Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Martin opened his eyes, rousing slowly. He lay still and allowed his surroundings to steadily fade into view. Dust motes danced lazily above in the morning sunlight. It was quiet. It was warm. A long time ago, Martin found himself terrified of silence- silence implied absence, absence implied loneliness, and the echoing sound of a churning grey sea would start to fill his ears. 

Not now. Now, the silence felt peaceful. Fear couldn’t find him here. He took his time blinking the sleep from his eyes. There was no rush- Marrin and Jon had taken the day off. A rare thing, really. You couldn’t get Jon to stay home from work unless they were actively projectile vomiting.

They didn’t have plans, per se. He felt sort of bad about that. But he’d learned long ago that Jon didn’t care much for expensive, extravagant gestures (maybe a few every now and again, but he could live without them). Martin had bought a few gifts, which he’d gotten too excited to save. He’d given them to Jon the night before. He never was good at surprising people.

They’d spent the last handful of anniversaries staying in and watching movies, a heap of tangled limbs on the couch. They’d probably pop open a bottle of wine, take a walk to the nearby diner for some breakfast for dinner. The blueberry pancakes were Jon’s favorite. 

Martin didn’t mind. A soft, lazy day where they just got to enjoy each other’s company was a treat he'd never pass up, and it was a more than suitable way to commemorate their relationship. But it took some getting used to when he’d thought his whole life that he had to go all out for an anniversary. 

“Jon?” He didn’t feel his partner on or next to him. As he rolled over, he felt that their side of the bed was empty and too cold to have been vacated recently. “Jon?” He called much louder. He sat up, reaching for his glasses.

“In the kitchen!”

Martin slid out of bed and wandered out to follow it, stretching his arms over his head. Jon sat at the table, a little ways into a new knitting project with one of his new spools of yarn. It was thick and soft, a gentle greyish-greenish-blue color. Jon said it reminded them of a forest lake on a foggy day.

Martin had teased them endlessly for what a prosaic description that was. ‘After so long, I must've started rubbing off on you a little bit, ey?’ (One of his favorite ways to annoy and/or fluster them was to describe him like a character in of a poem, with absurd and romantic similes. “eyes like pools of finest chocolate” and “hair like a misty midnight” were two of his favorites.)

“Hi,” Martin greeted, a languid smile creeping across his face at the sight of them. 

“Hi,” Jon stood and promptly pulled him into an embrace. He nuzzled his face into Martin’s chest with a contented sigh. “Good morning.”

He chuckled quietly. “You could’ve woken me up.”

Jon shook his head. “It was far too early. Didn’t want to disturb you.” They murmured. “It may be a special occasion, but it is still your day off,”

“It could never be too early to gaze upon your beautiful face,”

“The sun hadn’t even come up yet,” he sighed, unimpressed.

“…Okay, yeah. I probably would have thrown something at you,” He admitted. “But I’d have gotten over it,”

Jon probably wouldn’t ever normalize their sleep schedule, but it’d been made a bit better with time and a lot of work. Story of their lives. He was a much earlier riser than Martin, which did serve the two quite well on workdays. They were far nicer than any alarm clock, but unfortunately sometimes privy to Martin’s pleas that he come back to bed for ‘just a few more minutes…’. Like hitting the snooze button.

They pulled away to look at Martin, nudging his glasses back up his nose before cupping his face in their hand. “It’s a nice day today.” 

Martin hummed in agreement. These would always be nice days. He pressed a kiss to the top of their head and let his lips linger for a little while. “I’ll put the kettle on,” 

As he waited for the water to boil, he leaned against the counter and watched as Jon read the weather and some morning news from his phone.

Martin found it hard to listen. His eyes brimmed with affection. He was 29 all over again, catching Jon’s narrowed eye as he tripped over a box of statements, blushing as they offered a hand (and even a little as they undid the kind gesture by berating him for the next ten minutes). Trying to look like he was listening rather than putting every ounce of will he had into not telling his boss that they were pretty. 

That version of himself could’ve never pictured where the two would end up- that his stupid workplace crush would turn into something substantial. In a very unconventional way, sure, but still. Thinking about it made him smile. 

Gone now was the close-cropped hair and three-piece suit Jon couldn't stand for reasons beyond the itchy tags and heat, ones they wouldn’t admit to themselves. He had on a Nine Inch Nails shirt that was a few sizes too large, fleece pajama pants with stars on them, mismatched socks. They’d tied up their hair to keep it out of his eyes. He was sitting in their kitchen surrounded by their clutter, mugs and books and papers and potted plants. The little things that made their house theirs, pieces of themselves they finally felt safe leaving somewhere, filling it with life and energy and warmth.

No matter how many years passed, Martin would never get many things out of his head. He’d had to come to terms with that. He couldn’t forget, no matter how badly he wanted to. There were wounds time would never heal.

One he very frequently worried with was how Jon looked through their years at the institute. Deep bags under eyes that flashed acid-green, so full of anger and regret. After he woke up from the Unknowing, he kept his broken glasses for several weeks. Admitting he didn’t need them anymore would destroy him even more. Unwashed hair, overgrown beard, clothes they rarely bothered to change. They’d been so thin that he looked like you could break him. Always cold, hair coming out like he was shedding, gripping onto a chair or a desk or a wall for support when when he stood too suddenly. It’d taken a long time to get used to having to eat again, to the point where Martin had been scared they’d die from refeeding syndrome.

He’d been beautiful, even so. Martin meant it when he said in sickness and in health. But he was okay now. They’d gained a more-than-decent amount of weight (in no small part due to Martin’s cooking) and had stopped scowling when they looked in the mirror. Maybe they didn’t smile, but that was okay. He’d found new hobbies, had time for his old ones, they’d gotten a job they loved (though he’d never admit it to the students).

He liked being alive. When he couldn’t, they had supports to lean on. When they smiled it didn’t come with the footnote of being despite how nightmarish their life had become. 

Martin marveled at the signs of age that Jon turned their nose up at, too. The silver encroached more and more of their hair and wrinkles were starting to show. He’d survived long enough for those things to happen and they were even more lovely for it. 

The aftereffects were there, of course. The scars hadn't disappeared. Jon’s aches and pains were quite a bit more intense than they would’ve been with the aging of a regular person. There were days where he could hardly move, ones where he had to walk with a cane, and he’d mutter bitterly about how decrepit he was becoming. But Martin would kiss him until he was breathless and giggling, insisting he was as beautiful as the day they’d met. (Less terrifying, too.) They could take a hot bath and some medicine and lay down until it got more bearable, and Martin would sit with him and pet his hair and dote on him endlessly. 

They’d both discovered who they were, who they could be, getting to know each other all over again. They loved what they’d found with unafraid, feverish warmth. It was a journey unlikely to ever reach its conclusion. Martin didn’t want it to. He fell in love with every stone that made up their cobbled, twisted road. 

“Youre staring,” Jon pointed out. Martin hadn’t even noticed they’d set their phone down and was staring back. He blinked.

“It’s my right,” he declared. “Especially today.”

Jon chuckled. “I suppose I’ll give you that,” they relented. “Are you alright, though? You looked quite…  intense.”

“Thirteen years, Jon.” He blurted out. He lifted his hand, displaying his wedding band with spread fingers. “Thirteen years with these, sixteen together, I-I mean, isn’t that kind of… mental?”

He laughed, a warm, melodic sound that Martin had heard for the first time almost thirteen years ago. He still treasured like a precious gem. “‘Mental’? How succinct. Be still my heart,”

“It is!” Martin protested. “Don’t you think? Lord knows my parents didn’t last that long,”

They scoffed. “I don’t think your parents should be used as a basis to compare anything to,”

“Okay, fair, but still!” He insisted. “It’s a good mental, obviously. I mean, back then, if I’d told you that we’d eventually be celebrating our 13th wedding anniversary, you would’ve laughed in my face,”

”No. I probably would’ve scowled and called you delusional.” 

The kettle began to whistle. Martin turned off the heat and poured the steaming water into two mugs, one shaped like a cow and one from Jon’s university. He put in two tea bags to steep.

“I’m just happy, okay?” Martin huffed as he watched the dark, reddish-brown cloud swirl through the water, stirring gently. “You’re really pretty, and really great, and I get to have you. Can a man not count his blessings?”

Martin didn’t hear Jon get up, starting a bit as their arms snaked around his waist from behind. “Jesus-!” He squeaked, giggling. 

“I wouldn’t have believed anyone would see me as a blessing.” he murmured. “I suppose that is rather ‘mental’.” 

Martin reached up to place both his hands on Jon’s, letting them linger for a moment. Then, gently, he pulled them away so he could turn to face him. He took their hands again and pulled them into a long, slow kiss. He ran his thumb over the band around his ring finger over and over again. “You are,” he declared, smiling dreamily. “My brightest and most beautiful.”

Chapter Text

Tim, Sasha, and Martin stood in a tense, tight semi-circle around the Head Archivist’s office. The door stood intimidatingly in front of them, closed as usual. One thought circled through Martin’s head, heightening his anxiety with every lap it ran- I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his jumper, stained brown with the latte he’d dropped all over himself mere minutes earlier.

“Well, one of us has to tell him,” Tim declared. They’d been taking a few moments to catch their breath, mutually wanting to avoid that very subject.

“I suppose,” Sasha sighed. Martin just nodded. 

“I say Martin should do it.” He declared bluntly. 

“What?!” The man in question squeaked. “Why me?”

“You let it in!” 

“He didn’t do it on purpose,” Sasha interjected, shooting Martin a sympathetic look. “…but I’m inclined to agree. Sorry, big guy,”

“I can’t-“ the argument died on his lips. He didn’t even know what it was going to be. He’d been dreading and anticipating this moment. Because they were right, but that didn’t make him feel any better. 

Jon scared the shit out of him. He was exceedingly beautiful, exceedingly uptight, and exceedingly not fond of Martin. He’d made that clear from day one, and now he’d screwed up in such a massive way. Now he was being sent in to admit his mistake. A painful knob formed in his throat. As he sighed shakily and stepped forward, he felt a bit like a lamb to the slaughter. 

“We’ll be right behind you,” Tim announced unhelpfully, flashing him a thumbs up. “He won’t bite your throat out if there’s witnesses. He’s too practical for that.”

“Tim!” Sasha hissed. 

Martin tried his best to focus only on the first half of that statement as he opened the door, poking his head in. “Um, Jon…? I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen a-“

He stopped-mid sentence. Jon was sitting in his chair, straight-backed as always. And in his lap was the dog. It was much more relaxed now, as he petted its head with very un-Jonlike affection. Martin hadn’t gotten a good look as it darted between his feet and into the Archives. He only knew it was small, black, and fluffy. He saw now that it was a Yorkshire terrier, a little on the older side. It’s fur had several splashes of grey.

It reminded him a little of Jon, right down to the forest-green collar and golden tag, remarkably close to the shade of his sweater vest and glasses. He kept the comment very much to himself. His mind meant it as a compliment, sure, but he doubted Jon would care for it in the slightest. 

Jon looked up at him, raising an unamused eyebrow and pausing mid-pet. “So, you finally decided to show up.” he declared. Martin blushed a deep, humiliated red. “Hello, Tim. Sasha,”

“Hi, boss,” they said in unison, bursting into a fit of giggles. 

Jon unbuckled the collar and tossed it to Martin, who proceeded to fumble the catch and turn somehow redder as it fell to the floor. “Tim, would you be so kind as to enter the number on the tag into your phone and inform Luna’s owner of his whereabouts?”

He scowled as Martin handed it to him. “What, so I don’t get to pet the dog?”

“Tim.” Jon sighed. 

He threw his hands up. “Fine, fine. I see how it is,” he did as he was told and then handed the collar back to Martin. He set it on Jon’s desk, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“I suppose that settles that,” Sasha chimed in, trying to come to Martin’s rescue. He nodded in agreement and turned to leave a bit too eagerly.

“Martin, stay. I would like to speak with you,” he froze. “Close the door, please. I don't want him getting loose in here. Again.”

Martin trudged to the door, taking the handle. Tim gave a very un-subtle eyebrow raise, and Sasha mouthed “I tried.” He didn’t acknowledge either, slowly pushing it shut. 

A jingling sound came from behind, preceding the gentle thump of small paws hitting carpeted ground. The Yorkie- apparently named Luna- approached him enthusiastically, wagging his tail and staring up at him.

Despite the situation, Martin giggled, crouching down to scratch him between the ears. “Are you a good boy?” He asked. His tail wagged faster as if in agreement. “Yes you are! Yes you are,”  

“He is sweet.” Jon piped up. Martin had almost forgotten he was there. Almost. He looked up, smile dropping a little. 

“I, um, didn’t take you for a dog person.” He attempted.

“I’m not shocked, considering you seem to think I tend towards ‘biting out throats’,”

He stumbled over his words. “Tim said that! Of course I-I don’t think you-”

“I was joking.” He declared. Martin wasn’t sure how he was supposed to tell; his expression hadn’t shifted a centimeter since the conversation began. 

“Oh. Ha, ha,” he uttered feebly. 

Jon rested his chin on his hand. “I had a dog as a child. A pit-boxer mix named Wendy. Much larger than Luna here. I do have a slight preference for cats, but I like them.”

“Mhm.” He’d stopped being completely terrified and was now more confused. This was the most small talk Jon had made with him in the handful of weeks he’d been at the archives. He’d been steeling himself to get yelled at the moment that door swung shut.

Luna got up on his hind legs, placing his paws on Martin’s knees, demanding his attention. He took it as a command to sit- funny, usually that’d be the other way around- and did so. Luna crawled proudly into his lap.

“You let him in,” Jon declared. His voice regained the icy edge he was used to. Martin didn’t need to ask him how he knew, since he’d made it clear he’d overheard his exchange with Tim and Sasha. Given Martin’s track record, it wouldn’t have been difficult to guess, anyway. 

“I-it was an accident,” he blurted. 

“Negligence, then.”

“No!” He protested. “I mean, in a sense. I was carrying some things and he just- I don’t even know where he came from, he was gone once I realized what was happening,”

Jon pursed his lips. “You’re lucky Luna is small and relatively well-behaved. This could have gone very badly for the rest of us.” 

His heart sank at the implication with ‘rest of us’. It was only going to go bad for Martin. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “It won’t happen again. I’ve had a lot going on lately, I’ve been so scatterbrained, I’m trying to be better, I- please don’t tell Elias. I’m begging you.”

He swore he saw Jon’s gaze soften, but it didn’t come through in his words. “Are you suggesting I lie to my boss?”

He flinched. “No. I don’t know why I said that,” he murmured. He looked down at Luna’s contented face, continuing to pet him. It was a small comfort. “I messed up. I’m sorry, I just, I need this job and- but it doesn’t matter. You’re right.” 

Jon paused for a moment, deliberating. “Normally, something like this would be grounds for disciplinary action, yes,” he announced. “But since the situation resolved rather quickly, and there was no damage to property or person, I do not think that will be necessary.”

Martin’s eyes visibly lit up. “You’re serious?!”

“I think it’s clear I’m not the joking type,” 

“Thank you, Jon, thank you so much,” he breathed, with palpable relief, grinning. 

Jon was the one to look away this time, an action that confused Martin- he found it quite endearing. He’d never seen him anything like tentative. Especially not around him. “If it happens again, I will not be so lenient. Do not take this as an excuse to continue slacking off,”

“Of course not,” he replied quickly. 

The door burst open. “Lady’s on her way,” Tim announced loudly. “He ran off from her yard. Little guy’s lucky he didn’t get hit by a car or something.”

“Tim,” Jon growled, for about the millionth time that week. “What have I told you about knocking?”

“Oh, what? Was I interrupting something?” He grinned obnoxiously, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Tim!” Martin exclaimed this time. Jon just glared.

Reluctantly, he patted Luna’s neck one more time and moved to get up. He sneezed and padded back to Jon. Martin looked to him for permission to leave, and he gave a single, curt nod. 

Martin made sure they were a good distance away before they started talking. “What’s the verdict?” Tim asked. 

“I-I think I’m alright?” Martin replied. He could hardly believe it himself. “As long as this doesn’t happen again,”

He furrowed his brow. “That’s a surprise. He looked like he wanted to kill you,”

“No, he’s not…” Martin trailed off, face warming. “It was fine. He’s fine. Sometimes,”

“Oh, dear,” Tim tsked. “You’ve got it bad.”

“He’s my boss! I haven’t ‘got’ anything!” 

He clapped Martin firmly on the shoulder, smiling amusedly. “Whatever you say.” 

Chapter Text

“Hey, Martin,”

He looked up from his drink at the sound of Sasha’s voice, the first sound clearly directed at him in a number of minutes. It cut through the music and chatter, a consistent buzz of noise.

He’d been absentmindedly swirling it around his cup, watching the bubbly foam that rose up and faded away. Every now and again, people would drift by, starting up a brief conversation or saying hello. For the most part, people had much more interesting things to occupy their time than the guy sitting on the couch and drinking Diet Coke at a party. 

A pity approach, after a pity invite. Admitting that’s what this was didn’t particularly hurt his feelings. Martin had come to terms with it long ago.

He was friendly, sure, but not exactly the most exciting. During events like these, he quickly became a background character. But he liked Tim and Sasha, so when they nagged him to come to this… wait, was it a birthday party? A celebration of an important moment in someone’s life? Just a random get-together? He couldn’t recall, and was too embarrassed to ask- whatever it was, it’d gone on far too long for that to be an appropriate question.

But, no matter- the important thing was that Martin had decided to give it a chance. He was sick of spending his weekends completely alone.

That was the main reason he told himself he’d showed up in the first place, and was still sitting there. As Tim had very unsubtly mentioned, a certain ‘boss-man’ had been convinced to come as well; and Martin had done a poor job disguising how quickly that changed his reply from “oh, I don’t know, maybe,” to “sure, absolutely. I’ll bring a veggie tray”. 

He’d spotted Jon around, even said hi a couple times, but he seemed rather preoccupied. And, if he let his worries get the better of him, a bit like he was deliberately avoiding Martin 

“Hi, Sasha,” Martin waved halfheartedly.

She sat next to him, yanking off her heels and sighing with relief. She’d ranted many, many times about how much she hated heels, but still insisted on keeping a pair. It was classy, she always said, and she liked being taller than Tim. “I’m gonna cut to the chase,” she stated, souning exasperated. “Can you drive Jon home? He’s a little, ah…” she tried to find a polite way to put it. 

“A little what?” Martin blinked.

“He’s trashed,” she gave up. “Been ranting to Daisy for the past 15 minutes about the complete history of acetaminophen.”

“Oh?” Martin replied, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t know Jon drank. ‘specially not enough to get ‘trashed’.”

She shrugged. “Me neither, come to think of it. At least he’s having a good time, I guess?” She chuckled. “But he needs very badly to lie down somewhere quiet. And you're probably the most sober person here,”

Martin sighed. I get it, I’m lame, and now I have to be the designated driver. Really, though, that wasn’t the primary feeling that arose at the prospect of being alone with Jon. He’d been hoping to see him again, but certainly not like this. He didn’t say any of that. “Yeah. I was thinking of heading out soon, anyway,”

“Thank you, Martin,” she patted him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you on, seriously.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved his hand, rising to his feet. “I’m sure I can handle him.”

She quirked an eyebrow, smiling amusedly, and Martin wondered briefly just what he’d gotten himself into. Jon was already insufferable enough, he wasn’t sure how much of a difference an elevated BAC would make. “Sure you can,”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to-?!” He wasn’t given the opportunity to finish as Sasha turned and led him into the kitchen.

There Jon was, draped rather incorrectly in a chair and loudly giggling with an also-inebriated Daisy. She wasn’t nearly as much, it seemed, listening amusedly as he infodumped about something or other. 

Jon’s bun, previously neat and tightly bound as usual, had come so loose that it looked more like a poorly-done ponytail. Strands of silver and grey stuck out wildly, falling into his eyes and down his neck. His movements were slow, and uncoordinated. All in all, Sasha hadn’t been lying when she described him as “trashed”. It didn’t seem like he was blacking out or anything, but he was certainly enjoying himself. His smile widened when he spotted Martin.

“Hi,” he greeted brightly. “‘S Martin, Daisy!”

“Yes, Jon. I have eyes,” Daisy scoffed. 

“I’m gonna drive you home,,” Martin announced, a little less than assertively.

He furrowed his brow. “Why?” He huffed. “I’m fine. I’m having fun.” As if for emphasis, he groped at a nearby can and took a sizable swig.

”That’s not even yours,” Sasha interjected, snatching it from him. “You hate hard seltzer.” 

“Well, maybe I’ve decided I like it!” He called as she left to dispose of the now-empty can. Daisy stifled a laugh, something Martin didn’t ever think he’d seen from her, but he didn’t comment or let his eyes linger for too long- she still scared him a bit, honestly. 

”I think you should go with him,” she stated.

“But-“ their eyes met. Daisy gave him a very pointed look and realization dawned over Jon’s face as he nodded, exaggerated and slow. 

”Yeah,” he murmured. “Home. Okay.”

“Good man. You’ve got this.” She clapped him once on the shoulder. From her, that may as well have been a bear hug. “Text me,”

Martin, confused but eager to get Jon and leave, offered him a hand. He stared at it blankly for a few moments like he wasn’t sure why it was there. Eventually, he took it. “G’bye, Daisy,” he slurred, rising unsteadily to his feet. 

“Bye, Jon,” she responded, sounding amused. “

Martin wrote it off as tipsy nonsense, which was easy to do when Jon stumbled a bit and all but faceplanted onto Martin’s chest. He flushed. Damn it, no. Not the time.

He grabbed Jon’s shoulders and steadied him as they made their way to the door. He was mostly able to stay on his feet, though his path was curved and uneven. He hummed as they walked. 

“Your face is red,” Jon observed as they stepped outside. “You shouldn’t drive ‘f you're drunk, too.” 

“I-I’m not,” Martin replied hurriedly. “Just a bit warm.” 

“Okay,” he relented rather quickly. “I trust you.”

He swallowed, shoving down the feelings that gave him and quickening his pace. How the hell had he gotten here? Why hadn’t he just suggested they call him a cab? 

The prospect jumped to mind that Sasha had done this on purpose. His crush on Jon wasn’t exactly a well-kept company secret. No doubt Tim was in on it too, if that was the case. He sighed. He’d be having some words with them.

He opened the passenger door for Jon and he slumped inside, still humming. Martin didn’t recognize the song. He kept stumbling over what sounded like the chorus and starting again, like it mattered. 

“You want to put something on?” Martin offered as he turned his key in the ignition. He handed Jon a cord that was plugged into the center console. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of an earworm there,”

“‘S no worms in my ears.” He mumbled, in complete earnestness. Nevertheless, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and fumbled with the cord before managing to plug it in. “Why not? I’m too drunk to care if you think it’s embarrassing. Just glad you’re not Tim. He’d never leme live this down.”

A song started playing at a moderate volume as Martin shifted into drive and started towards Jon’s flat, directions pulled up on his own phone. Blue and Yellow by The Used. 

“Shouldve heard him when he found out I like Thursday.” Jon grumbled. “Wouldn’t stop calling me emo. Like we’re twelve.”

“This sounds pretty emo to me.”

“Not you, too,” he whined, slumping down in his seat. Martin couldn’t help but giggle. Regardless of the reason, it was sort of nice to see a side of him that wasn’t so standoffish. 

“That’s not a bad thing,” Martin clarified. “It’s a nice song.”

Should’ve done something, but I’ve done it enough

By the way your hands were shaking, rather waste some time with you

Oh, Martin observed lamely. This is a love song, isn’t it? Sounds like one. Jon hoped he noticed, and Martin hoped he didn’t notice that he noticed. 

The rest of the drive was silent aside from the music and Jon singing- more like mumbling that moved up and down occasionally- along. He didn’t have a bad voice. Martin figured that it sounded a lot nicer when he wasn’t inebriated, lamenting the fact that he’d never get to hear it. 

The drive wasn’t long. A few autoplay songs later, decidedly also quite emo- which he kept to himself- he parked in front of Jon’s flat. “I’ll walk you inside,” 

“Y’don’t have t-“ suddenly, he clapped a hand over his mouth. He tensed, and his eyes shot wide open. 

“Shit!” Martin bolted to pull him out of the car and to the nearest storm drain. 

He held out a hand, trying to push Martin away, more of a weak and directionless flail. It didn’t work, in any case. He held Jon’s hair away from his face as he emptied his stomach rather violently. Without thinking, he found himself using his other hand to rub his back soothingly as he heaved. 

“‘M sorry.” Jon gasped, once he was done, hands on his knees. “That was… unpleasant,”

“It’s okay.” Martin patted him once between the shoulderblades, stepping away before either of them could acknowledge the show of affection. “Probably good that you got some of it out of your system.” He pulled a wad of napkins out of his car door and handed it to Jon. He accepted gratefully, wiping the leftover vomit off of his chin. He moved to shove them in his pocket, and Martin directed him to a nearby refuse bin.

Jon handed him his keys and allowed himself to lean against Martin as they ascended the stairs. 

“Y’can go home,” he told Martin as he opened the door, stumbling over to and collapsing on his couch. The place was a mess, scattered with books, papers, dirty dishes, wrappers… so on. It smelled like woodsy-scented candles, old paper, and cologne. A bit much, but not altogether unpleasant.

He followed Jon inside, despite himself, resting his hands on the back of the couch and looking down at him. “Let me get you some water and something to eat.” He offered. “Might help the upcoming hangover, and you’re definitely dehydrated.”

He scrunched up his face, staring stubbornly at his VCR box as if it was staring back. “You’ve done t’much already. This is embarrassing,” he murmured. “Not thinking straight. Should’ve just gotten a cab.”

“It’s no problem. I prefer knowing you're safe,” 

Jon smiled a bit dreamily. “You’re sweet, Martin,” he mumbled. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

He turned to fetch the aforementioned provisions, clumsily hiding his reaction. He filled one of Jon’s cups and opened his fridge to see what he had to work with. A box of leftovers that smelled strange, milk that had expired a few days ago, half a stick of butter, some avocados, exactly three eggs, a ziploc bag of pizza, other bits and bobs. Martin trashed the box and milk. He gave the pizza a sniff, determining it fine.

“Pizza okay?” Martin called. 

“I like it cold!” Jon chirped.

He stifled a laugh, bringing a slice to him how it was with that input alongside the water.

He swung himself up, head swaying a bit on his shoulders, as Martin set it down on the coffee table. He sipped the water and took a tentative bite. 

“‘M not like this.” Jon’s voice was muffled as he chewed. 

“Of course not. You’re drunk,” Martin took a seat a very respectable distance away. It was a reminder both to Jon and himself. This is nothing. He just needs you to make sure he doesn’t trip and get a concussion when he’s falling into bed, and everything will go right back to normal on Monday. He’ll pretend you don’t exist and you’ll do a very poor approximation of the same. Right. Yes. As it should be. 

“I don’t even like alcohol that much,” he laughed a little too long, continuing in a tentative mumble. “Really. It tastes horrid and you are more right than you know about the hangover. I’ll be considering suicide come morning. But, ah I… I wanted some extra confidence, I s’pose. Went overboard. If I was tipsy, I thought maybe it’d be easier to talk t’you. Lord. This really isn’t how I expected it to go,”

“Talk to me?” 

He buried his face in his hands, regretting the spill. “I-I just- Tim said I had’to eventually, and that there’s ‘no time like the present’. I don’t know why I ever listen to that man, but lord, even-even Daisy’s-is on me about it, too.” He grumbled. “They’re right. Which I hate.”

“Well,” Martin fidgeted a bit. This was the last thing he’d expected. “I’m here. If you still want to,”

He took in an almost comically deep breath and tensed like he was preparing to be hit. “‘M’nluhwiyu.” His voice was barely above a whisper and so slurred Martin couldn’t quite make it out.

“Ah, you’re gonna have to speak up?” He chuckled awkwardly. “S-sorry, it can wait ‘til later. You’re not exactly in much of a shape for talking right now,”

“No, damn it,” his grip tightened dangerously on his own hair before he relaxed, flopping backwards dramatically and looking to the ceiling for counsel it did not offer. “I won’t be able to later, ‘s been years and I can’t. I can’t just do this. And apparently, it's obvious to everyone.” 

“Then tell me,” he made his voice as gentle as he could. From what he could tell, this frustration ran far deeper. And damn it, he hated seeing Jon suffer; which was unfortunate, considering he was the most self-inflictedly overworked person on the face of the earth. 

“I. Am,” he spoke very deliberately, ensuring each syllable was clear and sharp. “In. Love. With. You.” His inhibited shame flowed back in like a tidal wave and he gave another pained groan. “Well. I did it.” 

Martin’s heart pounded demandingly in his ears and his brain went silent, gobsmacked. There was no way he’d heard what he just thought he did, but by the weight of the silence that hung between them, he must have. “Jon, you’re not serious,” he stammered. “You’re not thinking clearly right now.”

“I am about that,” he retorted sharply. “D-do you really think I- Martin, seriously. I have tried to stay away from you for years, because whenever ‘maround you I feel- I don’t even know how t’describe it, damn it, you’re the poet and you could probably do a lot nicer of a job. I want ‘t trust you and be around you and- so much more, all of it mortifying. I-I need to know how you feel so maybe I can finally start to put it to rest,” 

He swallowed thickly. This can’t be happening. What are you waiting for? Tell him. Tell him the truth, it’s your opportunity, this is too good to be true, you’re dreaming, but in case you’re not- “Jon, I don’t want to say anything while you’re in this state.”

“You-“ he started to sound angry at his lack of trust, head snapping towards Martin. His glare shriveled up and turned into disappointment. “…yes. I understand.”

“Jon, wait, it’s not- that’s not what I mean, just,” he sighed, frustrated with himself. “Thank you for telling me. That… clearly wasn’t easy on you. I just, if you decide you regret that later, I don’t want to make things more complicated. I care about you and don’t wanna risk losing you, that’s all. I’m sorry,”

There were a million things he wanted to say, and they flashed across his face, frustrated little microexpressions that only made Martin feel more uncertain. “Can you just stay, Martin?” He finally asked, sounding upset but a little hopeful. “Stay here, ‘n I can tell you again when you’ll believe me. First thing I’ll do,”

Martin nodded, letting himself look at Jon. That, he could work with. He wanted to believe him, but he also didn’t want to further muck things up between them. “You need to get some sleep, anyway,” he replied. “It won’t be a long wait.”

Jon reached out like he wanted to touch him, but his arm fell back down, jaw set in dissatisfaction. Martin caught it before he could pull back all the way, taking his hand. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

For someone with such an organized work life, his personal space sure was a disaster- which felt very emblematic of Jon in general. That extended to his room. You could hardly see the floor through the clutter. He tripped a couple times but eventually fell onto his unmade bed, yanking off his shoes and throwing them in opposite directions.

”if you need anything, I’ll be on the couch,” Martin declared. “And, ah, I’ll be waiting. Tomorrow. If you want to… yeah.”

”I will.” He declared, with an assertive edge that sounded quite sober-Jon. “Might not be much fun t’be around, though.”

“Sounds pretty par for the course.”

Jon threw one of his socks in his direction, and he took that as a cue to leave. “Goodnight, Jon.” I love you. 

“Night.” 

He kept the door slightly ajar as he left. He sat on the couch, taking several deep breaths as he tried to suppress the giddy, confused shriek threatening to crawl out of him. 

-

It was 8:30 when Jon stirred, and he wished very badly for someone to knock him back out with the nearest blunt object. He squinted and groaned against the minimal sunlight flooding in through his shuttered window. 

His head pounded, his mouth felt like he’d been chewing on sand, his stomach lurched at the mere action of sitting up. He groaned, trying to will it all away. It didn’t work. Water. Need water. If I drink water, I’ll puke. Fuck. But I need some. I’m hungry. Somebody kill me. Fucking-shit-fuck.

He had important matters to attend to, so he dragged his heavy bones out of bed and into the rest of the flat. He couldn’t give two wits that he was in only his boxers and an (apparently backwards) shirt, hair sticking out everywhere like legs from a mass of crushed insects. 

Martin looked up from the TV, playing some random movie, and smiled sympathetically at Jon. He’d drawn the blinds and kept the lights off, save for a single lamp, but even that made him cringe a bit. 

Wordlessly, Jon slumped onto the couch, and then sideways. His pounding head fell into Martin’s lap, where he closed his eyes and all but nuzzled into his thigh. “Oh-! Hello there,”

”Still in love with you, by the way.” He mumbled hoarsely.

His heart fluttered, and a smile crawled over his face, turning into a giggle that was almost made Jon feel better. Almost. “Love you too, Sleeping Beauty.” He replied. “Let’s get you a greasy breakfast and some Ibprofen, yeah?

Chapter Text

Jon was a strange boy indeed.

It wasn’t like they were bullied or anything. Many disliked him, and they didn’t beat around the bush making it clear, but they’d usually retreat into behind-his-back snickers and gossip when they realized he wasn’t going to react.

For the most part, his peers ignored him. He had a sparse few friends. The types of people who could probably find a way to get along with anyone, like Tim. And it was only ever those who approached him first. His interest in putting himself out there and doing the work to form a connection was beyond deficient. To most, it made them seem conceited, odd, or faded them into the background of a student body with much more to offer.

During lunch and off hours, they’d retreat into the library, hiding away in the furthest corner he could to tear through achingly pretentious novels or work on school projects.

Long, dark, curly hair that fell a little bit over their eyes. Dressed in dark, muted colors- green, brown, and black, for the most part. Usually had on headphones, their face in a book, or both. He attended class but never participated. Other than that, he was a mystery. 

A mystery Martin felt compelled to solve. 

All of the above were observations he’d made over the few years they’d been in the same building, watching them from across halls and classrooms. Jon caught his eye from day 1. He doubted they didn’t notice, catching it pointedly sometimes when Martin found himself staring. He swore that, from time to time, theirs were also directed his way. If they were, his stoicism lent itself much better to being subtle about it.

Martin was Jon’s polar opposite. All round edges and soft shapes, talking a little too much in a voice that was a little too girly and laughing a little too loud. Warm pastels and bright auburn-ginger curls that never seemed to behave. He was a walking disaster, a bundle of high-strung nerves and directionless creative energy. He was tolerated well enough but also resented by many for how, well, annoying he was. 

He and Jon hadn’t spoken much. Of course not. Jon didn’t really conversate with anyone beyond the bare minimum. Much less somewhat like him.

Martin had never worked up the courage to approach them, nor did an opportunity arise where it wouldn’t seem like he was seeking him out. Which would’ve been off-putting to someone who clearly treasured their space.

It wasn’t until their junior year and Martin bit the bullet on his required gym credit that he realized they had something in common. They both ditched.

One October afternoon, they caught each others’ eye in the courtyard when they both knew full well where they were supposed to be. It was a pleasant fall day. Martin was, all at once, stricken by how pretty they were. A dark, spindly shape bundled in layers, surrounded by fiery faking leaves, hair dancing with them in the breeze. He stopped.

They were sitting on a bench, reading. Sod it, Martin decided. He stepped over, smiling tentatively. 

“Um, hey,” he cringed, making sure to drop his voice an octave or two before he spoke next. “Ah, can I sit with you?”

He sort of expected them to pounce on him and rip his head of. Instead, they gave a half-shrug, shifting over to allow him more space. “Be my guest.” 

He stared for a few seconds longer than he should’ve. Wait, what? Realizing how much dumber he was making himself look, he sat.

“W-we’re supposed to be in gym,” he mumbled. A pathetic attempt at imitating small talk.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” they replied. Martin swore he saw the slightest upward twitch in the corner of his lip. 

“No, of course I’m not going to,” he blurted. “I hate gym. Mostly, I hate the locker rooms, I never know which one I should go in, and I’m always chosen last or pummeled in dodgeball-“ he cut himself cleanly off. “Sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I was rambling. And I don’t even know you.” 

“I don’t mind.” He responded. “I’m a person of few words. If you make up for it, that’s no skin off my back.”

“Oh,” Martin squeaked. This whole interaction had taken him quite by surprise. “Okay. Um, I’m Martin,”

“Jon,” like they needed any introduction.

“So,” he stated. “What’re you reading?”

It was then that Martin discovered, despite his self-identification as a “person of few words”, how many they could find when given the opportunity. 

Admittedly, Martin found the subject matter a bit dull. His speciality, both for writing and the rare amount of reading he did when it wasn’t required, was creative fiction stuffed full of prose and daring forays from the mundanity of human life.

But listening to Jon was enchanting. Like watching a gargoyle come to life and start lecturing. He sounded a little like a walking encyclopedia or one of their professors, sure, but Martin swore he could feel the barely-contained passion underneath it all. 

And when he responded, Jon listened. Even if he didn’t agree- he took no time expressing their disinterest in poetry, which was a bit disappointing- he listened. He looked at Martin, drank in the words, responded like they meant something. 

His eyes were hazel, a little more green than brown, Martin noticed. They softened more and more as they continued to talk. He liked them.

The bell rang, and Jon stood. “Thank you,” they declared curtly. That bench had been an island away from everything, just for a moment, and now it was time to be the Jonathan Sims everyone knew again. 

“Of course!” Martin surged with determination not to let that happen. “A-anytime, if you want to talk, or need a partner for a project or something- just know I’m around?”

Jon looked a little taken-aback. Cute. Martin cast the thought into a fiery pit and prayed it’d never show itself again. “Okay.” 

They walked to the bus stop with Tim as always that afternoon, waiting 30 or so minutes for most of the crowd to clear away before emerging. He was rambling about some goings-on in the tabletop club, when suddenly, Jon spoke.

“Do you know Martin Blackwood?”

He blinked.

“Short reddish hair? Glasses? Wears lots of sweaters?”

“Ohhhh! Yeah, I do. Not super well or anything. He’s nice. We were partners on some bio project a few months ago.” Tim declared. “What about him?”

“He talked to me today.”

Tim grinned. “Aww. You’re making friends.” He threw an arm around Jon’s slender shoulders. “I’m so proud.”

They rolled their eyes, pushing him away. After a few seconds, they replied. “Yes,” they chanced. He imagined what it’d be like to see Martin more. “Maybe so.”

Time crawled on, and Jon, though slow on the uptake, began to think he’d been right. Martin came into the library sometimes during lunch. Sometimes turned into most times, and he’d always make sure Jon had something to eat.

He insisted he liked it better than the noise and crowd of the cafeteria, a sentiment they shared. They were surprised by how many little things like that the two of them had in common. 

Often, he’d just exist in Jon’s vicinity, making it as clear as he could that he wasn’t a challenge to his solitude- just a break from it, if he so wanted. 

They found it annoying at first, in all honesty. The two had spoken once. And suddenly Martin was orbiting around him, interrupting his peace and quiet with platitudes and that high-pitched, awkward laugh. 

Jon was mortified to discover that maybe it wasn’t annoyance. The thought of someone wanting to spend time with him, of Martin wanting to, flustered and confused him. They liked his laugh. His stupid laugh, his stupid eyes with the stupid pretty lashes and the stupid face he’d make when he was focusing, trying to come up with a stupid simile for his stupid poem-

It happened so fast. They tripped, and started referring to him as a friend to Tim and his grandmother. They would smile, relieved that he was branching out. He’d shrug and mumble somethinf about how it really wasn’t a big deal or anything- he was just easy to be around, that’s all, and too nice for his own good anyway. 

They fell, and corrected Martin when he referred to himself as annoying and unlikable during one of his lengthy rambles. “You are… passionate. Some people might not like that, but it doesn’t make you a certain way.” They murmured, not looking up from his essay. “I like you well enough, clearly.”

They took a tumble, and opened up about their identity. He could’ve cried when Martin said “oh, I'm so sorry, thanks for telling me” and added they/them to his vocabulary without a second thought. Of course he understood. He’d gone on many a tangent about his transmasculine blues, the way his mother treated it like some taboo subject that couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t think about it. Jon started to notice the way people looked at him, how teachers would do a poor job suppressing their annoyance when he explained that he’d been late so he could use the only gender-neutral bathroom. He started resenting them. How their words and glances quieted Martin’s voice and put a dejected slump in his shoulders along with the slouch he already used to try and hide his chest. 

They stumbled, and suddenly Martin was in their room. The two of them were watching a movie while they worked on a diorama of the myth of Perseus for Jon’s English class, a project he’d procrastinated heavily on. Martin was admiring the band posters all over their walls and their extensive CD and vinyl collection. Jon asked if it was okay if they tried wearing a skirt, because they’d never done it in front of another person. The smiled and said of course it was. They invited him to stay.

He made a bona-fide oopsie daisy when they realized that something was building. A warm affection that felt a little more than platonic. They couldn’t even get themselves to stay away. They were having feelings, and that was just the worst, but he wanted more and more of Martin and couldn’t deny themselves that. 

“Hey, Jon,” he piped up during lunch one February. “The winter dance is soon,”

“That it is,” they replied. Posters had been plastered everywhere for the event.

“I’ve never been to one before,” he took a bite from a mozzarella stick, swallowing thickly. “I-I feel like it’d be weird without, you know, someone to go with,”

“Right.” Jon stared intently at his computer screen. Suddenly, Google.com was very interesting. 

“My mom says I should get the experience,” he justified. “I know you probably would hate it, so, no pressure. But if you’re free and maybe just want to stop by, so I can make her happy…?”

Jon found himself more and more thankful lately that he had darker skin. It was a lot harder to tell when he was blushing. And he slipped once again. “Sure,”

When they night rolled around, after hours of working himself into a panic about it, Martin decided not to wear anything too extravagant. He wanted to look nice, but he didn’t want to seem like he was trying too hard. It wasn’t a date, after all. Maybe he wanted it to be, but not without Jon knowing. He wouldn’t put them in that situation.

He decided on a crisp dress shirt and some decent pants. He smiled a bit at himself in the mirror.

His mother looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read, but it certainly wasn’t happy. She gave him a short hug. “Have fun, Kayla.” she placed emphasis on the name. “Home by 10:30. Text me when you’re on your way.”

He idled in front of Jon’s house in his beat-up little car and texted them that he was there. They exited their house in a black dress shirt and slacks. Martin noticed as he climbed in that they were wearing eyeshadow and eyeliner. Gold and black. Their hair was in an intricate braid. 

“Y-you look-“ Martin stammered. Beautiful , stunning, perfect, gorgeous, breathtaking- “very nice.”

They smiled. “Thanks.” 

As they stood in line to get in, Martin brushed his hand tentatively against theirs, cursing himself as he decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Jon disagreed. They took his hand, squeezing reassuringly.

A few people stared. Jon was here, the guy who flat-out refused to do group work and would rather die than go to a pep rally. He was at a dance, hand in hand wth Kayla-Martin Blackwood.

Odd, very odd- they didn’t go around announcing their friendship. And now they were what, dating? Jon realized it must’ve looked that way, and only held his hand firmer for it. Spite. Or maybe he just didn’t care if others thought that.

Some people laughed as they presented their tickets and strolled inside. Jon ignored them, walking briskly with their chin up. Martin waved at Tim, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and Santa hat with a satchel over his shoulder that likely contained a bottle of vodka. He grinned, flashing them both a thumbs up. 

It was no ball. Just the gymnasium they’d both avoided like the plague bathed in flashing lights, covered in streamers, and filled with bland pop music and students. The idea of asking Jon to dance made Martin want to shrivel up like a raisin, and if he started sweating, his binder would become visible through their shirt. Or was it already? He cringed and wish he’d worn a cardigan. They grabbed some sodas and found a corner to sit in. 

“This is underwhelming,” Martin declared. “Sorry I dragged you along.”

“I’ve got nothing better to do with my night,” he declared. “We’re spending time together and making your mother happy. It could be worse,” that it could. Martin conceded with a crooked smile. 

Eventually, Tim came up and gossiped their ears off. He insisted he had a date, but she went to another school and was stuck in traffic. He offered Martin a shot, which he refused, only because he had to drive. Jon shrugged and allowed him to sneak an ounce or two into his can. He bolted to his feet once a song came on that he liked and ran to the center of the gym to flop around in a manner some might describe as dancing.

In their own way, they were enjoying themselves. Jon wasn’t drunk, but the alcohol made him a little more acclimated to the environment. They found that they could make anything bearable if they spent it together. After a while, Martin had to excuse himself to the bathroom.

He stood in front of the small divot in the wall, that branched left and right to the women’s and men’s rooms. The private one was upstairs and thus off-limits.

He decided that tonight, he was feeling brave. He walked into the men’s room. 

After about ten minutes, Jon stood, brow knit in worry. He scanned the room for Martin, seeing if maybe he’d decided to do some socializing. He was nowhere to be seen. It’d been far longer than a regular bathroom break.

They left, surveying the hall. There was a group of students having some water, a clearly-stoned emo kid eating a bag of chips.

Jon finally saw him at the very end, sat on the ground with his knees to his chest. Jon ran to him. He was digging his nails into his palms. Something he did when he was trying not to cry. 

“Martin,” they breathed, crouching to his level. “What happened?”

“‘S nothing.” He mumbled. 

“We can leave if you’re not feeling well,”

He gritted his teeth. “A guy yelled at me in the bathroom,” He grumbled. “Screamed slurs at me through the door, said I was a wannabe and a ‘bitch with a pussy’. Real class act, him. I told someone, but they just talked to him. They’re not even gonna make him leave,”

Their face hardened. “Who?”

He shook his head, catching the threat in their tone. “Jon-“

“Who was it, Martin?” He knew Jon well enough that he could tell they wouldn’t back off. 

“Ryan.” He mumbled. “Blonde guy,”

They scowled, rising to their feet. “Fucking asshole,” 

“I-I really don’t want to confront him, Jon,” he mumbled weakly. “He’s been like this since I cut my hair and it’ll only make things worse. Can we just leave? This was a bad idea in the first place,”

They didn’t want to let that douchebag win, but Martin was his priority right now. They offered a hand, keeping it firmly in theirs as they headed for the doors.

“I’m sorry,” Jon offered, once they were in the safety of Martin’s car. He shrugged.

“‘M used to it.” 

“You shouldn’t be.” They stated firmly. “People should treat you with respect.”

“It’s not like I try that hard to stop them,” he scoffed.

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“I-I mean, just now, I ran away. I could’ve stood up to him. But why should I? I’m a fat, obnoxious girl with short hair who thinks calling myself something else changes that. And I thought tonight I actually looked… I liked how I looked. Lasted all of ten seconds, didn’t it? My mum didn’t let it slide, that’s for sure. It’ll take years before I can even start to undo all the effects of-of being in this,” he gestured down to himself. His voice was quivering, a mix of anger and grief. “Make an actual effort. They're right, maybe I am just-“

“Martin,” Jon reached over the center console and grabbed his shoulder, interrupting his self-deprecating spiel. “You are what you say you are. You could have worn a dress and a full face of makeup tonight and that would not change anything. You know yourself. No one should have to stop being themselves just to appease other peoples’ idea of what a man is.” 

He shrugged half-heartedly. “I guess,”

That just wouldn’t do. “You are a boy, Martin Blackwood. You are brave and handsome and charming and everyone who says otherwise can choke on a cactus. Once all this is over, you’ll be living happily as the man you know you are, and they’ll continue being bitter over something they don’t even try to understand. And that is no concern of yours,”

He smiled, tears brimming in his eyes. “Right,” he relented, and Jon could’ve sighed with relief. Then, he spoke again, small and daring. “You think I’m handsome?”

They hadn’t even really processed that they’d said it, but it was too late now. “Yes. Very much so.” 

“I think you’re pretty,” he retorted bluntly, shifting so he was a little closer, fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves. “Like, very pretty.”

“Ah,” he flushed. “Thanks.”

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world- a combination of alcohol-induced confidence and the intimate moment- Jon leaned in and kissed him.

It stopped being natural rather quickly. It was clumsy and really barely a kiss, something akin to a feather in a strong breeze. It didn’t last. Jon looked mortified. “I’m sorry. I-I don’t know why-“

Martin broke into a fit of laughter, trying and failing to maintain a serious face. “You should see your face right now. Wish I could take a picture,”

He huffed, turning away indignantly. “You are not helping.

Martin reached over this time. He took their flushed cheek in his hand and turned his head back. Their eyes locked, blue and watery to his stern, ever-narrowed more-green-than-brown.

“I like you a lot, Jon,” he declared. “A-and maybe that was sort of awful, probably because I couldn’t believe you were actually- b-but, um, I liked it. So… yeah.” 

Jon reached up and gently cupped his hand, leaning his face against it and smiling. “In that case,” he stared, relief palpable. “I liked it, too.”

Chapter Text

Jon stared out the window at a view that’d been unchanging for several hours. Laser-focused on something that wasn’t there, waiting for his dread to manifest into something tangible.

His eyes hurt. And his back, and his head, and his fingertips. Blood dried in the edges of his nails and the ridges of his shredded cuticles, ruined from anxious picking and nibbling.

He didn’t want to blink. He was afraid something would dart past and towards the door in the split second it’d take to open his eyes again. He couldn’t Know if something was there, and that should’ve been a relief. But the yawning void of the unknown filled him with dread that he was woefully unprepared to deal with. He had to rely on just his meager human senses, and while they currently told him that there was nothing wrong, he didn’t believe them. 

His leg bounced, half a way to release some of the anxious potential energy coursing through him and half an effort to keep himself from giving in to exhaustion. He couldn’t. Just for tonight, just until the sun came up, just until he could be sure-

He nearly fell out of his chair at the sound of the bedroom door creaking behind him. It was only noise he’d heard for hours. His head snapped towards the sound, eyes wide, mouth opening as if ready to demand an explanation for the intrusion.

Martin- who, of course, was the one responsible- thought he looked a bit like an anxious barn owl. Maybe one that’d collided with a tree and hit its head, feathers still horribly disheveled. Jon, meanwhile, sighed in relief and resignation. Of course. Who else would it be?

“Jon?” He asked, voice soft with the last remnants of sleep. He yawned and quickly blinked them away. Jon was far more important than his body’s protests of the time- around 4 in the morning, to be exact. He moved a little closer and took in the full picture. An overlarge thermos of cold black coffee sat on the table next to Jon. His hands were shaking and bloodied. Deep-circled, bloodshot eyes and tangled curls wrangled into a loose bun at the nape of his neck. He was wracked with occasional anxious spasms that clearly reflected the spinning cacophony inside his head, only worsened by the caffeine.

Before Jon could say anything, Martin closed the distance between them and took both of his hands, inspecting the damage. “You’re bleeding,”

Jon gave something that sort of resembled a chuckle. “It’s fine. Lord knows I’ve seen much worse.” 

He didn’t dignify that with a response, rushing to the cupboard where they kept their first-aid supplies. After a moment of rummaging, he returned to Jon, kneeling and taking his hands once more. 

Jon offered no resistance as he cleaned off the blood with some alcohol swabs, squeezing reassuringly as he winced. Even if he wanted to fight it, he was far too weak, physically and mentally. Another breathy laugh drifted from him at the thought of Martin- gentle, beautiful, lovely Martin, cupping his spindly hands like they’d crumble if he held on too hard- physically restraining him just so he could put a band-aid on. He looked up inquisitively at the sound. 

Jon shook his head once. “Ah, it’s nothing. I was just thinking,”

“You do that too much.” He replied. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, y'know.”  

A bit late for that. Sort of my whole thing, isn’t it? He didn’t say that part out loud, though, and Martin was done after a few moments. For good measure, he lightly kissed each spot where he’d placed a bandage.

“Martin-“ he huffed. 

“That’s me.” He folded his arms on Jon’s lap, resting his chin and staring up expectantly. Jon sighed, unable to help the affectionate smile that slowly started to form, a bit bogged down by his exhaustion. “Now that that’s sorted, do you want to tell me why you’re up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He mumbled shortly. It wasn’t entirely untrue, he supposed.

Martin glanced at the coffee. “Doesn’t seem like you’re trying to.” He stated. “And you look like you’ve seen a ghost,”

“I haven’t,” he quickly clarified. That was a real possibility that he wanted to dispel rather quickly. Admitting it, though, made him feel rather stupid. He was faced all at once with the reality that there was nothing tangibly wrong, no present threat, but he was acting as if something would burst in and kill them if he wasn’t keeping watch. And what would he do, anyway? Physically fighting something off was out of the question, and he wasn’t really the Archivist anymore. He was Jonathan Sims, weak and defenseless, and he would make a fine meal. He cringed. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Keeping watch for one, then,” 

“Something like that.” He sighed. Martin was right to be worried, even if he couldn’t stand that. He always was. He was only just starting to get used to being looked at with gentle compassion and understanding rather than hatred, pity, or fear. 

Martin stood. “Okay, then. It’s a nice, clear morning,” he declared. “Let’s get some fresh air, yeah? You need it. It’ll put your mind at ease.”

Show you there’s nothing there. Jon didn’t need the Eye to tell him that bit. He didn’t know how to feel, so he didn’t try to figure it out. He just nodded and let Martin pull him to his unsteady feet. 

On their way, Martin grabbed him a bottle of water and a packaged biscuit. He threw a thick wool blanket over Jon’s shoulders. Then he took his hand, careful around his nibbled-on fingers, and opened the door.

The night was indeed clear and nice. Chilly, but the sudden change shocked Jon’s system in a good way, dispelling the monotony that’d allowed his anxiety to fester. The stars were unobscured. Unlike London, where the lights of the city swallowed their distant twinkle, they shone in all their brilliance. The air was crisp and fresh, thick with the scent of nature, the life all around them. Breathing it made Jon feel like he was bathing in an oasis spring during a journey across the desert. He’d have to return to the sand and strain and hurt, the undying up-and-down of his abused feet and the burning sun against his eyes. But for now he could rest with the knowledge that it had to get easier eventually. 

And nothing was there. Nothing but the wind and the grass and the stars and the one he loved. With enough mornings like this, maybe he could start to believe that.

He looked at Martin as he noticed the low swirling mists around their feet and felt his grip tighten a little. He’d first ventured outside on a cold day about a month ago, insisting that he couldn’t hide forever. He made it about five minutes before he asked Jon if they could go back. The whole way there and when they got home, he’d told Martin how proud he was.

Since then, he’d done it many more times, slowly regaining his footing. This wasn’t the Lonely. He could trust that now. This was decidedly a step up, though. They were cloaked in darkness and in a still-sleeping world. Very few reminders readily available of the fact that they weren’t alone. 

“Will you be okay?” Jon asked. “I’m fine, Martin, really. This is enough.”

”You’re here, aren’t you?” He replied. His voice trembled a bit, but was thick with determination.

“Always.”

He squeezed Jon’s hand. “Then I won’t get lost. Lonely didn’t have nearly this many stars, anyway.”

So Jon nodded. He admired the view, and Martin admired him. “C’mon,” he eventually stated, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the footpath that branched off from their yard. “Let’s go to the hill.” 

They walked at a slow, easy pace, never letting go of each other’s hand. Jon used his teeth to open the biscuit and nibbled on it as they went. He hadn’t quite started to enjoy food yet, but he knew he needed it. It made Martin happy to see him take care of himself. He could at least do it for that. 

The path was surrounded by trees, shrubbery tickling their ankles as the dirt and leaves crunched underfoot. It was a short walk, and it opened up to a grassy hill that swelled above the fields. It offered a lovely vantage point and an even better view of the stars. They walked near the edge before Martin sat down, taking Jon with him.

“Take a breath with me, okay?” Martin requested. They did, in unison- 4 seconds in, 4 seconds held, 4 seconds out. He wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders, pulling him close. He let the tension flee from his body and gazed at the rolling fields, soft-edged under the silvery moonlight. It was full, hanging above them in all its glory. “We’re here. We made it. Nothing’s coming for us.”

“I don’t know how I can trust that.” Jon replied quietly. “I have failed so many times to keep you safe. I cannot let that happen again.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t fail at anything. I made my decisions, Jon. You made yours. No use staying hung up on it forever. Easier said than done, I know, but still,” he declared. “I-I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

He nodded slowly. Objectively, that was true. Jon could do objective. If that was a fact, maybe he could open himself up to the rest of it. “I hope you know I feel the same about you. You mean so much to me, and I-I just…”

“You don’t have to prove that,” he replied. “You’ve done so much already.”

“…Can I lie down?” He requested, glancing over at Martin. “Lord knows I could use it,”

He giggled. “‘Course you can, love.”

Jon slumped down like he was made of bricks, head falling onto Martin’s folded legs. The grass beneath him was soft like a thin mattress. Martin’s hand found its way into his hair, working out the tie and carding gently through the tangles, smoothing them out.

“My perception has been all I have for so long,” Jon stated. “I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I… I Know, somehow, that something isn’t right? Maybe it’ll never leave me all the way, and these are the aftereffects. It’s better to assume that than to write it off and be unprepared if something happens, is it not? I-I don’t know, and I hate that.”

“I understand that. To a certain extent, I guess, I obviously can’t say I get it, but… you know. The feeling that your anxiety isn’t really anxiety because it might be right?” he mused. “Realizing my mum really did hate me when I’d suspected it for years did me a lot of damage on that front. It’s not something that’s easy to get over.”

“You didn’t deserve that.” Jon replied, with the hard edge his voice he always took on when they spoke about his mother. He hated her more than Martin could ever bring himself to, even though he knew if someone treated Jon that way, he’d feel the same. It took a very long time and many arguments to stop making excuses for her. 

“I know. But it happened.” Martin relented. “And everything else happened, and we’re just doing our best. We’ll get through it, Jon. We always do.”

“I’m sorry I worried you.” His voice was growing quieter, eyelids heavier, as the warmth of the blanket began to lull him. His defenses were useless against Martin’s soothing presence. 

“It’s alright,”

Eventually, the night chill started to seep in. Martin had forgotten to throw on another layer and still didn’t like letting himself get too cold. His legs were starting to go a bit numb. He looked down at Jon to ask if he wanted to head back, only to find him asleep.

He looked so pristine, laying still, soft breaths causing one of his curls to rise and fall atop his lips. His chest swelled with pride. Jon was resting, and it was because of him. 

As gently as he could, Martin shifted out from under him and stood. He didn’t rouse. He worked his arms under his back and the crook of his legs, scooping him up in one swift motion.

Taking care not to make any sudden or jarring movements, he carried him back up the path. He nudged the door to the cabin open with his foot and stepped into the warmth inside. He laid Jon down on his side of the bed, where the blankets were still disturbed, and pulled them back over him. 

“Martin?” He breathed, looking up at him through a lidded eye as he walked around to the other side of the bed. “Wh-“

“Go back to sleep, love,” he responded quietly. “I’m here. We’re home.”

He wriggled over to him, nuzzling his face into Martin’s side and tangling his limbs around him. “Love you.” His voice was muffled, but Martin heard him loud and clear. 

He smiled, shutting his eyes and holding Jon close. “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

“Jon, I’m-“

Martin barely finished saying his name before a flurry of grey and black flew into him, capturing him in a kiss that practically knocked the wind from his lungs. He squeaked in surprise, suitcase slipping from his hand, as he felt Jon’s lips move into the unmistakable curve of a smile. The shock flooded out of him as he all but melted. 

Martin was sore, sweaty, and disheveled. He’d been sitting on a plane for 6 hours and spent another trying to recover his luggage. Not to mention the 2 it took for his Uber to show up and get him back to their flat. His breath surely tasted terrible, lips dry and cracked from anxious biting. But Jon kissed him like he was made of candy. It felt like one long sigh of relief. Finally home.

He didn’t even notice they were moving until his back hit the wall, arms locked firmly around Jon’s waist. His eyes had fluttered closed long ago.

They had to breathe eventually, though. Stupid human functions. Jon looked up at him with a sheepish, crooked smile. As if he hadn’t just kissed Martin like he was trying to drink him. This thing is going to be the death of me. “Hi,” 

“Hi, yourself,” Martin snorted, grin stretched over a beet-reed face. “Happy to see me?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

“You are a menace.” Martin sighed in mock exasperation. “And I’m supposed to be the clingy one,”

“Nothing says clingy like abandoning your darling wife to fend for himself while you go off on a work trip,” Jon retorted with equal joviality. “I could have died.”

“Was trying to kill me just now revenge, then?” Martin inquired. 

Jon huffed, standing on his toes to peck him once more on the lips, a far cry from the bruising embrace he’d just bestowed upon them. “Kill you? Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

Martin’s smile widened, somehow, cheeks aching. He’d enjoyed his work trip, sure- Jon went on and on when Martin had bemoaned how much he’d miss him and wished he could bring him along about how important maintaining individuality was in a relationship. He encouraged him at every juncture to enjoy the time apart, enriching his own professional interests. Ever the realist. He was right, of course, but it was still quite amusing.

Yet few things in life made him smile as much as Jon. And who was he to talk, anyway? Here he was after only two weeks apart, tackling Martin with ferocity that would’ve been more appropriate if he’d returned from war. 

“It’s kind of nice letting you push me around for once,” Martin mused. 

Jon let out a clipped, high-pitched, and indignant noise. The sort no one would think him capable of making. “Let me?” He scoffed. “I do not need your permission.”

“Sunshine. Sweetheart. Dearest. Love of my life,” Martin sighed. “You have to stand on your toes to kiss me.”

“That is entirely irrelevant.”

“Wh- no it’s not! You can’t just say that!”

“I can say whatever I please,” Jon sneered. 

Without warning, Martin tightened his grip and pulled Jon upwards. He let out a surprised laugh-shout as his feet left the ground, surroundings whirling. Just like that, they’d swapped. Martin took his face in his hands and initiated the third kiss of their reunion (which had begun approximately 6 minutes ago). It was a lot more gentle, but radiated the very same giddiness to finally be together again. Jon was still laughing softly as they pulled away. “Alright, you’ve made your point.”

“Good,” Martin stated, proud as could be. “I’m glad I’m home. I missed this.”

“I as well,” he replied fondly. “Let’s go get washed up. You look like a wet squirrel.” 

Chapter Text

I literally wrote and posted an entire chapter dude where did it go. It’s not in my docs either I just have cut and pasted and I don’t remember which one it was, I have to go on my computer if I want to see version histories and I’m honestly really too lazy to do that

This chapter has given me so much shit I tried posting it like 4 times and my post button kept breaking so I’d have to reload, but then that meant I’d have to re-copy everything and I had to restore the doc a couple times, also had to re-do all of the italics… why does it hate me actually

So, uh, yeah! Day 6 is under construction, check back later. Fml.

Chapter Text

Martin Blackwood was cursed.

It was a conclusion he’d come to when he was much younger after a bad night with his mom. He’d dropped his dinner on the floor, shattering the plate and splattering spaghetti everywhere. She’d been working all day and somehow found the energy to cook when she got home. The second he got his sticky little hands on it, it was ruined. It had been her final straw.

He’d sat in his bedroom and listened to the eerie, stifling silence all around, knowing she was crying in her room. If he went in, she’d yell. So he stayed out and he realized he always made things worse. Absurdly so. So he must have been cursed. He was a walking bad-luck charm, a broken mirror, a black cat, an umbrella opened indoors. 

It became clearer and clearer as he got older, fully able to understand the extent to which he repelled people like an infectious disease. Martin’s father had left before his face could even imprint itself upon his memory. Unable to handle the newfound weight his mere existence placed on his shoulders, he left his mother to carry it alone.

For that, she grew to hate him. He noticed how often her lips would press themselves into a thin line when he was around. As if she was trying to keep herself from telling him how badly she didn’t want him there. She didn’t need to. The more time passed, the less she could stand the sight of him.

He never had friends. He was the shy one throughout all of elementary school, fun to mess with and perfectly willing to lie down and take any amount of teasing- plus, he’d do kids’ homework for them, and so they didn’t subject him to too much. But none of them would call him a friend. He’d started working when he was 14, throwing himself into his academics at the same time. Trying to prove he could be useful. Without a man in the house, maybe he could become one.

It was an uphill battle against the curse; it made him scatterbrained, sensitive, clumsy, anxious, church-mouse silent or obnoxiously loud. He never quite knew when to stop talking until he processed the irritated glares of his unwilling audience. No matter what it was, Martin could find a way to mess it up.

He declined invitation after invitation to parties or hangouts until the few who tolerated his presence stopped asking. On a rare event where he could find time, they’d quickly realize how much they didn’t want him there. He didn’t drink or smoke- the smell reminded him of home. He was plain and chubby and awkward and a bundle of nerves. Not exactly the life of the party.

It followed him after he graduated. An affair that didn’t warrant any parties or camaraderie. Just more time to work. His mother hated and needed him. He loved her and needed to be important to someone. 

Maybe that was part of the curse- he hated being invisible, stranded on a rocky island miles away from every other person in the world. He was not someone who enjoyed solitude. Not back then. Over and over he tried to reach out and grasp a connection through the curse’s thick membrane, only to feel it slip out of his grasp like an eel.

He thought maybe the Institute would turn things around. It’d been a shot in the dark- how had Elias actually believed the things he’d said? He sweated an ocean through the entire course of their interview, leg ceaselessly bouncing under his antique, expensive-looking desk. It paid better than any position he’d had or was remotely qualified for. It was a miracle when he got accepted. The sort that just didn’t happen to him. He’d been so adorably naive. 

And so he met his coworkers. Jon didn’t make Martin feel welcome by any stretch of the sense, but at least he noticed him. Sharp reprimands were preferable to being ignored, even if he still didn't appreciate his attitude. That was a revelation he didn’t feel inclined to unpack.

Tim and Sasha were different. They liked him. They smiled when he walked into rooms, clued him in on workplace gossip, took him out for drinks and treated him like he was more than a background character. 

The curse was biding its time. Martin had grown too used to it- it had something special in store. Had he learned nothing? Good things never lasted. It waited, and then it hit all over again.

After the Prentiss attack, his life changed forever, his idea of normalcy shattered. A fucking worm zombie woman had kept him holed up in his flat and then infiltrated his workplace. At least that came with a silver lining, though? Maybe Jon wasn’t as much of a prick as he made himself out to be.

For once, he felt drawn to put in effort that previously only yield disappointment. He saw himself when he walked into that office and found him hunched over his desk, frazzled and exhausted and half-crazy, eyes pleading for some release from it all, never letting himself relent to that need. Martin did what he could. He felt appreciated. If only minimally. 

And then it shattered all over again. Sasha had been pulled right out from under them and no one noticed. Tim was dead, and Jon may as well have been, and Martin hadn’t even been there. He didn’t think he would’ve helped, but at the very least, he would share in their suffering.

He couldn’t even have that. They’d made him stay behind because they knew he’d make everything worse. He was pathetic and weak and cursed. His mother withered away, though she may as well have been dead for months already.

And he was alone all over again. He’d opened himself up to loving people and they dropped like flies. Isolation was all the more bitter for it. The curse had won.

Then someone came who told him it was okay. To embrace his curse, that it was not just useful, but beautiful. It could save the few people he still had left. He could be worth something. He could help them, be remembered as something more than a failure when the fog consumed him. 

His curse reared its ugly head, grew a maw and began to consume him. It felt wonderful. Sinking into the loneliness he’d been destined for.

Martin Blackwood was unlovable, and that was okay. Maybe not okay. It was inevitable. It was his truth. Finally accepting it was a serenity he’d never known.

Sinking into a sea of nothing and feeling the chill engulf him, knowing it wasn’t anything like an embrace, cold and unfeeling and indifferent. Lifeless. Forsaken.

But then-

“Jon,” Martin set down his knife, carrot only halfway cut for their stew. It’d been a long day for them both, but he still wanted to make them something nice.

It was a way of unwinding for him more than labor. He’d put on some music or a podcast and do something he loved, knowing he’d be rewarded when Jon took his first bite and acted like it was the greatest meal he’d ever had. A bit he’d yet to drop no matter how much of Martin’s cooking he ate.

He wiped his hands and took his headphones off, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Jon was seated at their dining room table, sipping some tea. His gaze distant but decidedly fixed on his boyfriend. There was a look in their eyes that Martin knew meant they were thinking. “Are you alright?” He asked. 

“Oh,” Jon blinked a few times. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Martin replied earnestly. They’d both been trying to apologize less lately. “Just making sure everything’s okay,”

“It is, of course it is. That's just it, Martin. It’s more than okay, it's…” Jon smiled sheepishly. “I am very lucky, that’s all. It’s still hard to believe.”

A sentiment like that would’ve seemed strange after all of these years, but Martin understood. It’d taken him an embarrassingly long time to even convince himself that he could be desired. 

He smiled mischievously. In the rare moments where Jon could express his feelings without shutting down, he’d sink his teeth in and drain every sugary-sweet drop. He could be quite the sap when push came to shove. “Oh? And how’s that?”

Jon rolled his eyes a little, yet he was more than willing to indulge him. “I am lucky that I get to love you, Martin. There are many people who I’m sure would be up to the task. But you chose me,” he sighed. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you mean quite a lot to me.”

Martin paused. Lucky that I get to love you.

It was a privilege to Jon. He’d said nothing of being served. He wasn’t lucky to have him, the way you’d have a tool or an object, a means to an end. He wasn’t lucky for the self-sacrificing and all-consuming way Martin had learned to love when those around him would accept nothing less than his blood, sweat, and tears. He wasn’t lucky to be loved, even- though Martin did, and he certainly was.

Jon valued his ability to give as much as he received. Martin was precious. He was important. He was important. 

Martin knew all this, of course. Jon had told him a million times. Through their best and worst moments, he was always ready to tell Martin how much he loved him. Even if it was far less succinct than now, bundled in nerves, whispered briefly whenever he could sneak it in on their most hectic days, mumbled into hair or the fabric of a jumper before falling asleep. He’d even tried translating the feeling into poems a few times- only after Martin had begged him to just give it a try. 

But right then, he remembered his younger self. The curse. How thoroughly he grew to believe it. He remembered sitting on his bed, cold and numb inside, realizing he was a repellent. That no one would ever love him, not fully, not willingly, not without him clinging on and laying the world at their feet. He smiled, tears beginning to brim in his eyes.

“Martin?” Jon stood, worried. “Are, ah, d-did I-?”

“No, Jon, you’re perfect, it’s nothing. Just remembered something.” He chuckled breathily. “It's… it’s nothing important.”

It wasn’t anymore. Martin looked into Jon’s eyes and he knew the curse had been broken. 

Chapter Text

Jon fumbled with the key to Daisy’s safehouse in the hand that wasn’t enveloped in Martin’s. The sun was setting, and they needed to get somewhere safe before darkness could fall. Neither of them were ready for that. 

It was surprisingly quaint- knowing Daisy, he’d half-expected a moat filled with alligators or something of the sort. Instead, they were standing in front of an idyllic log cabin with a wraparound deck, a dirt path carving its way from the main road through an overgrown lawn. The Scottish countryside was picturesque all around, though they’d hardly had the mind to appreciate any of it. The windows were dark, curtains drawn, planter boxes beneath them that contained bone-dry soil. 

Jon remembered Martin briefly bemoaning the impending death of his houseplants as they went on a mad dash through their flats for essentials. It’d been a relief, admittedly- he felt a sense of loss for something. Not just the nothingness his whispery monotone and blank expression indicated. He didn’t think Martin had quite regained the life to give it to something else, but maybe that was in their future. 

They had a future now. Jon reminded himself of that as the lock clicked and the door creaked open. 

It was dark and smelled of dust and woodsmoke. Not altogether unpleasant. Martin closed the door behind them as Jon pawed at the wall for a light switch. 

The kitchen, dining room, and living room were all consolidated into one main area. Not exactly anything new, but it was much smaller than what either of them were used to. Honestly, that was a good thing- too much space meant more places for things to hide. More to figure out what to do with. It was cozy. There was a brick fireplace and a coffee table surrounded by comfortable-looking couches and a plush armchair, blankets and quilts draped over the back. All of the furnishings looked antique and well-loved. 

“‘S nice.” Martin’s voice came from behind him. 

“Yes,” he replied in earnest. “It is.”

They set their bags by the door, sighing in relief at the loss of weight on their aching shoulders. They’d unpack later. Martin sat on the couch, allowing Jon to throw several blankets over him. He took a few minutes to try and figure out how to get the fire going.

He swore he heard Martin chuckle as he mumbled obscenities to himself, and the sound nearly made him cry tears of joy. Eventually, he figured it out, getting a passable fire going. 

He didn’t take his eyes off of Martin. He talked at him in a steady stream of noise from the kitchenette as he put the kettle on. Making it clear he was still there, staving away the fog that threatened to come and reclaim him. Jon refused to let it. He would never let anything take Martin away from him again. 

He poured him a mug of chamomile tea, adding some sugar and powdered creamer he found in a cabinet. The fridge was empty and unplugged. The pantry contained some non-perishable goods, mostly canned. Jon took an extra moment to bin the peaches. 

He handed it to Martin and sat down next to him. “I don’t really know how you like it. I should’ve asked. Sorry,” he tried not to recall Peter’s comment about how they didn’t really know each other. Whatever we don’t know, we’ll learn it. Eat dirt, you god-awful old man.

He’d rarely hated anyone as much as he hated Lukas, he realized. Not even the other avatars, the ones who’d hurt him so much more directly. Jude, with her scorching handshake, or even Nikola with… well. Maybe the thought of her made him shudder a bit more.

But Peter had done this to Martin. Made him believe so many horrid lies, convincing him the world would be better without him in it. Jon almost didn’t feel demented for how glad he was that he’d gotten to watch him die. 

Martin held the mug close in both of his hands, taking a sip. A smile ghosted his pale lips. “It’s good. Thank you.” 

“Of course.”

He took a few minutes to drink it, setting the empty cup on the carved wood coffee table. “Can we move closer to the fire?” 

Jon nodded, and they stood, taking the blankets with them. Martin sat about as close as he could without setting himself ablaze.“Come here…?” He requested sheepishly, holding out his arms and moving the blankets monetarily aside. 

Jon wanted to tell him to stop asking- he’d do anything Martin wanted. Anything to make him as close to happy as he could be for now, until the Lonely finally realized he wouldn’t be coming back and released its grip on his heart. Anything to make up for the years he’d pushed Martin away. Anything to show him that he loved him, that he would be there if Martin ever decided he still did too- but he didn’t need to have it returned. There was no pressure. No matter what, Jon was determined to care for him the way he had for so many others.

But he didn’t. That’d all be a bit much, and he knew Martin was far too sweet to ever do something like that. He just nodded and crawled into the embrace. Even through all the layers, he felt like a block of ice. Jon couldn’t care less. Martin wrapped the blankets around them again, arms tight around Jon, chin resting on his head. 

“We’re going to be okay.” Jon whispered. “We’re home.”

He nodded a little, trying to let it sink in. Home. Nowhere had felt like home for him in so long. Not until the Lonely. But Jon had pulled him out, with his soft, pleading eyes and the feeling of scarred, shaking hands on his. The fear of losing him etched in his every feature.

Was it really home if he’d had to be rescued? If it left him so destitute and cold and lost, with fog-white hair and blue lips and glassy eyes, a stranger staring back when he could sum up the strength to look in the mirror?

Somewhere within him, the answer was no. That somewhere had decided that Jon was home. It let him lead Martin away from the all-consuming nothing he still wished he could relent to.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, unsure, but determined to believe it. “W-we are.”

As they sank onto the carpeted floor, a tangle of limbs in a wool cocoon, Martin wanted so badly to tell him he loved him. He did, he knew he did, it’d been denied and frosted over and locked away. He clawed uselessly at the padlock, key nowhere to be found. Frozen steel burned his fingers, rendering them raw and bloody. The words got caught in his throat and his eyes stung with tears that couldn’t come quite yet. He wanted to scream in frustration. All that came out was a pathetic, broken whimper.

Jon shifted a little so he could meet his eyes. “Hey,” he murmured. Martin could’ve sworn, with the look he gave him, that he understood what he was trying to say. That was all he needed for now. It felt so nice to finally be heard. “We have all the time in the world. Get some rest.”

He nodded. “…Okay.”

So he closed his eyes, keeping his focus on Jon’s weight and his whispered reassurances, staving away the small, panicked voice that insisted he would pull away in disgust the second Martin fell asleep. I’m here, I’m not leaving, you’ll never be alone again, it’s going to be alright. Most of all, we’re home. 

He really was exhausted. Sleep pulled at his aching mind and body, the crackling of the fire and Jon’s words like a lullaby. No one had sang him to sleep in so long. He was at its mercy. 

He swore, right before it claimed him, that he heard a tentative “I love you”. He wanted to try once more to say it back- but they had all the time in the world, after all. He was just so very tired. So, instead, he let himself drift away, knowing that Jon would be there whenever he could find the strength. 

Chapter Text

Martin fidgeted with his tie, a little too tight around his neck, the tag of the dress shirt itchy under his sweater vest. It was hot and stuffy, and his nerves were wound so tight he felt like they’d snap like a rubber band.

It was this or a dress. Could be a lot worse. He reminded himself, shuddering a bit at the thought. He dropped his hand to his side, flexing his fingers nervously and clutching his “lucky” hoodie a little bit too tight. He was starting to think it wasn’t going to be much help, but hey, it was worth a try. 

The sounds all around him didn’t exactly help matters- the bar was filled to the brim, as one could expect on a Friday night. Seriously, Sasha, why Friday? and then he was wondering for about the millionth time how and why he had agreed to this.

There were couples, dancing a bit too close together, groups out for a good time, and people like him- alone, probably there to get absolutely plastered (or maybe looking for something). Many of them drunk, being just a little bit louder than they should’ve.

He realized all of a sudden how improperly dressed he was and cursed himself for not doing further research on the address Sasha had given him. The pit in his stomach had only grown as the taxi took him closer, deepening the second he opened the door. And it got exponentially worse as his eyes landed on one particular man seated at the bar, glancing around like he was looking for someone too.

Their eyes locked, and they looked equally surprised to see each other.

Fucking Sasha-!

Fucking Tim…

Flashed through their minds at the exact same time as they processed what had happened. This was most definitely not a coincidence.

Martin steeled himself. He’d put a whole lot into pretending he was confident enough in his ability to socialize that her pep talks weren’t needed, and he wouldn’t hear the end of it if Jon reported back that he’d fled the scene. He’d gotten dressed up and made it all the way here. It’d be quite rude to just turn and walk away. Not to mention the time it'd take to fetch himself a ride back home, in which he might have to deal with the mortifying prospect of Jon approaching him. He was stuck here. The least he could do was say hello. 

So he did. As he made his way across the crowd, he realized that Jon had set his belongings on the chair next to him, saving it for the mystery person Tim had told him to expect. He moved them aside and Martin sat, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” 

They said, once again simultaneously, and Jon barked a small laugh. “Right,” he sighed. “Tim has a very… interesting sense of humor for this,”

He ignored the sad little twinge in his gut at Jon’s immediate framing of this as a joke. That’s what it had to be, didn’t it? “Tim? Sasha sent me,” Martin mumbled, furrowing his brow. “Said a friend of hers she thought I’d like was keen to meet me, that I’d ‘know him when I saw him’,”

He flushed, realizing how pathetic the situation sounded when he described it out loud- was he really so socially inept that he had to go on blind dates set up by his coworkers in hopes of reviving his flatlining romantic prospects? Hopefully distracting himself from his giant, incredibly inconvenient crush on his boss, only to wind up staring it dead in the face? 

“Co-conspirators, then,” Jon sighed. If Martin were to chance a look at him, he might just find his own anxiety reflected on Jon’s face- but he had long since convinced himself Jon was far beyond any of that. Straight-edged, stern, a million times out of his league Jon, who would never end up in a situation like this without a thorough scheme by his friends. Him, flustered? Over Martin? Preposterous.

“This probably looks really sad, huh,” Martin blurted, desperate to justify himself. “I-I guess there’s not really anything to say, I just, don’t get out much. Sasha and apparently Tim decided to do… this about it.” 

“Oh, trust me, it took quite a bit of nagging to convince me to spend my evening here. Very much not my venue of choice.” Jon mused. He swirled the skinny black straw around in his nearly-untouched drink. “I’m not exactly someone who goes on dates,”

Martin supposed that made sense, but his dumb, head-over-heels brain insisted that in Jon’s case it was suave and mysterious, and in his, it was completely pathetic. Anything but admitting that maybe they were both a bit pathetic. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, fidgeting ceaselessly. He felt sick, and it was hot, and it was loud, and it was itchy, and he didn’t know what else to say. 

“Why? This wasn’t your idea,” Jon replied, trying to be reassuring but coming off, as usual, very blunt. “…and at least you’re someone I know. I hinestly prefer it this way. I still don’t quite know how Tim managed to convince me to meet up with a stranger,”

Martin nodded a little. “Guess we both got a bit bamboozled,” He kicked himself mentally. What the hell was that? Are you twelve? Hot, itchy, hot, itchy- 

To his surprise, Jon chuckled. “Bamboozled indeed,”

At least the conversation seemed to be going okay. Jon hadn’t packed up and fled the scene the second he saw Martin. A good start. And maybe they had some things in common- mostly that their friends were conniving villains.

Seriously, Sasha knew damn well about Martin’s feelings for Jon. He’d told her back when they consisted of little more than “I think he’s hot but a complete prick and definitely unattainable”, insisting they’d die out after a bit more time spent working for him. But damn it, things never went how Martin wanted. They grew closer, in a sense- you’d be hard-pressed to call them friends, but Jon almost seemed fond of him. Sometimes smiling (a sight that made Martin’s chest tighten and his face heat- since when was having a crush so uncomfortable?!) and earnestly offering thanks when he’d drop by with tea a little more often than he maybe should’ve. Jon asked him how he was doing from time to time and seemed to care about his answer, but let it be when he couldn’t muster anything more than a disingenuous it’s alright. 

He let himself wonder, then, what the hell the justification was been for Tim sending Jon here tonight. Surely they weren’t so evil that it was just to mess with Martin. Maybe he-

No. Definitely not. Don’t even go there. 

“You look uncomfortable,” Jon stated, yanking Martin unceremoniously out of his head.

“D-do I?” He failed spectacularly to seem nonchalant. It was too loud, and his thoughts were even louder. This whole situation was so embarrassing, he hated bars and he wasn’t even that fond of drinking, why was he here? Why had he bothered dressing up like this, he looked so stupid and he felt even worse, it was hot and itchy and- he uttered a small sigh as he relented to it all, and how badly he wanted an out. “I, um, I am.”

“Let’s go,” Just like that, Jon was pulling a bill out of his wallet, tucking it under his half-finished drink for the bartender. He could keep the change. 

Martin blinked, almost not processing what he’d said until Jon was on his feet, looking at him expectantly. Wait, what? He let his feet carry him after Jon and towards the door, hands tightly entangled in front of his chest. He was too overstimulated to feel any sort of way about Jon’s eagerness to get him out of there. 

Martin took a deep, grateful lungful of the night air, releasing it with a long sigh. At least this helped with the temperature and the stuffiness, but it was a bit like moving a pebble off of a mountain. “Sorry,” he murmured again.

Jon shook his head. “It’s fine, Martin. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Haven’t I?… no, wait, seriously, what the hell am I so worried about? He must think I’m a complete disaster. As if more evidence was needed on that front. He just nodded. His shoes were very interesting all of a sudden. 

Jon recognized all too well the way he pulled at his sleeves and scratched at his collar. Trying to be subtle, trying not to make a scene of it. His gaze softened further. “You can change into your sweater if you want,” he offered.

He froze, and Jon was afraid he’d said something wrong. “…I, um, I would like that,” he admitted. “I-I don’t know where… I don’t wanna go back inside,” 

“Did you drive?” 

“No, I-I don’t have a car,” he blurted. What a swell thing to admit to your crush slash boss. Oh, sod it, he’d find out eventually. Doesn’t matter. Calm the hell down. 

“You can use mine.” Jon gestured with a jerk of his head towards his car, parked in the far end of the poorly-maintained lot. It was rather fitting- he even parked like he was trying to avoid company. Martin silently followed him to it. 

“I can just go behind it,” he mumbled. Jon simply nodded.

“Take your time.” He sounded uncharacteristically tender, and Martin ignored the flips his stomach performed, ducking behind Jon’s silver Honda Civic and undoing his outfit with shaky hands. He practically popped some buttons tearing the dress shirt off. His binder wasn’t helping the sensory overload, but he’d be damned if he had that off in public, especially around Jon. He pulled his hoodie over his head, and the relief was palpable as the glorious fleece lining fell over his skin. He sat for a few more moments, taking a couple of breaths. 

“‘M done,” he rose back up. “Um, thanks, Jon. You didn’t need to do that,” 

“You seemed like you needed it.” He responded, offering a small smile. “It’s no problem.” He took a seat on the asphalt, back against his car, and Martin saw no real course of action but to join him.

”Figured I shouldn’t dress like a bum on a date. ‘Specially if it was gonna be a first impression.” he sighed, laughing dryly. “And look how that ended up going.”

Jon nodded. “I understand,” and he sounded like he really did. “It has been quite a while since I’ve gone on one myself, as I said.”

“I realized too late it wasn’t really fitting, but I didn’t want to stand, uh, I guess you up,” 

“I appreciate that. I would’ve been rather confused if no one came,” Jon chuckled. “Would’ve messed with my head something awful.” 

A moment of awkward silence passed. Martin cleared his throat, hoping to dislodge the knob that’d formed in it. “Guess this is kind of weird for both of us,” 

Jon glanced over at him. “It could have been a lot weirder.”

Martin flushed, and very much wished he could quit doing that already. Surely Jon thought it was a bit bizarre, if not downright uncomfortable. But he smiled then, and it looked almost fond. Like he enjoyed the sight. It was subtle enough that Martin could get a handle on any unsafe thoughts. “Y-yeah. It could’ve.”

“Well, we’re here. May as well try and enjoy ourselves. Unless you’d rather go home,” he quickly corrected. “That would be quite understandable. I'd be happy to call you a cab,”

Yes. Get out, get out and forget this ever happened, he’s even offering to call you a cab, because he wants you away as much as you do, surely that’s why, out, take it, take the out, damn it- 

“N-no,” he mumbled tentatively. “My mum expects me home at 10, ‘s only 8, I-I don’t wanna deal with her questions, so… I’m fine staying. Not just because of that! It’s- I mean-“

“Martin,” Jon interrupted gently, hand twitching like he wanted to reach out and touch him, quickly figuring it’d only make things worse. “You don’t have to be so nervous around me.”

“Th-that’s not-!” The poorly-formed excuse dissolved quickly. “No, yeah, I-I’ll try? I guess it’s just, I don’t really know you, and you are a bit… intimidating? And this whole situation has been a disaster, and I don’t want to make it worse, and… y-yeah,” he rambled. 

“Let’s get to know each other, then,” Jon declared, but it didn’t sound authoritative. No, this was genuine. “Ask me anything you’d like to know.”

So he did. He started with a rather basic question after searching his frenzied mind for anything more introspective. ‘What’s your favorite color’ had to be better than silence, which he quickly disagreed with the second he stammered it out. Jon answered navy blue and asked for his.

Slowly but surely, the conversation unfurled. Martin stopped stuttering so much. Jon loosened up himself, going on a lengthy tirade at one point about his favorite bands. Martin listened to every word, and the Jon in his head morphed to one quite a bit more human.

He hadn't quite grown out of his high school emo phase. His favorite tea was earl grey- Martin had guessed that one correctly, thank goodness. He had a soft spot for gothic literature even if he preferred nonfiction. Winter was his favorite season. He snorted when he laughed, he was a cat person, his thumbs were different sizes, he hated the taste of booze but felt stupid ordering the fruity cocktails more to his preference because Tim teased him endlessly for it. 

Behind his iron walls, he was caring and gentle and quite an anxious mess. A bit like Martin, he realized. They had a lot more in common than he would’ve thought. 

Ten rolled around. He swore it hadn’t been that long at all, stricken by how comfortable he’d grown in Jon’s presence. When he admitted that it was time for him to be getting home, he realized how little he wanted to leave that stupid parking lot.

Jon offered no protests, though, well aware of how things could be with family, even past the threshold of adulthood. When he got to his feet, he hesitated for a moment before offering Martin a hand.

He took note of another of Jon’s quirks- they were cold. Spindly, knuckles sharp, cuticles picked-at, and utterly frigid. He wondered how long he’d have to hold them before they grew warm again. He wasn’t so hasty to squash the thought this time. Especially as Jon gave his palm a gentle squeeze before slipping from his grasp. 

He offered to drive him home. The journey was silent and short. Martin desperately wished he didn’t have to open the door and step up into his flat- he’d never been one to want social engagements to be longer, but he was finding the change a bit nice. 

“Wait,” Jon declared. He reached over and rummaged through his glovebox, finding a notepad and pen, scratching something down on it. “If you need anything, or… want to do something like this again, perhaps, feel free to call me.” 

“Oh,” Martin accepted the slip of paper, tucking it into his pocket and nodding. “Jon, I-I’d love to.”

“Good,” his eyes were fixed determinedly on the empty street ahead of him. “You should be getting in now, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

And just like that, Martin was gone, and Jon idled in front of his building, watching to make sure he made it in safely. 

It’d been far too early for the two of them for Jon to kiss him. He wasn’t inexperienced enough to try something like that on a first… well, yes, he supposed this was a date, wasn’t it? If asked, surely they’d both insist that it became something else the moment they saw each other. But the prospect of a next time was heavy in his mind. Maybe then, or maybe the one after. If Martin would be so kind as to let him. He found himself smiling with anticipation. 

Chapter Text

It was a nice evening. Slow and languid, but not unproductive. The sort they found it unlikely they’d ever have just a few short years ago. No, they’d never tire of evenings like this.

Martin had set some bread dough in the pantry to rise, covered up with a damp towel. It’d make a lovely accompaniment to the stew simmering atop the stove, filling their flat with the delightful aroma of spices, herbs, fresh vegetables from their garden, and thick, hearty broth.

Jon was folding laundry in the living room, wrapped up in a blanket that’d just come from the dryer. He’d put some music on his phone. Letting it add a little to the comfortable silence.

A familiar, tinkling melody emerged as the previous song came to a close, and a smile pulled at Jon’s lips. He rose to his feet, his bad knee offering its typical protest. He ignored it, neglecting to pick up his cane. Martin would surely lecture him for that, but if he got his request, he wouldn’t quite be needing it. He limped a little as he walked into the kitchen, placing his hands on Martin’s shoulders. 

He turned, eyebrows raising inquisitively. “Hello?” He giggled. 

Anyone

“May I have this dance?” Jon murmured grandiosely. “Or whatever it is I’m meant to say,”

Anyone 

Martin turned to face him, an embarrassed red blooming over his freckled cheeks. “Ah, I don’t really know how.” He admitted, hands folded in front of him. “I’ve never…”

And they hadn’t. They were both fond of music, but not really the type you’d dance to (Jon had far matured past an age where headbanging to his favorites would yield anything but agonizing neck pain).

Even during the first years of their relationship,  they really hadn’t the time, nor the energy. Most of what they’d done back then to show each other affection- when even granted the opportunity- was curling up in bed and clutching each other like their lives depended on it. Day and night, not eating, barely sleeping, wound up so tight they almost snapped, refusing to leave each others’ sides. Hiding from the horrors waiting to pounce.

Nowadays, if they stayed in bed, it was accompanied with lazy smiles and sleepy kisses and a feeling that truly, everything was okay. Martin would inevitably get up to make pancakes or eggs and toast, and they’d eat while Jon read him a passage from his newest dull novel or put on some awful rom-com. It shade pride and awe swell in their chests like a wave of warm water. 

Anyone

But they’d never danced. And Martin truly didn’t know how.

Jon looped his arms around his neck, smile only widening- affectionate, yet posing a bit of challenge. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it rather quickly,” he declared. “I believe in you, darling.” 

Anyone

He barked a small laugh, hands settling comfortably on the small of Jon’s back. His anxiety melted away at the look on his boyfriend’s face. “Okay.” He relented. “I’ll follow your lead. Just don’t get angry if I step on your feet?”

You can blame me 

Try to shame me

But still I’ll care for you 

“Of course not,” and the two began, slowly, to sway. Martin didn’t recognize the song, and it didn’t seem like the sort of thing Jon would listen to- but he had surprised him quite a few times when it came to the media he enjoyed. Martin had stopped really expecting anything when he’d found out that he still cried every time he watched A Dog’s Purpose.

You can run around 

Even put me down

Still I’ll be there for you 

He found that he quite enjoyed it, allowing Jon against him and the pleasant melody to guide his movements. The subject of the song could easily be a much younger, more smitten and starry-eyed version of himself. 

The world may think I’m foolish

They can’t see you like I can 

He wondered if that was why Jon liked it. 

“Oh, but anyone,” Jon sang along quietly, cheek resting on Martin’s chest. His voice was deep and rich and uncharacteristically sweet- like dark chocolate, with a quite pleasant lilt to it. It was the tone of someone who knew what they were doing beyond just belting in the shower from time to time- hadn’t he mentioned his grandmother making him do choir at one point? It made his heart skip. “Who knows what love is… will understand,” 

“I didn’t know you could sing,” he breathed.

Anyone 

“You didn’t think you could dance, either,” Jon lifted his face to look up at him, smiling teasingly. “Yet here we are.”

Anyone 

He scoffed. “You’re going easy on me. If I tried to, like, dip you or something, I’d drop you on the floor for sure-“

Anyone 

Jon raised an eyebrow and threw himself to the side, folding one leg beneath him and sticking the other out rather dramatically, but keeping his arms where they were. Martin yelped and bent down along with him, grip tightening, to keep him aloft.

“Hey! Th-this doesn’t count!” He squeaked.

I just feel so sorry (anyone)

“How?” Jon laughed, staying where he was a few moments longer before allowing Martin to lift him back up. 

For the ones 

Who pity me 

“W-well- it’s-“ Martin stammered, before sighing. “Fine. You’ve made your point.”

(Anyone) ‘cause they just don’t know

“Good.” Jon re-took his place, and the energy of the dance increased a little as they both got the hang of it. He reached behind him for one of Martin’s hands- he got the message, allowing Jon to intertwine their fingers and hold it up so their forearms were pressed together. He followed the rhythm of Jon’s steps best he could, directing his focus intently at his feet. “See? You’re doing wonderfully.”

(Anyone) oh they don’t know 

What happiness and love can be

“You’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you can sing, anyway,” Martin huffed. 

I know

“Anyone can sing.”

I know to ever let you go 

“Not like that! You’re- you have a really nice voice,” he looked at Jon expectantly. “I’m a bit offended I haven’t heard it ‘til right now, you know.”

It’s more 

He hummed, inclined to disagree, and Martin gave a frustrated little sound. “I could leave you alone in this kitchen. Especially after what you just pulled.” He huffed.

Than I 

Jon figured that was only fair. “Could ever stand,” he joined in yet again. Martin smiled, satisfied. “Oh, but anyone, who knows what love is, will understand,”

“There you are,” he murmured.

Jon smiled, a little laugh bubbling up and interrupting him. “-they’ll understand… if they try love, they’ll understand,” 

The song faded, and the dance slowed to an eventual halt. Martin let go of his hand in lieu of pulling him closer, broad arms firm around his slender shoulders. His eyes fluttered closed. Yes, they could stay for just a moment longer. 

“Thank you.” Jon murmured, voice muffled by the fabric of his jumper. “That was quite lovely.”

Martin kissed the top of his head, lingering there for quite a few pleasant moments. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Chapter Text

“End recording.”

The whirring of the tape recorder ceased with its usual, solid click, leaving Jon in stone-cold silence. A bit of emphasis on the cold, actually. His office tended to get a bit chilly, sure, but had it ever been this bad? He grabbed at the jacket draped over the back of his chair, shrugging it on and zipping it up to his chin.

He was tired. The little, pitted almost-scars  covering his body ached nearly as much as his head. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and two things struck him immediately. 

Extreme weather warning-

9:47 PM-

He swore and stood up so hastily that he nearly knocked his chair over, speedwalking into the hall and towards the employee lounge. Sure enough, through the window, he could see snow falling in thick, heavy sheets. It whipped about in the wind, a baleful whistle mounting occasionally to a high shriek. Nothing was really visible except the streetlights- luminous yellow smudges in a world of grey and white. He sighed irately. So that explained the temperature. 

“Jon?”

He jumped, whirling towards the intrusion, soft and utterly non-threatening. But that could be deceiving. Martin was seated at the table, a half-eaten egg salad sandwich and cup of tea in front of him. “Um, hi,” he coughed. 

“What are you still doing here?” Jon demanded. 

Martin put his hands up, not unused to him interrogating his coworkers but still a bit startled. “By the time I got done for the day, basically everything was shut down, buses and taxis and all that. I haven’t finished moving my stuff out of Archive Storage, so I figured I’d just stay the night,” he justified himself sheepishly. As if it was his fault they’d, apparently, wound up snowed in. Jon wouldn’t be driving anywhere in this.”

Defeated, he slumped into the chair across from Martin  with a lengthy sigh, head in his hands. “When did it start?”

“‘Round five,”

“A-and no one-“ Jon set his jaw, cutting himself off.. “No, that’s… not your responsibility, I suppose.”

“Not really.”

An awkward pause.

“…Then it’d seem I'll be staying as well.” Jon grumbled. 

Martin stood, turning to the electric kettle and switching it on again. Jon noticed that his cup was very much still full, steam curling from its surface- for him, then. He didn’t say anything. Martin, bizarrely, had yet to be steered off by his insistence that he could make his own tea, thank you very much. He didn’t have it in him to try again. 

“Well, look on the bright side?” He tried to be encouraging, but the unsure lilt of a question that snuck in removed any hopes of sounding authoritative. “I, ah, bought a space heater. Gets real cold. Old buildings, I guess.”

“I know, Martin. I work here.” 

“Y’don’t sleep here,”

“Not usually.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a bit confused, and Jon barked a laugh- more mean-spirited than it was intended. “Who do you think used that room before you? Not to mention the nights I’ve spent on my desk.”

Martin looked away. “Can’t be good for your neck.”

He found that sentiment, given all of the context around them, incredibly sweet- and, in turn, annoying. Leave it to Martin to care about neck pain and make endless cups of tea, no matter the fact that everyone’s idea of normal was crumbling down around them. “No, Martin, about as good as Prentiss was for my skin.”

He didn’t reply until the kettle began to whistle. He grabbed a couple of Ibuprofen and a package of cheese crackers from the cabinet, fixing Jon’s tea before handing him the whole shmorgasbord.

He raised an eyebrow, and Martin sighed impatiently. “You clearly need the painkillers, you're grabbing at your head like something’s trying to break out of it. And you shouldn’t take painkillers without eating,” he explained. “Don’t want to do Prentiss’ work for her by burning a hole in your stomach lining.” He added mockingly. 

“Ah,” he swallowed thickly. “Thank you.” He realized how little he’d said it to the man across from him in the time they’d known each other- choosing not to count when they were actively under duress. Just in these little moments where Martin continued being kind to him, even as he offered nothing but snide remarks and cold apathy. 

He shrugged. “Just hurry up so we can go. It’s cold,”

Jon hadn’t noticed, but he was shivering a little, and he was quite grateful for the heat of the beverage and its carrier. He tossed back the Ibuprofen and forced down the crackers before finishing it off. His appetite had been all over the place lately, but something in Martin’s eyes told him he’d sit here and freeze to death before he’d let him leave without eating. Why, he still couldn’t understand, and still it infuriated him. 

Quickly, they ventured back down the hall and into the nook of archive storage that’d housed Martin for a few weeks. He made quick work plugging in the aforementioned space heater.

Jon, not quite sure what to do with himself, sat on the floor next to the cot with his knees pulled tight to his chest. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to look less frigid than he felt. 

“Here.” Martin grabbed a blanket and handed it to him, apparently noticing anyway. He wrapped it around himself with a nod of acknowledgment. Martin sat next to him.

It was silent for quite a few more moments. Martin pulled off his glasses and used jumper-covered fingers to clean them, which they didn’t really need. Just trying to look preoccupied. The storm screamed at them from outside, the hum of the space heater barely drowning it out. He shuddered. It sounded a bit too much like someone he knew.

He considered putting a movie on his phone, but doubted Jon would appreciate the gesture. He didn’t know what would set him off, really. Especially with how he’d been lately. 

How he’d been lately, yeah. Martin did need to ask about that.

“Why were you working so late, anyway?” He piped up. 

He pursed his lips. “That is none of your concern, Martin, I’ve told you not to ask about it.”

“Jesus, Jon! I don’t like this any more than you do, you know.  After everything, do you really think I’m jumping for joy about being trapped in here with you?” He snapped. 

Jon shook his head, eyes wide and gobsmacked. He looked at Martin only to find him scowling. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him get properly angry. “O-of course not, I just- I’m very tired, and-“

“You do everything you can not to let people help with that, Jon, and you’re sitting here taking it out on me, which really diminishes my sympathy! I-it’s not fair of you, and I would appreciate it if you c-could- lord, I don’t know. But this isn’t my fault,” He sighed, arms crossing. 

He’d said his piece and felt his burst of confidence quickly diminish. He knew he was right, but that didn’t stop him from going into a bit of a panic over how Jon was about to react. 

“You’re right,” Jon murmured, and that wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He stayed silent, clearly needing more but all ears for it. “Look, I… it’s not something I can talk about. Not now. I need you to trust me on that. It requires my full and immediate attention, and it has been taking a lot out of me- but, yes, I’ve been cruel to you. There isn’t an excuse for that. I’m very sorry.” 

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you. Means a lot to hear you say that.” He drew in a breath. “I kinda thought you’d just gone back to hating me, after Prentiss. I-it was horrible, of course, but… we talked, really talked, and I- guess I just read a bit too much into it. I do that a lot, but- either way, I don’t like seeing you stressed, and I haven’t known what to do. If there’s anything I can do.”

He shook his head, but it was defeated rather than disregarding. “No. Not more than you already have.” 

“Just tell me if I can?” Martin requested, voice still like he was walking on eggshells. Not sure when this illusion would break and Jon would go back to his spiny, venomous self. “You’ve been weird, really weird. But you’re still Jon, you’re still my… well, you’re Jon. Whatever fucked up thing you’re dealing with now, we’re here for you, okay?”

He realized that Martin had been about to call him his friend, and that he hadn’t because he was afraid of an adverse reaction. The realization curdled uncomfortably in his gut. It was all just too much. But Martin was here now, and at least he could grip the reigns on this, make things right. 

“Thank you,” he said again, offering something like a smile. “I will do my best to be better.”

And deep feel moment had passed, the two rather more comfortable for it. “Funnily enough, I like snow,” Martin spoke up again, voice a bit shaky. He still quite hated the noises coming from outside. The warmth emanating from his heater and Jon’s presence felt like he was on a tiny island, surrounded on all sides by raging sea- a laughable sanctuary. “For the most part, anyway, at least I guess I used to. It’s nice. Way too early for this sodding much of it,” 

“It’s alright, I suppose, but it always made my grandmother’s arthritis act up. She’d make sure everyone knew,” Jon tried to laugh, but it came out a small, huffed sigh. “And I’ve been rather… slight, to put it kindly, for most of my life. Always a bit of dread for how much extra I’ll have to wear come wintertime,” 

“Well, that’s clearly not a problem we share,”

Jon’s face lit ablaze, and he quickly shook his head. “No, Martin, that’s not-“ he spluttered. 

He laughed, a sound almost warm enough to stave away the howling from outside. “Jon, I’m messing with you,” he chuckled. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have… sorry.”

“Oh. Right. Yes,” he coughed stiffly. His hands knotted and unknotted themselves rather fervently in his lap. “I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer at the moment. Dreadful company, I’m afraid.”

Martin placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to ease some of the tension- it got him to still, that’s for sure. He half-expected Jon to shove him away. When that moment didn’t come, he replied. “Could be a whole lot worse, I think,”

Slowly, Jon placed a hand over Martin’s. They’d get through this, with some newfound understanding to boot. They’d weather the storm and maybe Jon could try a little harder to not be as icy as the wind and snow banging at their door. 

“I suppose it could.”

Chapter Text

“Gold or silver?”

Martin held up two packages of tinsel, moving them in his hands like he was literally weighing his options. A shoebox filled with ornaments and stray hooks sat nearby next to a plastic tub of brand-new ones.

Jon set a tray of (currently naked) gingerbread men on a rack to cool and turned to look. The cookies were Martin’s doing, but he was occupied with the decorations scattered around him, barely noticing when his egg timer went off.

Jon set their mitts aside and deliberated on the choice as Martin looked at him expectantly. “The ornaments are mostly red and silver, yes? Gold would add some nice contrast,”

“Gold it is.” He fumbled with the plastic, tearing it open and unwinding the tinsel. Starting from the top of their (also plastic- Jon did not want to deal with the mess of the real thing, no matter how much Martin protested, insisting he’d do the dirty work of chopping one down and everything) tree, he wound it around and around, nestling it in the boughs. He huffed when he got about three feet down. “Damn it, it's too short...”

“I thought you liked short things.” Jon retorted pointedly, earning an eye-roll.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sticking you on the tree, am I? You may be an angel, but I dunno if you’d fit,” Martin grinned lopsidedly, trying to readjust the tinsel so he’d get more out of it. 

“Be still my heart.” Jon’s voice was thick with sarcasm. It didn’t quite reach their smile, though.

He started on the baking dishes while Martin continued to curse at tinsel. The Hallmark channel was playing on their TV- neither of them were really paying attention. More for the mood than anything. Jon glanced at it every now and again, but he couldn’t say he was super invested in the busy workaholic businesswoman and the country heartthrob she met in her hometown (which she is visiting, for business reasons, and will end up moving back to and staying forever because she falls in love and something something the magic of Christmas). He’d be lying if he said the corniness wasn’t a little charming, if repetitive. 

Once they started up the dishwasher, he moved to the stove, pulling some things from the fridge- moving aside several party-exclusive items. 

Martin was untangling a clump that may once had been a string of Christmas lights when Jon tapped him on the shoulder, holding a mug of hot chocolate- complete with a mound of whipped cream, a dusting of extra cocoa powder, and some crumbles from a gingerbread man that had met a very tragic fate (broken in half when Martin tried scooping him onto a silicon mat for decorating). 

“Hi,” Martin grumbled, dropping the lights with a frustrated huff and glaring like he was trying to unravel them with his mind. “Fucking lights.”

Jon giggled and nudged him with the same arm that held the mug. “It’s for you, dolt.” 

“Oh,” he blinked a few times, accepting it. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” 

He took a sip, licking whipped cream off of his top lip. It was delightful. Jon had learned their way around the kitchen just a little bit in the time they’d been together- they were no Gordon Ramsey, to be sure, but he could boil water without burning the house down and made a pretty good grilled cheese.

They found beverages to be more in his ballpark, though. (Tim had called him “my glorious non-binary barista” once, earning a confused stare from Jon and a bitten-off laugh from Martin.)

He visibly relaxed as he drank, straightening his glasses and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Lord,” he glanced out the window at the quickly-dimming sky. “What time is it?”

Jon glanced at their watch. “4:56.”

“So, 5.”

“No, it’s 4:56.” They insisted. “Ah- 4:57.”

He snorted. “Oh, whatever.” 

“You’ve been at it all day, love,” Jon stated. They placed their hand over the one that wasn’t cupping the hot chocolate, running a thumb over Martin’s knuckles. “We have a couple of hours until everyone shows up. Take a rest.”

He sighed. He was quite sore. And sick of decorating cookies. Hunching over the counter with a piping bag and fussing over the minutest details of something that’d just end up as mush in someone’s stomach was never one of his favorite parts of baking. “I still have to put everything on the tree.” He grumbled. “And finish off the gingerbread men.”

“I can do it.”

he almost choked on his hot chocolate barking out an indignant laugh: “The last time I let you, most of the icing ended up on your clothes,” he recalled. “I found spots of it dried up on the floor for weeks!”

“Have you really so little faith in me? Jon sniffed sarcastically. “You wound me, Martin.”

He set the mug on the floor momentarily, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on Jon’s forehead. “There. Better?” 

“Quite,” They chuckled. “I’m serious, though. Go wash up. I can take care of things. Daisy hates frosting, she can have the blank ones,” 

“Jon, really. I’m okay. It’s just some decorating.” He responded. “This has been a nice break, but, like you said, we only have two hours. I’ll rest once everything’s done.”

Jon furrowed his brow, expression suddenly more serious. “You’ve been up since 6 and running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” He stated. “I don’t see the point in pouring so much work into this if you’ll just end up too tired to enjoy it.” 

“I know, I know, I just… I really need this to go well,” he murmured. “Not that I don’t trust you, o-of course. It just means a lot to me,”

“Only five people are coming over, darling. You don’t have to worry so much,”

“I know, Jon, but it’s just-“ he let out a breath. “Mum really didn’t like Christmas.”

Jon, as always, patiently waited for him to elaborate. Martin fidgeted with a fallen piece of tinsel as he did. “We didn’t have the extra money for gifts or decorations or anything like that. I think having to be reminded of that made her really bitter? I dunno. She also hated all the colors and lights, and don't even get me started on the music. She’d get really bad ‘round this time of year and I’d have to try extra hard to make her happy, but… well, you know how she was.” He didn’t mean to elaborate on what he meant by bad. 

“Ah,” Jon nodded. “I’m so sorry. If I had known you had a negative association with the season, I wouldn’t have agreed to-“

“No, it’s not that, not at all! It’s kind of the opposite? I-I finally have the chance to make it something to look forward to. I get to spend it with people who love me. With you,” he smiled, tentative but adoring. “And that’s great. I’m really, really happy. But it’s also a lot of pressure, I guess. Self-induced, but… you know how that is.”

“It’s going to be wonderful, love. You’ve already gone above and beyond.” Jon reassured. “I want you to enjoy it as much as I know everyone else will,”

“Mhm.” He looked at Jon, smile slowly widening- he seemed a little like he was about to burst into laughter, or maybe tears, and he couldn’t even tell which. “God, I love you. Th-this is gonna be really great.” He sighed a little, relieved, like he’d managed to reassure himself.

Jon stood, taking Martin’s empty mug into the kitchen. “I love you too. Just enough to wear that god-awful sweater you got for me. Tim will never let me hear the end of it,” he sighed. as he set it next to the sink. 

“Yes!” He pumped his fist as he stood. “Oh, I have one too, by the way. They're matching.”

“You cannot be serious.” 

“Dead, love.”

Jon pinched the bridge of their nose, as Martin grinned deviously. “Is it too late to retract my offer?”

“Oh, absolutely. And I will be taking pictures,” he laughed. 

Jon was about to protest, but Martin made a mad dash for their bedroom, practically jumping for joy. “I’m going to wash up now. Byeeee!”

About twenty minutes later, with Martin freshened up and Jon wrangled into his sweater, they were snuggled close together on the couch. The ornaments and tinsel twinkled cheerfully from their tree- they hadn’t quite managed to unball the lights this time. Martin swore a very serious oath of vengeance before giving up. 

They’d be quite occupied for the rest of the evening(also, Tim and Sasha had taken up a habit of loudly booing whenever they kissed or held hands in front of them) so Jon was insistent upon making up for lost time. Martin elected to turn on Elf and made a comment that spaghetti and maple syrup didn’t actually sound like that bad of a combo, which Jon did not dignify with a response. Instead, chin resting on Martin’s chest, he mumbled wistfully that they’d forgotten to buy any mistletoe.

Martin smiled, and they fell into a kiss anyway.

Chapter Text

Martin idled in front of the lift, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. He’d been a lot colder lately. Progressively so, since he’d first began his partnership with a certain old sailor. 

He didn’t like thinking too much on it. And anyway, after everything, he could handle a bit of chill. 

The doors slid open with a laughably cheerful ding! and he moved to go inside. He froze mid-step, eyes widening, as he realized that the elevator was not empty. 

There stood Jon, equally startled. His arms were locked around a large box of statements, and he was bending a little under its weight. He really has gotten frail. The surge of protective instinct didn’t make it to his face. Things like that didn’t tend to anymore. 

“Martin-!” He smiled wanly as he said it. He cleared his throat, evening out his tone. “Hello.”

Martin swallowed thickly. It was too late to turn around and walk away. He doubted Jon would follow him, and he hardly cared these days if the things he did were considered ‘rude’. Much more was at stake than his nonexistent personal relationships. But something inside him compelled him not to, and he was inside before he could really think about it. 

“Jon,” he responded curtly. “Uh, do you-“ he eyed the box in his arms again, biting his lip. That was a little too close to a friendly gesture. “N-nevermind.” 

Jon didn’t reply. They stared ahead and felt the awkwardness grow more intense as the doors slid shut. 

The lift began to move upwards with a mechanical hum. Suddenly, with a loud and alarming-sounding thunk, it came to an abrupt halt. The sudden change in momentum caused Jon to stumble and nearly drop his box. There was no ding!, no opening of doors, and the number indicating what floor they were on had yet to change. 

“What in the-“ Jon set the box down and moved to the panel, pressing the button to open the door. Nothing. He slammed his finger into it several more times, scowling. “You have got to be fucking joking. The one time I decide to use this thing,”

“Is there a call button?” Martin asked, craning to look over Jon’s shoulder. 

He shook his head, sighing irately and slumping to the floor beneath the buttons, back against the wall. “Of course there bloody isn’t. That has to go against some sort of workplace regulation,”

To both of their surprise, Martin chuckled. A short, quiet thing that disappeared as soon as it tumbled from between his lips. But it was there. “Workplace regulations? Do you know where we work, Jon?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” He scoffed. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yeah, but, uh,” Martin coughed. “I don’t actually have anyone’s number saved. N-no one here, anyway,” or anyone else’s. Honestly, he only really kept it because it felt weird not having one. “I had to- well, doesn’t matter.”

Jon furrowed his brow, frustrated, but it quickly turned to concern as he processed what Martin almost admitted. “Lukas made you.” It didn’t need to be a question.

“We’re not starting this.” He stated. Clipped, cold, and to the point. Jon found it a bit funny, the way they almost seemed to have swapped places. A fresh tendril of regret curled around him for all the times he’d spoken to his coworkers- his friends- the same way. 

“Right.” He relented. “I left mine on my desk. I suppose we have no choice but to wait until someone finds us.” 

“Guess so.” Martin, not sure what else to do but preferring not to stand, took a seat against the opposite wall. He stared at the doors, and Jon stared at his lap. Anything but at each other. “At least you brought something to eat in case it takes a while,” he chuckled, completely devoid of any earnestness, jerking his head towards the abandoned box.

He didn’t reply. 

See? This is what happens when you try and talk to people. You say something stupid and it becomes how clear they’d rather you just go away. 

That’s why he picked you. You know that. Don’t risk that because of this. Don’t be stupid. 

And so Martin fell silent too.

Minutes ticked by at a snail's pace. Jon got the idea to try Knowing someone’s number- he couldn’t recall any off the top of his head. (modern conveniences always have their drawbacks,he supposed). Frustratingly, all the Eye provided was Elias’. His patron entity sure did have an interesting sense of humor. 

Silence again. Martin’s head went empty, eyes glazing over, as he tried to drift off and wait for this to pass. Think of this as a test. He could almost hear the thought in Peter’s voice. Pretend he’s not even there.

It was hard to do that, though, when he saw out of the corner of his eye that Jon was trembling. His chest rose and fell at a rate that was very much not normal for someone who’d been sitting for the better part of 20 minutes. His eyes were wide as saucers. 

Ignore him.

“Jon?”

Do not-

“Jon, hey, are… are you okay?” 

He hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head. “I do not like being stuck. Especially in confined spaces.” His voice was nearly a whisper, raspy and laced thick with horror, caught halfway in his throat. “It reminds me of things I would rather not revisit,”

“Oh,” Martin breathed. Against every rational thought he had, he shifted away from the wall. Closer and closer to danger. The only thing still capable of melting his growing, icy shell. But he figured that couldn’t do anything right, anyway. What would one more fuck-up really change? “Hey, Jon, can you look at me? Please?”

He lifted his eyes like they were made of lead, gaze settling tentatively on Martin’s face. 

“Can you tell me five things you can see?” He asked, voice growing softer than it’d been in quite a while. Affectionate. 

“You. The lights. The railing. The box, uhh… my hands.” He listed, gaze shifting as he sought out each item. 

“Good. 4 things you can feel?”

“Sweater,” he mumbled, worrying the hems of his sleeves in his fingers. “The floor. My bruises. The hair on the back of my neck.”

Martin guided him through the rest, and then a few breaths to top it all off. He was still rather uncomfortable, but not quite on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. He moved away from the wall, figuring he’d feel less boxed-in. It did help a little. Martin went with him, and they sat cross-legged facing each other as his anxiety slowly deescalated.

“Sorry about that,” he coughed. “I suppose my imagination got the better of me.”

“Ah, yes. How dare you have an extremely understandable reaction to repeated, intense trauma,” Martin replied involuntarily. “Are you having human emotions again, Jon? You know that’s against company policy.”

He would’ve berated himself, and he almost did. It was so much like something he would’ve said before. He absolutely, unequivocally could not allow that. That wasn’t Martin anymore. That Martin was the human equivalent of a selectively-bred dog, barely a living thing, feeble and useless and stupid but cute and pitiful enough that people tolerated its presence until it started to bark or get its snot everywhere or wasn’t able to walk right. He was something. He was going to be important. He was going to save everyone, he was-

But then Jon smiled, and it bubbled into a little laugh, and damn it if it didn’t nearly make him cry. He looked pretty when he was smiling, even more so for its tragic rarity- prematurely-lined face framed by all that salt-and-pepper hair, crooked and unsure with just a little bit of nicotine-and-coffee stained teeth. He was haggard and afraid and beaten down, but Martin had managed to make him smile, because he’d slipped. He’d let himself forget the bigger picture. Who- what- he was trying to become. For that, wasn’t he important already?

No. Of course you aren’t. 

It was over rather quickly, ending in a sigh, and the high faded. “‘Human’ may be a bit of a stretch at this point, anyway,” it was phrased like a joke but carried immense density. 

“You seem rather human to me,” Martin offered. “Human enough. Jon, you’re not… you’re as much of a victim as the rest of us,”

“I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Well, I would,” he insisted. 

“Martin,” he croaked, voice breaking even more. Then, without any warning, he leapt forward and swept him into a tight hug.

Jon felt so spindly and delicate, and his face was buried away in his chest, hiding from the world. Martin was a sanctuary, he could keep him safe and god did he want to. He just wanted to throw his arms around him too and pull him as close as he could without breaking him to pieces. 

Instead, he flinched, and Jon immediately pulled back. His eyes widened, hurt and embarrassment evident. “I’m sorry,” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why I-“

“I can’t,” Martin gasped, brow furrowed in frustration and anguish. “Jon, I-I’m not allowed. I shouldn’t even have started talking to you. This is going to mess everything up,” 

“He’s not here. He can’t see us.” Jon declared gently.

“You don’t know that!” Martin exclaimed. “Jon, drop it. I’m begging you,”

He relented, struck by the burning fear behind his eyes and voice. He wouldn’t risk Martin getting hurt any more if, somehow, he was right. He was, for sure, about one thing. He didn’t know, and he hated that. The whole situation was so unbearably unfair, it made him want to throw something. Instead, he just nodded. “I understand.”

“Just-“ he reached for Jon’s hand, fingertips ghosting against the back of it. As if testing to see if it’d burn him. He let them settle there, eventually, little pulses of fear and want fighting for his attention. Jon didn’t rush him. Martin ripped the Band-aid off and let his hand envelop Jon’s. Just holding it there, trying to relax. It felt pathetic, but Jon didn’t seem to think so.

“…It’s going to be okay,” Martin didn’t know if he was saying it to Jon or himself. He knew that it wasn’t. But, alone here with him, the warmth of his hand and the affection in his gaze, he let himself believe that it could. 

Chapter Text

Jon stirred their tea, staring out across the dew-covered lawn as the sun slowly crept higher and higher in the sky. A knitted blanket covered their lap, keeping away much of the morning chill. Not that he minded. It was quite refreshing and a most effective way to awaken his mind. 

He’d be needing it. Martin, too. They had a busy day ahead.

The house was a bit of a mess. Not disastrous or anything, but pretty close to it. More of their dishes were scattered around their various rooms than in their cupboards. The floors desperately needed to be swept, mopped, and vacuumed. They hadn’t cleaned their fridge in far too long, and Jon considered picking up a hazmat suit before he tackled whatever Last of Us-esque monstrosities lurked in those accursed Tupperware containers. Jon had been wearing the same shirt for a few days now because they couldn’t get themself to do laundry. The list went on.

They'd both been a bit burnt out. Nothing wrong with that. It’d taken a lot of work to learn to prioritize his well-being over productivity and rest when he needed it. As long as the mess that accumulated wasn’t a legitimate health hazard, they could bear it until he regained some drive. 

But they’d both been feeling a little better over the past few days. The first day of fall had come very recently, and the weather was slowly getting less unbearably hot and muggy. The first crisp fall breezes breathed some much-needed life into them both.

Today was a better day than ever to tackle it, Jon figured. He’d spoken to Martin about the matter the night before, making sure he was up to it- and he’d begrudgingly agreed.

Speak of the devil. The old screen door squeaked open behind him and Martin slumped over and plopped down on the hanging chair. He lifted his glasses to rub his eyes, grumbling a little. “Do we really have to today?”

Jon hummed a bit sympathetically.“Yes.”

“But it’s all cloudy. Perfect day to stay in bed…” he protested, hitting Jon with his best puppy-dog eyes.

Jon had, unfortunately, learned not to relent to them so easily. “There’ll a lot be more cloudy mornings in our future, love,” he mused. “Besides, I didn’t say you had to wake up right now.”

“‘S not the same without you.”

“That is very sweet, but I’m afraid I won’t be budging.” Jon chuckled, reaching over to tussle Martin’s bedheaded curls. “The faster we get it done, the sooner we can relax.”

“I guess.” He grumbled. “Breakfast first.”

“Obviously.”

“And a few more minutes,” he added, shifting against Jon and putting an arm around his shoulders, resting his head and closing his eyes.

“Hm.” He sipped his tea. “I suppose that’s only fair. Don’t be so cynical, love. It might be fun.”

“Cleaning? Fun?” He huffed. “Not the word I'd use, but okay.”

“I like cleaning!” Jon replied. “It is very satisfying.”

“You also like arthouse movies, Mongolian death metal, and birdwatching. Doesn’t make those things any more appealing.”

Jon huffed affrontedly. “Yes, well, those are up to personal preference. A passably clean home is not,” he declared. “Fall’s your favorite season. We’ve both fallen into a bit of a slump lately, and I think it will be very refreshing to start it off on a good note,”

He still wasn’t enthused on deep-cleaning the house, but that particular sentiment gave him pause. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

He turned and kissed the crown of Martin’s head. “I’ll get you a bagel and chai latte for breakfast from that shop you like. You don’t have to cook,” they mumbled into his hair in an almost singsongy voice. Sweetening the pot. It was working very well. “And you can pick what you want to do. There’s a couple I may need help with, but if we divide and conquer, we should be done by noon.”

“You spoil me, Jonathan,” Martin giggled. “I can’t say no to a bagel.”

They stood up, earning a sad little sigh from Martin. “I’ll get going then.”

“Now? Really?”

“You said a few more minutes. It’s been a few.”

“I meant, like, 30!”

“30 is not a few.”

“It’s close enough!”

Jon smiled a little, amusedly. “And this is why we have timers so you remember to eat.” 

“That’s-“ he trailed off, then shrugged. “Okay. Fair enough.”

He bent down to kiss Martin’s forehead once again. “Take your meds and get dressed, alright? I’ll be back soon,”

Before Jon could go, Martin took their face in his hands and craned his neck upwards to peck him on the lips. Once, twice, three times, eventually releasing him and letting them stand all the way up. He grinned. “A couple for the road.” 

He rolled his eyes a little. “It’s a five-minute drive, sweetheart. You’ll be seeing me quite soon.”

“Good! There’s more where that came from,” 

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” They turned and went inside.

“Miss you already,” he called dramatically after Jon as he slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed their car keys off of the hook. They smiled. It was a nice day to stay in. Put on a spooky movie, have some hot chocolate, wait for the leaves to start falling. That’d have to wait. It’d be even nicer with fresh, clean bedding.

Chapter Text

It’d been a bit of a rough night already, and the turn in the weather sealed Martin’s fate.

Neither of them had expected it. The clouds rolled in while they were in the store and rain began to fall as they walked home. It was light at first. A gentle, sluggish mist of cold rainwater. The sky was a churning whitish-grey. It was cold. And then came the fog. 

Martin assured Jon he was fine. He was still far too efficient at that for his own good. Jon would call it stubbornness, and Martin would respond that he was one to talk, and he didn’t like to let it go any further.

So they walked in silence. He noticed Jon’s pace increasing and felt a pang of irritation. Martin didn’t have any clean jumpers- he assumed he’d be fine without one. It had been such a clear day, after all. Jon had insisted they wait, Martin brushed him off, it led to an argument.

I’m a grown man! I know what I’m doing, a-and when I’ve moved past something, alright? Why can’t you just let me?!

How ironic. 

Martin had won, sort of. He would need help carrying their groceries for the week, so he couldn’t have Martin stay behind. Besides- and he wouldn’t dare say it, lest it spark up a fight again- he still didn’t want to leave Martin all alone for too long. The walk there had been tense and silent, the two parting ways once they reached the store. 

Even so, as the weather got more intense, Jon tentatively offered his cardigan. Martin shook his head. He would’ve made some snippy comment about how there was no way that it’d fit, but his mind was elsewhere, many places at once, as his feet began to move on autopilot.

Once it started wandering, he found himself unable to stop it. Determined not to rely on Jon. God, you’re stubborn. It’s really a horrible trait. Are you so self-centered that you can’t just admit when you were wrong?

It was a bad sign when his thoughts switched to second person, developing a voice of their own- a cruel, cold whisper, needling at the folds of his brain. It got quieter with his distance from the Lonely but it was still there. It hid in the dark corners of his mind, waiting for the best time to fully strike. Distinct yet disturbingly harmonic with Martin Blackwood’s own thoughts. 

It reminded him of the letter to his mother he’d found just the other day. Shoved into the bottom of a box, never sent or read. Pleading for  her to call him her son. Trying to explain the way it felt when she wouldn’t. He wasn’t his father. He loved her, and would do anything to make her happy. It’d turned into an incoherent mess at the end. He remembered writing it so vividly, the way his pen scratched into the paper in manic, imprecise strokes, so hard at one point that he ripped it in several places. It looked like something a madman would write. The anger and grief that’d torn him apart infected his present self. Duller, but still a burning memory. 

You didn’t send it because you knew she didn’t want to read it. She didn’t care. Why should she? You betrayed her, over and over again. You’re pathetic. You’re a complete crybaby who can’t handle any opposition or distress. 

The fight with Jon. The many like it they'd had over the months they’d been together. Nights ending in enough tears to drown in, one of them sleeping on the couch or taking a walk to get some space. Every nasty thing he’d said felt like a fresh brand pressed his mind. The smoke was acrid and consumed his recollection of the moments where Jon was the subject of scrutiny, because he wasn’t perfect either. The times where perhaps neither of them were at fault. The part where they’d make up and talk it out after the fact. It was irrelevant. It was just him, he had messed up, he was to blame. Especially now. 

You’re not good for him. All you are is something else to worry about. He didn’t want to hold your hand because of it and now you’re slipping away again. Maybe this is what he wants, have you considered that?

He was cold, and starting to feel a bit damp, and the air was thick and sharp. Little icicles in his lungs. Fog. Fog and clouds and mist. He was stuck now. Deep in his own head. 

You know a place quite like this. It’s a nice one.Why do you think this rolled in so suddenly? It’s here for you. It’s coming to get you because it knows where you belong. It could all be so very uncomplicated-

“Martin!”

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them? Were they closed, or just coming back into focus? Fog- no, just clouds. The fog had receded. There was a dark, blurry shape that slowly morphed into a face as sound slammed into Martin like a tidal wave. The loud, percussive hum of rain on water and grass, labored breaths, a voice that he knew. 

Then came feeling- but not quite. His lower half felt numb still, encased in something thick and freezing. He was up to his waist in water.

He looked around, panic mounting. It didn’t smell salty. Wait, a pond? Yes. This wasn’t the boundless grey sea of The Lonely. A quaint little pond with rocks and mud on the bottom that cows drank from sometimes. He saw this pond a few times a week when he walked on a road, a little ways off the beaten path. When he walked on that road he usually had someone with him. 

Jon. That’s right, they were walking together because they were going somewhere together, and therefore must’ve come from the same place-

Their home.

Defeat, horror, and realization fell over Martin all at once as he fell the rest of the way back to earth. Jon was in front of him, gripping his shoulders. He’d waded into the pond after Martin and the water was higher for him. From the disheveled look of him, some mud smeared on the side of his face, he’d tripped in his desperation to reach Martin.  

“Jon, I-I… I’m so sorry,” he croaked. 

“I lost you,” he breathed. “You just slipped away. I should’ve- well, i-it’s too late now, I suppose maybe I was close enough in my chase that you didn’t go. Not all the way.”

“I-I don’t-“ Martin stammered. His teeth were starting to chatter and he could see Jon shuddering too as his adrenaline receded, allowing him to feel it. Your fault. His anchor was placed too close for the thought to carry him away. “I didn’t- I don’t know why this-“

Jon took him by the arm. “Let’s go home.” With slow, waterlogged steps, they made it to the shore. As soon as he was capable, Jon began to run. Martin couldn’t do anything but try and keep pace. 

When they got in, Jon ignored the water and muddy footprints getting all over the hardwood and pulled him into the bedroom. He barely remembered to shut the door behind them in his haste.“I can turn around so you can change.”

“W-wait, I,” Martin croaked. “I feel like something bad will happen if I can’t- see you anymore? O-o-or vice versa, I really don’t know, I’m sorry, it-“

“Okay.” Jon interrupted his tangent. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

With trembling hands, he started with his pants, hitting the floor with a soggy thwap. A muddy puddle began to grow around them. He ignored it as Jon handed him a new pair of boxers, some fuzzy socks, and his thickest pajama pants from the nearby drawer. He pulled them on gratefully before taking the hem of his shirt between his fingers.

He was more hesitant to peel it off, and even more so when it came time to unclasp his binder. His bluish lips tightened into a displeased line.

You’re not her son. Even if you were, no matter how hard you try to be- it wouldn’t even matter. She’d hate you anyway. They’d followed him inside. 

“I can,” Jon offered once again, determined to keep it at bay. 

Martin buckled immediately, nodding. His mind was pulling him in a million different directions, so he did the easy thing and believed in Jon’s willingness to help.

He didn’t waste any time, and it slipped off of his broad shoulders and to the floor. Martin kept his eyes strictly forward. Jon murmured a good job, love. All done for good measure as he handed Martin a jumper and fleece-lined hoodie. 

Martin insisted he change, too, so he leapt into some passably warm clothes and corralled his boyfriend into the living room. Not before grabbing a pillow from the bed- and as an afterthought, he went to the nightstand. An old, threadbare highland cow plush named Goldie sat there. She had a little tag on her ankle with “<3, mom” in smudgy permanent marker. He hadn’t the heart to cut it off. Jon handed it to Martin, earning a faint smile as he hugged it to his chest.

Jon sat him down on the couch, throwing their fleece throw blanket over him and bolting to the linen closet for more. A spare comforter for the bed, a hideous knitted quilt that neither of them could possibly surmise the origin of- maybe Daisy’s grandmother?-, a soft one with a flower print. This would have to do. 

Martin had laid down at this point, tears creeping quietly down his cheeks as he stared at the ceiling. His fingers ran anxiously up and down Goldie’s back. Jon covered him with the other blankets and crouched next to him. “I’m going to get a fire going.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of Martin’s reddened nose, brushing away the wet strands of hair sticking to his face. “It’ll only take me a moment. Alright, love?”

“O-okay.” He mumbled. Still shivering, freezing to the touch. “I-I’m sorry.” He said again. 

“None of that,” Jon replied, soft yet stern. “This wasn’t your fault.”

He didn’t have time to state his disagreement before Jon hurried off to start the fire. It didn’t take him long at all. He was still coming down from his panic, moving at 110% to keep Martin safe. The smell of the wood and golden, dancing light did admittedly soothe him. 

Jon sat on the edge of the couch once it was done, taking a few breaths. This would do for now. “Do you want some tea?”

He shook his head quickly. “I-I want you to stay here,” he murmured. “If that’s- that’s no trouble,”

Jon uttered a small laugh. “‘Course it isn’t.”

“I-I’d like- can you hold me? You’re just really warm and-“

Jon nodded and shifted so he was laying atop Martin, facing him. His arms and legs on either side of his blanket-cocooned shape in a wide, thorough embrace. Another layer. “Is this alright?”

It was more than. His heat and weight made Martin feel safer than he had in hours. “Yeah,” he shuddered. “I don’t know why this h-happened, Jon, it hasn’t gotten like this in s-s-so long, I thought- I really thought I was okay,” he tried to control his shivering, words strained as he blinked away the tears.

“I’m afraid it tends not to work like that,” Jon replied wistfully. “It is rather common for problems like these to resurface when we least expect. It doesn’t leave. Just ebbs and flows. Something that may not bother you anymore could become a problem again. Hence… this.”

“I-I know that. You don’t have to lecture me.” Martin scoffed. “… or I guess normally I do? S-sorry. Go ahead and say you told me so,”

“Why would I do that?”

“I mean, you did.” He shrugged. “T-tell me so.” 

“That’s-“ Jon sighed, shaking his head. “I didn’t say those things because I wanted to be right. I was just worried.”

“When are you not?” He mumbled irately. It was clear the disdain wasn’t aimed at Jon. 

“How do you mean?”

“What else is there to do with me, Jon? All I do is mess things up and end up hurting myself. I-I can’t even handle a trip to the store, for fuck’s sake. You had to deal with the first few w-weeks of me being like this and now I-I’ve backslid and you h-have to do it again, and you’ll just be wondering for the rest of time when it’s going to happen next,” he rambled.

The tears came again, and Martin closed his eyes tight to try and shut them away, but that just wound up squeezing them out. 

“You say that as if I am any better, love. Like I’ve got it all together. Even if I did, I cannot imagine a world in which I would want anything more than to help you see it through,” Jon murmured, rubbing his shoulders. “You’re so much more than a point of stress for me, Martin. I love you. You are my whole world and nothing could change that,”

He eventually opened his eyes, tentative and Jon smiled softly. “Hello, there.”

“Hi.” He mumbled, trying his best to return the gesture. “You’re- god. You’re so wonderful,” 

“Hm. No, I think you have me quite beat in that department.” 

“You’re such a sap.” He huffed. 

“Only for you, dear,”

He pulled his arms out from under the blankets so he could properly hold Jon back. Hugging him close to his chest. “Good.”

They could talk about it more later. Figure out what to do, how to prevent it from happening again, why it’d happened. Martin wanted to. He deserved that, he deserved something after all of this. He still felt so guilty for letting Jon take care of him when he felt like this was all his fault. 

It’s always all my fault, can it? That just doesn’t make sense. It can’t always be someone’s fault and it can’t always be mine. 

The thought was reassuring, the kind he felt unwilling to let himself have. But Jon’s weight on him, hands straightening his glasses and thumbing the remaining tears from his cheeks, it made him feel a little safer with it.

Martin wouldn’t let those feelings make him doubt his love. That was unfair to them both. They could make it through this. They could and they would. 

Chapter Text

Jon sighed irritatedly as he craned his neck behind him, trying to get a proper view of their back in the mirror. His fingers fumbled uselessly with the zipper- his angle was off, it kept slipping, they couldn’t get it up more than a few inches. He cursed himself for buying such a thin one from the craft store. 

They dropped their hands, arms starting to ache a little, and threw their head back in a sigh. “Martin! Come zip me up!”

A few seconds later, Martin poked his head into their bedroom, effectively summoned. He was about to say something, but was stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening and mouth hanging open as he got his first good look at Jon’s costume. 

They’d found a trick online where you could use half a soda bottle as a base to wind your hair around, creating the iconic shocked-up beehive look. He hadn’t needed to dye it. The streaks of silvery grey in their hair lended themselves well to the desired effect. Perhaps a bit more spread throughout and less eye-catching than the Bride of Frankenstein’s lighting-bolt highlights- but hey, we all have to get old sometime. They’d used a mountain of bobby pins and an ocean of hairspray to keep it in place. It was going to be a nightmare to undo at the end of the night, but he tried not to think about that.

Martin, meanwhile, had to use temporary spray dye to turn his black. He’d slicked it down and back with a very generous handful of gel bought special for the occasion. He’d never use the stuff otherwise- he thought he looked rather weird with straight hair. In this case, that was the intended effect.

Jon had put on some long, droopy fake lashes and, as an afterthought, a layer of dark lipstick. He didn’t wear makeup often- that was more of a uni Jon thing- but still dabbled from time to time and kept the stuff around. Their gaunt face and deep-set eyes were a perfect accessory to the look. They hated the texture of face paint, so they decided to forgo the deathly greenish-white pallor Martin had taken on.

Jon had even put in some contacts in order to forgo their glasses and add to the look. White irises with pinhead-sized black dots for pupils. 

But the dress, the dress Jon was most proud of.

It was made of old linens they no longer had any use for. They had only learned to sew recently and mostly used the skill to repair things. He’d made Martin a plush frog and that had been the extent of their more creative endeavors so far. The final product wasn’t something a real bride would be caught dead in- from a distance, though, it made Jon quite proud indeed.

It was long, falling far past their feet- they knew it’d drag in the dirt, but he thought that would add to the authenticity- and rather shapeless. Like a sheet draped over the shoulders of a corpse. It didn’t have sleeves. He’s decided to wrap his arms in strips of white fabric to more closely resemble the Bride as she appeared in the movie.

Jon’d felt progressively more odd-looking as he pieced together the look. He didn’t hate how it felt or anything, it just didn’t seem like something they could pull off.

The way Martin stared at him, though, was damn well starting to make him think he might. 

In fact, his very stereotypical Frankenstein costume that they’d worked together to assemble felt rather silly to him now. An intentional ratty three-piece black suit, his hair, the foam bolts stuck to the sides of his head, a layer of makeup and painted-on stitches.

He supposed that wasn’t inaccurate to the film. Weird, cobbled-together broad-shouldered goblin thing arm in arm with his ethereal, hauntingly beautiful wife. Yeah, we’re nailing it. 

“Hello?” Jon’s irate voice snapped him out of his stupor. “Don’t we have to be there in twenty minutes? I still have touches to put on,” 

“What touches?” Jon turned so their bare back was facing him, and Martin fumbled with the zipper for a bit before pulling it up to the nape of his neck. His hands landed on their shoulders, squeezing affectionately, leaning to the left so he could keep looking at him in the mirror. His smile only widened. “You look perfect, Jon, you’re- you’re so beautiful, it’s kind of blowing my mind.”

“I need to do my sleeves and paint on some stitches,” he replied matter-of-factly, feigning that they were unfazed by his barrage of affection. “And I’m supposed to look like a horrifying undead creature.”

“You could never.” Martin leaned over Jon’s shoulder, twisting his head to kiss them noisily on the cheek. They let out a an indignant grumble but didn’t protest as his arms snaked around their waist, chin resting on his shoulder. Enjoying the view for a while. “You could be wearing a full hazmat suit and I’d probably still find you beautiful, so I suppose I’m a little biased. But this look suits you nicely,”  

He choked a bit on his words, visibly flustered, which Martin quite enjoyed. “Yes, well, it was your idea. Enjoy it while it lasts because I will never do this again,”

Martin huffed. “I didn’t make you sew the dress yourself, or do your hair, or even come to Tim’s party in the first place. You must care a little bit.”

“Maybe I just like to put 110% into everything I do,”

“I’m sure Elias would be keen to hear that.” 

“Okay, fine. Yes, Martin, I am looking forward to this. To an extent. Mostly because it’s with you,” they relented with an eye roll. “And you look quite dashing yourself, in any case.”

He barked a little laugh. “Oh, please. You’re just saying that because you love me.” He pouted exaggeratedly. “On second thought, maybe we should cancel. Everyone admiring you is gonna make me super jealous.”

They cringed. “Don’t say that. I despise being perceived,” 

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you made yourself look all cool and hot and stuff,” He retorted. “‘S not fair. How am I meant to keep up?”

”’Cool and hot and stuff’. Did you put that in one of your poems? Truly groundbreaking stuff. Sure to get the heart pounding-” 

”Oh, shut up! You know what I mean!”

Jon giggled and put his hand over Martin’s, pulling lightly, signaling for him to let go. The moment he did, they whirled to face him, skirt swishing elegantly. Wasting no time, he took Martin by the face and pulled him into an aggressive kiss. He let out a little noise of surprise at first but quickly returned the gesture, hugging Jon close once again and smiling against their lips.

When they were done, they craned their neck to place another on Martin’s cheek. “There you are. This way, everyone will know the one person whose attention I particularly care for.” He smiled a bit smugly at the look on their boyfriend’s face and left to retrieve what he’d need to finish putting his costume together. 

Dark lipstick was smudged all over his lips now, and the oily black kiss to his cheek was rather striking against his face paint. He flushed under it. Devilish bastard. 

Chapter Text

Martin’s breath escaped him in harsh, rapid puffs of as he ran. He ran and he ran and he ran, seconds blurring into minutes blurring into hours. He didn’t have the luxury his pursuers did of not tiring, but in his desperation, he’d all but ceased to feel the pain anyway. 

It was all over his body, a hundred different aches competing for his attention, throbbing with his racing heart. He clutched his wrist- likely sprained or even broken, at the very least horribly bruised- close to his chest. The footfalls of Lukas’ men behind him were a percussive rhythm to his flight, spurring him to keep up his brutal pace.

He couldn’t do it forever. He knew that. The thought hammered at his mind incessantly, a source of dread almost worse than the situation itself. Every time he thought he’d thrown them off and tried to rest, he heard them approaching or he saw the distant bluish glow of their lanterns.

So he set his jaw and continued into the forest, praying to any benevolent force that might listen to just please help. Very few good things had happened to Martin Blackwood in his 29 years of life, so he felt more than justified in praying for one tiny favor.

It came in the form of a mansion. He hadn’t seen it rising above the trees to meet him, despite it being incredibly impressive in height- easily four stories tall- and, at once construction. Now, it was rather decrepit, nature slowly reclaiming the rotting wood and fading bricks as it peeled and sagged and began to crumble.He didn’t have time to be impressed, however. 

Martin quickly glanced behind him. He couldn’t see light, so he figured they were far enough away that they wouldn’t spot him going inside. It would have to do. 

He rushed up the stone staircase and threw his shoulder against the wooden double doors with all his might. They buckled immediately, and he let out a yelp as he tumbled to the ground- fortunately, his injured wrist didn’t take any more force. He cursed himself for not just trying the damn handle, groaning as they swung shut behind him.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he finally absorbed his surroundings through the dark, fuzzy patches in his vision. 

He was bathed in warm from sconces on the walls and a large, crystal chandelier above him. He was lying on an ornate woven carpet, an intricate pattern of, rich red and gold, set atop a gleaming mahogany floor. The interior was completely furnished and immaculately maintained. The windows were all intact, despite several having clearly been broken when he was on the outside looking in. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention…? No, even in his haste, surely he’d have noticed.

“What the hell?” He mumbled, slowly pulling himself to his feet and continuing to look around. He couldn’t hear outside, so he had no way of knowing if Lukas’ men had passed.

“What are you doing here?”

Martin shrieked as a deep, rich, and dangerous voice cut through the silence like a dagger. He fell again, wincing, and scrambled around to greet its source.

Standing there, approach completely unannounced, was a person in a long black cloak. They were shorter and slimmer than Martin, so much so that it was able to be surmised thrkugh their clothing. It was a strange texture unlike any he’d seen. Animal hide, maybe? 

Their skin was a warm brown, a rather beautiful shade underneath the firelight. Their hair fell far past their shoulders in a cascade of gleaming curls,  some of it tied up in a braid around their head, midnight black with streaks of starlight-silver. Their face was similarly aged, but not at all unattractive. Sharp nose and even sharper eyes, deep-set, practically glowing an unnatural acid-green. 

Martin was immediately taken by the beautiful stranger, straight-backed and regal as they stared him down with intense scrutiny. He was frozen in their gaze.

They darted forward with incredible litheness and crouched in front of Martin, leaning so close that their noses were practically touchin. “How did you find this place?” He hissed. “Speak, or I’ll cut your throat and throw you to the Dreadworms.”

“I-I-“ he stammered, backing away a few inches. Fear clawed at his heart. He’d been so close to salvation, but this person was not happy with his presence, they were not afraid to do something about it.

“Tell me!” Their words crackled with a strange and unusual energy. Before he could even truly process the command, he obeyed. “King Lukas’ men are pursuing me. I happened upon this house in my flight and presumed it abandoned. I am in dire need of rest, so I came in to hide,” 

Their face remained an iron mask, unsatisfied. Martin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I-I don’t know why I-“

The stranger cut him off. “Why is Lukas pursuing you?”

“My mother sold me into his servitude. After about a week, I could take it no longer, and decided to flee. There’s something wrong with him, wrong with that place, that horrible fog- just breathing it made me feel like I was losing my mind. Apparently, he’s taken quite the liking to me, and rather wants me back.” 

Martin swore he saw the strange man’s face soften at the second confession. “You should not have been able to come inside,” they murmured, rising back to their feet, pinching the bridge of their nose as they began to pace. “How did you come inside? I know you aren’t lying, and you do not strike me as a magic user. This doesn’t make sense,”

“Sorry, um- I’m a little lost here?” Martin laughed nervously, cradling his injured wrist. “I-I think the door was unlocked. It wasn’t very difficult,”

They gave him a piercing glare. “Then it was quite unnecessary for you to nearly break it off of its hinges like a thick-headed ogre, wasn’t it?” They snarled. “This place is cloaked in Beholding magic. It is unenterable by anyone I or my patron does not permit.”

“Oh,” he blinked a few times. “You’re Beholding?” That would explain the involuntary confessions.

“Unfortunately.” They grumbled. “This,” they gestured around, “is as close as I can get to a peaceful, solitary life, away from the unfettered squabbling of the 14 Kingdoms. Or so I thought,”

“You’re acting like this is my fault!” He exclaimed. He knew he should’ve been frightened of the owner of this strange place, but quickly found himself irritated by their churlish demeanor. “Whatever I did to get here, it wasn’t on purpose. Maybe you should do a cleaner job with your spells if you’re going to act so high and mighty about it,”

They froze, slowly stepping closer, staring down at him darkly instead of getting down to his level. “I could tear you apart in seconds if I wished to,” they growled. “So many stories inside that head of yours. You would make quite the treat for the Eye.”

“D-do it, then,” he tried to match their intimidation, but his voice quivered, a mix of exhaustion and utter despair. “Not like I have anything to live for. I’m sure Lukas’ll get a good laugh out of knowing I ran straight into the arms of something else just dying to consume me,”

They were silent for a few moments, perhaps a bit stricken by that. Such a raw confession, spoken without any pull from their powers. They sighed, regretting their words, but unsure of how to take them back. “Despite your carelessness, I sense no ill will from you,” they declared. “I can, to a degree, sympathize with your plight. I see no reason not to offer you refuge, at least until you have healed.” 

He brightened a bit and quickly nodded. “Yes, please, that would be- that’s very generous. Th-thank you, ah…?”

“Jon.” 

“I’m Martin,” he offered a tentative smile, which they did not return. They did, however, lend a hand- spindly and elegant, yet rough and calloused. He took it gratefully and rose to his feet. 

They led him down a hall to the right, cloak dragging on the carpet behind them. His eyes darted around at the furnishings as they walked- more elegant than any he’d seen in his life. Lukas’ castle was bare, devoid of any life or joy or warmth,intending to give visitors the feeling that no one would ever call it home. This was very different. Fine paintings, intricate china vases, candelabras that looked to be made of fine brass. “Your home is beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jon hummed. “I am a collector, of sorts.” They declared. “My speciality is in written texts. I trust that you will not pursue my library without explicit permission and utmost care,”

“Of course,” he replied quickly. “I grew up pretty poor, so I have a lot of respect for other peoples’ belongings.”

They didn’t reply, eventually topping in front of a dark wood door. “This spare room should suit you well,” they gestured for him to open it, and he tried his best not to fumble with the knob too much. 

The room was incredibly spacious, as large as the entire main room of his childhood home. It possessed its own fireplace, a queen-sized bed with a canopy of rich forest-green fabric, an armchair and desk, and a carpet that was plush enough to sleep on in its own right. He pulled in a shuddering breath. “Seriously?” He squeaked. “I-it’s beautiful. I could hug you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

He flushed bright red. “I don’t know why I said that, I-I’m sorry,” he squeaked. “I just meant- I’m really happy.”

To his complete surprise, they chuckled quietly. “This place encourages honesty, even without the use of my abilities. I hope that won’t become a problem.”

“I don’t really have anything I’d need to hide,” he shrugged. “Although, er, I would prefer if you didn’t do what you pulled back there? It’s, um, a little invasive.”

He expected them to snap again, bracing himself for it. He supposed the place was proving Jon quite correct. He doubted he’d say somethinf like that to them if not for it’s gentle encouragement. 

“Ah,” they murmured. Softer than their voice had been in the entire encounter.  “I am sorry. I needed to be sure you weren’t a threat. It has been a very long time since I’ve had any visitors.”

“Unsurprising,” he replied. They raised an eyebrow, and he quickly corrected himself. “I-I mean, because of the magic cloak thing and all,” 

“Right.” They replied. Suddenly noticing the bruises on his wrist, Jon took it in their hand and pulled it close to their face. He yelped out a sharp wince as they inspected it. “This should in a sling.” Their eyes wandered over the rest of him- torn clothes, bruised skin, gashes wide their thumb along with benign nicks and scrapes. He was a right mess, down to the twigs and leaves in his reddish-brown hair, streaked with unnatural white. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t need one if you weren’t yanking it around,” Martin hissed.

“Come,” they let go. “I will take care of it for you before you go to bed.”

They turned, walking confidently ff without looking back. Like they knew Martin was going to follow them wherever they went.

The pain and exhaustion, trickling back in as his adrenaline receded, overrode his distrust in the stranger. So, resigning himself to the strangeness of the situation, he did just that.

*

As he lay in bed, patched up so thoroughly he felt a bit like a mummy, Marrin should’ve felt too exhausted to think. The bed was softer than any of the threadbare mats he’d slept on for his entire life and more than absent of the bone-deep chill inherent to any dominion of the Lonely. It felt like an embrace, like nothing he’d ever felt, it felt truly safe. He was in a house in the woods with a stranger, one who could kill him anytime they pleased, and he felt a mind-melting sense of warmth and security. How ironic.

Yet his mind kept wandering back to that stranger. Their tantalizing, ethereal beauty, even with the roughness of their edges. They’d let him stay, and for that, Marrin knew they had some kindness hidden beneath their spiny exterior. They had no reason to house him, nor to fuss over his wounds, thumbing through a book on their proper treatment. 

He felt a pull, deep in his chest, to reach out and touch them. Even if he feared his fingers being sliced off on their razor-sharpness. A curious ache for someone that he’d never felt.

He didn’t have time to deliberate further, though. Sleep was a warm and loving thing and it embraced him like a mother would her child, pulling him hard and deep. His slumber was dreamless, and by the time he awoke, it was long past noon. On the nightstand sat a pastry filled with glistening red jam and a cold cup of tea. 

*

With time, Martin slowly grew less and less concerned about his whereabouts being discovered. When he went downstairs on his first day to find the windows cloaked in fog, he panicked, only to be assured by Jon that even the magic of the other powers could not penetrate the Beholding’s barrier. So long as he stayed inside while Lukas surveyed the forest for him, he would be safe. 

After that, Jon made themself quite scarce. For the most part, they spent their time behind the locked doors of their library. 

They made sure Martin knew that they would be very aware of anything unsavory he tried to do. Or if he intended to leave- getting himself discovered would be quite the nuisance to Jon, and they assured him no protection were that to happen. He could have free reign of the house, otherwise.

He found it rather bare of things to do besides exploring and stuffing his face with the plentiful foodstuffs in Jon’s kitchen. How it wound up there if they didn’t go out, he had no clue, and didn’t care to ask. On the third day, he realized he hadn’t seen his host in nearly 36 hours. He was, frankly, bored- which was quite a privilege, given the stress he’d been under, but not something that ever felt like it in the moment. 

So, anxious but determined, he went upstairs and to the entrance of Jon’s library. He stared the doors down as if they’d give him any encouragement. They remained sturdy and unyielding, and there was complete silence behind them.

He took a breath and raised a fist to knock. Before he could, one of them opened, and Jon’s head came out from the small gap. He saw a flicker of something strange in their eyes, a flash of white around their head a bit too wide to be the grey in their hair. He blinked and it was gone. 

“What?” They snapped.

“Sorry,” he coughed. “I just, uh, haven’t seen you in a while. Figured I’d check in, after everything you’ve done for me? See if you’re hungry or anything. Um, sorry, this is probably really annoying, I’ll-“

They slipped out, shutting the door before he could see what was inside. They crossed their arms under their cloak, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “Really? Or are you just hoping I’ll entertain you somehow?”

“N-no!” He squeaked. “Maybe a little? Sort of? I wasn’t just thinking of myself. I was- I was worried about you.” 

They blinked, looking at him as if he was speaking in tongues. They almost looked flustered. Martin found it, to his chagrin, rather cute. 

“Do you like to read?” They inquired.

He nodded. “Didn’t get to much, but yeah.”

“What sort of books?” 

“Um,” he looked away. “Poetry, mostly.”

They scoffed. “How fitting.”

“Hey!” He exclaimed affrontedly. “Poetry is a very valid form of literature. It allows people to express themselves in ways that form-fitting description can’t, particularly the  more abstract feelings and experiences inherent to the human-“

“Okay, okay,” they cut him off, hands raised in surrender. “To each his own.”

“You should at least give it a try.” He huffed. “And not all poetry is the same. You’ve got your stereotypical stuff that you’re probably think of it, but some of it’s just, like, a more structured story. Poems can be long. And a lot of it’s dark and stiff and brooding, just like you,”

Jon narrowed his eyes, and he blushed yet again, burying his face in his hands. “Can your stupid house stop making me say stuff like that?”

“Comes with the package, I’m afraid.” They mused. “I will fetch you some poetry books to fill your stay. And perhaps I can adjourn from my studies for a cup of tea.”

*

On the seventh morning of his stay, Jon emerged from his seclusion to join Martin for lunch. He’d seen them a few times, but their capacity for social interaction was apparently limited enough that their small exchange about poetry required hours of uninterrupted alone time. That was fine- he was quite enjoying the books Jon had brought him. 

He even requested a quill and paper at one point, so inspired by a few that he devided to try his hand at writing again. Something he hadn’t been allowed to do in ages. He hadn’t turned out anything particularly impressive, especially since his good hand was still in a sling, but it was something to do.

He hid his surprise as they took a seat at the dining table- large enough to accommodate twenty, maybe more, most of the chairs coated in dust- and poured his host a cup of tea.

“Hello,” he greeted a bit awkwardly, nibbling at a pastry.

“Hello.” They shifted a bi. Martin took note of the fact that they were still wearing their cloak, despite the quite tolerable temperature inside the house. Had he ever seen them without it, come to think of it?

“So, um,” he coughed, keen to ease some of the tension. Their constant, intense stare didn’t help matters. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. I presume you are well?” 

“Yeah,” he made sure to straighten his posture and not talk with his mouth full. His mother’s rather harsh lessons about how to behave ‘like a lady’ in the presence of others had rubbed off on him after all. “Been better, of course. But there’s nothing I can really do about that right now,” 

They nodded. “I am curious about your… situation,” they announced stiffly. “If you are comfortable disclosing, that is.” 

“Couldn’t you just pull it out of me if you want it that bad?” 

“Believe it or not, I prefer not to resort to such tactics unless I feel there is immediate-“

“I was joking, Jon,” he clarified. He adjusted his collar, laughing weakly. “…probably not very funny, huh? Sorry.”

“You apologize often,” they stated. Like it was the most objective observation they could make. He flushed, staring down at his tea.

“Yeah, well, when you mess things up so much, it starts to become a habit,” he grumbled. “Especially when everyone is so keen to point it out.”

“Oh.” They swallowed. “I did not intend upon adding to that. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“No, it’s not you,” he replied quickly. “It’s, um, my mother did it a lot, ‘s more what I meant. As much as she could, really.”

They furrowed their brow. “You mentioned her. She is responsible for your current situation, yes?”

He shrugged halfheartedly. Despite everything, her years of cruelty culminating in a final swing of the blade to his heart, he couldn’t find it in him to blame her. “She’s dying, and we’ve been poor as dirt for as long as I can remember. Guess she preferred passing alone somewhere nice to having company as she breathed her last in our shithole of a home.”

“But you’re her son,”

“Family bonds aren’t that important. Not really. I’dve figured you knew that, trying to stay away from royal politics and everything. That’s a pretty big part of it.” He scoffed.

“I’ve been an orphan for almost my entire life. I suppose it is not something I really understand,” they replied. “I have tomes the size of your head about every subject imaginable, but some things require personal experience.”

Martin nodded, gaze softening. It made sense that they were so antisocial- no one had really taught them how to interact with others, and it seemed they’d grown to prefer it that way. It struck an uncomfortable chord. “Anyway. She decided to give me over to King Lukas. Usually, he’ll only take people with no one left, so I wouldn’t be a proper fit. I guess that final betrayal by my mum and her lack of remorse appealed to him enough to look past it,” 

“I’m deeply sorry.” They stated, and it sounded quite genuine. “I may not be incredibly well acquainted with you, but I do not need to look into your head to tell that you are an immensely kind soul, and the last person deserving of such cruelty.” 

He blushed, and very much wished he would stop doing that in front of them. It did not help matters that their normally-stony face had softened, and it was quite a good look on them, even if their typical intimidation had an appeal all its own. 

“That’s- thank you. Really, I should be saying that about you. You’re the first person to really show me any kindness in, well, ever, honestly.”

They set their jaw. “Humans can be so cruel. I don’t understand how your kind can do such things to each other.”

He was about to offer another noncommittal response when suddenly, his eyes widened. “‘Humans’? ‘Your kind’?” He inquired. “What’s that mean?”

Jon furrowed their brow, finally meeting his eyes. “I am not human, Martin. Not… not quite, anyway.” they declared. “Surely you must have known that,”

“Clearly I didn’t!” He exclaimed. Oddly, though, he didn’t look concerned. Jon supposed after whatever he may have seen in his short time with Lukas, it didn’t come as too much of a shock. “You look so normal? And Beholding tend to be pretty secretive. I don’t really know how you lot work.”

“Not all Beholding are inhuman. Only a select few. The ones it takes a particular liking to. Usually selected by our king,” They spat out the word like it tasted bitter. “I was… his favorite, I suppose you could say, and thus underwent the transformation. I did not return his affections, so I fled. I am in disguise right now. I wasn’t keen on frightening you unless you needed to be.”

“..Should I?”  He questioned tentatively.

They wrinkled their nose. “No. I’m going to eat you,” 

“W-well, you can never be too sure,” he blurted. Then, hands folded nervously in front of him, he posed his next question. “Can I see you? Without, um, the disguise, that is?”

They looked shocked, but not necessarily in a bad way. “Why?”

“Just curious, I guess.” He shrugged. “I-if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just-“

They shook their head slowly. “I don’t see why not,” they replied carefully. “It is rather uncomfortable to keep this up so consistently. I just don’t want to scare you away.”

“You won’t,” he stated, perhaps a bit more confident than he felt. Or maybe not. He couldn’t quite tell how he felt. “You saved me, Jon. I don’t think how you look could change that.” 

They nodded once, rose to their feet, and pushed in their chair. “Are you sure?”

“You have my word.”

With that, they closed their eyes, and their cloak began to move. 

As the vertical seam in the front pulled apart and the fabric began to unfurl, iridescent in the firelight, Martin realized that it wasn’t a cloak at all. They were wings, gossamer and insectile, the same color as Jon’s hair and similarly streaked with veins of pearly white. They stretched to their full size, each easily as wide as Martin was tall. Spots that resembled bright green eyes covered their interior. 

Underneath, they were dressed in a simple cream-colored tunic, black slacks, and tall brown leather boots with at least a two-inch heel. Martin would’ve found it amusing that he dwarfed them by nearly a whole head even with the footwear, but was far too amazed to let that thought come to him. Especially as a second pair of arms emerged from his sides. 

All four of the undisguised appendages were covered from the knuckles to just above the elbow in fluffy black fur. The second pair stretched, grateful to be free. A pair of featherlike white antennae sprouted from their forehead. Their teeth had grown to resemble the mouthparts of a moth, and as their eyes opened, Martin saw that their scleras had darkened to an onyx black- irises the same bright green as always, though.

His breath was caught in his throat, a breeze drifting over him as their wings gave a tiny, nervous flutter. It smelled of old parchment and wax seals, the forest after rainfall and a tinge of woodsmoke and vanilla. It was tantalizing.

“You’re so,” he murmured, unable to look away. Bizarre? Horrifying? Disgusting? Jon expected all of the above, interpreting the look on his face as terror. Maybe they should have held back some of their traits. They’d been told the teeth and arms were both rather unseemly- “Beautiful.” 

Now that they weren’t expecting.

*

Jon no longer wore their disguise around Martin, and emerged from their inner sanctum more and more to converse with him. They even tolerated his lengthy tirades about poetry.

They were meant to be the one with the power of compulsion, but something within them felt enchanted by Martin. His his sparkling blue eyes, his clumsy little jokes, his soft edges and the constellations of freckles splashed over his skin, the way his face bore smile lines from his clumsy grin. The goodness in his heart despite all the horror the world had inflicted upon him, the scars and weariness that weighed him down. 

Eventually, they decided to let him into their library. As the doors swung open he was, reasonably, impressed. It was the size of a ballroom and high as a cavern- stacked wall to wall with books, journals, parchments, paintings, artifactss… anything one would need to glean knowledge, it could be found here. 

Under their watchful eye, of course, they allowed him to explore. Tantalized by his delighted laugh and stream of amazed comments pouring from his lips. 

For the first time in his presence, the room’s size accommodating it, Jon took flight. He watched with rapt attention, even the grandiosity of their surroundings melting away as the beating of their wings blew his hair from his face and nearly knocked off his glasses. 

Martin really wasn’t like anyone Jon had encountered. especially not anyone they’d allowed to witness their full visage. He was not only unperturbed, but seemingly quite infatuated. He did his best to hide it, of course, but he was not very good- it was written all across his face as they landed. They found that they liked being looked at that way, especially by him. 

He cleared his throat, seemingly very aware that they were aware and eager to change the subject. “How could you possibly have found all this? It’s- it’s incredible, Jon”

“I don’t really have a choice.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Beholding such as myself are hand-selected to be the Eye’s servants. It feeds upon knowledge of any variety. When it is hungry, I am hungry, and although it prefers its food fresh, the contents of my library serve it well enough. In any case, what is knowledge without it being properly documented and stored? Nothing but another worthless memory, soon to float away in the drifting tides?” 

“For someone who doesn’t specialize in poetry, that was quite prosaic,” he giggled. They huffed, but ignored his comment.

“It’s a gift as well as a curse.” They sighed, voice suddenly softening. “I find it more the latter, most of the time. I spent years after I ran away, curled in a pathetic heap on the floor of this room, flooded with countless, powerful images. Putting up my protection spell took away much of my strenfth, so I was completely weak to the Eye’s cruel whims. Unimaginable torture and pain, the worst of mankind fed right to me from where it was taking place not far from these walls. Lives of people who never asked to be watched, things I’d never experience for better or for worse, all screaming for my attention as the Eye fed them relentlessly to me. I-it was-“ they cut themselves off, drawing a shaky breath. 

Martin, not thinking, placed a hand on their slender shoulder. They flinched a little, and he almost pulled away, but the second hand on that side of his body rose to secure it there as their eyes met.

“I don’t know why I am telling you these things, Martin. I have dealt with them alone for so long, and that has been perfectly fine, but-” they breathed. “I… I feel that I can trust you. And there is no way I can know that. That is very unlike me. Maybe you have some sort of magic after all, and I just can’t detect it.” They laughed mirthlessly. 

“No, I swear, e-even if I did, I wouldn’t. I just,” he swallowed. “Pardon me for suggesting this, but I think maybe you’ve just been lonely, and having someone to talk to must be a welcome change. It has been for me, I can tell you that much.”

“Is that so?” They tilted their head infuriatingly adorably. “I’ve been told before that I make rather unpleasant company.”

“I think you just needed to be given a chance,” he continued gently, squeezing their shoulder with a small smile. “The circumstances that led to me being the one are pretty unpleasant, sure, and outside both of our control. But I’m glad. I'm glad it could be me, Jon.”

They moved closer, a look on their face that he couldn’t read, but it certainly wasn’t an upset one. That was especially evident with how their arms wound around him, pulling him close to their chest. 

He squeaked and their grip loosened so he could easily slip out. “I’m sorry-“ they started to say, but Martin’s arms snaked around their waist, below where their wings sprouted. 

They settled there, then, a happy little hum coming from deep inside their chest. Their wings curled around Martin, to. For how delicate they were, they felt so warm. Like a thick, soft blanket. The scent, Jon’s scent, filled his nose. He breathed it in, breath coming out in a relieved sigh that tickled their antennae. 

This had turned out to be a very good place to hide.

Chapter Text

Martin knocked. Despite the indifference and downright scathing hatred of the others- Tim and Melanie, namely-, he still wanted to treat Jon with some politeness. He wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. Even if he was alone in that, even if it was futile, it remained true.

No, he just couldn’t shake off his affectionate feelings for Jon, his hope that things would be okay for them both. The latter was growing increasingly difficult with all the evidence to the contrary. And then Jon disappeared, again, and it took weeks for him to return.

Martin tried greeting Jon when he saw him storm past in the hall- he supposed, in his surprise, that he’d quite stumbled over his worlds. Even if Jon cared, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make out what Martin was trying to say. He didn’t give any indication he’d heard him. 

It struck him as rather stupid now. Something horrible had clearly happened, another horrible piled on top of a whole host of horribles. He was not in the mood for some casual hallway chitchat. The look on his face made that even clearer. A bizarre mix of fury and anguish, steps uneven and eyes faraway. 

No one else tried catching him before he stumbled into the little bottomless pit of despair that was the Archivist’s office. Anyone who noticed his presence let him drift by without a second glance. The door was closed, and then that was it. He’d vanished again. 

Martin let him go, and then he waited about thirty minutes. His mind was far too occupied to get anything done. Tim would probably have his head for it, but he couldn’t find it him to care.

He tried. His thoughts, stubborn and fidgety and always much too loud, kept wandering to Jon. His absence had been a dark cloud around Martin’s head. Everything was going wrong and, as usual, he couldn’t do anything to fix it. It broke his heart. Somehow, having Jon back only made things worse; the state he’d been in fueled his anxieties like gasoline on a house fire. 

He was sick with worry. So sick that the tea he’d made for himself had long since gone cold. It sat abandoned next to him on the table in the employee lounge.

And then Martin couldn’t take it anymore. He stood, moving with more determination than he felt, and strolled briskly to Jon’s door. Then, he knocked. The same way he always did when he brought him tea or something to eat or said goodbye before he left, since Jon was usually the last one to leave. A little voice in the back of his mind whispered that he hoped Jon recognized it. 

No response.

“Um, Jon?” He knocked again, a bit more tentatively- though if Jon wanted him to buzz off, he’d certainly have made it known. Martin would almost have preferred that. The silence did not help his nerves.

“Martin?” Drifted quietly out, muffled by the doors, thick and choked. It probably wouldn’t have been audible if someone wasn’t listening for it. It was so far removed from the stern, cool, harsh academic tone of the Head Archivist they all knew. This wasn’t him, not really. It was just Jonathan Sims. And he was scared. 

Martin tensed, and then the cold metal of the doorknob was against his palm, fingers tight around it. “I’m coming in.” He announced. If Jon argued, the sound of the door creaking open drowned it out.

The office was dark, and upon first glance, abandoned. The late afternoon sun lent some of its light through the window on the opposite wall. His curtains were only partially drawn. Martin’s eyes darted around before landing on the corner to his left.

There sat Jon, legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap. He looked up at Martin like a rabbit that had heard the faraway snap of a twig. Even if he didn’t pose a threat, he might as well, and he swore he saw Jon shrink away from him as he took a step closer. 

That gave him pause, and he held up his hands as if he were surrendering. “Hey, um,” his confidence dissipated. This was rather… forthcoming, wasn’t it? Just barging in, not waiting for permission as he always did.

He hadn’t seen Jon this afraid since the Prentiss attack. Even then, he didn’t seem nearly so vulnerable, wound so taut that he was on the verge of snapping, trying to fold into himself as if the very world he existed in was a threat.

Martin’s brain subsequently sounded the alarm bells and demanded he retreat from this situation before he fucked it up. He doesn’t want you here. Why would he want you here? Leave. But he couldn’t do that to Jon. Not when he wasn’t sure of that. “I saw you earlier, and just- I decided I’d check in. I don’t know what happened, I just- I-I missed you? And…” Martin trailed off, wetting his lips.

More details sank in the longer he stood there, trying not to stare but unable to do much else. Jon’s eyes were bloodshot, glasses askew, and his hair looked as if someone had been trying to tear it clean off his scalp. He was quietly hyperventilating, swaying back and forth, with a tension in him that told Martin he was trying desperately to hold himself together. 

“I’m fine.” He stated robotically. Clipped, cold, fragile. 

“I can tell that’s not true,” he sighed. “Never is when you say it, is it?”

He looked away, scowling a little. He offered no response, and Martin cringed. Okay, yep. Let’s leave him alone. 

“Just, if, you need anything,” he coughed. “Will you come get me-?”

“Wait!” Jon scrambled to his feet manically and grabbed Martin by the arms like he was the edge of a cliff. His grip was so tight it was almost brushing and Martin’s breath hitched as Jon stared at him with raw desperation. He swallowed and spoke his next words like they scraped his throat. “Can you stay? Please?”

Martin was surprised, but he didn’t have time for that. Funny, he really couldn’t recall another time in which Jon had wanted him to stick around in his office. Of course something like this was the only way it’d happen. The thought stung. “Yeah. Yeah, Jon, of course I can.” 

Jon’s hands fell away, but he didn’t seem keen to let them go limp. They moved constantly, adjusting his clothes, clasping in front of his chest,  flapping sporadically, clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“I’m sorry.” Jon croaked. “I just- I am sure you can tell I’m not doing so well at the moment,”

Martim nodded slowly. “You don't need to apologize. I dunno how I could possibly expect you to be.”

He supposed that was fair, but he still needed to justify himself. Explain why he was begging to be taken care of all of a sudden, when all he’d done before was push Martin away. And he stayed, he always stayed, and that wasn’t fair, he didn’t understand how someone could do that for him. “The Circus, it-“ but he just couldn’t do it. He bit back a sob. 

“Hey, Jon, it’s okay. We- you don’t have to. Not until you’re ready,” Martin assured him softly. “No one’s demanding your statement or anything like that. Just breathe, please,” 

He ignored the command, issuing a request of his own. “Can I touch you?” 

He furrowed his brow a little. He wasn’t against it, but that certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. “Uh, s-sure?” 

Jon reached for one of his hands. His fingers approached it nervously, trembling, terrified of what they might find. They planted themselves on the warm, soft skin on the back of Martin’s hand, tentatively settling there. He could feel the bones and tendons underneath, the subtle ridges and lines no mannequin would bother recreating. He watched as real human blood flowed to his face and his cheeks turned pink. He smiled nervously.

He was real, so beautifully real, warm and lovely and human, everything the Circus wasn’t, everything he ached for late at night when he was cold and alone and accompanied only by the whir of those damned recorders and his sense of impending doom. Gentle and feeling and kind and safe. These were hands that wouldn’t hurt or betray him. 

As that hand slipped into Martin’s, he held out the other like an offering, and soon enough they were thoroughly enveloped. The warmth spread up to his eyes as another wave of tears threatened to come- this time, though, ones of relief.

”I’m really glad you’re back, Jon,” he murmured. “It’ll be okay. Eventually. But for now, I’ve got you.” 

His hands slipped past the hems of Martin’s sleeves. They’d become a bit baggier around his arms than they’d been when he first wore it to work. He’d lost some weight with everything that had happened recently.

He didn’t protest as Jon ran his hands down Martin’s arms, stopping at the crook of his elbow. Their forearms were pressed together, and Jon took several deep, shaky breaths.

“I just need- I-I need to remember what a human feels like. Hands that aren’t made of silicon and plastic a-and moving in ways they shouldn’t be,” Jon whispered. “I don’t know when the last time I was touched by something that didn’t want to kill me.” He laughed mirthlessly.

“Well, good thing I’m here, and I’m ready to remind you.” Martin replied firmly. “That is if you’re alright with it, obviously-“

“Clearly, I am.” Jon declared, a hint of his typical snark staring to creep back in. Martin never thought he’d miss that, but the relief was overwhelming.  

Martin pulled his arms away, Jon’s slipping out. “I have an idea? I always find it kind of comforting.” He declared. “If it’s weird to you, that’s perfectly fine. But maybe it’d help?”

He gestured as if displaying himself, ready and willing for just about any embrace as long as it was innocuous. As long as it was Martin. Even so, he moved in a way where Jon knew he could back out anytime he wanted. He stepped much closer and placed his hands on Jon’s lower back.

Then, steadily, his fingers dipped beneath his sweater vest and made contact with smooth skin. Jon looked a little confused, but didn’t pull away or flinch or say anything, so he took that as a good sign. His hands traveled steadily up the knotted rope of his spine, and he quickly explained as they settled on his shoulderblades. 

“Skin to skin contact is good for people. I mean, I heard that somewhere, and I think it’s probably true, it works for me. It also helps to have shapes traced in my skin. I can focus on that instead, and the warmth and the pressure, and it’s-“

Jon practically fell into Martin, frail arms locking around his waist. “It’s perfect.” He shut his eyes, face pressed tightly into the thick wool of Martin’s sweater. Through the layers of fabric and flesh and bone, Jon could hear his heartbeat. It thudded quick and hard in his chest as he drew. Some hearts. A Star of David. A smiley face. An octagon. A flower. A rectangle and then a smaller one inside of it. Those were his guesses, anyway. 

“Thank you. So much.” Jon mumbled. “I-I’m sure this is… once I’ve calmed down, w-we can-“

“It’s not,” and I won’t be forgetting about it anytime soon. I will never forget being here for you. Holding you as you come down from the worst sort of high and being the one to help you through it. Do you know how special that is to me? How special you are? “I promise. I’m honestly just glad I could help for once,” 

Jon shook his head once. “You do. More than you know,” he mumbled. “You always have, and I’ve made you feel like it wasn’t enough. Martin, I- I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I want to fix this and I cannot stand not knowing if that’s possible, and-“

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about that right now.” Martin just continued to hold him as he gave up his fight against the tears. His capacity to speak seemed to be a casualty. Nothing but sobs trickled from his mouth, but they weren’t like the barely-contained wails and screams of his earlier breakdown- a maelstrom stuffed into the corner of an office to tire itself out alone, unloved, unseen by anything benevolent. He was exhausted and resigned and scared and hurting. They both were and maybe, at least, they could go through  it together. “I’ve got you.” 

Chapter Text

Jon had no idea how he’d wound up in this situation. Except he did. He knew exactly how he’d found himself in this car, following the GPS to the Blackwood residence. Step by step, actually, as clear in his head as if it’d happened seconds ago. He glanced down at his phone screen and was greeted with the dreadful news that he only had three minutes. He ran things over one last time in his head. 

Step one: you decide to have an actual lunch for once. Commit to a 20-minute at most venture to the employee’s lounge. 

Step two: Martin is the only other person in the room. He’s pacing, fidgeting, noticeably distressed. Get worried. Get annoyed for being worried. God, he’s infuriating, but you find yourself far more infuriated with yourself for your investment in him. 

Step three: your mouth opens, and you’re asking what’s going on. It comes out more like a command than a question. You really need to work on not sounding like everyone’s boss all the time. 

Step four: He tries to brush it off. You should take the opportunity to exit the conversation, but you don’t, insisting that something must be up- followed with a quick clarification that you just don’t want anything distracting the Archival Staff from their important, delicate work. Obviously. 

Step five: he explains. His mother has been getting on his case about his lack of a romantic life. Says he’s almost thirty and if he doesn’t want to die alone, he should try harder to put himself out there. So on. To get her to shut up about it already, he told her he’d gotten a boyfriend. Not only that, but he would be available Saturday night for dinner. He’d expected her to say no, but of course she didn’t. Now it’s Friday, and he's yet to acquire said boyfriend- a pretty major oversight on his part.

Step six: you say the most idiotic thing you think you ever have (and it certainly has some competition). “Well, ah, if push comes to shove, I don’t have anything to do on Saturday,” 

Step seven: He looks gobsmacked- wait, is he blushing?- and asks if you’re serious. Like, really serious? You’re sure you’re serious? You snap that yes, you’re serious, he apologizes and says that yeah, um, if it comes to that, that’d be great, if you change your mind you can tell me, but hey she is a pretty good cook, so there’s that, and I can pay you, thank you so much-

Step eight: You tell him it’s no problem and he leaves, looking relieved. The satisfaction that gives you almost stops you from spiraling the second he’s gone. You continue to do so as you chew on a peanut butter sandwich and wonder how the hell did I get here?

And Jon knew! He just couldn’t believe this was actually happening. For tonight, he was to pretend they’d been together long enough that he was now going to meet Martin’s mother. Fuck, Georgie hasn’t even introduced him to her parents, and she was by far his longest relationship. She didn’t have a great relationship with them and they lived pretty far away.

And him and Martin were… well. He didn’t like pondering that point too much. Not at that juncture, quite simply.

Regardless, Jon parked in front of the address Martin had texted him after a very short 180 seconds. He sighed. No going back.

Despite his reservations, of which he had several, he’d made Martin a promise, and he didn’t want to leave him. Even if he had gotten himself here. Jon made a fuss quite often about how he had to clean up after Martin’s mistakes, and here he was doing a whole lot of heavy lifting to take care of one that didn’t even affect him. 

Jon grabbed the roses he’d bought on the way, for good measure, and stepped out of his car. He ran a hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyes one last time and then knocked briskly. The door swung open so quickly that Jon wondered if Martin had been standing on the other side, waiting.

“Hi.” Jon greeted, holding out the flowers.

“Oh-“ his eyes widened. He accepted them gratefully. “Thank you. Just, Jon, are you sure-“ he whispered. 

Another voice called from deeper inside. An old woman. “Is it him, dear?”

“I’m sure,” Jon insisted under his breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Right.”

If the smell was any indication, Martin had been telling the truth about his mother’s cooking. A rich, savory scent drifted to meet them. Stew, or shepherd's pie, maybe? It added some homeliness that did ease his nerves a bit.

It didn’t last. Sitting at the kitchen table, staring expectantly at them, was Linda Blackwood. She wasn’t altogether remarkable. Frail and slight, but with a hardness to her features that more than made up for that. She flashed Jon a tight-lipped smile as Martin corralled him into the dining room. 

“Jon,” She greeted him smoothly, holding out her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

He gave it a firm, polite shake. “Nice to meet you.”

She stared at him in a way that wasn’t openly unkind, but Jon could still feel that it was critical- from his hair to his face to his outfit, surely analyzing the few hints he’d thus far given to his demeanor. If she developed an opinion, she didn’t let it show.

“You’re right on time.” She declared and turned to her son, standing awkwardly next to him. “Dear, could you get dinner out of the oven for me?”

Martin dutifully put on some mitts and removed three steaming trays of food. Jon had been right about the shepherd's pie, complete with a bubbling layer of golden-brown cheese. She’d made roasted broccoli and rolls to go along with it.

“I’m excited to get to know you.” Linda piped up again.

“Lots to know about,” apparently realizing they hadn’t done anything distinctly couple-y, Martin sidled io next to him, put an arm around his waist, and flashed a cheeky grin. “My Jon is a very interesting fellow.”

They’d had a lengthy conversation over the phone about boundaries, generally agreeing that embraces and pet names were fine. And- which neither of them could think about much without short circuiting- maybe a kiss.

(They’d both been quick to brush it off as something that wouldn't be necessary. Martin’s mother surely wasn’t going to demand they kiss in front of her in order to prove their relationship was real. But, hey, just in case, you never know, wouldn’t be opposed to it, but we won’t, but just in case-)

Jon gave a giggle that made him want to punch himself in the throat. “Oh, you.” 

“I’ll make our plates?” Martin offered.

“Sounds good.” His mother responded.

“Sit down, love. I’ll bring it to you.” Jon did as he was told, hands folded tight in his lap. Their chairs are very uncomfortable. He bit back the remark and did everything he could not to make it evident- quite the first impression that would be. Mrs. Blackwood asked a question, but he next found himself rather distracted by how nice the pet name ‘love’ sounded in Martin’s voice. 

She cleared her throat, and he blinked at her. “Ah, sorry. Could you repeat that?”

She glanced at her son’s back, something like an amused smile tugging at her face. “He’s almost as airheaded as you. How’d you find this one?” 

“Mom!” He exclaimed. “H-he just didn’t hear you.” He set a plate down in front of her along with some cutlery, and she frowned a little.

“No way I’m going to eat all this,”  She sighed. “Now half of it is going to wind up in the bin. Food doesn’t grow on trees, you know,”

He pursed his lips slightly, well out of her view. “Right, sorry. Well, just do your best. It’s there if you get hungry later,”

She mumbled something under her breath and Martin returned to the stove, making quick work of his and Jon’s plates. Then he sat, next to Jon and across from her. He was trying very hard to look polite but still confident. Maybe they could do this- it really hadn’t been that bad so far. It was perhaps a bit easier than it should’ve been for Jon to commit to the role of Martin’s Boyfriend. He could save that for later. He’d definitely save that for later. 

But then, like it was nothing at all, she dropped the bombshell. “Remind me again,” she began after swallowing a mouthful of roll. “How did you meet Kayla?”

Jon’s first reaction was confusion. Martin’s was horror. He froze, whole body tensing, grip so tight on his fork all of a sudden that Jon thought it might snap. 

“I beg your pardon?”

She breathed a deep, annoyed sigh at his second clueless inquiry in a row. “My daughter? Your girlfriend?” She gestured at Martin with a jerk of her head. At Jon’s lack of a response, she only grew more irritated. She turned it to her son as realization bloomed. “Are you really still doing this? You can’t just lie to your partner like that.” 

“Mum, please.” He mumbled, taking a hefty sip of water to try and clear the lump in his throat. He refused to look at Jon. If he hadn’t figured it out before, he most definitely had now. He looked like he wanted to crawl into the oven and broil himself alive. 

Jon cleared his throat. “We work together. And I can assure you that Martin has been more than willing to disclose anything I’d need to know.” He declared, smooth and unflinching. Martin perked up, a flicker of optimism lighting up inside him- even more so as a slender hand found its way onto his shoulder, gripping assuredly. 

Linda wrinkled her nose a little. “Suppose that’s good, at least.” She relented. “I do hope you’re treating her right, though. She’s really not too good at standing up for herself. Her last boyfriend was dreadful, just dreadful, and she stayed with him far longer than she should’ve. I don’t plan on letting that happen to Kayla again.”

Jon tried not to look as furious as he felt. How could she say things that sounded caring while being so flippantly cruel? Did she not see the look on her poor son’s face? Did she just not care?

”I am, to the best of my ability,” he spoke through gritted teeth. His hand fell to wrap around Martin’s under the table, and he tried not to let his confusion show. Why’s he doing that? It’s not like she can see it. Reminding himself to stay in character until he can get away from me? At least maybe if I hold on tight enough I won’t run screaming away from this, so I’ll take it. 

“Mhm,” Martin’s throat felt like it was closing up. “He’s great, mum.”

“Unfortunately, we’re both quite busy at the Institute. Your son is a very hard worker and I don’t know what state we’d be in without him,” Jon continued pointedly. “He’s a lovely man. I want nothing more than to give him what he deserves.”

Martin’s face turned a rather unsubtle shade of boiled-lobster red. He really hadn’t expected Jon to commit so much that he’d be willing to stand up to her on his behalf, and sound so genuine in the process, making his first impression as Martin’s “boyfriend” a rather bad one. Even as she narrowed her eyes disapprovingly, Jon didn’t back down. 

“Honestly, love. You can’t just spend all your time around people who validate everything you say without question.” She tutted at Martin. “It’s not healthy.”

“I would rather you didn’t speak about me as if I’m not here.” Jon interjected. “And it is also quite unhealthy to spend all your time around people who act like nothing you do or say is right.” 

“Guys,” Martin interrupted his mother before she could utter her furious response, glare twisting her features. A rare occurrence, judging by the look on her face, and the way his voice shrank the second attentions returned to him. “Let’s just- let’s talk about something else,”

“Of course.” Jon replied, suddenly stricken with guilt. Martin hadn’t touched his food since the exchange began and wouldn’t look at either of them. He just wanted to get through this, and by challenging her, Jon had prolonged his torment. He let go of Martin’s hand. 

He did the best he could, making menial small talk about work and life and his background as they ate. It was evident that they were all putting on an act. Linda wanted Jon out of her sight and would do whatever she could to make that happen as cordially as possible. Several stretches came where there was no noise besides the scraping of cutlery. 

Jon quickly noticed that he person he became around his mother was meek and entirely inoffensive, making himself as small as he could to avoid offending her. It did little to stave off her judgemental comments and the coldness of her stare.

A lot of things about him started to make quite sense to Jon as he watched him interact with one of the only people he was close with. It broke his heart, and that, he wasn’t ashamed to admit. If she was willing to be so critical and passive-aggressive with what she thought was her son’s boyfriend around, how was she in private? 

“Dinner was delicious, mum,” Martin declared once he was finished enough that it’d be acceptable to get up. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She jabbed her fork in Jon’s direction. “He looks like he’s been needing a good meal. Feel free to take some to go.” 

He forced out a laugh and said maybe he would. The visit was coming to a close, and he had a terrible feeling about what would greet Martin once he was gone. He couldn’t let that happen. “Hey, dear, would you like to come back to my flat for a little while? I would appreciate some help with the filing we started today,” it was pretty clear he’d pulled it out of his ass, right down to the vague work-related word he settled on. 

He furrowed his brow. “What do you-“ he cut himself off. “Oh. Yes, the- the filing.” 

“Only if you want to, of course. Don’t want you to tire yourself out,” 

Martin hesitated, torn between two impending, uncomfortable situations. He determined that one sounded preferable and shook his head. “No, I’m- I’m fine. That sounds great,”

Job turned his gaze to Linda. “I assume that’s no problem? I’d be happy to help clean up before we leave.”

“No. No problem.” She responded tightly. “That would be great.” 

Jon stood, not intending to waste any time. When Martin didn’t move, she glared at him. “Are you just going to sit there and let your boyfriend do our chores? Honestly, what kind of people do you want him to think we are?.”

They packed the leftovers into Tupperware and made quick work of the dishes. Jon wiped down the counter for good measure. He met Martin’s gaze a couple times, and he swore his eyes looked watery. “We should get going,” Jon announced once the kitchen was sparkling and their hands were washed. “We have a lot to do.” 

She nodded once. “I suppose you should, then. It was good to meet you.” The cordiality of her words didn’t reach her tone nor her expression. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own, mum?” Martin piped up. 

“I am perfectly capable of making it through one evening without your hovering,” she scoffed. “I’m not that helpless.” 

Jon pulled him away before he could apologize to her again. He let Martin lead him down the hall and to his room so he could grab some things. 

“Martin-“

“Not now.” He shook his head, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Please.”

A few more stilted goodbyes, one more check-in from Martin, and they were escaping to Jon’s car. The second the doors were closed and the engine started, he turned to Martin. “I’m sorry.”

“Jon, it’s fine-“

“No, it’s not. I let my emotions cloud my judgement and put you in a very uncomfortable situation.” He declared firmly. “Frankly, I find her lack of respect for you quite abhorrent, but I should have taken your feelings into account.” 

“Oh,” he sounded genuinely surprised. “So you’re not- uh, upset?”

“Not at you.”

“But you- she-“ he bit his lip, turning that around in his head a few times. Trying to make sense of it. “You know. About me,”

“Martin, that doesn’t change anything. Not in the slightest.” He sighed. “I’m only uncomfortable with the fact that it was disclosed without your permission. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I can at least promise that the information is safe with me.”

“Right. Of course.” Obviously it didn’t matter to Jon- if it did, he wouldn’t have continued referring to Martin the way he had. He felt very stupid and very conflicted and very upset, and he had quite a lot of trouble making sense of it all. “M-my ex left because of it. She mentioned him, before, how it wasn’t… well, we’re not on good terms, let’s just say. I guess in her own way maybe she was trying to protect me? Breaking the news early. He- he knew, and it wasn’t a problem, until, well, until it was. I-I don’t know.” 

“Martin, I understand that she’s your mother and you care about her, but what she did back there is inexcusable. That wasn’t protection.” 

“You’re right,” he mumbled weakly. “Guess I’m just used to making excuses for her.”

“You know, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Martin chuckled, genuinely, for the first time since the evening had began. A tentative, fragile thing, but somehow hopeful- like he was finally starting to believe this could be okay. “No, Jon. I don’t think she does,” he replied. “I’m sure she would’ve started nagging me to break up with you the second you were out the door,”

Right, I guess we should talk about why you’re in my car right now. “Yes, well, I figured the least I could do was give you an out for a while.” He declared. “You looked like you’d rather have been anywhere else on the planet.”

“Letting her win, as usual.” He mumbled dejectedly. “She was right about one thing. I don’t stand up for myself.”

“You are not ‘letting her win’ by taking care of yourself,” Jon huffed. “You do not owe her any more of your time or energy.”

He swallowed, skeptical, but nodded anyway. He could tell Jon wasn’t going to let up. That was a form of affection all its own, and it was very… well, him. “Thank you. For everything. I shouldn’t have even let you in the first place but you’ve gone above and beyond, and it’s really sweet of you,”

Jon didn’t think he’d ever been described as sweet. He liked it. He liked that and he liked the pet names and he’d liked having Martin’s hand in his. “I care about you.” he finally responded. Quiet, not because he didn’t mean it. “And I may not have the full picture, but you don’t deserve to be treated this way. I couldn’t just sit by and let it happen.”

“She’s normally not like this. I-I know how that sounds. She’s never been accepting, but I didn’t think she’d do something like that with a complete stranger. I guess we don’t have company very much, so I didn’t know what to expect. Kind of an oversight on my part.” He rambled, ending it with an uncomfortable, breathy laugh as Jon parked. 

“This wasn’t your fault.” He insisted, with a finality that was strict but not cruel. 

“Sorry. Just going in circles now.”

“It’s understandable. It seems you haven’t had anyone on your side on this for a very long time.” Jon stated. “Just know that I am. I know I’m not the most… well. Friendly, I suppose. But you matter to me.”

“Thank you.” He smiled a little. He let out a short lungful of breath. “Okay, well. I’ll walk somewhere and get a cab home later,”

Jon furrowed his brow. “…Oh. If that’s what you want,” 

oh. “Wait, d-do you actually want me to-?” He pointed from Jon to his flat and back again, met only with a blank stare. 

“I don’t see why I would’ve asked you to come over if I didn’t,” 

Martin flushed again, this time from sheer embarrassment. “I guess I just thought- okay. Yeah. I’d like that.” He stammered. He clambered out of the car and after Jon as he walked briskly towards the staircase. “I’ve actually been… ah, n-nevermind.” 

He glanced at Martin and raised an eyebrow “Well, now you’ve got me curious.”

Martin sighed. “I suppose I owe it to you after what a disaster this has been,”

He stopped before he unlocked his door, turning to face Martin. All of a sudden, it felt like they were the only two people on planet earth. And oh, did it feel so nice to finally be looked at without judgement.

“No. But if you have something you would like to get off your chest, I’m all ears.” He spoke again in that gentle tone that practically melted him on the spot. 

“Well. Okay. I’ve actually been meaning to see if you wanted to- to do something together for a while now. I just couldn’t bring myself to. Even when you stopped being completely terrifying, I still figured you had negative interest in any spending time with me outside of work,” he rocked back and forth on his heels slightly as he spoke, but wasn’t able to look away from Jon. “I guess it’s kind of funny that this is how it ended up happening, isn’t it?”

“Hm,” Jon nodded slowly. “Well, I would have preferred it if you just asked, but I suppose the end matters more than the means. Lord knows I didn’t have the confidence to do it, so it’s not my position to pass judgements,”

“Do wh- oh. Oh!” He smiled a little. “Well. That’s a relief!”

“Good.” Jon reached out to take his hand, squeezing it- it felt a bit more like a lingering handshake than a romantic gesture. Without the added pressure, he found he was quite deficient when it came to showing affection. Maybe I can learn. Better yet, maybe he’ll teach me. “And I would be happy to consider this a… a date.” Saying it genuinely, out loud, was a lot harder than he would’ve thought. It didn’t sound right coming from him. 

“Sure,” he smiled a bit giddily, and it very much helped dispel Jon’s concerns. Something good had come of the evening after all. 

Chapter Text

Martin’s tongue stuck slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he worked. Little orange chunks and flakes fell away from his meticulous hands as he touched up his carving. Jon watched from behind, transfixed.

Martin was sitting on the grass, and Jon was on a bench behind him, chin resting on his head. Every now and again they grabbed their cider and took a sip. It’d cooled from boiling to a much more bearable, comforting warmth. 

It was the sort of day he’d usually prefer to enjoy curled up on the couch with a book or movie, hot beverage in hand. At least he’d received the latter. Some reconciliation for being dragged out to the pumpkin patch. It was overcast and gloomy, leaves dancing in the air around them in the crisp, chilly breeze. 

That was okay. It was nice, very appropriate for the occasion, and it gave them an excuse to huddle up to Martin for warmth. As he did now, watching as his boyfriend carved a yowling, arch-backed cat into the pumpkin he’d selected. 

He was enjoying himself. They’d all had lunch at a nearby cafe, and he didn’t know how possible it was to be in a bad mood while eating grilled cheese and tomato bisque. It was typical for Jon to act like going out was the end of the world until they actually got there and realized they had been overdramatizing just a little bit. Martin knew this, too, and was often the voice of reason encouraging them not to spend all their free time holed up alone.

Martin’s creative tendencies apparently extended to the medium of gourd. While most of the group had gone for a very typical jack-o-lantern face, he’d decided to make his rather intricate- engaging in intense battle with the cheap, dull tools provided by the pumpkin patch. Right down to the exaggerated little spikes of the fur on the cat’s arched back, and the silhouette of a sheet-ghost in the moon. He’d didn't pierce all the way through its flesh, but left it thin enough that the candlelight would shine through. 

“Blegggghhhh,” Georgie exclaimed as she pulled a fistful of innards from Melanie’s pumpkin, sticking her tongue out and waving them around. Melanie cringed away from it. 

“Oi. Keep your guts away from me.” She grumbled, holding up a fingerless-gloved hand. 

“You are such a pansy sometimes,” she responded affectionately, discarding them into the group’s shared bucket. She wiggled her fingers menacingly, still smeared in orange. 

“For your information, pumpkin gives me hives,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “I only got one because you wanted an excuse to carve another-“

“D’you guys like mine?” Tim piped up. Melanie glared at him for interrupting, which he ignored. His blatantly summer-themed Hawaiian shirt, patterned with flamingo floaties and melting popsicles, was covered in orange splotches. A few seeds had even gotten in his hair somehow. He turned his pumpkin to face the rest of the group, chest puffed with pride. He’d given it round pinhole eyes and a comically large smiling mouth with a single tooth. “I like mine.”

“He’s so cute! Can we name him Brian?” Sasha asked from next to him, stars in her eyes as she gazed upon (apparently) Brian.

“Hey, I was gonna name mine Brian.” Martin interjected, momentarily pausing his work. Jon couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

“Too bad. We claimed it first,” 

“Oi, it’s my pumpkin and I’m gonna name him. His name is Glubtuppus.” 

“That’s really fucking stupid.” Melanie declared matter-of-factly, taking a bite of her cinnamon-sugared donut. 

“You’re acting real tough for someone who’s drinking a pumpkin spice latte right now, babe.” Georgie giggled. “Made with almond milk, extra whipped cream-“

She blushed and scowled simultaneously. "Shut up.”

“Make me,”

“I would if you weren’t covered in pumpkin guts.” She scoffed. 

Their four companions continued their banter, a consistent theme for their day- as could be expected if you put Tim and Melanie within 20 feet of each other- and their attentions were turned away from Jon and Martin. 

Jon smiled a little and kissed  the top of Martin’s head, looping his arms around his neck. He set down his tools and raised up his hands to meet them. “Hi there.” He murmured. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “Bit cold. Missed you.”

“I’m sitting right here,” he They tightened their grip stubbornly, not dignifying that with a response, and Martin giggled softly. “You’re like a grumpy cat, y’know that?”

He looked pointedly at the pumpkin, raising an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is I’m your muse.”

He rolled his eyes a little. “Yes, Jonathan. This is actually an artistic interpretation of you the other day, when you found a spider on the shower wall.” 

They sniffed affrontedly. “It was nothing like that.”

“You screamed and jumped onto the toilet,” 

“I may have yelped a little bit. And put a very reasonable amount of distance between myself and the horrid creature invading our bathroom. Which is meant to be a sacred space.”

“If you insist,” he tilted his head to look up at Jon, grinning teasingly. The dark curtain of their hair created a bit of a veil around him, twisting ends tickling his face gently. They’d been growing it out lately. Martin thought it was a good look on him indeed. Jon leaned down, craning his neck a little to reach his lips, and kissed him. 

“Okay, Spider-Man.” Martin chuckled against their mouth. 

“Get a room!” Tim jeered, effectively breaking them apart. “We’re in public.” Jon gave him an unamused stare from over their shoulder as Martin flushed. 

“Sorry,” Martin squeaked.

“I’m not.” Jon declared matter-of-fairly. 

“Jon-!”

“That’s rich coming from you.” Melanie snorted, pointing from Tim to Sasha with an unamused glare. “You two snog in the break room at least twelve times a week.”

“That’s different!” Tim protested, right as Sasha gave a ‘that’s fair’ shrug. 

“How, exactly?”

Thoroughly entangled in another bickering session, they quickly forgot about Jon and Martin’s PDA. “Let me finish this, love,” Martin requested softly. “I’ll get you a brownie and we can go to the corn maze.”

He groaned. “Must we?” 

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. You can hold my hand the whole time,” he stated in a slight singsong. Seeing that they weren’t quite convinced, he sighed and added, “and if we’re in there for too long, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.” 

That would suffice. He let go, allowing Martin to put on some finishing touches as he sipped the rest of his cider. “I’ll be holding you to that.”

“I’m sure you will, dear.”

Chapter Text

Yeah sooo I don’t really think I’m going to be finishing this. I’ve let myself fall so far behind that the idea of trying to catch up is really overwhelming

I’m having some pretty bad burnout and stress with life in general right now, which sucks since this is usually my favorite time of year, but I don’t get to have nice things I guess lmao 

sooo yeah I will probably edit some of these and make them longer/better (somethinf I do pretty consistently with my stories anyway) but will leave it off here :) good news is that this is the furthest I’ve ever made it with any 30 day creative prompt thing. Like ever. Progress

I’ll definitely still be writing don’t worry abt that. The pressure of trying to keep up with this is just not all that great for me rn