why it was so easy to relax around Jon. His head was still pounding as though he’d drank a bottle of wine the night before, but underneath the headache there was something strangely familiar about Jon’s company. Not that he’d ever known anyone like Jon (the man was in a bizarre category all his own), but there seemed to be a deep melancholy lurking under his bristle that Martin was all too familiar with.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jon hummed in response, obviously counting stitches in his head. 

“What do you do? Like, for a living.”

This was enough to get Jon to look up, and the look on his face was surprisingly sheepish. “Oh, I, uh, don’t work.”

“Ah, a trust fund kid.” Martin said teasingly.

“More like a trophy husband.” He waved his left hand, where a thick gold band inlaid with an enameled eye glittered on his ring finger.

Martin’s heart lurched, an uncomfortable gap in his heartbeats as though he’d missed a step coming down the stairs.

Jon was married.

Why does it matter? he asked himself as his heart found its rhythm again and began pounding out of his chest. So what if Jon was married? He barely knew the man.

So why did it feel like his guts were being carved out with a trowel?

“Ah, a rich spouse,” Martin said evenly, “I’ve got to get one of those.”

“They do come in handy.” Jon smiled weakly. “Though honestly, mine’s been driving me up a wall lately.”

If they had been friends, Martin might have made a joke. Trouble in paradise? Or maybe he would have asked some concerned, probing question, prodding at Jon to unburden himself. But he’d spoken with him only a handful of times. Was it appropriate to ask for more? To offer advice? To tell him to leave his spouse right away?

Probably not. Martin settled for raising his eyebrows and trying to look interested in a bland, friendly kind of way.

It worked. Or maybe Jon just really needed someone to talk to.

“It’s just- well, I’ve been dealing with….an illness, I suppose. I won’t bore you with the details, but I haven’t been able to work in quite some time.” He held up a hand, as if to forestall any questions Martin might have. “Money’s not the issue. My husband has been quite supportive of me staying home. Rather insistent, actually.” Jon let his knitting fall to the table and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “That’s the problem, really. I know he cares. And, goodness, I know how ungrateful I must sound. It’s just that-” He sighed. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

“Sounds like it might be a bit stifling, being home all day, every day,” Martin said carefully. He knew he was treading on uncertain ground. He knew nothing about Jon’s life, his husband, their relationship. Hell, five minutes ago he hadn’t know Jon had a husband.

But he felt that melancholy running along beneath Jon’s words, dark and cool and fathomless, ready to swallow him whole. It was the kind of sadness Martin knew too well, that floated like mist in the desolate corners of his empty flat, that filled his bedroom at night until there was no air left.

And when Jon smiled tiredly at his words, he knew he was staring at a fellow shipwreck survivor, clinging to flotsam and buffeted by the waves as they paddled desperately toward each other.

“It is. And look, I’m not naive. I know I’m not-” Jon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Not every day is a good day, certainly. But I can’t just do nothing! I’ve got this burning itch under my skin most days. It feels like there’s something I need to be doing, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is.”

“Hence the knitting?”

“My husband bought me the yarn. Said I should pick up a hobby.”

“And that’s why you come into the cafe so often?” 

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Martin wished he could bite his own tongue off so it would never embarrass him again. God, had he just admitted how much he watched Jon? That he noticed how often he came in, as though he were waiting for the man’s entrance each day? (Which, to be fair, he was, but Jon didn’t need to know that.)

But Jon just picked up his knitting and said “Yes. It’s good to get out of the house. And, well-” He glanced up, flashing Martin that sheepish, life-changing smile. “I’ve rather enjoyed getting to talk to someone. Getting to talk to you.”

The blush that flooded Martin’s face was so instantaneous it would have been embarrassing, had it not been immediately followed by a wave of vertigo so strong it sent the floor reeling beneath him. His eyes snapped shut, and he clutched the now-empty cup of tea in his hand so tightly he felt the cardboard buckle.

He breathed in. He breathed out. He set the cup down and planted his hands on the table top, feeling the cool, slightly sticky touch of the vinyl beneath his palms. He counted to ten, then counted to ten again, and when he finally opened his eyes the room had stopped spinning.

Jon was watching him sharply, all wide brown eyes and furrowed frowns and a concern so palpable that Martin nearly wept. 

“I’ve enjoyed talking to you too,” he managed. His voice was smaller than he would have liked. 

But Jon just nodded. 

And his face shifted into something that was almost a smile.

And in the dim light of the cafe they sat for another hour in near silence as Jon worked on his scarf.

Chapter Text

“Poetry? Martin, I had more respect for you than that.”

“Really? Really?!” Martin snorted as he wiped down the counter, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and lemon disinfectant. “Jon, I looked up Killing Eyes , and it had an average rating of 2.6 on Goodreads. You don’t have a leg to stand on here.”

The cafe had closed half an hour ago. He’d told Linda he could handle the closing shift alone, and Linda, already on edge about getting to the babysitter in time to pick up her grandkids, had thanked him profusely, though it hadn’t stopped her from shooting him a significant look when she noticed Jon idling at the corner table.

It was a look that Martin had staunchly ignored, thank you very much.

So maybe Martin had been requesting the closing shift more and more often. And maybe, on those days that Jon came into the cafe, he was lingering later and later, far past the time when Martin flipped off the neon “Open” sign in the front window. At first it was because Jon had asked for help with his knitting. Then when he’d decided that was a lost cause, he’d asked for lessons in crocheting, in hopes that it would make more sense. And then, when he wasn’t immediately good at that , he stayed anyway, chattering to Martin about the latest books he’d read, a fascinating new research rabbit hole he’d fallen down, or increasingly, pelting Martin with questions about Martin , himself.

Which had, in that long and winding sort of way, led them to poetry.

Jon rolled his eyes. “In my defense, I told you that book wasn’t very good,” he said haughtily.

“And you’d still rather read that than poetry?”

“Martin, I’d rather read anything other than poetry.”

Martin clapped a hand to his chest, gasping in faux shock. “You know what I think? It pains me to say it, but I think you might be–” He paused, drawing back his shoulders and sniffing dramatically. “A snob .”

Jon laughed at that, a full, throaty chuckle, and Martin pretended it didn’t make his heart flutter. Jon was serious and thoughtful and passionate in defense of his opinions, but he didn’t laugh often. Oh, he would huff and give that wry, tired little grin he had. But an honest-to-God chuckle ?

Well, Martin considered that something of an accomplishment.

“Maybe you should make me a reading list,” Jon continued, oblivious to the way his laugh had brought a rosy flush to Martin’s cheeks. “Show me what I’m missing out on.”

“Maybe I will,” Martin said. 

“I look forward to it.” Jon fixed him with a direct, piercing stare. It was the kind of stare Jon was very good at, a look that cut straight through the haze that softened the edges of Martin’s mind most days and left him exposed and shivering in the cold. “No Cummings, though, I beg of you.”

“But he’s one of the best! What’s wrong with Cummings?”

“Grammar is not something to be taken lightly. Rules exist for a reason.”

Martin snorted as Jon’s phone buzzed on the table, drawing both of their attention. Jon snatched it up from where it lay (face down, as usual) and frowned at the screen.

“Everything okay?” Martin asked, very very casually. 

He was certain he already knew who it was.

“Yes,” Jon sighed, his thumb flying across the screen as he typed a reply. “My husband’s just wondering where I am.”

“I’m not keeping you, am I?”

“No,” Jon snapped, his frown deepening, though his gaze was still directed at his phone, not Martin. “I’m a grown man, for god’s sake. I can decide how to spend my time.” He glanced up and his frown softened slightly. “Apologies. I’m just…frustrated. Not at you,” he hurried to add. “I just-” 

His phone buzzed again, and without glancing at the screen, he swept it into his pocket.

“Martin, are you doing anything this evening?”

“I uh-” The washrag slipped from Martin’s fingers, and he ducked behind the counter to retrieve it, the floor spinning dangerously beneath his feet. “Nothing,” he said, straightening up and plastering a smile on his face. “Just closing up here.”

“Would you like to get a drink? There’s a pub just around the corner.”

That’s a terrible idea , Martin’s brain informed him helpfully. No need to get caught in the middle of someone else’s marital woes.

“I’d love to,” he said instead, dumping the towel in the laundry bin behind the counter. “Just let me get my stuff.”

~~~

It was still early in the evening, but the pub was already beginning to fill with customers, leaving Jon and Martin no choice but to squeeze into a snug, two-person booth. Jon bought the first round, despite Martin’s half-hearted protests, and after the server deposited two ales at their table, they were left alone.

It was silly how intimate it felt sitting across from Jon in this crowded pub. After all, they had been much more alone in those hours they had lingered in Beanboozled after closing, just the two of them in the empty cafe. But that was Martin’s workplace, and even if he wasn’t clocked in there was still a kind of stiff formality that lingered between them.

But here they weren’t customer and employee. They were just Jon and Martin, two friends out for a casual drink at a casual pub on a casual Friday night.

Martin felt his gaze snagging on Jon’s left hand, on that (frankly, very gaudy) ring that clinked softly against his glass as he took a drink. He couldn’t hear his phone buzz over the din of conversation in the room, but he saw Jon scowl a few times, his hand drifting towards his pocket before snapping back to the tabletop with a shake of his head.

They might have been there alone, but Jon’s spouse hovered like a ghost over the conversation, his imagined gaze an almost tangible thing.

Was Jon happy? Martin chewed at the thought as he watched Jon take a sip of his beer, set the glass on the tabletop, and begin slowly tracing a fingertip around the rim. He kept telling himself it wasn’t his business, but the excuse seemed flimsier and flimsier as he and Jon spent more time together. He was beginning to consider Jon a friend, and he was fairly certain Jon felt the same about him. So should he ask? Probe a little deeper about the frustration that flitted across Jon’s brow occasionally when his phone rang, about the melancholy that curled around his shoulders like a shawl when he sat motionless, staring out the cafe window?

But as though Jon could see the question forming on his lips, he cut in and asked, “You’re fairly new at the cafe, right?”

Martin took a sip of his drink. He generally wasn’t a fan of beer, but it was cool on his dry throat. “Been there a few months.”

“And how has it been? Do you like it?”

Matin cocked an eyebrow. “Is this my performance review?”

Jon smiled sheepishly at that. “I just, well, I feel like I don’t know you very well. I mean, beyond the fact that you make excellent coffee, you’re proficient at almost every form of fiber arts, and you have questionable taste in literature.”

Martin snorted. "The cafe is fine, I suppose.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“It is, really! I mean, it’s not changing the world or anything-”

Jon smiled gently. “I feel like the undergrads would disagree-”

“But you know, it’s a job. And after the last few months, being able to hold down a job at all feels like its own accomplishment.”

Jon’s eyebrows pinched together. “Oh?”

A whole world of implication lurked behind that one syllable.

Oh? What do you mean? What happened? What’s wrong with you? 

Most days, Martin didn’t want to open that can of worms.

But Jon wasn’t pushing. Just watching , his gaze keen but not judgmental. Like he wanted to know , but he didn’t care much what Martin divulged one way or another. As if just knowing Martin was the whole point.

Martin swallowed, his throat sticking like he’d recently chugged glue. “I, uh, had an accident a few months back.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking,” Jon added hurriedly.

“You’re fine. It’s just- I don’t really know.” Martin took another sip of his drink. “My memories from that time are almost nonexistent. All I know is that I was in the hospital for a few weeks. I was banged up and bruised pretty badly.”

He didn’t mention the other part: that he’d been found wandering with a huge bloodstain on the front of his shirt, even though he didn’t seem to have any injuries that could have possibly bled enough to have caused it.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Jon said softly.

Martin shrugged. “I’m fine now, mostly. I still get headaches sometimes. A little bit of dizziness here and there.”

And the nightmares . The thought flashed across his mind, but he promptly buried it, right alongside the strange effect that Jon himself seemed to have on him. At best it made Martin look unstable. At worst, it would make Jon feel bad. And honestly? Aside from the vertigo and (very) occasionally nosebleeds, Jon’s company was the best thing that had happened to him in quite some time.

“I get that too sometimes” Jon took a long sip of his ale. “It’s hard. Feeling like you can’t quite trust your own brain and body.”

Martin blinked at him from across the table. Jon’s eyes were fixed on the tabletop, but Martin could see the taut line of his shoulders, tensed beneath his linen shirt. The lamplight glimmered in his dark hair, coaxing out the dazzling shine of a few scattered silver strands, like dew-dropped spider webs. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “It’s hard.” 

Jon’s eyes flicked back up to his face, a deep line digging between his eyebrows. “This might sound silly, but do you ever get-” He cut off abruptly, his face darkening as he dug his phone out of his pocket. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, glancing at the screen. He rolled his eyes, then swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Is someone dying?” Jon asked testily.

The pub was too noisy for him to hear the voice on the other end, but Martin was certain he knew who it was. There was only one person who ever seemed to message Jon, especially this incessantly.

“I already told you.” Jon drummed his fingertips restlessly on the tabletop, then his face softened slightly. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I- yes, I know, but I just-” His hand abruptly froze, and that soft frown was replaced by a look so coldly enraged that it made Martin shiver. “You’re where? ”

Jon stood so suddenly the whole table, including the half-full beers upon it, shuddered. He shoved his phone in his pocket before storming furiously toward the door, leaving his jacket crumpled in the booth seat.

“Uh, Jon?” Martin called after him.

Jon disappeared through the front door. A few curious pub-goers turned to stare at Martin.

“Shit,” Martin muttered under his breath. He pulled out his wallet and slapped a few bills down on the tabletop before grabbing the abandoned jacket and hurrying after Jon.

Outside, Jon was in a full-fledged row with an older man leaning against a sleek black sports car. 

The man was impeccably dressed, much like Jon always was, though he wore his fine clothes much more primly. His chestnut hair was slicked back neatly to show off the thick streaks of gray at his temples, and an emerald tie pin in the shape of an eye glimmered on his chest. 

Martin hovered awkwardly just outside the pub door, unsure if he should get any closer. Jon’s jacket weighed on his arm like a sandbag.

“Can I not spend one evening on my own?” Jon wasn’t shouting, but he certainly wasn’t keeping his voice down. His arms flailed wildly, his usual stoic poise fully abandoned. “This is humiliating! You treat me like a child, like I couldn’t possibly make my own choices-”

“Well forgive me for worrying,” the other man cut in, his voice smooth and sharp all at once, like cut glass. “Especially when you refuse to answer your phone. What am I supposed to do?”

“Trust me, maybe?” Jon’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Maybe I’ll trust you when you’ve shown yourself capable of making sensible decisions.” Jon’s husband didn’t raise his voice, though the ice in his tone was undeniable.

“Sensible decisions?” Jon laughed at that, a sharp, bitter sound that Martin had never heard from him. “Like what? Just doing whatever you say?” 

The older man frowned. “That’s not fair, Jon. You know I only want the best for you-”

“Uh, Jon?” Martin stepped forward, holding the jacket toward him.

Both men’s heads snapped to look at him. Jon immediately looked chastened, as though just realizing he had abandoned Martin to come out and scream at his husband. “Martin, I’m so sorry.” He took the jacket, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. “This is-”

“Ah, so this is the famous Martin.” Jon’s husband stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m Jonah. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Martin took his hand and winced as the man’s grip tightened with the force of a door slamming shut. He glanced up, and for the first time he made eye contact with Jonah.

His eyes were cold and grey and terribly familiar.

Martin’s head twinged sharply and something warm dripped down his upper lip. He reached up to wipe it away, and his hand came back bright with blood.

When Martin looked up again, Jonah’s expression had shifted. Martin could have sworn his eyes were grey just a moment ago, but now they almost seemed to glow with a sickly green light. 

His head began to swim.

Oh no, he thought, not now, not now, not now.  

“Are you quite alright?” Jonah asked. His voice was already miles away, as though he were shouting down from the top of a tower.

Martin opened his mouth to respond, but then the earth shuddered beneath his feet. He gripped Jonah’s hand, his knuckles blanching, in an attempt to stay upright.

The sky darkened. The screech of rending metal and the deafening clatter of falling stone filled his ears. And as the dull, coppery tang of blood filled his throat he swore he heard someone scream.

And then, just before his limp body hit the pavement, everything went black.

Chapter Text

Martin had awoken on the couch after drowsing off watching television enough times to recognize the feeling immediately. 

But as he slowly stirred to life, it became clear that the couch in question was certainly not made from the rough, pilled fabric of the secondhand sofa that slouched in his living room. The surface beneath his cheek was stiff leather, dimpled with button tufting. A soft blanket draped over his body, and the air smelled old. Not musty or dirty - he had lived in enough rundown old flats with malfunctioning plumbing that he would have recognized the scent. But this smell was more antique . It smelled of hardwood and furniture polish and patinaed brass and leather-bound books.

HIs head pulsed, a sharp pain like an ice pick slicing through his brain, and he groaned, rolling over and pulling the blanket closer around him.

“Martin?” a voice asked softly. “Are you awake?”

He opened his eyes to a blurry figure sitting very close to his face.

He flinched back. “What’s happening?” he croaked, his voice rattling in his dry throat.

“Oh, here. You’ll want these.” The figure pressed something into his hands.

He blinked a few times and looked down at the item in his hand. 

His glasses. 

He put them on and the figure (and the room beyond it) snapped into clarity.

It was Jon, of course, frowning and tapping his foot so constantly Martin wasn’t sure he was aware he was doing it. From his perch on a nearby chair, he was holding something else out, this time a glass of water.

Martin took it and drank, letting his eyes flutter closed for just a moment as he regained his bearings.

What had happened? He remembered the pub. The phone call. Jon’s husband appearing, unwelcome as a jury summons. And Martin-

He set down the glass of water and groaned. God, he’d gone and fainted again. He’d been doing so well too. What was it, two months since the last time he’d passed out?

He’d have to reset the tracker he kept on the whiteboard in his kitchen.

“You’ve got a bit of a-” Jon winced and gestured to his own cheek. 

Martin mirrored the motion, pressing gentle fingertips to his cheekbone. The skin there was swollen and tender. He must have hit his head on the way down.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked. His brow was still pinched in concern. It was painfully endearing. Borderline embarrassing, to be given this much attention when Martin would have much preferred to forget the whole ordeal, but sweet nonetheless.

“Other than foolish?” Martin rolled his head back and forth a few times. Passing out on a strange couch (even such an obviously expensive one) hadn’t done his neck any favors.

Jon gave him a tight smile, more anxious than amused. “Other than that, yes.”

“I’m fine, really. Unfortunately, this kind of thing isn’t exactly rare for me.”

He took another sip of his water and glanced around the room. A living room, by the looks of it, with a set of matching leather armchairs flanking the ludicrously long couch. Across from his seat, flames crackled in a huge fireplace, and the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookshelves. “Jon, is this your house ?”

“Uh, yes.” Jon smiled sheepishly, in that way he always did when his obvious wealth was brought up. “Jonah thought it best to bring you here so you could recover. We, uh, also have quite a bit of experience with passing out in public.” He laughed softly, then abruptly grew serious. “Martin, I’d like to apologize. It was…inappropriate of me to lose my temper like that.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“You weren’t interrupting.” Jon leaned back, wrapping his arms tightly around his midriff. He looked deflated and tired, ensconced in a leather wingback chair that engulfed his frame completely. Like the couch, it looked expensive and old, though not entirely comfortable. “Jonah and I- well we obviously needed to discuss some things, but I should have chosen a better time to do that.”

Martin frowned. “I mean, you didn’t really choose that time. It seems like he kind of showed up, unannounced.” 

“Well, to his credit, I wasn’t answering his texts.”

“Which justifies following you?”

“He wasn’t following me. I told him I’d be there. He’s my husband, he has a right to worry.” Jon sank back in his seat, his expression drawing further closed with every word. 

“Sorry, I just-” Martin shook his head. How had this evening gone so wrong? He and Jon had been having a nice time. “I guess it’s not really my business.”

A soft tap sounded on the frame of the open door and Jonah entered carrying a steaming cup of tea on a saucer. He had removed his shoes and loosened his tie slightly, but he was otherwise still dressed more for an office than for his living room. “How is our patient doing?”

“Fine, thank you.” Martin accepted the cup and took a sip, just barely suppressing a grimace. Oolong? Jonah might have a good eye for antiques, but he had terrible taste in tea. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”

Jonah waved the thought away. “No trouble at all. Any friend of Jon’s is a friend of mine.” He took a spot just behind Jon’s chair, squeezing his shoulder and dropping a swift kiss on the top of his head.

Martin busied himself with taking another sip of his awful tea so he could pretend he didn’t see Jon’s head dip to the side, moving almost instinctively to press a kiss to Jonah’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well, thanks to both of you, but I should probably get out of your hair.” He pushed himself to his feet, abandoning the tea on the side table. His head was still pounding and he felt faintly nauseous, but there wasn’t much that either Jon or Jonah could do about that.

“You can’t possibly leave yet,” Jonah said. His hand was still firmly planted on Jon’s shoulder, his thumb idly stroking up and down his neck. “I’ve just finished making dinner.”

“Dinner?” Martin’s stomach lurched unpleasantly. “How long was I out?”

Jonah chuckled. “Quite a while. It would have been impressive if we weren’t so worried. Right, Jon?” He ruffled Jon’s hair and Jon jerked away from his touch, grumbling under his breath.

“I don’t want to impose-” Martin began.

“Nonsense,” Jonah cut in smoothly. “I insist.”

~~~

The dining room table was much too large for three people.

Jonah seated himself at the head of the table, gesturing Jon and Martin to places on either side of him. Martin took his seat at Jonah’s left hand gingerly, wincing as the legs of his chair scraped against the hardwood floor. The room was gorgeous: a long, sleekly shining dark wood table, with matching brocade-upholstered chairs, rich blue wallpaper that must have been custom made, and bone-white china plates with gold-rimmed edges. 

Martin shifted uncomfortably. It was hard to shake the feeling that this was the kind of place he should be serving at, rather than a place where he should be a guest.

“Please don’t stand on ceremony. Eat.” Jonah set the example himself, picking up his spoon and diving into his food with relish.

Martin shot his own meal a wary glance. A steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, thick with carrots and celery. A hunk of bread with a crisp, golden crust. A simple green salad adorned with a few artfully shaved curls of parmesan.

He picked up his spoon and took a sip of the soup.

Damn it. It was pretty good. How unfortunate that Jon’s annoying husband had to be a good cook on top of being handsome and obscenely wealthy.

“So, Martin,” Jonah began, “Jon says you work at the cafe?”

Martin choked down a mouthful of soup. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“And that you’re a poet?”

He immediately felt his cheeks flood with heat. “Oh no, not a poet, really. I mean, I like poetry-”

Jonah continued as though Martin hadn’t even spoken. “And he says that you’re a genius with knitting and crocheting?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius -”

“In fact, listening to Jon tell it, there’s precious little you can’t do.” Jonah’s smile was just a shade too sharp to be called sincere.

“I imagine I’d be bad at skiing,” Martin blurted, entirely at a loss about where this conversation was headed.

Jon snorted into his soup, which was enough to set Martin blushing again. He ducked his head and took a bite of his salad.

When he looked back up again, Jonah was watching him with cold, unamused eyes, though his mouth was still curled into a stiff smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our deficiencies.”

Martin kept his best customer-service smile affixed to his face. What was Jonah’s problem ? He was the one who had dragged Martin to his house and insisted he stay for dinner. Why bother when he really didn’t seem to like him much?

“Is the meal not to your liking, Jon?” Jonah’s sharp gaze shifted to Jon, who was idly spooning up soup just to let it trickle back into the bowl again. “I’d be happy to make you something else.”

“No, it’s lovely, I just-” Jon took a deep, shuddering breath. “Just feeling a little unwell.”

“All the more reason to eat,” Jonah said, his voice softening slightly. “The doctors say-”

“I know what the doctors say,” Jon snapped. His jaw clenched and he took another breath. Martin could see him force his shoulders to relax before he ripped off a piece of bread and dunked it in the soup. He shoved the whole chunk in his mouth and chewed aggressively, keeping his eyes on the table.

Jonah turned immediately back to Martin. “So, Martin. Tell me more about yourself.”

“This is starting to feel like a job interview,” Martin joked. 

Jonah’s sharp smile didn’t waver. “I’ve been told I can be a bit…direct. But surely I should get to know the man my husband can’t stop raving about.”

The realization hit Martin like a train.

Was Jonah jealous ?

It was a ridiculous idea. Jealous of what? Sure, he and Jon spent a lot of time together. But Jonah was wealthy and elegant and had the kind of looks that would give Gravity -era George Clooney a run for his money.

And Martin was…well, just Martin. A barista with a cramped one-bedroom flat and a mountain of credit card debt. Not ugly, by his own estimation, but not handsome enough to turn heads. In what world would Jonah ever see him as a threat?

But Jonah was still staring him down with those piercing grey eyes. It was the look of an athlete sizing up his competitor, like Martin was going to dash in under his nose and steal his prize.

Martin shuddered. He took another bite of soup. The sooner the food was gone, the sooner he could leave, right?

“Do you have family in the area?”

“No. My mum passed away a few years ago, so I’ve been on my own for a while.”

“Any roommates? A partner, perhaps?”

“Uh, no.” Martin laughed nervously.

“All alone then?” Jonah raised one eyebrow. “What a pity.”

“That’s enough, Jonah,” Jon snapped. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears.

“Just getting to know our guest,” Jonah replied with a bland smile.

“You’re interrogating him,” Jon pushed back. “Let him eat.”

Jonah rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

Martin glanced back at Jon and nearly choked on his soup.

A bright crimson line of blood trickled down Jon’s upper lip. One single drop fell into his bowl of soup, spreading and swirling.

“Uh, Jon? You’ve got-” Martin wiped at his own nose, and Jon, visibly confused, mimicked the motion.

“Oh damn,” he said under his breath as he looked at his hand, now smeared with blood. “If you’ll excuse me-” He pushed his chair back from the table and hurried from the room, pinching his nose with his bloodied hand…

…leaving Jonah and Martin alone in the dining room.

Martin gulped down a few more spoonfuls of soup, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel Jonah’s gaze burning into the side of his skull. God, this evening couldn’t be finished fast enough.

“Enjoying the soup?”

Martin glanced up to find that Jonah had set aside his spoon, abandoning the pretense of eating entirely. “Uh, yeah.” He shot a pointed look at the doorway. “Do you need to go help him?”

“Not necessary,” Jonah answered smoothly. “Jon can take care of himself.”

Martin snorted.

“Is something funny?” 

“ Can he take care of himself?” Martin set his spoon down as well. “It seems like you kind of…hover over him.”

Jonah shifted to lean one elbow against the tabletop, templing his fingers like an honest-to-God super villain. “Jon is precious to me. One can never be too careful. And besides,” he said, tilting his head, “Fate has a way of taking from us that which is most important. Isn’t that right, Martin Blackwood?”

Martin’s heartbeat sped up, thrumming insistently in his chest. A great yawning nothingness opened in his chest.

Of course Martin knew. How could he not? Loss lived under his skin, twinging with every breath like a broken bone that had never fully healed. Because it was true: he had never been put back together quite right since losing-

He blinked forcefully a few times as his memories came up against a wall. 

Since losing…who? 

Sure, he’d lost his mother. It would have been devastating for most people, but Martin had always been slightly ashamed that his mother’s death had left him relieved more than anything else.

And he’d lost other people, whether from death or just the ebb and flow of life that brought people close and dragged them apart again - his father, when he was very young, a grandparent, a boyfriend or two. But none of those had felt solid, at least not solid enough that having them ripped away would take a chunk of him too.

But when he breathed deeply, he could feel that aching void, ragged and raw at the edges, so empty it threatened to draw him in entirely.

Just yearning for that missing piece. 

Jonah was still staring at him. Watching. Waiting. Measuring.

“Losing people is…hard,” Martin said dully. His tongue felt numb.

The corner of Jonah’s mouth twitched. “It is indeed hard . So you’ll understand why I’m so protective of Jon. I’m just trying to figure out what exactly your intentions are.”

“Look, I’m not-” Saliva began to pool in Martin’s mouth, and his stomach churned. He desperately hoped he wasn’t about to throw up. It was embarrassing enough that he’d fainted. “Jon and I are friends. Just friends , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jonah’s grin widened, and it made Martin shiver. What was it about his smile that was so deeply unsettling? “You know what? I think I actually believe you. It’s become quite apparent that there’s nothing…untoward going on between the two of you. And I think it might be good for Jon to have a friend. Someone,” and here he broke off, his gaze flicking to the bruise on Martin’s cheek; to his corporate-mandated polo shirt; to his hair, matted and mussed from being shoved under a cap all day. “Someone non-threatening .”

Martin’s face flushed so strongly he felt as though a fire had flared to life beneath his skin. Non-threatening ? God, that one hurt. It was an insult filed to a point, driven between the narrow slats of his ribs to pierce the softest part of his fragile ego. What gave Jonah the right to speak to him like that? Non-threatening ?! How dare he, after he’d spent the evening all but pissing in the corner to mark his claim?

Martin took a deep breath, counting to five before he let himself answer. “It must be hard for you,” he replied carefully, trying to stop his voice from shaking.

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I mean, you have this house, and all this money-” Martin gestured to the luxe dining room around them, “And Jon would still rather spend most evenings in that shitty little cafe with me.” He picked up his spoon and took a sip of his soup.

Jonah paused, just briefly. An expression rippled over his face, darting like a minnow in a shallow brook, but the moment Martin noticed it, it was gone again, replaced by his usual smug serenity. “You know, underneath all of this ,” he said with a dismissive wave towards Martin, “You really are quite an interesting man. No wonder my husband is fascinated.” He leaned forward, propping his chin on his interlaced hands. “While I appreciate your concern, it is unfounded.. At the end of the day, Jon knows who he belongs to.”

A block of ice fell into Martin’s stomach as Jonah’s smile grew. His glaringly white teeth glinted in the light of the chandelier.

“Everything alright here?” Jon appeared as though summoned by the tension in the air, hovering in the doorway and holding a tissue to his nose. He had changed his shirt and cleaned up all signs of blood, but he still looked gray and wan.

“I should go.” Martin stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the chair as he pushed it back. The nausea he’d been holding at bay all evening swelled in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Are you sure you’re well enough? We have a spare room if-”

“He’s had a long day, Jon,” Jonah interrupted. “I’m sure he’s ready to be home.” He stood and joined Jon in the doorway, draping his arm over the man’s shoulder. In any other circumstance, the gesture might have looked casual, even loving. But Martin couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Jon knows who he belongs to.

Jonah’s hand stroked softly up and down Jon’s shoulder. Staking his claim.

“Yeah, I should, um, go-” Martin stammered. Wait, he’d said that already, hadn’t he? It felt like Jonah had reached into his mind and crushed his brain into pulp. “Uh, I mean thank you. For your hospitality.”

Jonah held out a hand and smiled warmly, the invitation obvious.

 The last thing Martin wanted to do was give Jonah the satisfaction of shaking his hand. But his legs jerked his body forward almost unconsciously until Jonah’s hand was tightening around his own.

“Any time, Martin. It was such a pleasure to meet you.”

It was the last straw. Martin fled, stammering and tripping all the way to the front door.

He barely remembered stumbling out of the house and into the cool night air. All he knew is that he spent a long time wandering the streets, replaying Jonah’s haunting words in his mind, before he found his way home.

Chapter Text

By the time the morning rush slowed down to a trickle, Martin was nearly dead on his feet.

He handed the last customer in line their latte with a bleary smile and shifted from foot to foot, stretching his fingertips towards the ceiling. His eyes were gritty and dry, no matter how much he blinked, and he’d been fighting off that shaky kind of nausea that came hand in hand with exhaustion all day.

God, he would kill for a nap right now.

After finally making his way home from Jon and Jonah’s after hours of wandering, sleep had been slow to come to him. He knew that he had an opening shift on the horizon, ominous as a storm cloud, but he couldn’t stop replaying the night in his head.

Jonah kissing the top of Jon’s head. His sharp, possessive gaze. The protective curl of his hand around Jon’s shoulder.

Jon knows who he belongs to.

All told, he hadn’t gotten more than an hour or two of sleep.

Unfortunately, his break was still an hour away, and the breakroom didn’t have a convenient place to curl up and sleep. So he sipped his oversteeped tea and pinched his earlobe as hard as he could in a desperate bid to stay awake.

“Late night?” Cara’s voice behind him made him jump, his tea sloshing dangerously in its to-go cup.

Martin sighed. “You could say that.”

“Are you alright?” Cara frowned, gesturing towards his face. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a bruise.”

His hand flew up to cover the bruise, cursing his stupid, sleep-deprived brain for not thinking to get some concealer. “Went to the pub with a friend last night.”

Cara’s eyebrows raised. “What, did you get in a fight?”

The memory of Jon and Jonah shouting at each other on the sidewalk flashed through his mind. He grimaced.

“Might have had one too many. Tripped on a curb on my way home,” he explained sheepishly. 

It was true enough, give or take a few steps. Barely even a lie.

They flashed him a grin. “Getting a bit old for a rager, aren’t you?”

“What? I’m not- what do you-” Martin sputtered, before pausing to take a calming breath. “Exactly how old do you think I am?”

“Thirty-five, at least.”

“I’m not-” Martin shook his head, momentarily stunned. “First of all, I’m thirty-one. Second of all, even if I was thirty-five, which I’m not, that isn’t even that old!”

Cara’s grin grew. “Whatever you say, old man.”

Someone cleared their throat and Martin whipped around to find Jon waiting on the other side of the counter. 

He was wearing a soft-looking camel cardigan over a forest green button up. Was that silk? Based on the muted sheen and the soft drape, he would have bet his whole next paycheck it was. The colors suited him incredibly well, and the clothes were impeccably fitted as always, but Martin’s stomach lurched as he took in the outfit. If you looked past Jon’s long, slightly wild hair and scarred skin, he looked like a perfect Jonah in miniature. 

Did Jonah dress Jon before he left for the day? Or did he just buy all of his clothes for him, so that no matter what outfit Jon chose, it would always have Jonah’s touch to it?

Martin plastered a smile on his face as his stomach turned queasily. “Oh, um, hi Jon! What can I get for you?”

Jon frowned, taking a step closer. “I just wanted to check in, I suppose. You left so quickly last night, and with you hitting your head and all- I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Martin felt Cara’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his skull. He desperately ignored them.

“Oh, I’m fine, really.”

Jon hummed, sounding unconvinced. “Well, in any case, you should have my number.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Martin. “I was kicking myself for not giving it to you last night so I would know you were home safe.”

Martin tucked the slip in his pocket, his throat remarkably dry. Had Jon just been carrying this around, waiting to see him?

Jon watched him, his dark eyes flicking from Martin’s hand in his pocket to his face again. There was something so entrancing about the man’s gaze, as if no one in the world existed when Jon was looking at him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Absolutely.” Martin gave him a tight smile. “So, what can I get you? There’s white cheddar scones today.” 

Jon’s eyes narrowed, but thankfully he didn’t push the issue further. “That would be fine, thank you. And a-”

“Black coffee. Already have it punched in.”

Jon froze, blinking owlishly, before a sheepish smile crept over his face. “Am I that predictable?”

A warm ember of fondness kindled in Martin’s chest. “Absolutely.” 

“Or maybe,” Jon said, pulling out his wallet, ”I just know what I like.” He handed Martin his card and paused just a moment as their fingers brushed. His fingertips were dry and hot against Martin’s skin.

Cara coughed behind him and Martin jerked his hand away. He finished ringing up the order and handed Jon his card without making eye contact. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll have that out to you in just a minute.”

Jon was barely out of earshot before Cara pounced.

“So,” they said, lounging against the pastry case with their arms crossed. Martin pushed past them to begin pouring Jon’s coffee. “Out late with a friend, eh?”

“Yes,” he said, popping a lid onto the cup. “Jon is a friend. We got a pint.”

“A friend who came in specifically to give you his number?” 

“And to order a coffee. Speaking of, can you please stop blocking the pastry case?”

They did not move. “And you have his order memorized?”

“It’s not exactly a complicated order. Plus, he comes in a lot.”

“Is that so?” They tilted their head, exaggeratedly tapping their chin with one finger, “I wonder why?”

Martin sighed. “Well it’s definitely not for the speedy service. Can you at least get a scone out of the case since you insist on being in the way?”

They rolled their eyes and opened the pastry case, pulling out a scone and dropping it in a paper bag. “Maybe it’s because he ‘just knows what he likes’” They handed the bag to Martin, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

Martin opened his mouth, then immediately closed it, shaking his head. “I refuse to be goaded. I’m taking my fifteen. Watch the register, will you?” He dipped around the corner and strode towards Jon’s table without even checking to see if they had heard.

He swore he heard them snickering as he walked away.

“One black coffee and one cheddar scone.” He set them in front of Jon, who drew his attention away from the window he’d been gazing out of. “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

Jon smiled. It was a tired smile, the skin around his eyes sagging with dark circles, but a genuine one. “Coffee and conversation? I should come here more often.”

Martin chuckled and took a seat. “If you came here any more often, you’d probably own stock.” Jon huffed, more of a laugh than the pitiful joke deserved, really, and took a sip of his coffee. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

He fought down the little voice that said he was being nosy or invasive. The voice that said Jon’s marriage was none of his concern. Jon was his friend, damn it. And based on what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t sure Jon had many friends outside of himself and Jonah. The least Martin could do was make sure he was safe.

“How did you and Jonah meet?”

“University, actually. At Oxford.”

“Really?” Martin frowned. “He seems a little…mature for the two of you to be classmates.”

Jon raised one eyebrow. “Are you calling my husband old?” 

“No! Of course not- it’s just that-”

“I’m kidding.” Jon gave him a gentle smile and patted his hand. Martin’s heart flipped. “He was my professor. Still teaches there, actually.” He winced. “I’m sure it sounds terribly cliche.” 

“So you’ve been together, what, close to a decade now?”

Jon took another sip of his coffee. “Something like that.” He tore a piece off his scone and considered it carefully before crumbling it between his fingers.

Martin watched the hail of crumbs fall to the paper bag he was using as a makeshift plate. “So I’m guessing the white cheddar isn’t a winner?”

“Hmm?” Jon cocked his head, still brushing crumbs from his fingertips.

“The scone? Doesn’t really seem like you like it.”

“Oh, that.” Jon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m sure it’s lovely, I just-” He sighed. “Eating is…difficult for me.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry-”

“You’re not prying,” Jon cut him off firmly. “It’s just- my illness leaves me feeling nauseous most of the time. Makes it hard to get anything down.”

“Understandable.” Martin nodded, frowning at the massacred remains of the scone. “Why order it then?”

“Jonah worries about me getting enough to eat. Sometimes he checks the credit card statements to make sure I’m spending enough for food, not just a coffee.” Jon rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “It’s easier this way. Saves me a fight when I get home.”

The words hit Martin like a brick. 

“Jonah tracks what you’re doing through your credit card?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly as he fought to keep it under control.

Jon laughed. “God, it sounds so nefarious when you say it that way. It’s not like he’s controlling my spending or telling me where I can and can’t go.”

“No, he just shows up at your location if you don’t do exactly as he says.”

Jon stilled. It put Martin in mind of a deer catching a far-off noise: that trembling, alert pause just before darting away into the brush. “What are you trying to say?”

“Look, I know it’s none of my business, and I didn’t want to bring it up, but Jonah was kind of…weird last night.”

“I know he can be rather intense, but that’s just how he is. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intense? He barely let you get a word in edgewise.”

“He just wanted to get to know you-”

“It’s not that, Jon. He acts like he owns you!”

“And why should that matter to you?” Jon’s hands were clenched into fists on the tabletop and a muscle in his jaw was twitching.

“Because you matter to me,” Martin said. The static began to build in his ears, the room going slightly green at the edges. He took a deep breath. “You’re…my friend. I’m just worried about you.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Jon’s tone was cold and clipped. “But as you said, what goes on in my marriage is really none of your business.”

Martin flinched. “Look, Jon-”

Jon stood abruptly. “I think I should be going. Goodbye, Martin.”

He swept out of the cafe, leaving Martin alone at the table, staring at the half-finished coffee and mangled scone.

Alone. Bereft.

Much like Martin himself.

~~~

Jon didn’t show up at the cafe the next day. Or the day after that. Martin tried to pretend that his absence didn’t sting.

He had Friday off, so he spent the day moping around his apartment. There was plenty he could have been doing: the laundry had piled up so high that he couldn’t see his hamper beneath it, and his fridge was bare save a carton of shriveled blueberries and an incredibly suspect bottle of milk. 

Instead, he laid on his couch, mentally replaying his argument with Jon over and over again. Occasionally his hand drifted towards that slip of paper on his coffee table, but he always stopped himself at the last minute. 

He’d tried. What else was there to do? If Jon wanted to side with his shitty husband, that was his prerogative. None of Martin’s business, as he’d made perfectly clear.

So he didn’t text Jon. He let the slip of paper sit there, taunting him with every glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t remember deciding to pull out his dented old laptop. He didn’t remember booting it up or opening his web browser. But suddenly he found himself on the University of Oxford website, and it was no real mystery why he was there.

After a brief search he found him: Jonah Magnus, Professor of History. His picture grinned smugly at Martin from the screen, just as oily and condescending as he was in real life. There was a short, incredibly vague bio, side by side with a list of his most recent publications. Martin clicked on the first one, a wordy title about 18th century English architecture.

The link opened a new window and an error message.

This site can’t be reached.

Martin frowned. He closed out the window and tried the second publication on the list.

This site can’t be reached.

Okay, so the Oxford website was acting up. Nothing suspicious there. Martin knew he should just leave it alone.

Instead, he found a number to the administrative offices of the History Department and within a few minutes he was on the phone with a very harried-sounding administrative assistant. 

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” Martin said. His heart was racing as though he were undertaking a top secret operation, rather than telling some white lies to a clerk. “I was just looking for some details on a class I took a few years ago?”

“What was the name of the class?”

“That’s the issue, actually. I’m blanking on the name, but I know that Professor Magnus taught it. I was hoping to get a list of his courses.”

Papers shuffled on the other end of the call. “When was this?”

Martin frantically did the math in his head. “Around 2008?”

A pause, and then, “Sorry sir, you must be mistaken. Professor Magnus joined our faculty at the beginning of last term. Could you have gotten the name wrong?”

Martin ended the call without bothering to answer.

For a moment he just sat there, feeling the suffocating silence of his apartment press in on him from all sides. 

Jon had lied to him.

It could be nothing, he reminded himself. People told white lies all the time. Maybe Jon was embarrassed about how he and Jonah had met. Maybe they’d met through a dating app - Jon seemed old-fashioned enough to find that gauche. They could have met at a BDSM club, or a meetup for taxidermy enthusiasts, or any number of ways that one might not want to admit right away to a new friend. Martin knew that he should just leave well enough alone.

But the lie stuck under his skin, prodding and itching. Why would Jon open up to him, invite him out to drinks, bring him into his house, just to lie to him about this?

He opened a new tab and typed “Jonathan Sims” into the search bar.

It took two hours of careful combing, clicking through every page of results, every grainy photo, to come to an unsettling conclusion.

Jonathan Sims, at least as Martin knew him, didn’t exist.

At first, Martin chalked it up to Jon not having any social media. It seemed fitting - Jon had never struck him as the type to pour out his every thought onto the internet. But as he searched deeper, clicking past a gaggle of Jonathan Simses who were too young or too old or who lived on the other side of the world, he was hard pressed to find any evidence that the man who visited his cafe at least three times a week had ever existed at all.

No old yearbooks or school records. No write-ups in a student paper or stiffly posed photos of him smiling at graduation.

And even more damning - there was no official record of his marriage to Jonah Magnus.

In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have considered it odd. Plenty of people called themselves spouses without ever making it official. It didn’t mean they were hiding something.

But when stacked against everything else - the lies and inconsistencies, the way that Jonah monitored Jon’s movements and watched him like a cat preparing to pounce - it left Martin feeling sick and shaky.

He wasn't sure what it was, but something was profoundly wrong. And he wasn’t sure Jon had anyone else in his life who he could go to for help.

Martin snapped the laptop shut and finally picked up Jon’s number from the coffee table. He’d neglected it so long that a fine mesh of cobweb stuck it to the table. He brushed the web off impatiently and typed the number into his phone, composing a message and sending it off before he could lose his nerve.

It’s Martin. Can we please talk in person? It’s important.

Five excruciating minutes ticked by. He left his phone sitting face up on the couch next to him, glancing at the screen every few seconds until it lit up with Jon’s response.

Alright. When and where? 

Martin dropped a location pin for a park near his house. This was definitely a conversation they couldn’t have at Jon’s house. Or at Beanboozled for that matter.

Can you meet now? Martin typed.

He watched the little dots of Jon typing appear, then vanish, then appear once again.

I can be there in half an hour.

Martin didn’t even type out a response. He just sent a thumbs-up before he leapt to his feet, fumbling with his shoes and throwing on a jacket as he ran out the door.

Chapter Text

Martin made it to the park with twenty minutes to spare.

He walked through the aged iron gate, following the gravel path to the center of the park. It wasn’t a large park - encompassing a few city blocks in total, its most prominent feature was a small playground with four rusted swings, two slides, and a domed climbing structure. The path he was following looped around the perimeter of the park, winding past clusters of trees, neatly-kept flower beds, and a duck pond thick with algae.

For a moment he considered going to get them some coffees, just to kill a little time until Jon arrived. But if he left now, he wasn’t sure he’d work up the nerve to come back. So instead he settled down on a nice bench, shaded by a large oak tree and far removed from the playground where a gaggle of children were engaged in a cutthroat game of freeze tag. 

He checked his phone. Eighteen minutes until Jon arrived. Time was dawdling, as though it dreaded Jon’s arrival as much as he did. He felt like a live wire was running just under his skin, crackling and snapping with useless energy.

So he paced, counting the strides it took to make one loop around the bench, and then counting the number of loops he could make around the bench in a minute. The whole exercise was almost pointless enough to keep his mind off of the conversation to come.

He checked his phone again. Fifteen minutes.

He’d never been good at confrontation. His mother had always said he was too emotional. Too easy to wind up. At the first whiff of conflict, his brain seemed to grind to a halt and his mouth would freeze shut. He usually ended up crying more than talking, feeling more foolish and frustrated than if he had just avoided the conversation in the first place.

 So usually, he just didn’t bother. He nodded along. He kept the peace. He told himself that it was fine, that he really was just that easygoing. 

But he thought of Jon - with his rare, golden smiles, and the strange, earnest kindness that he hid beneath his scowls and bluster. And he thought of Jonah, his cold and knowing grey eyes, his smile that spoke more of mockery than mirth.

There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to keep Jon safe. So he stayed in the park, watching the minutes tick by as a sick dread bubbled up in his stomach, heavy and viscous as tar.

He spotted Jon the moment he entered from the opposite end of the park. He looked distinctly out of place in the summery scene, his usual tailored slacks standing in stark contrast to the milieu of tank tops and ice cream-stained shorts. Martin waved at him and he walked over with his hands buried deep in his pockets, a frown etched on his face.

Jon sat on the bench. After a moment’s hesitation, Martin followed suit.

Silence stretched between them, growing larger and more precarious. Like a bubble of gum, it swelled, stretched thin and membranous, poised to pop.

“You wanted to talk?” Jon prompted. He sounded tired.

“Um, yeah,” Martin said, then, after a long pause, “I don’t really know how to begin.”

Jon sighed. “Look, if this is about Jonah-”

“Yeah, it is about Jonah.”

Jon grimaced. “I probably could have been more…tactful during our last conversation. I know you’re trying to help. But so is he. He’s a good person.”

Martin drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before he responded. He wasn’t going to mess this up by charging in half-cocked, no matter how much it irritated him to hear Jon defending Jonah. “Tell me how the two of you met.”

“I already told you-”

“Humor me?” 

Jon leaned back against the park bench. He rubbed idly at the center of his chest with one hand. “We met at Oxford. I was an undergrad. He taught a history elective I was in.”

“And what year was this?”

“2008.”

“What year did you get married?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Please, just- it’s important.”

“We were married in 2015.”

Martin studied his face carefully as he spoke, watching for the lie. He looked for the moment of unease as Jon fumbled for plausible answers - a stutter in his breath, the flickering of his eyes, a nervous tic that might give him away.

But while Jon looked tired and irritable and more than a little confused, he didn’t look like he was lying.

Somehow, that made it even worse.

Martin paused, his next words sitting heavily on his tongue. 

“What’s going on?” Jon stared Martin down with an intensity that made him squirm. That smell he always carried, like gasoline and smoke, drifted on the breeze.

“Look, I don’t really know how to say this, but-” Martin ran his hand through his hair. “I know you and Jonah didn’t meet at Oxford.”

Jon scoffed. “I think I would know better than you.”

“It’s not possible you met at Oxford because Jonah didn’t even work there in 2008.”

Jon’s hand stilled on his chest. “What?”

“After the last time we talked, I couldn’t shake this feeling that something was wrong. So, I called the admin office. They told me Jonah only started working there last term.”

“You called my husband’s place of work to spy on him?” There was a sharp edge to Jon’s voice, one that Martin had never heard before. He knew he was in dangerous territory, but it wasn’t like he could take back what he said.

So he jumped in with both feet.

“Look, I know this sounds crazy, but Jonah was being really hostile the other night. It was like he was trying to scare me off.”

“So he got a little jealous-”

“Jon, listen to me. The way he treats you? That’s not normal. It’s not okay.”

“He’s protective-”

“He’s patronizing, that's what he is.”

“Can you really say you’re any better?” Jon asked, his eyes flashing. “What, Jonah tracks my location and it’s an issue, but you can stalk my husband for what? My protection?”

Martin winced. “Look, maybe I went too far-”

“You definitely went too far,” Jon snapped.

“What was I supposed to do? Just ignore it? Do you know what he said when you left the room the other night?” Martin hated the way his voice wobbled. He could feel himself losing control, the way he always did in an argument. Keep it together, Blackwood.  “He said, ‘Jon knows who he belongs to.’ It makes me sick that he thinks of you like that- like an object, or something.”

Jon’s eye twitched, before his face tightened into a scowl. “You’re lying. He wouldn’t talk about me like that.”

“Would I lie to you?” Martin asked desperately.

“Would you?” Jon hissed. “How should I know? You’re basically a stranger.”

It felt as though Jon had plunged a dagger straight into his heart. “Jon, I’m your friend-”

Jon laughed, but unlike all those times he’d laughed at Martin’s jokes, cozied up together at the cafe, it was a cold, empty sound.. “So you’re trying to convince me to leave my husband as a friend?”

Martin gritted his teeth. “Is he even your husband?”

The question froze in the air between them, crackling with ice as Jon’s eyes bored into Martin’s.

“What are you saying?” Jon asked. The words came slowly, as though it took a great deal of effort to shape each and every one.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s no record you were ever married. Trust me, I looked.”

“That’s preposterous. We had a wedding. There was a goddamn cake. All of our friends and family-” Jon’s voice faltered. “They were there. They must have been there.”

“Can you show me any pictures?” Martin asked.

“They were lost when the basement flooded.”

“Alright then, tell me about the day. What did you wear? Who performed the ceremony?”

“I, uh-”

Martin plowed forward mercilessly. “Can you tell me just one thing you remember about your wedding?”

“I- I- I don’t know, okay?” Jon snapped. He collapsed forward, elbows leaning on his knees as he buried his head in his hands. “I can’t remember the wedding. I can’t remember our first anniversary or moving into our house. I can’t even remember the day we met.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I fell ill eight months ago, it…did something to me, to my memory. It’s like these huge chunks of time were just carved out of my mind.” He made a strangled sort of noise. ”You have no idea what it’s like. Half a lifetime, just gone from my brain like that.”

Martin’s heart thrummed faster in his chest. He could almost feel it ricocheting off his ribs, his pulse surging through his veins so forcefully that his hands began to shake.

Because he knew exactly what that felt like.

“Why did you tell me you met at Oxford?”

“That’s what Jonah told me. He helps me with the things I can’t remember,” Jon said tightly, “Which feels like fucking everything these days.”

Martin took a deep breath. He gripped his knees to keep his hands still. “Jon, he’s lying to you.”

Jon turned away from him, leaning against the wrought iron armrest of the bench. His back was curved, the ridge of his spine cresting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this. Hell, I don’t want to be the one to have to say this. But he’s taking advantage of you. He’s lying to you when he knows you’re depending on him. It’s sick, Jon. You deserve-”

“I deserve what, Martin?” 

“Someone who doesn’t manipulate you!”

“Someone like you?” Jon glanced at him over his shoulder, his face hard.

Martin’s heart dropped into his stomach. “What?”

“Is that what this is all about? The reason why you’ve got this weird grudge against Jonah?”

His cheeks flooded with heat, painting his face like a flashing neon sign: Now Showing - Big Idiot with a Crush on his Married Friend! “Jon, I would never-”

“You know it’s funny,” Jon said, turning slowly to face him. His hands rested in tightly clenched fists on his lap. “Jonah said you were the one acting weird at dinner. He thought it was odd how you just appeared out of the blue. How out of nowhere we were spending all this time together.”

“You came to my cafe! What was I supposed to do, kick you out?”

“You invited me to stay all those nights, way after closing. I should have known it was suspicious-”

“Suspicious?” A torrent of counter arguments swirled in Martin’s head, each one crueler than the last. “I was trying to be your friend, you paranoid asshole!”

“Well, at least I’m not lying about who I am, Martin Blackwood."

Martin froze. “Wait, what?”

“Jonah got me thinking. What do I actually know about you? So I did a little digging.” His eyes narrowed, the afternoon sunshine striking his irises with a strange, greenish gleam. “As far as I can tell, Martin Blackwood doesn’t exist.”

A bitter laugh welled up Martin’s throat, spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“There is no record of you anywhere. No school records, no employment. Hell, not even an old Facebook account. You’re a ghost, Martin. And it makes me wonder what else you’ve lied about.”

“I haven’t lied about anything!” Martin shouted.

The nearby children froze in the midst of their game, staring with open mouths. A few parents, monitoring their charges from benches on the edge of the playground, turned to stare as well.

“Then who am I supposed to believe?” Jon lowered his voice. His hand went to his chest again, kneading the spot as though it pained him. “The man who has stood with me through the most difficult times of my life? The man who has gone through hell and back with me? Or you?”

“Jon, I-” Martin’s voice wobbled. Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and fast. How had the conversation gotten away from him? How had it all gone so wrong? “I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t need the help of someone I can’t trust.” Jon stood abruptly, brushing dust and paint flakes from his trousers. “I think this conversation is over.”

Bitter anger rose in Martin’s throat again, sour as bile. “Fine then,” he bit out, the words punching from his mouth like darts. “Run home to Jonah. I hope you make each other very happy.”

Jon flinched, as though Martin had struck him. “At least I have someone to go home to.” His voice was flat and smooth, as remote and unruffled as the cloudless sky above. “Goodbye, Martin.”

And Jon walked away, his shoulders hunched and his head hung low.

Martin’s tears finally broke free, streaking down his face in burning lines. His throat tightened as he gasped for air.

Fog began to cloud his vision, creeping in from his peripherals. Ocean brine filled the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning plastic left in Jon’s wake. Martin groaned. The sound rattled through him, wrapping around his bones until they shook. 

Not now. He was supposed to be past this. He wasn’t supposed to be passing out on park benches, just because of some stupid fight-

“Hey, are you ok?” One of the mothers from the playground was leaning over him, her pale brows crinkled with concern. “I don’t want to be nosy, but-”

“Fucking Christ,” he mumbled. The world spun around him, the grass and sky tumbling over one another in a great, tilted cartwheel. “Not again.”

The woman’s mouth moved, as though to respond, but he was already gone, swept away by the sky and turf in their tumultuous dance.

Chapter Text

“Please state your name and year of birth.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A Styrofoam cup of water sweated in Martin’s hands. He took a sip before answering, then immediately regretted it as the metallic tang of city water washed over his tongue.

“Martin Blackwood, 1987.”

“Very good.” The doctor scribbled something on her clipboard. He tried not to roll his eyes. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I fainted in the park, but I’m fine now.”

The doctor narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t one he recognized, which was a remarkable feat after the amount of time he’d spent in the hospital over the last few months. She looked…cooler than any doctor he’d ever had, with bleached white hair and a vintage-looking enamel spider brooch pinned to the lapel of her lab coat. “I appreciate your assessment, but I think we’ll do some tests, just to be sure.”

Martin heaved an overwrought sigh. He knew this routine well.

“Follow the tip of my pen with your eyes. Good, now look straight ahead.” She shined a flashlight into his eyes. He struggled not to blink. “Excellent.” She snapped the light off. “Now go ahead and stand for me.”

He stood.

“Touch your toes.”

He couldn’t touch his toes even when he wasn’t recovering from a fainting spell. He managed to touch his knees before he gave it up as close enough. 

“Now stand on one leg for 30 seconds.”

“Is that really necessary?”

She gave him a stern look. “Do you think I would ask you to do something that wasn’t important for diagnosis?”

He threw his arms up in exasperation. “I’m fine! I promise! I just got a little lightheaded, that’s all.”

She pressed her lips together and made a note on her clipboard. “Go ahead and take a seat, Mr. Blackwood.” He sat again on the exam table, the paper cover rustling beneath him. She reached for his head and paused for just a moment. “May I?”

“By all means,” he mumbled.

She felt around his hairline, fingers gentle and prodding. “Any tenderness?”

“Nope.”

Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheekbone. “Looks like you've got a bit of bruising here.”

Martin winced. “That was from a few days ago. I passed out while I was out with a friend.”

The doctor raised her eyebrows. “You mean to tell me you’ve passed out twice this week?”

“Yeah, but that’s not super out of the ordinary for me.”

She paused, staring at him intently for a moment, then scribbled something else on her clipboard. “Well, it doesn’t seem like there’s any head injury this time, but you need rest. Go home, park yourself on the couch, and stay there.”

“But I have work-”

“I’ll write you a note. Take three days.”

“But-”

“Uh-uh-uh. Doctor’s orders.” She jabbed her pen at him. “I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy your time.”

She ruined her stern expression by giving him a conspiratorial wink. Feeling extremely awkward and out of his depth, Martin hesitantly winked back.

~~~

Three days. No longer than a holiday weekend. But with nothing to do and no one to talk to, it was pure torture.

He tried to distract himself, he really did. He had recently bought a poetry anthology from the charity shop that he was looking forward to, and he had stacks of DVDs on his TV stand that he wasn’t sure he’d ever watched. But every time he opened his book or turned on the TV his mind began to drift, until he found himself sitting hours later, his book sprawled open on the couch and the TV playing a rainbow screensaver as he fell deep into his own thoughts.

How could he be expected to pay attention when his mind was full of Jon? Stupid, aggravating, irritating, heartbreaking Jon.

Because that was what was happening, if he was honest with himself (which he rarely was). 

He could say he was angry, and that was partly true. He was furious at Jonah for poisoning Jon against him. He was angry at Jon for not even hearing him out, for acting like Martin was the dishonest one when Jon was a barely-contained mass of secrets and half-truths wrapped in a merino sweater. 

He could say he was worried, and that had some truth to it as well. Despite Jon’s protestations, he was firmly convinced that Jonah was bad news. Just imagining his smug little smile as he welcomed Jon home after their fight, drawing him further and further away from anyone who might actually care about him, made Martin quake with renewed waves of terror and fury.

But the anger and anxiety were like two little plastic cups of water floating in a huge swimming pool of grief. 

Because more than anything. Martin was heartbroken.

It felt pathetic even admitting it to himself. Heartbroken? Over a man who had been very clear that he was taken from the beginning? A low point, for sure. But he couldn’t stop replaying their fight in his head, over and over again, until he thought his brain might explode.

I don’t need the help of someone I can’t trust.

He’d seen Jon when he was snappish and irritable and angry. But he’d never seen him that mean before.

By 7 pm on the second day he roused himself from his fog of self-pity to find that the mess in his apartment was threatening to take over. His gaze darted from the laundry starting to conquer the floor around his bed to the teetering tower of takeout boxes on the coffee table and he felt the remaining dregs of his self-worth crumble.. 

Of course Jon chose Jonah over me. Who wouldn’t?

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Enough already,” he said aloud, his voice muffled by his palms. 

Why was he so bent out of shape about this? Jon didn’t want his help. If he wanted to let his asshole husband ruin his life, that was his own business.

Martin scrubbed at his face, dragging his fingers across his skin as through scraping at clay.

Fine! If Jon didn’t care, then Martin wouldn’t either. He didn’t need Jon’s friendship. He had his own life to figure out. He had his own job, his own flat, his own friends (if you counted Cara and Linda, which Martin wasn’t sure he did.) He didn’t need anyone else. He didn’t want anyone else (A lie, a lie, a lie, his brain murmured).

He had always been on his own anyway. 

At least I have someone to go home to.

Martin pushed the memory away and hauled himself to his feet. He’d spent enough time being pathetic.

He put a pile of clothes straight from his bedroom floor into the washer, not bothering to separate out by color. It wasn’t all of the dirty clothes, but it was a start. Next went the takeout boxes, shoved into a trash bag that he propped by the front door until he felt like taking it downstairs. Then he rounded up all the dishes - from his bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, even an enterprising water glass that had been lurking in the bathroom - and piled them in the sink. 

Looking around the place, he felt a small knot of tension in his shoulders unknit. He should have done this days ago. Not that the place was clean now, by any means, but he already felt more human than he had all week.

While he waited for the washer to finish, he moved into his bedroom. He made the bed, snapping the top sheet sharply in place and smoothing down the duvet. Usually he wouldn’t bother, but today it felt important to reset everything. The remaining dirty clothes went into the hamper, and he discovered some of them weren’t even dirty, but had been thrown on the floor, hangers and all, while he searched for something else. He scooped them up and was in the process of hanging them in the closet when something caught his eye. 

It was a cardboard box, the top folded closed but not taped, shoved back in the farthest reaches of the closet.

He considered it suspiciously. He didn’t remember leaving any boxes unpacked after the move.

But the new-and-improved Martin (who was proving just exactly how much he didn’t need Jon) would never leave a mysterious box moldering in the back of his closet. So he pulled it out and brushed away an impressive cobweb before setting it on his freshly-made bed. 

The cardboard was old and soft. An untidy scrawl of black marker on the side announced its contents: Brett’s Stuff.

Martin blinked and leaned closer, certain that he had misread it. But no, while the writing was messy, it was clearly legible. Moreover it didn’t look like Martin’s penmanship.

He cast back in his memory, but he was almost certain he didn’t have any Bretts in his life. Not a cousin or a sibling. Not an ex-boyfriend. Did it perhaps belong to a previous tenant, left behind and unnoticed until now? Now that he thought about it, maybe he had seen that name on junk mail before. He couldn’t be sure, as he never bothered opening letters before throwing them out. Who would be trying to contact him?

His heart pounded a familiar beat in his chest: a staccato quick-step, resonant with dread.

He opened the box. 

Inside he found…a bunch of very normal things. A well-worn pair of grey trainers. A few coding manuals. A trophy from an amateur rugby league. A tobacco-musk scented candle, unopened and unburned. A collection of framed photos.

Well, it certainly wasn’t his stuff. His mother would have laughed her head off at the idea of him excelling at any sport enough to earn a trophy.

Brushing off the unpleasant thought of his mother, he picked up the photographs and laid them out side by side on the bed. A man with an older woman, likely his mother. A college graduation. A group of men in matching suits - groomsmen at a wedding, maybe? A table full of people holding up pints of beer in a toast.

Martin didn’t recognize anyone in the photos. But there was one man that appeared in all of them - tall, broad-shouldered, gingery hair and pale, freckled skin. Holding a dewy glass of lager amongst his friends. Blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he hugged his mother. Standing awkwardly in a graduation robe that was just a little too short.

He was a total stranger. But if you squinted, he looked an awful lot like Martin.

Martin’s hands began to shake.

He walked into the living room, leaving the box and its unsettling contents sprawled across the bed. His fingers moved automatically, scrolling through the short list of contacts in his phone until he brought up the apartment leasing office and pressed call.

“JohnsonandJonesLeasinghowcanIhelpyou?” The voice on the other end already sounded fed up with the conversation and he hadn’t even responded yet.

“Uh, yes. I’m a tenant at the Weaver’s Ridge Apartments, unit 3B. I was wondering if I could get some information about the previous tenant?”

“Sorry, sir, but we can’t give out private information about another tenant.”

“I was just hoping I could get a name? I think I have some of his-”

“Sir, I’m telling you we can’t give out private information about any tenant.”

Martin glanced back at the bedroom door. He should probably just throw the box away. No big deal, right? If Brett had wanted his stuff, he knew where his old flat was. He could have stopped by at any time.

But a voice in the back of his head, the same one that had urged him to look into Jonah and Jon, told him something was deeply wrong.

“IsthereanythingelseIcandoforyou?”

“Uh, yeah. Can you send me a copy of my current lease?”

There was a long pause followed by a protracted sigh on the other end of the line. “Is the email on file alright?”

“Yeah, that’s-”

“Fine. Sending now.”

She hung up abruptly, before Martin could say another word.

The email dinged in his inbox a few minutes later. He opened the attachment eagerly, scrolling through dozens of pages of dense legalese before reaching the signature page.

The signature was illegible, but the name beneath it was clear enough, printed in that same messy hand that had labeled the mystery box 

Brett Rowley.

Well, that answered one question, at least. He knew who Brett was.

But it still left one very important question unanswered.

Why was he living in the man’s flat?

~~~

“You alright, Martin?”

The question jerked Martin out of his reverie, his elbow slipping off the top of the pasty case he’d been leaning against with an unpleasant lurch.

Linda was staring at him. Her dark, heavy eyeliner made her gaze even more intense.

“What was that?” Martin asked casually, as though she hadn’t caught him dozing.

“Are you okay?” she asked slowly. Had it been anyone else, he would have thought they were taking the piss, but Linda seemed legitimately concerned. “You seem distracted today.”

“I’m fine.” He blinked and the cafe went briefly blurry, his parched eyes sticking against his eyelids. He rubbed them until his vision cleared. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I just didn’t sleep much.”

It was an egregious understatement. He’d spent his final day of medical leave doing little else besides researching Brett Rowley, and none of the things he’d uncovered were particularly comforting.

From what he could find online, Brett was an incredibly average man. According to his Linkedin he worked in Web Design, though Martin himself didn’t have an account himself, so he couldn’t look into it further. His various social media pages were set to private, so while he could confirm the man’s identity against the photos from his closet, there was little else that Martin could confirm about him.

The only things he knew for sure about Brett Rowley were as follows:

1. He existed.
2. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Martin.
3. He was the legal tenant of Unit 3B, Weaver’s Ridge Apartments.

So, hours later, as his damp laundry sat neglected in the washer, he decided it was finally time to search for Martin Blackwood.

He started with a few quick Google searches. He’d never been big on social media, so he knew he wouldn’t find anything there, but there had to be something. Nobody could live in the 21st century without leaving behind a trail of digital breadcrumbs, right?

But Martin Blackwood certainly had. He combed through every entry on 20 pages of search results. While there were plenty of Martin Blackwoods, not a single one of them was actually him.

That was the point where the search got physical. He tore through his apartment: pulling out drawers, rifling through cabinets, emptying shelves. He’d never gotten around to hanging up pictures, but he was certain there had to be some old photo albums somewhere. But beyond his clothes and toiletries and appliances, the only personal items he had were a few paperbacks and DVDs, most picked up from charity shops within the last 8 months.

His argument with Jon replayed in his mind over and over as he searched for some concrete proof that the Martin Blackwood who lived in his mind was the same Martin Blackwood that lived in this flat.

There’s no record of you anywhere.

He could picture his mother’s face, but he didn’t have a single photo of her.

No school records, no employment. 

He knew how to knit and crochet, but he didn’t own needles or yarn.

Hell, not even an old Facebook account. 

He could quote Excelsior from memory but he couldn’t find the poem in any of the books on his shelves.

You’re a ghost, Martin.

When his alarm went off at 3 am to wake him for his opening shift, he was still wide awake and twitching, his laptop screen crowded with dozens of open tabs. 

So he’d gone to work. Because the alternative was sitting at home and grappling with the possibility that he didn’t exist, and based on all the advice his doctors had given him, that seemed like a bad idea.

“Those bags under your eyes don’t have anything to do with that young man of yours, do they?” Linda asked, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

“He’s not-” Martin sighed and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. His mouth tasted of blood. “You’re all very nosy here, you know that?”

“It’s this or I start watching Love Island.” She shot him a saucy little grin. “So, tell me about him.”

“It’s not like that.” 

“You don’t say.”

“He’s married.”

Linda laughed. “Oh, honey. I’ve seen how he watches you. He’s not that married.”

“Linda!” Martin felt his face growing hot as Linda laughed again, the menace. 

“What? Plant a big kiss on him and ask him to run away with you, and you’d have a divorcé on your hands in no time. Mark my words.”

“Oh my god, I’m begging you to stop.”

“Well, don’t take my word for it. Ask him yourself.”

“What?”

Martin whipped around to look through the front window and, sure enough, there was Jon, leaning against the glass and smoking a cigarette.

His head began to pound.

“Oh god, not today.” Martin sank to the ground, until he was crouched behind the pastry case with his arms wrapped around his shins.

“Looks like he’s waiting for someone,” Linda informed him cheerfully, craning her neck to get a better look.

Martin groaned and let his forehead fall to his knees.

“I think that’s your cue, you know.”

“I’m not off until one.”

“Morning rush is over. I think I’ll manage.”

“But-”

“Life is short. You’re only young once. If you don’t leave now I’ll think of more cliches to badger you with.”

Martin groaned again and rubbed at his temples. This was the worst possible time for a headache. “Fine.” He stood and removed his apron and cap, hanging them on his designated hook near the back office. He tried to comb his fingers through his hair and checked his reflection in the glass of the pastry case.

God, he looked awful.

He turned to leave, but then he caught sight of Jon’s silhouette again, waiting just to the side of the front door, and he froze in place. How could he face him after everything Jon had said? After everything he had said?

“I can’t do this,” Martin whispered.

“Yes, you can.”

“I think he hates me.”

The corner of Linda’s mouth drew up in a weary sort of smile. “Just apologize, love. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But if he thinks of you the way I suspect he does, he’ll come around.” And before Martin could protest she reached out and hugged him, holding him tight in her frail arms.

He realized that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had embraced him. His eyes welled, and a single tear broke loose to track silently down his face.

“Thanks, Linda,” he said hoarsely, dragging his sleeve across his face. 

“Go get ‘em, tiger.” She pushed him gently but firmly out from behind the counter and gave him a little wave.

Martin walked outside.

Jon looked up as the bell chimed, cigarette hovering just inches from his lips. His long hair tumbled loose and messy over his shoulder, and Martin was too sleep-deprived to pretend he wasn’t incredibly attractive right now.

Of course, Martin didn't say so. Instead he said, “I didn’t know you smoke.”

The cigarette finally completed its journey to Jon's lips. He took a long drag and let his head fall back as he exhaled. Martin didn’t stare at the pale scar across the center of his throat.

“I didn’t know either.” The cigarette trembled in Jon's hand. He blinked rapidly, as though fending off tears.

“Why are you here, Jon?” Martin’s voice was soft but not hesitant.

Jon let the cigarette fall to the pavement and crushed it out beneath his toe. “I, uh, think I need to apologize.” He finally looked Martin in the eye, his gaze strained and bloodshot. “And I think we need to talk.”

Chapter Text

As Martin ushered Jon into his cramped apartment, he regretted not finishing the load of laundry he’d started on his sick leave.

“Come on in,” he said nervously. “Just, uh, sorry about the mess.”

His flat wasn’t bad, especially for the price. But it certainly wasn’t luxurious. The ratty carpet was spotted with mysterious stains that had already been there when Martin moved in, and the walls were scuffed and dented. A few weeks ago, a large water stain had cropped up on the kitchen ceiling, and his landlord had made no effort to fix it, despite the many emails Martin had sent about the situation. And honestly, the place was so shitty and he’d been so tired since his accident, he hadn’t really made an effort to give it some personality. No pictures or posters, no trinkets or knick knacks. Just empty beige walls and carpeting that always felt slightly damp underfoot.

Suffice it to say, after having seen Jon’s house, his flat felt more pathetic than ever.

Martin gestured Jon towards the kitchen table while he set the kettle on. He opened the cupboard to pull down two mugs, only to realize all of his mugs were dirty.

Damn it. He really wished he’d gotten more cleaning done before falling down his research rabbit hole.

“Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll have tea ready in a minute.” He set about furiously washing two mugs as the kettle heated, trying to block his overcrowded sink from Jon’s sight.

“Martin?” The tone of Jon’s voice, thready and uncertain, made Martin whip around instantly, dripping suds on the peeling linoleum.

Jon stood frozen, staring at the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-uh, could you-” Jon gulped, his hand coming up to point, shaking in midair. “It’s just that I don’t much like them.”

Martin stepped closer and finally spotted what Jon was pointing at: a fat brown garden spider, almost hidden against the fake grain of the plywood table. It was about half the length of Martin’s pinky finger, not a behemoth, but definitely larger than average.

“Not into spiders, got it.” Martin dried his hands on his jeans and walked toward the table. “Let me just…” He gave the spider a little bump with his finger to coax it onto his palm, then cupped his other hand around it and carried it to the front door. He deposited it on the welcome mat, expecting it to scurry away, but it just stood there, two front legs gently waving. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said it was staring at him.

He shuddered and closed the door firmly between him and the too-curious arachnid.

When he returned to the kitchen, Jon had claimed one of the mismatched dining chairs. His gaze kept darting distrustfully to the table, as though the spider had a whole gaggle of friends who might return to seek revenge. “I can’t believe you touched that thing,” he sniffed, his nose wrinkled with distaste.

A loud whistle pierced the stuffy quiet of the kitchen. Martin pulled the kettle off the stove and poured two cups of tea, setting a timer on the stove before leaning back against the counter as he waited for them to steep. “They’re not so bad. Creepy looking, sure, but most of them are harmless.” 

Jon gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. 

“What? They’re kind of cute!”

“They are not cute. They’re terrifying.”

“Who says they can’t be both? Like Mogwai! Cute and also kind of scary.”

“Mogwai and spiders are not-” Jon huffed and rolled his eyes, but a hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I am not entertaining this debate again. Not after four years of, ‘But Jon, they’re good for the environment!’ It doesn’t matter how many times we go through this. I will never find them cute.”

Martin stilled. The scent of burning plastic and crushed stone that always seemed to follow Jon intensified. Static roared in his ears. “What are you talking about?”

“Spiders. Obviously.”

“No, I mean-” He swallowed, his dry throat peeling apart painfully. “Four years?”

Jon blinked. “I just meant-” His brow furrowed. “I-I, um-”

For a moment, Jon said nothing. His mouth hung slightly agape, lip trembling, and his eyes darted about frantically, as though looking for an answer hidden in the outdated wallpaper. 

“Jon?” Martin prompted gently.

“I apologize.” He wrapped one arm around his body, the other going to his chest as he took a deep breath in. He sank back in his chair, his fingers clenching, dimpling his linen shirt. “Like I said, my memory has not been terribly reliable recently.”

The timer went off, and Martin snapped back into motion. He prepared their cups with shaking hands, moving by muscle memory to add milk and sugar, and brought them to the table.

Jon immediately wrapped his hands around his mug, his slim brown fingers delicate against the chipped ceramic. He took a sip and sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t usually like tea, but that’s delightful.”

Martin tasted concrete dust, lining his tongue and choking his lungs. His hands were slick with sweat, so burning hot he had to look down to convince himself it wasn’t blood. Pain sliced through his skull.

Jon set his cup down. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He gave Jon a strained smile. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yes.” Jon straightened in his seat. Martin mirrored the motion, uncomfortably struck by a sense of deja vu. Suddenly, it felt like he was in a job interview. “After our last conversation-”

“I’m sorry,” Martin cut in. “Really, I shouldn’t have-”

Jon held up a hand, the scarred one. The skin of his palm was tight and shiny, and the grooves across it almost looked like the indentations of fingers. “Please, just let me get through this.”

Martin nodded and took a sip of tea to keep himself from blurting out again.

“I was…angry when I left. I wanted to prove you wrong. So I started looking.”

He paused, his eyes trained on the table top. He dragged a finger absentmindedly around the rim of his mug. 

Martin, with studied patience, took another sip of tea.

“It would appear I was wrong about many things. About Jonah.” He drew in a wet, shuddering breath. “About myself. And now, I’m rather at a loss about what to do.”

When he looked up at Martin, he was red-eyed and scowling, as though daring Martin to mention that he was crying.

“Jon, I think I was wrong about stuff too.” He remembered the box still open on the bed, Brett’s belongings scattered over his duvet. “A lot of stuff.”

“I don’t exist,” Jon said, his tone heavy with finality.

“I don’t exist either,” Martin added.

“I think we’ve both done enough research, on both ends, that I trust that conclusion.” His mouth twitched into a brief smile, then trembled. “My question is, what the hell is going on?”

Martin drained his mug and set it down with a dull thud. “I keep coming back to that question too.” He picked at a splinter on the table’s edge, where he had pushed in his chair too carelessly a few months before. “Have you…spoken to Jonah about any of this?”

Jon shook his head. “I thought about it. But I’m a coward. I don’t want to hear him say out loud that he’s been-” He wiped roughly at his eyes, his face still drawn in a frown. “No matter how he answers, everything will change. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

Martin’s vision went blurry, his head pulsing in time to his heartbeat. He pressed his fingertips to his temple and breathed deeply. 

Jon’s eyebrows knitted. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just-” He blew out a breath, the air trilling through his lips. As little as he wanted to damage Jon’s perception of him any further, it didn’t feel like he could keep the truth of his condition a secret one second longer. “Can I say something kind of weird?”

Jon glanced away. “I know. The situation with Jonah, it’s-”

“It’s not about Jonah, I promise.”

“Then what is it?”

“Sometimes I get these…spells, for lack of a better word. I guess they’re panic attacks, at least that’s what my doctors have said. But they’re so vivid, it-” He sighed and pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids, willing his headache away. “It feels like I’m trapped in a burning building as it crumbles around me. And these days I only seem to get them when I’m around you.”

He braced for Jon’s response. His doctors’ replies ranged from dismissive to sympathetic and dismissive. Are you sure that’s what’s happening? It’s probably something else, and you just don’t know how to describe it. How about you point out your feelings on the emotion wheel again?

Their indifference grated on him, and finally he had relented. Started calling them panic attacks and acted as though he wasn’t living through a string of tiny apocalypses in his head, day after day.

But for once, Jon didn’t scoff. Instead his face softened out of its deep set frown. “Oh thank goodness,” he said, reaching across the table to take Martin’s hand, “I thought it was just me.”

“Wait, what?”

“Do you get the smells too? Like-like dust and copper and-”

“Burning gas?”

“Yes!” Jon’s voice took on that same excitement he got when he was talking about the latest book he’d read. “Wait, is that why you passed out in front of the pub?”

Martin nodded eagerly. “And you said that night that you’re no stranger to passing out in public.”

Jon chuckled. “I can’t believe it was right in front of us. God, this feels good. I mean, not good-” he hastened to add, stroking Martin’s hand. “But nobody believes me. Not even Jonah. I mean, he’s very sympathetic, but he always tells me to just do some breathing exercises or something. He doesn’t understand how it feels, like, like-”

“Like the world is ending,” Martin whispered.

“Exactly.” Jon’s dark eyes gleamed, catching the light in a way that sent off a brief flash of green in his irises.

Martin looked down at their intertwined fingers and his vision spun. 

He pulled his hands free and stood, backing to the far edge of the kitchen to catch his breath, to clear his thoughts of the feeling of Jon’s skin against his. “So whatever this is-” he waved vaguely, “You feel it around me too?”

“I mean, I feel it almost constantly,” Jon amended. “But it’s certainly stronger around you.”

“And you said you got sick eight months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Which was about the same time I had my accident.”

“So you think they’re connected?”

“I don’t know.” Martin began to pace, raking his hands restlessly through his hair. “But it’s odd, right?” He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His thoughts were tumbling over each other, like socks in a dryer, impossible to set in an orderly row. What did it all mean? “What kind of illness was it? I mean, I don’t want to pry but-”

“I don’t know.” Jon’s lips set in a grim line. “Another thing I can’t really remember. I had to have surgery though. Heart surgery, I think.”

“Is that what Jonah told you?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Yes, he did, but I’ve got some evidence for that one. I still have a scar.” His hand drifted again to his chest.

Pain ripped through Martin’s head. He collapsed against the kitchen wall, sinking to the ground as the cacophony of falling stone and shattering glass filled his ears. He desperately held his aching skull together with hands slicked in phantom blood.

A chair clattered to the floor. “Martin!” He could barely focus on Jon, crouching in front of him, his hand hovering in the space between them, unsure if he was allowed to touch. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

He knew where he was. He knew he was in the shitty little kitchen of his shitty little flat. But he could feel the walls caving in around him, feel the blood pouring over his hands, creating a macabre concrete from the dust already settled there, feel that crushing pull of being ripped out and away from the world itself. Jon knelt before him, his eyes wild with fear, but all that Martin could focus on was the growing beam of light, hot and green and sickly, that seemed to pour from the center of his chest.

Like something inside was fighting to get free.

“Can I see the scar?” Martin asked hoarsely.

Jon frowned, his hand going to his chest in a gesture that Martin realized he’d seen dozens of times. “Why?”

“Please, Jon. I don’t know why, but it’s important.”

And Jon, God bless him, didn’t question further. Maybe because he just wanted to help, but maybe because he felt it too, the weight of everything bearing down on them, the weight of every unsolved mystery that had dogged their steps from the moment Jon had entered the cafe. With trembling fingers he undid his shirt buttons, one by one, until he revealed the pale slash of a knife wound in the center of his chest, remarkably jagged for a surgical scar.

And as though he were following the steps of a dance learned long ago and half-forgotten, Martin reached out to touch it.

When his fingers brushed Jon’s skin, he had only a moment of clarity to realize this was a highly inappropriate situation for two platonic friends.

But then, as easily as drawing breath or opening his eyes, his memories came flooding in, dragging him underwater in the raging undertow, and propriety was swept out of his mind entirely.

Chapter Text

For eight months, Martin had known, deep down, that something was wrong.

It went beyond the dizziness and the fainting and the nosebleeds. It was a wrongness that lived in his bones, a memory carried beneath his skin that his mind refused to acknowledge. He felt it in those moments of lurching disconnect - when his eyes welled with tears at a song he’d never heard before, or when his shoulders tensed at a certain tone of voice from a customer he knew was trying to be friendly.

Like when he’d prepared Jon’s tea and known without knowing exactly how he would like it.

When he tried to explain it to his doctors, they assured him it was just residual trauma from his accident.

But now, as his fingertips connected with Jon’s skin, his mind and his body snapped back into alignment, the backlash whipping across his mind like a bowstring.

And he remembered.

He was everywhere at once: chasing a brown and white spaniel through the dusty Archives on his first day, absolutely certain he was going to be fired; watching his mother, eyes rheumy and skin like paper, through a warped old window as a nurse told him she wasn’t in; huddling in his darkened flat amidst discarded cans of peaches as Jane Prentiss pounded on the door and the slick, slithering sound of worms wafted in through the cracks; running through the Distortion’s endless hallways, sick with terror as the floor shifted beneath him and his own soul folded in on itself.

He remembered Sasha, or at least the smirking shell of Sasha that the Not-Them had left behind. He remembered Tim, brilliant and blazing and gone in the spaces between tape recordings, before Martin could even say goodbye. He remembered Daisy (goddamned Daisy), her yellow teeth stained with blood and her yellow eyes stained with grief as she finally died. And he remembered Basira and Melanie and Georgie, tossed like rags into the whirlpool of Jonah’s plans and still fighting with everything in their power to make the world good once again.

And more than anything, he remembered Jon.

Jon, his face stony and severe as he drank day-old break room coffee, his eyes never glancing up from the piles of paperwork on his desk, even when he was having a conversation. He remembered the look of almost confused impishness Jon wore on the rare occasions he told a joke, as though startled by his own funniness. Image after image flashed through Martin’s mind - Jon smiling, Jon frowning, Jon laughing, Jon screaming in pain. 

He was sitting by Jon’s hospital bed and he was listening to a recording of Jon’s voice as he wished Martin would get chopped into pieces and he was holding Jon’s hand as the world ended and he was cradling Jon’s face as he swore he loved him and-

And he was drenched in Jon’s blood, holding his lifeless body, as the Panopticon collapsed around them and the Fears tore them straight out of reality.

His eyes snapped open and he gasped for air, slamming back into the present with such force that the room spun..

Jon still knelt in front of him. His trembling lips were parted, and his eyes glowed faintly green.

“Martin?” 

Did Jon remember too? 

Martin’s stomach lurched. Could he have gone through all this and still lost Jon in a way he’d never imagined? 

“Jon.” 

The word huddled on his tongue, hoarse and uncertain. It felt like he’d never said that name before, and also like he’d said it a million times, and also like he had no right to say it after he’d wielded that knife and plunged them both into this mess.

Jon just stared at him for a moment, and along with everything else, Martin had forgotten what it was to be consumed by the Archivist’s gaze. Because Jon didn’t just look. He Looked with such singularity and care that Martin felt he was pinned beneath a glass, trapped and squirming as Jon rifled through his very soul.

And then Jon lunged at him, and they collided in a maelstrom of seeking hands and hungry teeth. He was knocked back against the kitchen wall as Jon’s lips met his once, twice, again and again, not a kiss of passion but of desperation, as though demanding proof of Martin’s corporeality, proof that Martin was all too eager to give. In return his hand mapped the shape of Jon, the soft fall of his hair, down his arm, the hard angle of his elbow, finally reaching to hook around his waist and pull him close. And through it all he kept his other hand pressed to the scar just over his heart, as though to staunch the wound he had left there months and realities ago, as though Jon would bleed out and leave him for good if he ever let go again.

They pulled apart just enough to press their foreheads together as Jon, panting slightly, settled himself in Martin’s lap. Martin breathed him in, and oh God, how could he have ever thought Jon smelled like destruction? The stale tea on his breath, a musky and unfamiliar cologne, the whiff of cigarette smoke - 

How could he have ever forgotten this?

For the first time in months, Martin’s brain fell silent. Jon was in his arms, and the world was solid and still beneath him.

Jon’s fingers intertwined at the back of his neck, thumbs rubbing mindlessly at the base of his skull. “You found me,” he whispered.

Martin laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. “I think technically you found me.” 

And with that he was crying. His arms tightened around Jon’s waist, and while Jon was too angular of a man to ever melt, he did collapse against Martin, propping his chin on Martin’s shoulder as he sobbed.

“I’m so sorry,” he wailed, and God, he couldn’t even get it together enough to apologize properly.

“What for?”

“I stabbed you!”

“I told you to!”

“But still Jon, I killed you, I-I-I-” Air began to catch in his throat, the sound tipping in and out of his mouth in a low huh huh huh, teetering off his lips. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

“Martin, look at me.” Jon grasped his head in both hands and forcibly tilted his face up so they were looking eye to eye. “I’m right here. I’m just as alive as you are.”

Martin sniffed and took a shaky breath. “You’re here.”

Jon smiled. “I’m here.”

And he leaned in to kiss Martin again, soft and leisurely, the kind of kiss that Martin had daydreamed about at his desk in the Archives. It was a kiss that spoke of time. Time to waste. Time to spare. No deadlines, no spectators, no impending doom for them to thwart, and no hellscape for them to traverse. Just the two of them in a quiet apartment, locked safe behind a closed door, a luxury they hadn’t enjoyed since those brief weeks holed up in Daisy’s safe house.

“I missed you,” Martin murmured. He pressed his palm flat against Jon’s chest, seeking out the heat of his skin, the undeniable proof that he was real and safe.

Jon chuckled. “You didn’t even remember me.”

“My heart never forgot you,” Martin countered, then immediately flushed. “Oh no, that was so corny. Please forget I said anything.”

“A poet, as always,” Jon teased. He leaned forward, their foreheads softly clunking together. “I missed you too.”

“So does that mean we did it?” Martin asked hesitantly. “Did we win?”

Jon’s lips pressed together in what Martin immediately recognized as his thinking face, and he sniffed back a few more tears as he realized he had seen that face countless times over the past few months and still hadn’t known what he had before him. “I mean, I think so. We’re obviously not in our world anymore, and the Fears were too closely tied to me to have remained behind. But I’m not sure where they are now. I mean, they could be here in a weakened state. But maybe they’re somewhere else entirely.” His eyes shone with hope. “Maybe we’re free.”

Martin grimaced. “I wouldn’t bet on that. Here, get off me, I have something to show you.”

They clambered to their feet and Martin took him by the hand to lead them into the bedroom. It wasn’t strictly necessary in a flat this small, but Martin had no intention of losing Jon again.

“I found this yesterday,” Martin said, gesturing to the still-open box on his bedspread.

Jon immediately began sorting through the items with single-minded focus, taking his time to examine each one closely, even the trainers. “Who is this?” he asked, staring at the photo of Brett and his mother.

“Brett Rowley. According to the lease, he’s the current occupant of this apartment.”

“Ah.” A pause. “You know, he looks-”

“Just like me, yeah.”

Jon sighed. “So, I can only assume you aren’t living here by coincidence.”

“I think it’s a safe assumption.”

“How did you get this apartment?”

“Huh. I don’t really know. I just kind of ended up here after I left the hospital. Everything was so weird then that I didn’t really question it.”

Jon frowned. “That’s not terribly comforting. Another mystery to add to the list, I suppose.”

Martin put an arm around his shoulder, reveling in the freedom of being able to reach out and touch Jon whenever he got the urge. “We’ll figure it out, love.”

Jon looked up at him, a smile breaking through his frown. He reached out and threaded his fingers through Martin’s hair, tugging his head down until their lips met.

Martin couldn’t help himself. He swept the box and poor Brett Rowley’s belongings to the floor with one arm and grabbed Jon with the other, wrapping tightly around his waist and spinning them both until they tipped over onto the bed. They landed in a flumph! of pillows and Jon giggled, breathless and delighted.

They laid facing each other and Martin brushed the hair back from Jon’s face. “Even if the Fears are here, it’ll take years, centuries, even, to get a foothold.”

A small line appeared between Jon’s brows as he frowned. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can just ignore-”

“I’m not saying we ignore them.” Martin smoothed his thumb over the furrow, following the arc of Jon’s eyebrow to his temple. Jon sighed and let his eyes flutter closed. “But we have time, love. And I don’t think the world will end if we spend a day together.” He traced the line of his jaw and across his lips. How many hours of his life had he spent staring at Jon’s lips? “We survived the apocalypse. We fell through the multiverse and we’re still here together. I think that warrants a night off. And maybe champagne.”

“And takeout?” Jon asked hopefully. “I’m starving.”

Martin smiled. “I think that could be arranged.” He leaned forward, so close he could feel the rush of Jon’s breath over his face.

And then Jon’s phone chimed in his pocket.

Jon pulled away. He sat up, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and glanced at the screen. His face fell.

And Martin remembered they were not the only refugees from their reality that had made it to this world.

“Jonah,” he said. A confirmation, not a question.

“He wants to know where I am.” Jon didn’t look up from the screen. His hand, clenched around the phone, began to shake.

“Jon-”

“Tell me it was a coincidence that he found me.”

Jonah’s leering, possessive smile flashed across Martin’s mind. His arm around Jon’s shoulders. His lips pressed to Jon’s hair.

Fate has a way of taking from us that which is most important. Isn’t that right, Martin Blackwood?

 “I don’t think it was,” he said gently. “You know Jonah. He always has a plan.”

A twitch started at the corner of Jon’s eye. “All those months. I slept in his bed. I let him touch me. I-” His breath was coming faster now, the words falling tonelessly from his mouth. “I told him I loved him.”

Jon’s knuckles paled as he gripped the phone tighter. 

“Why don’t you hand that to me?” Martin held out his hand.

Jon startled at the movement, scrambling to his feet and clutching the phone to his stomach. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and his thin chest rose and fell rapidly. “Why do you want it?” he snapped, and Martin remembered that too, that paranoia that had always been so easy for Jon to slip into.

With a huge amount of effort, Martin stayed seated, his hands gripping the duvet. He wanted to wrap Jon in his arms and keep him safe. He wanted to throw that phone out the window and tell Jonah to go to hell. 

But it didn’t matter what he wanted. After everything he’d been through, the last thing Jon needed was someone else imposing their will on him.

“I’m not going to take it from you, if you don’t want me to,” he said cautiously. “Honestly, Jon, you just look like you might break it.”

Jon nodded slowly and set the phone on the bedside table, though his hands continued to shake. “Please don’t look at it,” he said in a low voice.

“I won’t.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, I promise-” He clenched his hands in fists at his sides and stared determinedly at a large brown splotch on the carpet between them. “I just…I don’t want you to see the things I might have said.”

Martin’s heart cracked in his chest.

“Jon, please look at me.”

Jon looked up at him with wide eyes. He looked like he might be sick.

“Can I touch you?”

Jon nodded wordlessly.

Martin stood and enveloped Jon in his arms, drawing him flush against his chest and burying his nose in his hair. He felt Jon’s hands claw at his back, holding onto his terrible corporate polo in a death grip. “Whatever happened with Jonah, you don’t have to apologize or explain to me.” 

“I swear, I didn’t know-”

“I believe you.”

“You even tried to warn me, but I was too goddamned stubborn-”

“It’s not your fault. He manipulated you, Jon.”

“Yeah, again.” Jon’s voice was muffled against Martin’s chest. “Again, and again, and again. It feels like I’m nothing more than Jonah Magnus’ fucking puppet.”

“Stop,” Martin said fiercely. “He got the jump on us, but we’ve beaten him before. And we’ll do it again.”

Jon sighed, the puff of air hot against Martin’s heart. “I’m just so tired.” His voice was very small.

Martin pressed his lips against the top of Jon’s head. “Me too,” he murmured. “We’ll rest soon, I promise. We just have a little more to do.”

They stood like that, Jon sheltered in Martin’s arms, as if he could somehow hold the whole world at bay, for a long moment.

And then Jon’s phone dinged again. 

The air left his body in a long, low rush, and he disentangled himself from Martin’s grip.

“I should probably go.”

Martin’s blood turned to ice. “Wait, you’re not going back to his house, are you?”

Jon swallowed visibly and nodded. “Yes, at least for a few days.”

“Jon, no, that’s insane-”

“Think about it, Martin. Like you said, he got the jump on us. He knows more about what’s happening in this world than we do, and he’s probably more prepared. If I go back there and pretend nothing has changed, maybe I can get some information out of him.”

“You don’t have to do that to yourself. You can stay here.”

“If I don’t come home, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll get suspicious, and then who knows what he’ll do? It’ll be much easier to make a plan if Jonah’s not pursuing us, on top of everything else.”

“But, Jon-”

“I just have to keep him happy a little longer.” His smile was a brittle thing, the sheet of ice over a pond at winter’s first freeze. “I’ve done it for eight months. I can keep him distracted a little longer.”

“It’s too much to ask of you.”

“You’re not the one asking.” 

“I’m serious, Jon-”

“Please,” Jon said. “If you try to stop me again, I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to refuse.” His voice was steady and careful, as though convincing himself as much as he was convincing Martin. “And I need to do this. I need to put this right.” 

His hand bridged the gap between them and Martin took it. He rubbed his thumb over the ridge of Jon’s knuckles, the pattern as familiar as the beads of a rosary he’d prayed on many times.

In a cosmos filled with terrible gods and eldritch monsters, Jon was the only divinity that had ever really mattered to him. 

“Ok.” Martin squeezed his hand. “I’ll follow your lead on this. But call me if anything goes wrong. And we should make a plan soon. You can come to the cafe tomorrow, right? That wouldn’t be too out of character.”

Jon gave him a relieved smile. “At this point, I think it would be more suspicious if I didn’t come to the cafe.” 

“Because you can’t stay away from me in any reality?” Martin teased.

Jon didn’t laugh. Instead he simply said, “Yes,” then leaned up to kiss Martin, solemn and lingering. “Goodbye, Martin. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It’s a date,” Martin said, his voice quavering.

Jon pocketed his phone, gave Martin one last smile, and then he was gone.

As the front door closed behind him, Martin collapsed into a full-on meltdown.

Sitting on his empty bed, he cried. He cried for those he had lost and not had time to mourn. He cried for the people they’d left behind, whose fates they’d never know. And he cried for Jon and he selfishly cried for himself and he cried because he really was tired, and of course the second he got his life back he had to plunge back into the bloody Fears and Jonah Magnus’ bullshit.

He cried until he felt ill, the skin of his face tight and hot, his head pounding and throat burning as though he’d had a bad flu rather than a breakdown, and then he fell silent.

Afternoon crept into evening, and the sunlight that had lit the bedroom fled, leaving Martin alone in his darkened and still very dirty flat. He sat there until his slumped shoulders ached, too thoroughly wrung out to even stand and turn on a light.

His phone buzzed on his nightstand, and when he looked at the message, it was from Jon.

I love you.

He breathed in. He breathed out. He typed out a reply and pressed send.

I love you too.

And then he fell back onto the still-made bed and fell asleep.

Exhaustion claimed him, thoroughly and fully. He slept through the evening and the entirety of the night. He would have slept through the morning too, if he hadn’t been awakened by a knock on the door.

Half asleep, he fumbled for his glasses and checked the digital clock on his dresser for the time.

9:00 am. Shit, he’d overslept his opening shift by several hours. His manager was going to kill him.

Knock-knock-knock.

He checked his phone. About a million missed calls from the cafe, but nothing from Jon. Was that him at the door? Had something gone wrong while Martin was asleep?

He dragged himself out of bed and slumped to the front door. It had to be Jon or his landlord knocking, so he didn’t bother changing out of yesterday’s work shirt or combing through his hair before throwing open the door.

And because the universe just couldn’t get enough of kicking Martin while he was down, there on the other side of the threshold, her striking white hair shorn close and almost blinding in the sunlight, stood Annabelle Cane

“Martin,” she cooed, her voice sickly sweet. “Glad you’re finally back with us. Let’s have a chat.”

Chapter Text

Martin immediately slammed the door shut.

Unfortunately, Annabelle was fast.

Her foot darted out to catch the door before Martin could move it more than a few inches. “That’s not very friendly,” she admonished. He pushed harder, attempting to crush her foot against the frame, but she was surprisingly solid. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re not my friend.”

She gasped and splayed a long-fingered hand against her chest. “You wound me.”

“You threatened to fill me with spiders!”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh Martin, that was so last universe.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I just wanted a chat.”

“Too bad. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

“Even if it might help Jon?”

He didn’t need the pointed eyebrow raise she threw in. She already knew she’d made her point. He grudgingly opened the door and stepped to the side, ushering her over the threshold.

She followed him down the hallway, gazing about with bright interest as though he were leading her on a historical home tour. Her long, acid green nails tapped idly along the side of her beaded clutch, which she held close to her torso. She looked as put-together as she always did, sporting a black puffed-sleeve corset top and drapey black satin trousers. On the wrong person, the clothes might have looked fussy or overdone. But when paired with her short white hair, the rows of cartilage piercings lining her ears, and the multitude of chunky rings she wore, the effect was undeniably cool.

Martin scowled and tried not to fidget with the hem of his coffee-stained polo. 

“You know,” she said as they entered the kitchen, glancing over at the pile of dishes in the sink, “You really should take better care of this place. The former tenant would be appalled if he saw the state you’ve left his flat in.”

He froze, watching as she settled primly at the table. “What do you know about Brett Rowley?”

“Brett? Not much at all.”

“Where is he?”

“On a meditation retreat in Bali.” She winked. ”At least that’s what his Instagram says.”

“Where is he really?”

She fixed her gaze on him, and he shuddered in the grip of those fathomless black eyes. “Is that a question you really want the answer to?”

He gulped. “Ok then, a different question. Why am I living here?”

“A thank-you gift. For services rendered.”

The sound of explosions and screeching tapes echoed through his mind, and he suppressed a shiver. “So the Web got me this apartment?”

“The Web gave you everything,” she said with a placid smile. “Do you think people who don’t exist just stumble into all this? A home, a job, a cell phone, all that medical care?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, a sluggish memory coming to the forefront. “You were at the hospital! When I fainted in the park!”

“You never know where you’ll find me.”

“So what, you’re a doctor here?”

Her smile sharpened. “Not exactly.”

“Did I actually have a concussion?”

“No idea. I didn’t really check. I’m not sure how to check for that, actually.”

“But that was days ago!”

“And you seem to be alive, so my diagnosis was correct.” She tilted her head. “Correct enough, at least.”

Martin sighed. He sat at the kitchen table, putting the length of it between himself and Annabelle, as though it would provide any kind of protection against the kind of danger the Web represented. “What about Jon? You didn’t think to help him as well?”

Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. “The transition to this world was…messy. Finding you took some time. Unfortunately for Jon, Jonah moved fast.” She leaned forward, setting her clutch to the side and slowly drumming her nails against the tabletop. “Which leads me to the heart of my visit: What are you going to do about Jonah?”

Martin laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. 

“What am I going to do?” he choked out, once he’d recovered. “Shouldn’t I be asking you?”

“Now, now, Martin, you know that’s not how the Mother works.” She shook her head in faux disapproval.

“Maybe I won’t do anything.” He leaned back, his chair tilting precariously on its back legs. “You’re half the reason he’s here, after all. Why don’t you fix it?”

“You’re more than welcome to walk away from the problem.” She shrugged. “As long as you’re comfortable with whatever solution I come up with. How it might affect you. How it might affect Jon.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“If I have to come up with a solution, it will be one that fully serves the Web’s interests. And neither myself nor the Mother of Puppets are entirely sure that having a former Pupil of the Eye running around is entirely advisable, even once Jonah’s gone.”

“Is that a threat?”

She smiled sweetly. “Of course not. Look, you and I want the same things-”

“That’s debateable.”

“At the very least, we both want to see Jonah Magnus taken out of the picture. This is just a…brainstorming session on how to achieve that.”

Martin let his chair fall with a loud crack and sighed. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Get rid of Jonah. For good.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but we tried that once already. He’s pretty hard to kill.”

“But not impossible.” A spider peeked out from under her hair, crawling down her temple and cheek bone. She scooped it up with one finger, admiring it lovingly, before setting it free to scurry across the table and down one of its legs. “The Fears seem to have…diminished somewhat in the crossing to this world. I believe that Jonah’s connection to the Eye was strong enough to persist here, but I doubt he’s anywhere near as invincible as an Avatar in our old world would have been.”

“Does the same apply to you?” he asked, slumping back in his chair.

“Are you concerned for my health? I’m touched.”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s to stop me from killing you and being done with it?”

“I think you’ll find life much harder to navigate without the Web smoothing the way for you.” 

Martin sighed. “That figures. So what do you know about Jonah’s plan?”

“About as much as you do. He moved fast to snap up Jon, which means he has a fully-marked Archivist in his possession, something he waited 200 years for in our world.”

“Would a new ritual even work this time?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. He hasn’t acted yet, which leads me to believe he’s been waiting for the Fears to get a better foothold.”

He blew out a long, slow breath. “So we have some time to make a plan.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. He was content to wait while you and Jon’s memories were still dormant, but now that you’ve made the connection-” She tilted her hand back and forth. “It might tip the balance in favor of action. After all, you two have been terribly ruthless about stopping his plans in the past.”

“Great.” Martin buried his face in his hands. He wished he could yell for a few minutes, long and loud, but he wasn’t sure his neighbors would appreciate it. “Perfect. Good. Grand.”

“Well,” she said, standing abruptly. “It has been lovely catching up, but I really must be off.”

“Wait!” Martin scrambled to his feet. “You can’t just leave me to deal with this!”

She reached out and cupped his cheek fondly. Her palms were surprisingly rough, a scratchiness reminiscent of skittering spider legs. “I have every faith in your capabilities.”

“Aren’t you going to help me come up with a plan?”

“I’m sure you’ve fantasized enough about how to kill Jonah Magnus. Don’t tell me your imagination is failing you now.” She strode down the hallway towards the front door, heels clacking loudly.

“But, I-I,” He trailed after her, mind spinning. “Wait a minute! What about me and Jon’s connection to the Fears?”

She paused. Her fingernails tapped against her clutch. Click, click, click. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I haven’t felt anything from the Lonely since we got our memories back. If the Fears are here in this world with us, why can’t I feel them?”

She swiveled slowly on one heel, then stalked back towards him. Martin tensed his shoulders to keep from flinching away. “We’re in a whole new world, filled with possibility.” She reached for his face, her fingers stair-stepping along his jaw until they cupped his chin. “It could be that your connections were severed entirely. After all, you and Jon were the ones who so rudely tried to trap the Fears in our old world.” Her eyes flashed and she patted him on the cheek, just a little too hard to be called friendly. “Your connections could still be there, but as weak and new as the Fears are themselves in this reality. Or maybe your ties to your patrons are more…conditional.”

“What does that mean?”

“You ever have a phone charger that didn’t quite work? Where you have to hold the cord at just the right angle to get it to connect?” She shrugged. “Something like that.” She turned back to the door.

“Please, Annabelle!” he shouted. She stilled, not bothering to turn back to face him. “I can’t let him get away with this again.”

“Then I suggest you come up with a plan. And fast.” She opened the door and Martin blinked in the sudden sunlight. “Goodbye, Martin.” 

The door slammed in his face. 

Leaving him alone, as usual.

Just fucking great.

He stumbled woodenly back into the kitchen. The chair Annabelle had been sitting in was thickly strung with cobweb, even though it had been clean before.

He stared at it and the rest of his messy kitchen, feeling the weight of everything fall in on him. His head was pounding, he was late for work, and Jonah Magnus was trying to take over the world. Again. He wished he could just crawl back into bed, but the world wasn’t going to stop turning for him to have a breakdown.

He glanced at the stove. Maybe he should make some breakfast. He was probably fired anyway. A few more minutes wouldn’t really make a difference.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. When he pulled it out, Jon’s name popped up on the screen.

Christ, he’d nearly forgotten. Jon was probably waiting at the cafe, where Martin should have arrived hours ago. Maybe they should just meet somewhere else. If Martin went to the cafe now, there was no way he’d be allowed any leeway to meet with Jon. He could just text his manager now, let him know he was sick with a stomach bug, then message Jon and-

The phone buzzed again. Martin opened his messages.

Something’s happened. Can you meet me at the house?

It’s urgent. Get here as soon as you can.

Martin’s heart dropped. As he stared at the screen, frozen in horror, another message popped up.

Please, Martin. I need you.

If there was a universe in which Martin would have said no to Jon, this wasn’t it. He shoved on his shoes, grabbed his keys and wallet, and was out the door in under five minutes.

~~~

The bus he needed was just pulling up as he sprinted to the stop. It was the first piece of luck he’d had in what felt like weeks; just a few seconds later and he would have been waiting 20 minutes for the next one.

Morning rush hour was over, and the lunch rush hadn’t quite begun, so traffic was fairly light. Even so, the bus moved at a snail’s pace. His foot tapped incessantly, the only outlet he could find for his nervous energy that didn’t involve tearing his hair out. What had happened? Had Jonah done something nasty? Had he figured them out and locked Jon in the basement? The questions ran circles around his head, spinning faster than the bus’s wheels as it lumbered forward, heedless of how much Martin cursed under his breath for it to move faster.

The ancient vehicle finally deposited him at his stop, and he ran the five minutes to the mansion. He was still puffing as he stumbled up the front step, but he didn’t even wait to catch his breath before reaching out and pounding on the door

Bang bang bang

When there was no immediate answer, he knocked again.

Bang bang bang.

The seconds crawled by. He tried to peek in the windows on either side of the door, but the curtains were drawn tight. He tried to steady himself by counting to ten, but he got impatient halfway through and pulled out his phone to send Jon a text.

Here.

And then he tried to wait some more.

He didn’t bother counting this time. Jon wasn’t answering. Something was wrong.

He tried the doorknob, and the door swung open. Without a second thought, he stepped inside. 

Walking into the foyer felt like sneaking into a museum after hours. The pristine marble floor squeaked beneath his shoes, and the intricately carved walls of dark wood soared to a gabled peak dozens of feet above his head.

He shut the door, and most of the light went with it. A few pathetic rays of sunlight struggled in around the curtains, but more than anything, Jon’s house was still, dark, and silent.

“Jon?” he called. His voice echoed slightly through the empty hall.

No answer.

He checked his phone again, but Jon hadn’t replied.

Moving as quietly as possible, he headed toward the living room. It was the only room he’d actually been in, aside from the dining room, and he doubted Jon was sitting at that huge, empty table waiting for him to show up. He crept along the first floor hallway until he reached the familiar double doors, and before he could lose his nerve, he swung them forcefully open.

The living room was empty, the hearth cold. A lamp glowed on an end table, probably forgotten when the house’s inhabitants left for the day.

Damn it. Jon wasn’t there. Only dozens more rooms he could be in.

Before Martin could turn to resume his search, the floorboards behind him creaked and he felt a sharp pinch at the base of his neck. He gasped and spun around, his hand going to the keys in his pocket, the closest thing to a weapon that he had.

And there in the darkened hall stood Jonah Magnus, a syringe in hand.

Martin’s heart began to pound.

“Ah, Martin. Glad you made it so quickly. As I mentioned, it’s quite urgent.” He pulled a phone from his pocket, one with a distinctive, scuffed leather case.

Jon’s phone. 

Martin’s eyes widened. He tried to speak, but his lips felt thick and rubbery.

Jonah chuckled. “I thought you might be a little faster in getting here if you thought Jon was in trouble.” He stepped forward and carded his fingers through Martin’s hair, jerking his head back so their eyes met. “Poor Martin Blackwood. Always the damsel, never the knight.”

Martin tried to swing at him, but his arm was so oddly heavy he couldn’t move it. His skin was alight with thousands of tingling pins and needles.

“Whaaa,” he slurred, his mind fighting through cotton to form the question. What was happening? Where was Jon?

“Sleep, Martin,” Jonah breathed. His face was so close to Martin’s, his silver eyes gleaming like moonlight. “You’ll want to be well rested for this.”

Jonah’s arms wrapped around him, holding him upright as he swayed, and he had just a moment to be sickened by how warm the man’s embrace was before his vision went black.

Chapter Text

Martin returned to consciousness as though swimming up from the bottom of a pool. The world around him was thick and heavy and muted and choking, and then, all at once, his head broke the surface of the water and air rushed into his lungs with painful intensity.

He allowed himself a moment of relief. He was alive. He was breathing. He was-

He shifted slightly and felt the cool touch of expensive leather. The realization hit him like a brick.

He was back on Jonah’s goddamn couch.

The button tufting dug into his cheek, which was still tingling slightly from whatever tranquilizer Jonah had injected him with. He had a raging headache, the kind of terrible, throbbing pain he could feel all the way down in his teeth. An experimental flexing of his hands revealed that his wrists were bound behind his back with cotton rope. He couldn’t tell if the prickling in his hands was a remnant of the tranquilizer, or if they were going numb from the bindings.

He breathed slowly as his memory came back to him in fits and starts. 

Annabelle’s visit. The text messages. The desperate rush to find Jon.

And Jonah Magnus, standing over him, once again, as he collapsed into darkness.

The memory jolted him fully awake and he finally cracked his eyes open. 

By some miracle, his glasses were still on. They’d been knocked crooked, barely hanging on to the end of his nose, but he could still see enough to get the measure of the room around him. As he’d suspected, he was back in Jonah’s living room. It was largely unchanged from the last time he’d been there, but a fire crackled in the huge fireplace, casting the whole room in an ominous, flickering light. A coffee table squatted on curved legs in the middle of the rug, set with a pair of taper candles in brass candle holders, as well as a thin leather notebook. 

Jonah was nowhere to be seen. Knowing him, he wouldn’t trust Martin in here alone for long. 

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt like they’d been poured from concrete, a troll caught by the rising sun. Yelling out was just as ineffective; his lips felt like they’d been disconnected from his body entirely, the words he formed in his mind stalling out before they could reach his tongue.

Maybe he could call the police? Not that he thought the cops would be any more effective against Jonah now than they had been in his world, but perhaps their interruption would delay his plans, or at the very least, tip Jon off that something had gone wrong.

He patted awkwardly at his back pockets, but his phone was gone.

Damn it. Leave it to Jonah to think of all the details. 

So that left him with nothing. He couldn’t fight Jonah off. He couldn’t even warn Jon. All he could do was lay there and wait as Jon stumbled into Jonah’s trap.

Watching and waiting. It was all he’d ever been good for.

Peter hadn’t even had to work that hard to draw him into the Lonely. It felt like he’d been watching the world pass from the sidelines since the day he was born. He almost wished for it now, the cold, numbing embrace of his patron wiping away his worries. What a relief it would be to let go, to forget all of his connections and responsibilities and just-

No. He shook his head, clearing away the fog. Jon was coming. Jon needed him. After landing them both here, he couldn’t leave Jon to face Jonah on his own.

He flexed his feet, wincing as they prickled back to life. At least they were moving now. Not a huge improvement, but he’d take what he could get. He wriggled his arms, trying to work some feeling back into them as well, and he heard a soft jingle.

His keys. They dangled half out of his jacket pocket. He remembered reaching for them before he went down. It was impossible to reach them now with his arms bound, but if he just…

Grunting with exertion, he heaved himself over, landing on his back hard enough to jostle the keys free. They jangled merrily as they hit the couch.

He almost cried with relief.

With a bit more wriggling, he was able to grab them and turn himself on his side again. His grip wasn’t ideal, but with the jagged edge he could just barely begin sawing through the rope, strand by laborious strand.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something. Enough to kindle a small flare of hope in his stomach as he began to work himself free.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, heels clicking against bare hardwood. He paused, closing the keys in his fist, pressed between his back and the couch.

Jonah entered the library wearing a bottle green suit, his pointed black shoes shining in the firelight. He smiled - a slick, greasy smile that rolled down Martin’s spine in one continuous shiver. “He wakes. How are you feeling?”

Martin attempted to answer, but the only sound he could make was a low groan.

“Ah, yes. The tranquilizer might take a few minutes to wear off. Luckily, Jon isn’t here yet. It would be truly unfortunate if you slept through the whole thing, but figuring out dosage is a bit tricky without my usual resources.” He tapped one finger against his temple.

“Wheeeerre-”

“Where is he?” Jonah strolled across the room and took a seat in one of those huge, wingback arm chairs. “I imagine he’s still at the cafe. Waiting for you.” A sneer flickered across his face before it smoothed back into his usual composure. 

“Whadare you gonna dotohim?” Martin slurred, his lips heavy and slow. He coughed, trying to cover the jingle as he readjusted the keys in his grip and began sawing again. If he could keep Jonah talking long enough, he might be able to cut through the rope before Jon arrived.

Jonah’s eye twitched, and his hand tightened on the arm of his chair. “I’m not going to do anything to him.” He sighed, leaning back and primly crossing his legs. “That’s what I’ve never understood about his little vendetta against me. What have I ever done but give him the world?”

Martin let out a sluggish laugh. “The kidnappings? Th’attempted murder?”

“I know you’ve struggled with your memory lately, so let me remind you. I never did any of those things to him.”

“But you didn’t stop them from happening.”

Jonah rolled his eyes. “You can warn a child all you like that the stove is hot. But eventually, the curiosity to find out for themself will win out. Who am I to stand in the way of him learning?”

“What about since we came here?” The key snagged on the rope and slipped in Martin’s sweaty grip. His fingers tightened around it until the metal edge bit into his palm. “Are you telling me that lying to him and holding him hostage was all for his own good?”

“Jon was dying and defenseless when he came here. Would you prefer I left him to bleed out?”

Martin’s hands trembled at the memory of the knife plunging into Jon’s chest, scraping bone until the hilt stuck. He clenched his fist around the keys as they threatened to tumble from his grasp. “You’re a monster.”

Jonah studied Martin carefully. “Growth requires pain. Hardship. Jon was a naive fool before he came to me. I saw the possibility in him. I developed him into something worthwhile.”

“Don’t pretend you did that for Jon,” Martin spat. “You did it for yourself.”

“Of course I did it for myself. I wanted to be king, so I made myself a king. But I tried to make Jon a prince. And he threw it all aside for you.” Jonah’s eyes flashed

Martin’s mouth was so dry that a sticky, sour film had settled over his tongue. A single strand of the rope finally snapped. He gritted his teeth and kept sawing. “He didn’t do it for me. He’s a good person. He wants to help. He wants to be better.”

Jonah hummed. “I guess we’ll test that theory when he arrives. But I’m confident I understand him better than you ever could.”

Martin bristled. “You don’t know the first thing about him.”

“Oh, Martin.” Jonah ‘s gaze roved over his face, cool and impersonal. “I made him. I created the Archivist from the bones of Jonathan Sims. And I know that what he feels for you, as brilliant and burning as it feels right now, is nothing but a shooting star across the sky.”

Martin’s stomach swooped. Another strand snapped. “That’s not true.”

“But isn’t it?” Jonah straightened in his chair, planting both feet on the ground. His stare began to burn slightly, the bright, hot glare of a spotlight pointed straight into Martin’s mind. “You know how much he loves discovery. The hidden and the unknown. The two of you may be united in purpose now, but imagine a year from now. Two years. When the glow of new love has faded and there’s nothing else to learn about each other. Do you think he’ll settle into domestic life like a contented house cat?”

Jonah’s silver eyes gleamed, and Martin could feel Beholding as it crept into the room. It slithered in through his eye sockets, rooting around in his brain to hook into his deepest thoughts and drag them to the surface. He’d only felt that sensation once before, back in document storage with Elias staring him down over a pile of ashes, feeling his mother’s disgust and hatred burrow beneath his skin as he trembled and wept. 

Tears pricked at his eyes. He forced himself to continue sawing with cramping hands.

“Jon loves me,” he breathed.

Jonah inclined his head. “For now. But what happens when he starts to remember all of the things about you that so irritated him? Before his life was filled with monsters and he started to believe that someone non-threatening was exactly what he wanted? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I mean.” 

The words unspooled in Martin’s mind, crackling with static. 

“I don’t count Martin, as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.”

“...at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief.”

“Useless ass.”

He gritted his teeth against a string of pathetic protests. Jon had changed. He’d apologized. He loved him now. Jon loved him.

Jonah’s forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, but his voice was still smooth and unbothered when he spoke. “Do you realize how your very presence used to grate on him? And it's not as if those habits have gone away. The way you laugh even when something isn’t funny, because you can’t stand to let a silence go too long. Your bumbling clumsiness and gnawing insecurity. It rises from you like a stench, your desperate, pathetic need to be loved. If you think about it, I’m actually doing you a favor. Because if you got rid of me and got your happily ever after, and all of your pathetic little dreams came true, do you know what would happen?”

Martin shook his head, lips trembling. Not an answer to the question, but a silent plea for mercy.

“He would leave,” Jonah whispered. “He would grow bored and irritable and push you away. He would leave you behind just as he’s left behind everyone else he’s ever loved.”

“He wouldn’t.” Tears streamed down Martin’s face. He sniffed raggedly.

Jonah continued on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Because love has never been enough to hold Jon’s attention. But me? He may not love me, but I can show him things that he can’t even imagine, mysteries older than time itself. I don’t need him to love me when I’ll always have his curiosity. In that way, we are perfectly matched.”

Another strand snapped. Was it just his imagination, or was the rope loosening? “Then why am I here? You have Jon. Why didn’t you just kill me in the hospital when I was still recovering?”

“I’m not quite as omniscient as you seem to think I am. The Eye has been weakened in its journey to this world, especially after Jon’s…rather hasty actions in the Panopticon. I didn’t know you had made it here until Jon started talking endlessly about the new friend he’d made at the cafe.”

“But you still didn’t get rid of me.”

Jonah shrugged. “I’ve been letting Jon heal and strengthen, much like the Fears themselves. I thought the violent death of his new friend might set him back considerably.” Martin shivered at the cool carelessness in his tone. “Besides, I thought you might make a nice backup, in case things with Jon went wrong.”

“A backup?”

“Think about it, Martin. It will be years before the Fears get a foothold here. But you? A chew toy caught between the Beholding, the Web, and the Lonely? If I lost my Archivist, I at least wanted a head start.”

Martin laughed bitterly. “I’m not going to do whatever ritual it is you have planned.”

“Your involvement won’t be necessary now. Jon will play his part just fine.”

“No way,” Martin retorted. “You already played your hand. You can’t catch us off guard this time.”

“I think you’ll find I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“But will the ritual even work? It took 200 years to get it right last time.”

“That’s quite enough, Martin.” Jonah stood, stalking across the room as he pulled a length of cloth from his pocket. Before Martin could prepare himself, Jonah seized him by the shoulders, dragging him upright so abruptly that the keys slipped from his fingers. He scrambled to catch them, but he heard the muted click as they fell, wedging themselves into the cracks between the couch cushions.

“Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” Jonah yanked on Martin’s hair, and when Martin yelped in pain he shoved the cloth between his teeth, tying it securely behind his head.

Jonah paused for a moment, cradling the back of Martin’s head almost tenderly as his gaze pinned Martin in place. “You know, everything would have been much simpler if you’d just stayed away. I tried to warn you. I tried to guide you to the right path. But you’ve always been so stubborn.” He leaned forward. Martin tried to jerk away, but the hand holding the hair at the nape of his neck yanked him in place again. Martin’s eyes watered.

“There’s something charming about that kind of insistence. In another world, you might have been a perfect acolyte of Beholding.” Jonah’s breath hissed in his ear, his lips so close he could almost feel them moving against his skin. “Remember, when this play reaches its final act, that this is all your fault.”

Martin jerked at his bonds again. They were definitely looser now, the broken strands giving the rope a bit more flex than they’d had before. If he just had a few more minutes, he could probably work them loose, and then-

The front door creaked open. Jon’s voice floated to them through the lonely halls of the mansion.

“Jonah?”

A nasty smile unfurled over Jonah’s face. “That’s our cue.” He straightened, his hand still threaded through Martin’s hair, and hauled Martin to his feet. Martin tried to yell a warning, but the sound was strangled into nothing by the gag,

Jonah elbowed him in the stomach, driving all of the air from his lungs. He thought he might be sick.

“Jon, darling,” Jonah called, raising his voice to carry down the hall. “Is that you?”

Jon’s footsteps clicked steadily closer. Martin’s eyes watered as he wheezed for breath. 

Useless and waiting, yet again.

“I’m so sorry, I must have picked up your phone by accident.” Jon rounded the corner into the room. “I thought you might need it-”

Jon froze, staring at Martin, his eyes going wide with horror. 

“So good of you to join us, Jon,” Jonah said smoothly. His grip tightened in Martin’s hair, forcing his head back. “I think it’s time we begin.”

Chapter Text

Jon stood in the doorway, so achingly familiar, so terribly close. Martin wished he could reach out and touch him, hold him close and safe, caress the worried furrow from his brow.

Jonah tugged sharply at his hair. A small, pained breath huffed through Martin’s nose.

The corner of Jon’s eye twitched.

“How did you know?”

Jon’s voice was steady. Only his hand, still clenched around Jonah’s phone, betrayed a slight tremble.

Jonah chuckled. He released Martin’s hair and let his hand come to rest gently on his shoulder. Not exactly holding Martin in place, but the threat was obvious. “You’re not a good liar, Jon. It wasn’t difficult to see that something had changed in your attitude towards me. A shame, really. I miss the new and improved Jonathan Sims. He was so…pliant.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You can make it up to me.” Jonah pointed toward the coffee table. “Take a seat.”

Jon moved slowly into the center of the room, keeping his body turned toward Martin and Jonah. He remained standing. “What is all this?”

“A mulligan, if you will.”

Jon’s expression darkened. “Another shot at your ritual.”

“There’s that clever mind at work.” Jonah’s voice, so close at his ear, made Martin twitch.

“I won’t do it.”

“No?” Jonah moved behind him, hand still planted on Martin’s shoulder as he heard fabric rustle and felt something smooth and flat press against his waist. “Are you sure I can’t convince you?”

Dread choked him as he looked down and saw the knife in Jonah’s hand. Its blade was dull and already crusted with dried blood, and the dark, heavy handle-

With an unpleasant jolt and a fuzz of static, Martin remembered how it felt in his hand, slick with sweat and blood, how much force it took to ram it between narrow ribs-

The knife he’d stabbed Jon with.

Jon went utterly still, eyes fixed on the blade. “Jonah-”

“You see, Martin and I have a little bet going. He thinks you’re so good and noble that you’ll do anything to stop me.” He pushed the blade more firmly against Martin’s stomach. Martin couldn’t contain a small whimper, choked and pathetic against the cloth still tied between his teeth. “I, on the other hand, think that while you’re perfectly willing to destroy yourself to spite me, you wouldn’t dare put Martin in harm’s way.” His free hand stroked along Martin’s neck, toying with the loose curls that framed his ears.

“Don’t touch him,” Jon snapped. He took half a step forward, then froze, hands flexing at his sides as he stared at the knife again.

“Jealous, darling?”

Jon flinched. Martin could practically see the memories as they flitted across his mind, all the ways Jonah had wormed his way into Jon’s life over the past few months: the careless intimacies, the gentle touches, the insecurities he’d poured like poison into his ear. “Don’t call me that.”

Jonah tutted disapprovingly. “Go ahead, Jon. Get it out of your system, this need of yours to contradict every single thing I say.” His fingers tightened in Martin’s hair, drawing his head back. “And then we can see how you like the consequences of your petulance.”

Jon met his eyes, his gaze dark and pleading, and Martin wished he could scream into his mind.

Don’t do it. Don’t let him win again.

“Maybe you’re right, Martin,” Jonah whispered in his ear. “Maybe he’d cast you aside in pursuit of what he wants. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

His mind was flooded with the memory of that last day, the moment when he’d realized Jon was gone, that he’d left Martin behind to save the world, just as he’d promised he wouldn’t do.

And when he saw the guilt flicker over Jon’s face, he knew with an awful, sinking clarity exactly what he was going to say.

“What do I have to do?”

Martin could hear the smug smile in Jonah’s response, even if he couldn’t see it. “Like I said, take a seat.”

Jon sat before the coffee table, his frame darkly silhouetted against the crackling fire.

“Now, open the book.”

He opened the leather notebook, pressing it open with both hands so it lay flat on the table. Were his hands trembling, or was it a trick of the light? “Jonah, I-” His eyes scanned the page and he swallowed. “We don’t have to do this today.”  

“Is that so?” God, Jonah sounded so smug. Indulgent as a parent talking to a precocious child. Martin itched to slam his elbow into the man’s gut, leave him without any breath for his pontificating, but the knife hovering by his side kept him in check.

“You’ve made your point. You’ve won. Let’s just wait. You know the Fears aren’t strong enough here to manifest yet.”

“And you know I can’t just let you go.”

Jon’s fingers curled around the edge of the notebook, his knuckles paling. “Then don’t.”

Martin tried to object, but the protest was choked into gibberish by his gag.

“Keep us here with you.” Jon swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. “Keep me here with you. I’ll even help you prepare. I’ll help you do this the right way. Just-” He pressed his lips together, breathing deeply. “Don’t hurt him.”

“A tempting offer. It has been rather fun playing house,” Jonah purred, and though Martin wasn’t able to see his face, he could guess at his expression by the way Jon flinched. “But you and Martin both have proven time and time again that you can’t be trusted to stay put and behave yourselves.” His hand moved through Martin’s hair, almost a playful tousle. “So I think we’ll proceed with the ritual, as I’ve planned it.”

“But there’s no way it will actually work-”

“Maybe not as it did in our world, but I think it will certainly serve to accelerate the Fears’ progression in this one.”

“But maybe it won’t. Do you want to risk rushing into this and destroying everything you’ve worked for?” Jon spoke faster, his words tumbling out as though they could outrun Jonah’s plans. Martin shifted his wrists, feeling the give in the rope binding them. Jonah seemed intent on his argument with Jon; maybe he wouldn’t notice if Martin worked himself free.

“Calm down, Jon.” Jon’s mouth snapped shut, his expression caught between horror and hatred. “You haven’t even heard the entire plan yet. Don’t you want to know the final piece?”

And of course Jon wanted to know. Even when it disgusted him down to his bones he had always wanted to know, so Martin watched as he reluctantly opened his mouth and asked, “What is it?”

“Fear, of course. And while this world may be lacking in all the other preparations I made last time, I think you’ll find that the fear of an Archivist is a very powerful thing.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon scoffed.

Jonah chuckled. “It’s charming that you still think that’s true. But no, I was thinking of a much more potent kind of fear.”

Jonah’s knife plunged into Martin’s side

Martin huffed and his knees buckled as the pain finally registered, a few long seconds after the blade’s impact. A dark red spot began to spread across the cheap polyester of his polo shirt.

Jonah ripped the knife away - this time a much more visceral, tearing pain - and Martin crumpled to the ground.

“The choice is yours.” Jonah plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the blade clean. “You can help me with the ritual, and maybe I will be magnanimous enough to get Martin the medical care he so desperately needs.” He let the handkerchief fall and it fluttered to the floor just in front of Martin’s face, soaked with blood. 

His blood, he realized distantly.

“Or you can stand by and watch him die,” Jonah continued, “all the while knowing that you could have put a stop to it.”

Jon was frozen in place, a trembling arm reaching across the table. From Martin’s vantage point on the floor, it was difficult to read his expression.

“What will it be, Jon?”

From the shadows of his face, Jon’s eyes began to glow faintly green.

“What do I have to do?”

“Just read.” Jonah tapped the open page of the notebook with the tip of his knife. “Think of it as a statement, if you like.”

Jon’s eyes flickered to Martin, still gasping for breath on the floor. 

He shook his head. Don’t do it, Jon.

Jon leaned over the book, and the glow in his eyes intensified.

“Ceaseless Watcher, I call to you.” Jon’s voice fuzzed with static, taking on that deep timbre that instantly transformed him from Jon into the Archivist. The air pressure in the room dropped. Something heavy pressed at Martin’s eardrums, his nose, his eyes, as though he’d been plunged in deep water. With a deep swell of dread, he realized why the sensation was so familiar. 

The Eye had turned its gaze on them.

“I call to you, the living Archive of your terror.”

Martin’s blood dripped steadily to the floor, the hot, wet patch of it sticking his shirt to his skin. He struggled against his bindings, sawing his wrists back and forth to create a little more space between them, to stretch the rope just that little bit further-

He felt another strand snap.

“I call to you, from across time and space.”

Jonah had stopped paying attention to him, fully rapt as he watched Jon read his words. The sickly green glow of Jon’s eyes battled against the firelight that bathed Jonah’s face, making it look almost otherworldly in its greedy triumph.

“I invite you to this land of plenty.”

The flames of the candles and the fire in the hearth flared approvingly, the darkened room growing uncomfortably hot. Sweat beaded on Martin’s forehead as he worked desperately at his bindings.

“I invite you to a world where fear hangs ripe off the vine, fresh for the taking.”

The pressure increased, Jon’s words luring the Eye in from the cosmos, like a feral cat creeping towards a tin of tuna left on the back porch. Martin’s eardrums throbbed with that fluttering, maddening sound of wind whipping through a car with only one window down. He yanked desperately at the ropes, feeling the roughened fibers bite into the skin of his wrists, his blood pounding hot beneath the abrasions.

“I call to you and bow before you, foremost of the Fourteen, that terrible knowledge from which all Fear is kindled.”

Martin gave one final frantic jerk, his wrist pulling, the tendons stretching like taffy until he felt a disconcerting pop-

And the final strand broke. The rope fell limply and silently to the floor.

“Come to us in your power.”

With fumbling fingers he pulled the gag down over his chin. He pushed himself up, his wrists screaming in protest. Something deep inside his abdomen shifted and tore, but he bit back a cry as his gaze shifted up to look at Jon.

Jon wasn’t even looking at the page anymore. He stared straight ahead, eyes aglow, into a world unseen by all but him. Gone were the expressions Martin knew so well: his soft and tired smile, his stubborn petulance, his righteous indignation over slights both major and minor. No, when Martin looked at him now he didn’t see Jon. He saw the Archivist, glutted with fear, equally terrified and enamored by the words unspooling from his mouth like so much tape.

“Jon,” he croaked, and his voice was barely there and even talking felt like it jostled the wound in his stomach, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Jon, stop.”

The limelight of Jon’s gaze swiveled to him and for a moment he was flayed alive. He knew that the Eye saw everything - every lie he’d told to his mother to cover up his failing grades and every time he’d laughed uncomfortably at his grandmother’s homophobic remarks so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself and every embarrassing dream he’d had about Jon when they’d first met, when the man would have acted like Martin was the worst kind of vermin if he’d known the depth of his hopeless affection-

And then something in Jon’s gaze flickered as he looked at Martin’s face. The green glow dimmed, and for the space of a breath it was Jon and Martin, once again on the precipice of an apocalypse as one of them bled out.

And then Jon grabbed the notebook and twisted around to fling it into the fire.

Trembling on the ground, Martin could only catch flashes of the action. Jonah lunged forward, pausing only to hurl the coffee table aside. The candles went flying, splattering hot wax as they hit the floor. Jon leapt to his feet, blocking the fireplace with his body, but Jonah backhanded him across the face hard enough to knock him down again.

But most important of all, the knife, slipping from Jonah’s hand in the uproar, clattered to the floor by Martin’s feet. 

He grabbed it without thinking, the handle fitting into his palm like the spine of a well-worn book. He plunged it into the back of Jonah’s calf, heard his startled intake of breath, and then jerked it sideways. It put up a surprising amount of resistance, but it still cut through sinew and tendon and muscle until Jonah crumpled, his head smacking against the stone hearth.

Martin would have liked to stand to deliver the final blow. To loom over Jonah, blocking out the firelight so that the man had no option but to look death in the eye as it came to him in Martin’s hands.

But the wound in his stomach was twinging even more insistently, something vital torn free during his desperate lunge. His breath rattled in his throat, and though it was the only sound he could make, it still didn’t feel like enough air to fill his lungs.

So he crawled.

The knife, still clutched in his right hand, thunked dully against the hardwood as he made his way, slowly and inexorably, forward. 

Jonah flipped himself over, scrambling backwards in an undignified motion that could uncharitably be called a scoot. He watched Martin with his usual sneer, but deep in those silver eyes, Martin caught the fluttering edges of something new, something intoxicating.

Jonah Magnus was afraid.

Jon caught Jonah by the shoulder, holding him roughly in place. A thin line of blood dripped from his nostril, but his eyes were warm and brown again - Jon’s eyes, exhausted, but clear.

Jonah glanced over his shoulder, then back at Martin. “Now, Martin, let’s not be hasty.”

A slow chuckle burbled from Martin’s lips. He could feel it bubbling, blood filling his mouth as he pulled himself forward. “This isn’t hasty, Jonah. I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

He held the knife aloft in a surprisingly steady hand.

“Martin, don’t-”

Before he could say another goddamn word, Martin slashed his throat.

Jonah’s hands went to his neck, clawing futilely at the open wound as though he could hold back the dark gush of blood as it spilled over his fine suit, splattering the hearth and filling the room with a sizzling, coppery scent. His mouth opened, red froth staining his teeth, and he choked out a surprised sound before falling still, slumped against Jon in a final mockery of a loving embrace.

Martin gazed down on his limp body with satisfaction.

And then he collapsed.

“Martin!”

His vision began to swirl at the edges. A terrible, creeping cold slipped over his limbs; an ocean tide softly, endlessly rolling in. It was like the flashbacks he’d endured for months - the dizziness, the smell of smoke, and blood, and paper - but this time it wasn’t fading away.

“Martin, look at me.”

Gentle hands lifted his head and settled it back again on a soft surface. Jon’s face swam into his vision, peering down at him from above. God, he looked so worried. What was there to be worried about? 

Jonah was gone.

Annabelle owed them big time.

“We did it,” Martin said. The words sounded oddly raspy coming out of his mouth. He reached out to touch Jon’s face with a bloodied hand.

Jon captured it in his own, pressing it against his cheek. “Just, hold on, okay? I’m going to figure something out.” 

But what was left to figure out? Jonah was gone. Gone forever. Gone for good.

And Martin so desperately wanted to rest.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Wake up!” Jon shook him roughly enough to startle him awake again. His vision blurred, but he was almost certain Jon was crying. “Stay awake. God damn it, don’t leave me.”

But sleep crept upon Martin, soft and warm and dark. It pulled at his eyelids and tipped his head back loosely in Jon’s arms. It wasn’t like the Lonely, which for all its quiet had been cold and hazy, a constant, anxious buzz of despair in the back of his mind.

Instead, it felt like peace. 

Waiting for him. 

Beckoning him.

Jon gripped his hand tighter, squeezing his fingers together until his bones began to protest. “Ceaseless Watcher, look upon this man.”

The weight was back, squeezing the blissful stillness from Martin’s lungs like an anvil dropped on his chest. He gasped for air and his eyes flew open.

“You have followed him endlessly, through time and space.”

He felt that spotlight trained on him again, turning him inside out, burning where it crawled in the open wound in his gut. But this time its gaze didn’t flay him with fear.

Instead, it felt vaguely curious.

“Gift him your power and protection. Make him yours.”

Beholding rose in him, buoying him on top of a wave that he knew could just as easily drown him. 

His eyes snapped to Jon, still looking down at him, dripping with tears. He gritted his teeth, stroking one bloodied thumb over Jon’s cheekbone.

“Please, Martin,” he whispered.

“Together?”

Jon leaned down, pressing his forehead to Martin’s. “One way or another.”

If there was a universe in which Martin would have said no to Jon, this wasn’t it.

So he nodded, his mouth too full of blood to speak.

In an endless, screaming moment, Martin saw everything.

And then, blissfully, he saw nothing.