Archive of Our Own

Jonathan Sims had frequently been told — at many points in his life — that he was too impulsive for his own good, and as he stood here, he considered the reality of that fact. "Here", of course, being his (ex) boyfriend's recently deceased mother's old vacation house, where said (ex) boyfriend was currently living. Notably, this was not a place the man had ever told Jon the location of, so Jon's presence here was sure to get a negative response but, as stated, he was not a man who had very good impulse control. Said lack of impulse control was the whole reason he was in this mess in the first place, but that was an issue to be solved momentarily, he was sure.

It was raining. It had been for some time, of course, but somehow Jon hadn't noticed until his hair was dripping wet and the bundle of papers in his hand started to match. He wondered absentmindedly when the rain had started.

He was scared to raise his hand to ring the doorbell, but that wasn't really all that new. There was nothing Jonathan Sims hated more than having to knock on someone's door and show he was there. Well, that wasn't quite true. There were certainly things he hated more, but at the moment it didn't matter. He was here and suddenly the fear of Martin hearing him leave and missing his chance to get him back felt worse than the fear of rejection that was so prominent in his life.

He heard music coming from inside and smiled to himself. Martin loved melancholic songs so much that they had started making Jon happy when he heard them.

Ding dong went the doorbell. Jon hadn't even noticed that his fingers had made their way to the small button. Inside, the music stopped and a muffled shuffle could be heard.

"Martin, I can hear you in there." Jon didn't know why he spoke up. In fact, it would have heightened his chances of Martin opening the door had he stayed quiet, but it was too late for that now.

There was no response from the other side, unsurprisingly, but Jon was quite stubborn alongside his impulsiveness, so he just knocked.

"Please, Martin. I just… I need this one thing, and then… Please." He felt pathetic to be begging like this, but he supposed love made one do pathetic things often.

The silence from inside continued, but Jon swore he heard a breath on the other side of the door.

"I know you're in there. Please, just give me another chance, Martin. You… you deserve to know me. At least hear me out."

Honestly, it felt like he was talking to a brick wall.

"I… I'm getting soaked out here, and one of my tires blew off on the way so I can't leave until it's cleared up. Can you at least let me in so I can be dry?"

Jon didn't bother pretending the hope he felt when he heard a sigh wasn't real. What followed the sigh were two clicks of the door unlocking before it opened with a creak that assaulted Jon's ears.

"You're gone as soon as the rain is," Martin didn't bother with any politeness and just left the door open for Jon to enter before walking further inside.

"Okay… can't say that wasn't warranted," Jon mumbled as he stumbled to take off his shoes and close the door. He tried to speed up his movements before Martin could get too far. "Martin, wait!" he called after the man who was so insistent on leaving him behind.

He found his (ex) boyfriend in what looked to be a dining room, but everything was covered in sheets of plastic. The walls were half-painted, but Jon couldn't tell whether the sage or the sickly orange came first until his eyes found the open paint can, covered in green. Martin had grabbed the pain roller and was aggressively filling it with paint, pointedly trying to ignore the presence of the man he had pushed away.

Jon stared at Martin's back for a moment, "I like the colour."

Martin didn't turn around, "How did you find this place?" there was anger laced in the level tone of the question.

"What?"

His grip on the roller tightened. "I never told you about this place. How did you find it?" he asked again, this time the anger seeped out slowly.

"Yes you did," Jon answered dumbly.

Martin finally whipped around at that, paint splattering meaninglessly onto the wall and plastic-covered floor, "No, I didn't! I told you I'd been left some things, but I never told you about this place! So, 'Jon', how the hell did you find me?"

And Jon wasn't fully sure how to answer, because he had been told about this house. Sure, he was never told the address, but he knew it existed.

He faltered, "I- didn't you? I was told about it regardless…" his mind ticked in thought, "Oh! Your mother! She, um… she offered it once. You- you don't exactly get a cheque big enough to cover hotel costs, so I figured here would be my next best guess." Martin didn't need to know how much Jon had looked into in order to find the address. No, it was best he kept quiet on that small detail.

Martin scoffed, "Of course she did. Let's me find out when she's dead, but offers it to you as if you were her son." He directed his anger back to the wall, using the paint roller as a weapon as he slathered the sage paint sloppily onto his wall.

Jon breathed, "I'm only here for one thing, Martin."

The painter scoffed again.

"Just one chance. Please. I-" he considered his next words, "I promise that you will never hear from me again after this," the sentence came out smaller than Jon had intended.

The painting paused, "I don't even know who you are."

"Yes, you do."

Martin sighed and set the paint roller back on its tray as the thick layer of paint he'd just applied dripped down the wall. "It doesn't feel like I do."

Jon held out the stack of papers in his hands, "That's why I'm here, Martin."

The man across from him just eyed him, the fond look in his eyes that Jon had loved so dearly was no longer there, and it stung. Martin crossed his arms and frowned, leaving space for Jon to continue pleading his case.

He huffed, working up the courage to talk. It didn't come, but he continued regardless, "I have, right here, all the documents I forged in order to be the man you knew as John Vangellis. I thought we could get rid of them together. I- I know how you like symbolics. And… fire… So," he dug his lighter out of his pocket, "I thought we could burn them."

Martin raised an eyebrow, "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"What?"

"I'm not just going to burn your only identifiable documents, Jon! Are you mad?"

Jon blinked, "I- I have my birth certificate in the car," he stated as if it was obvious.

Martin faltered, "… What name is on it?"

"My… My name."

Martin huffed.

"Jonathan Sims," Jon clarified.

"Can I see it?"

"What?" Jon asked in confusion.

Martin restarted, "I'd like evidence of this, Jon. I would like proof that you're actually telling the truth this time."

Jon felt Martin's eyes on him as he dug through the glove box of his car. Martin hadn't even put on his shoes and just watched as Jon got even more soaked by the — now more violent — downpour. Thunder roared through the clouds and the sudden noise made Jon hit his head on the low ceiling of his car.

He held up the plastic encased paper victoriously as he ran back to the house. Martin was smiling, but it quickly vanished when he seemingly remembered what was currently going on. Jon took it as a point in his favour regardless.

"This is it?" Martin took it gently from Jon's hand, careful to not let their fingers brush. He turned it over and scanned it intently. His eyes widened, "You even lied about your age?" He held up the card and pointed to the date printed on it. "You are unbelievable! I thought you were nearly ten years older than me, and her I am finding out you're actually a year younger?"

Oh. Jon had forgotten about that.

"I… I thought it'd be easier," his eyes fell to his shoes as rain water dripped off of him. "B- but I'm here to explain myself and…" Jon pushed past Martin and slipped his untied shoes off before heading back into the room where he had left his stack of papers. Martin followed him, frustrated, and watched as Jon grabbed the top folder and pushed it into Martin's hands.

The larger man opened it wordlessly and scanned the first paper, "The thirty-six questions that lead to… Really? What, you think repeating our first date will magically fix everything you've done? Well, it won't, Jon! you lied about who you were for our entire relationship!"

"That's-" Jon started before letting out a breath, "I know, I just… This is me, Martin. Here. Trying to show you who I am, and this was the simplest way! I… Well, I didn't lie about everything, but if we do this, my answers will all be truthful. Just this one thing, Martin. Let me try this once."

The silence that followed as they looked at each other nearly suffocated Jon. His entire body was silently pleading with anything that might listen to just let him have one last chance.

"I really loved you, Jon. You know that, right? When that Russian lady showed up asking for a man by a name I had never heard of and describing a person who looked exactly like you… I still loved you, because I didn't think that what she said could be true. But then you denied it so poorly and I thought, 'Oh. That man I love isn't real. He's fiction.'"

Jon was quiet.

Martin rubbed his face, "I thought I could start over here. Without you. Move on. But of course you would never let that happen."

Drip, drip of water from Jon's hair.

"Who are you, Jonathan Sims?"

Jon met Martin's eyes, "I'm… no-one important. Just- can we do the questions? I promise you will get your answers if we do this."

Martin ran a hand through his light auburn hair and his eyes caught on the stack of papers on the table. Then he looked at the man who was still dripping rain water in his house and he sighed.

"Go dry off first. Washroom's the first door up the stairs. Grab a towel. Find a shirt. Then… we'll do what you want," he gestured to where the stairs in question must have been.

A nod, and Jon scurried off to find a towel. It was a welcome presence as it soaked up the water from his hair and body. He squeezed what he could from his shirt and was grateful to see a change of clothes on the washroom counter. They were Martin's, of course, but who's shirt was he meant to change into?

Once he was sufficiently dry, he headed back downstairs. It took a short minute to find where Martin had gone — evidently not the dining room — but Jon turned a corner and found what must've been the living room. There was a single sofa in the room, and it far from matched the rest of it. The walls were a calm dark brown, but Jon presumed that to be Martin's doing. Why had Martin's mother loved that specific vile shade of orange? And where had she even found a sofa that shade? These were questions that weren't really important at the moment, however, so Jon would just have to hope he'd have a chance to ask them later.

The sofa was as comfortable as it looked, and Jon squirmed in an attempt to get any sense of relief from the wiry cushion. It was futile, of course, but Martin seemed amused by his struggle, so at least there was that.

The papers were set on the middle cushion, and a tin bin was sat on the floor next to it. Martin waited expectantly for Jon to fish his lighter from his pocket once again. There was a sense of pride as Jon produced it; a reminder that he did know Martin. He watched as his (ex) boyfriend set the papers, save for the folder of the questions and a random one from the top of the stack, in the bin and grabbed the bottle of lighter fluid that had gone unnoticed to Jon. He artfully poured a small amount onto the papers and held out his hand, where Jon placed the lighter.

The pair was silent as Martin set the spare paper alight and dropped it to join every other document of John Vangellis. There was a whoom as the fire quickly caught, and both men watched in awe.

Martin was the only one watching the flames.

A weight lifted off the sofa when Jon got up and did something smart for once in his life. He walked over to the window and opened it, grateful that the ceiling fan seemed to push a majority of the smoke towards the window. Martin just stared at the fire until it went out, an unreadable expression on his face.

After a manageable amount of smoke was cleared from the room, Jon took his seat on the sofa. The reminder of how uncomfortable it was was almost violent and he instead slid down to the floor. It was far better than the sofa, so he just sat crossed-legged and leaned his back against it. Martin got up and removed the smoking bin from the room, then surprised Jon by joining him on the floor. He moved the papers to the space between them as Jon turned his body to face him. He let his knees meet his chin and leaned his side against the sofa.

"So…" Martin started.

Jon grabbed the folder, "I'll start."

"That's not what I was going to ask, Jon."

A few strands of hair fell into his face as he tilted his head in question.

"The recorder, Jon."

It was only then that Jon remembered that he'd brought one at all. "It's for me," he stated simply.

"For you?"

Jon nodded swiftly.

Martin sighed, "How long has it been going?"

"Since… since I got here. Why?"

Martin's shook his head, "Just… I didn't notice it 'til I got up. Guess I got used to the noise."

Jon knew the feeling. The whir of the old tape recorder was something his brain just tuned out completely unless he focussed on the noise. He had got the old thing years ago, and just thought it'd be a neat way to document his life and the world around him. "Do you ever listen back to the tapes?" Martin had asked him once. He'd said no, back then, but the past two weeks had been spent listening to various tapes from their relationship. They had been out of order, but Jon hadn't cared. He'd smiled as he listened and twinged with guilt when he lied. Some of them weren't the most pleasant to recount, but they were true documentations, so he cherished them regardless. Martin never minded this habit of his.

He realised now that he never even felt the weight of it in his hand, but he knew he'd turned it on before begging at Martin's door.

He shrugged the thoughts from his head and opened the folder. "'Question one: Given the choice of anyone in the world, who would you want as a dinner guest?'" he paused, "Oh, I suppose… for the record… the thirty-six questions have a pair take turns asking the other, before answering the question themselves. Truthfully. I just asked Martin, so now he answers, then I do, and then he asks the next one."

Martin tried fighting the the fond smiled that made its way to his lips, but he failed, "Who's that explanation even for? Who do you plan on showing this tape to?"

Jon shrugged, "Maybe I'll forget how it works. Maybe I just wanted to reiterate it for myself. But, that wasn't the question, was it?"

"Right…" he groaned in frustration as he thought of his answer, "Damn-it…"

Jon waited patiently for Martin's response. The longer he took to answer, the longer Jon could stay in his presence.

"You know, there are so many people I'd want over? So many. If my mum were still alive, I would probably say her. Maybe a poet… And yet, over all those people who I would kill to have over, it would- it would be you," his smile turned sour, "I hate that. I wish it weren't you, but it is."

"Well… here I am," Jon said. "I would want you, for the record. It'll always be you."

Martin didn't dare meet his eyes and instead pulled the folder from Jon's light grip.

"'Question two: Would you like to be famous? If so, in what way?'"

Jon let out a small laugh, "Um… I… I didn't really get a choice in that. Not many people do. If I could choose, I… I'm honestly not sure."

"What do you mean?"

"That's not the question."

"Jon, this whole thing is so I can know who you are. Please just elaborate."

Jon sighed, "I- okay… If it was like, celebrity levels of fame, then no. I wouldn't. But, if it was like, fame within a niche genre? I'd like that."

Martin's frustration only grew, "That's not what I meant, Jon."

"And I will get to that, I promise. It's your turn to answer."

His indignation was evident, but Martin answered anyway, "Hasn't changed. I'd like to be well-known for my poetry, but the idea of people recognising me on the street… Nah I don't like that. If it's a simple 'yes or no', then I choose no."

"Okay, number three: 'Do you rehearse before making a phone call?'" Martin giggled drunkenly as he asked and Jon didn't know if it was his own consumption of wine that made his mind decide that Martin was beautiful.

"I… Yes, I suppose. You?"

The man with soft hair and soft skin and even softer eyes nodded, "I avoid any calls I can, but I rehearse them when it's unavoidable."

A short silence stretched on before Martin delved into another fit of giggles, "It's your turn to ask, Mr. Vangellis," he put on an endearingly bad posh accent as he said Jon's fake name.

"R- right. Um… Four: 'What would constitute a 'perfect day' for you?'"

Jon was glad that the man had suggested this. He wasn't exactly an expert on the art of conversing, nevermind the fact that he had impulsively introduced himself with a fake name. The paranoia of the events that had ruined his life the previous month seemed to be the deciding factor of most of his decisions these days, but the name wasn't even that good! Anyone knew who anything about him would know who he was in an instant. Luckily, this sweet man sitting in the grass beside him wasn't someone who knew him. No, this was just a man who Jon would never see again.

Martin smiled at his answer, "When's the last time you sang to yourself? Someone else?"

"I… I sang Happy Birthday to my dad last week, but I'm not the best singer, so I don't really sing to myself ever."

Yeah, a few small lies wouldn't hurt.

"I was singing while painting earlier. I probably last sang something to you, but I… don't know what it would have been," Martin's answer was succinct, yet truthful.

Jon took a breath, "I… I sang on the way here."

"What?" Martin exclaimed, "But you don't- oh… What- what did you sing?"

He attempted to clear the lump in his throat, "A- a lot of things. I… I quite like singing. The… last time I sang to someone was a month before we met." Jon was starting to feel nauseous, "To an audience of one-thousand people. W- with my band. I haven't sang to anyone else since."

It took a moment for Martin to process Jon's words, and his brain seemed to short-circuit when he did. "You- What? A band? With that many people watching? What the fuck, Jon?!" he held his head in disbelief, "Wait, so what you said about your dad…?" his mind was spinning.

Jon shook his head, "Not the question. It's your turn to ask."

Somewhere along the way, the pair had decided to move. Jon was glad for the change of scenery, but he was a bit confused as to where they were going. Martin didn't seem to have an answer either, but he parked on the side of the road nonetheless and the pair watched the rain pour.

"I'd make my parents be the ones who raised me instead of my grandmother," Jon answered.

He was prepared for the feeling of guilt he got when he admitted that.

Martin paused, "Why would they not have?"

Jon kept his eyes on the landscape outside, "I don't have parents. They both died before I was old enough to remember them," he answered. He knew he didn't have to, that hadn't been the question, after all, but he knew he owed it to Martin to tell him the truth. "My grandmother was… well, she was okay. She cared for me as best she could, but her love had been used up on her own children long before I was forced into her care. I had to raise myself; learned how to cook and clean and do all the things that adults were meant to from the books I'd read or the way I'd see all the grown-ups do things. "

A hand gently held his arm, "Oh, Jon… I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Jon shook his head, "There's no changing the past, and she died in my last year of uni. I've been over it for years. It made me who I am today."

Rain pattered harshly on the car, "Guess that explains why you were always so cagey about me meeting your parents." He retracted his hand."I'd… I would want my dad to have stayed, or my mum to… be a good mother."

"You don't have to worry about that anymore. Neither of us do."

The words seemed to wash off Martin, "I always wondered what it was about you that made her like you so much. What it was that I was doing wrong. Turns out, the only thing wrong I ever did was be born. There was a photo of my father in the stuff she left me in her will — I don't think she even knew it was there — and… I thought it was a photo of me. But no, I just look exactly like the man she hated. And you don't. It makes sense, now that I know you were raised by your grandmother. That's why you seem so much older, and that's why she liked you so much. There wasn't as much of a cultural disconnect between you and her."

"Martin…"

"It's your turn to ask," he said after a moment. This time he was the one to not take his eyes off the world that surrounded them.

Jon's nod went unseen, "Um… Question 11: 'Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.'"

"Don't see the point in me telling you all that again."

His second nod also went unseen, "True… I…" Jon took a deep breath, "This is… Okay…" His life story was far from a happy one, and he was content with avoiding Martin's face until he was done telling it.

When Jonathan Sims was eight years old, he killed someone. Well, that's not exactly true. He was not a likeable child, and him growing up far too fast made it difficult for him to make any friends. He knew more about the world than anyone should at that age, so his peers seemed to hold a lesser intellect from his perspective. He also read a lot, often wandering around and never without a book in hand.

Taking all that into account, it wasn't difficult to see that he was an easy target for bullies. One specific older kid — someone who should have known far better — quite enjoyed taking his anger out on the young Jon. Even back then, Jon knew it was because he had been smarter, and the older kid was failing every one of his classes. He was insecure, simple as that. Insecurity was a powerful motivator.

One day, Jon was wandering on the sidewalk, nose stuck in a kid's book, and this older kid snatched it from him. He spouted cruel words, and young, innocent Jon, shoved him. The only reason the older kid fell into the road was because Jon had caught him off guard. The car came up too fast to even slow. Jon's bully was blood on the pavement in an instant.

Now, of course, Jon knew it wasn't his fault. It had been a tragic accident, that was all, but he still felt at fault for it.

He moved on from that part of the story, glossing over his schooling until he got to uni.

"I went to Oxford. Got three degrees; English, Library Sciences, and… Theatre. The first two don't matter all that much, quite honestly. I never ended up using them…"

For the first time in his life, Jon made close friends with others in his theatre course. The band had been Georgie's idea, really. She heard Jon sing, knew some of their friends played some instruments and had decent singing voices, and that was that. She managed the band amazingly, all told, and it was her influence that helped them get as big as they did. Which had been, of course, very big. By the time Jon completed his degrees, they had been selling out venues. It got to a point where it was rare for Jon to not be recognised when he went out.

"A month before I met you, we had our final concert. That… It was never intended to be our last time on stage, but I wasn't… Georgie and I were together for a few years, and a week before that concert we had a fight. It was… bad, to say the least, and we broke up. I wasn't able to play nice, and sort of broke down on stage. I lashed out at my friends and ruined the whole thing.

"Afterwords, I saw we were trending online. Didn't really need to look into it more to see why. I let my phone die and… tried to let myself do the same."

The next breath he took was shaky, "I tried to kill myself." He ran his fingers along his arm, "I don't think I wanted to die, not really. I just wanted everything to end. It was… Impulsive, really. I- I don't have a history o-of depression nor have I ever been suicidal, but the knife was in my hand before I knew it. Then it was in my chest. I would have bled out on my floor but, out of some sort of strange luck, someone had called a wellness check on me. I hadn't left my flat in two weeks, and I guess someone noticed.

"I learned later that the police had to knock down my door to get to me. The doctors all said it was a miracle that I survived at all. I was only held in hospital for a week after my wound healed. 'Faster than it should have' they said, as if it was something special.

"I was scared, the day we met. One of the psychologists I'd talked to told me I should try to go out once. Said I was on the road to developing full agoraphobia, and I felt it too. I tried to disguise myself the same way I always had, and only intended on going to one shop, but… Well, I have quite a weakness to cats, and so I just had to take my chances when I saw you sitting there with Shel."

Jon took a few moments to catch his breath.

"I didn't like who I was, Martin. I thought I would never see you again after that day, so I figured… Why not pretend, just for one night, that my life had been better? There was no harm in that. Hell, the name I gave was based off a name of a character from my band. But… then one date turned into two, and then it… it eventually felt like it was too late to confess."

The rain seemed louder now and Jon didn't like how it mixed with Martin's silence.

"The woman at the door is named Nastya. She was… like a sister to me while in the band. When I heard her voice, I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. I… I denied it because I liked my life. I- I liked who I was with you…" He finally met Martin's eyes, "I'm… I'm really sorry, Martin, truly. I never-"

The kiss was a welcome surprise, truth be told, and Jon melted right into it. When they parted, he started giggling stupidly.

"Oh?"

Martin's look was sad, "That's terrible, Jon."

Jon looked away, "Yeah, but there's nothing to be done. 'Ever forward', and all that. The past happened and there's nothing to be done about that."

"Doesn't make it right, though."

Jon shook his head in agreement, "No, it doesn't."

Neither were sure who's idea it had been to find a motel for the night, but they had. Notably, they had also been drinking and Jon had, at some point, clicked off his tape recorder.

"I've been so neglectful," his pout could be heard through the tape, "I forgot to press start again when we got here!"

He summarised the last few questions and answers swiftly.

"I just asked dear Martin question sixteen, which was 'What do you value in a friendship.' He said honesty, and I said security. Ironic, considering circumstances, but we're moving ahead."

Martin rustled the paper, "What is your most treasured memory?" he asked.

"When you kissed me for the first time," Jon answered with no hesitation, "Oh, or when you said you love me for the first time."

"Choose one."

"Second, then. Yours?"

Martin had to put more thought into his answer, "When Sasha and Tim took me out pubbing for the first time."

Somehow Jon had forgotten about those two during this whole fiasco. They were Martin's coworkers, and his closest friends.

They didn't like Jon very much.

Jon glanced at the paper in Martin's hand, "Eighteen: 'What was… your most terrible memory?'"

Neither wanted to answer, but they knew they would regardless.

"The… The third phone call I made to my mother after she'd moved into the care home. It was the third time I was told that she didn't want to speak to me."

Jon felt small, "You leaving."

"What?"

He faltered, "That's my… answer. Nothing in my life hurt more than when you left without hearing me out."

Jon didn't know if Martin planned on saying anything to that, but he didn't get the chance to find out because Martin's phone started ringing and Jon saw Sasha's face as the ID.

"Why's she… It's past midnight, why's she calling?"

Martin shrugged, "She has that 'best friend sense'. She can tell something's going on."

The phone continued ringing.

"Are you gonna…"

"No."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Why-"

Martin sighed in frustration, "Because I'll tell her everything. She'll see through my lies and I'll be forced to tell her what happened and then I'll have you explain to her why you're allowed back here!"

Hope filled Jon's heart, "Am I?"

"What?"

"Am I allowed back?" he pushed.

Martin froze and his lips moved but no sound came out.

The red-head stood up, "I need some air."

The hope was replaced by dread in an instant.

"For the record, Martin just grabbed his car keys…"

He scoffed, "Jon, don't do this."

"Do what?" he joined Martin in standing.

The look Martin gave Jon was far more sad than any look he had ever received from anyone, and he knew it was over.

"I can't do this."

Jon felt himself start to break. "What… do you mean?"

"This was unfair of me to do. I'm sorry," he turned to leave.

"What do you mean?" Jon's tone was more like pleading.

Martin opened the door, "I'm sorry I made you think you had a chance. That was… It was cruel."

"Martin, please," he didn't bother attempting to hide the desperation in his voice.

Martin had his hand on the handle of his door now, but he still turned back to Jon. "I promised Tim and Sasha that I wouldn't let you back into my life. I make a habit of keeping my word, Jon."

Jon's confidence was long since gone, and he wavered as he spoke, "But… Then why did you kiss me?"

"That was… a mistake. That was me wishing things were different. I'm sorry. Goodbye, Jon."

He watched helplessly as Martin drove off and crumpled to the floor, stunned. He refused to let his tears fall.

Jon breathed heavily and ignored the ache in his bones. His cane was still folded up in his car. Of course it was. He hadn't expected that he'd need to walk from a motel all the way to Martin's house, because he had foolishly believed that Martin wouldn't leave him again.

"Hello, record," he said breathlessly, "I have collected myself and am making my way back to Martin's house. Not sure what he expected, but… aha! Turns out, a habit of wandering around and being able to find your way back home stays with you. I see my car. And… Martin. Martin is… cleaning out his car? Oh well. If we can just, continue the questions, then he'll take me back. Or something."

The gravel was loud beneath his feet, and yet Martin didn't seem to notice him until he was right behind him.

"Martin!"

The man spun around wildly in fear, "Jon? What are y- Did you walk here? Where's your cane, are you an idiot?" he asked, incredulous.

Jon shook his head and ignored the pain in his legs, "Not the question."

"I'm not doing this," Martin continued shoving things from his car into a bag.

"Fine. I'll just answer where you can hear," Jon was nothing if not stubborn. "Question nineteen: 'If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?' Well, I would change just about anything even now to get the love of my life back, but that doesn't seem to matter," he answered bitterly.

"Go away, Jon."

Jon ignored him, "Question twenty: 'What does friendship mean to you?' Friendship means love, and- and showing that you care and being there for each other." His answer turned into shouting as Martin walked back to his house. "Why won't you listen to me?" Jon asked desperately.

This made Martin stop before he reached the door, "I will never be able to trust you again, Jon. Don't you understand? You were able to keep up so many lies for two years. How will I ever be able to believe anything you say after that?"

Jon didn't have an answer, but it wouldn't have mattered if he did because Martin slammed the door shut behind him.

When the man emerged from his house again, Jon just continued with his barrage of one-sided questions.

"Twenty-one: 'What roles do love and affection play in your life?' Up until two weeks ago, they were quite prominent in my life. They were… the only things that kept me from shutting everything out…"

"You need to leave, Jon. For your own good. I called Tim and Sash, and now I'm going to pick them up from the station and you don't want to be here when we get back." Martin hopped in his car and was gone before Jon could say another word.

It was then that Jon let himself shatter. The third time… Martin left him for the third time. Jon could take this hint, but he didn't want to. His tears flowed free and fast and his grip on his recorder loosened as he cried. He lowered himself to Martin's front steps and shivered.

"Twenty-two: 'Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.' Um…" he sniffled, "You care, even when you shouldn't. You… you can be selfish, but you don't often let yourself be. You don't- you've grown to like even your worst poetry. I- I like the way that you don't let the sadness of the world get to you. That's… only four. Sorry." Jon coughed wetly, "It always impressed me how good you are at talking to people. I really admire that. I have since we met."

He cleared his throat and wiped his face with his sleeve. Martin's sleeve. This was Martin's jumper. Fuck…

"Que- Question 23: 'How close and warm is your family? Do you… feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?' Wow, forgot about this one. I don't have any family. It was not happier than most."

A car drove by and he perked up before realised it was only passing. He shook his head.

"Twenty-four: 'How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?' …You think the guy who made this knew about orphans?" his laugh had no real joy behind it, "I've never had any sort of relationship with my mother that I can remember. She… She loved me, I think. She died after my father… That doesn't matter. Sorry.

"Question twenty-five: 'Make three true 'we' statements each. For instance, 'We are both in this room feeling …'' This is- difficult to do on one's own. Let's just… yeah, I'll skip it."

He shuffled in his uncomfortable seat, "Twenty-six: 'Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share …'' I… I wish I had someone with whom I could share… my life with. My actual life. Not one that I… made up.

"Twenty-seven: 'If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.' I- I'm bad with feelings, and I have zero impulse control. That's got me into some trouble in the past. And… I'm a coward and I'm selfish and I'm… I'm quite stupid when it comes to self preservation. At least I have some self awareness, right?"

The paper rustled loudly in his hands, "Twenty-eight: 'Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.' I… I love how soft you are. Every time to touch anything, you do so with all the care in the world. It's as if whatever you hold could break with the wrong movement. I suppose… that was true with some things.

"Twenty-nine: 'Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.' Oh, well, there was this one time where I lied about who I was to the man I love for two years and then expected to magically fix it with a list of fucking questions. I don't even know why I'm still doing this…"

A branch snapped in the woods.

"Thirty: 'When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?' I… I cried the first time you left. By myself? …Right now.

"Thirty-one: 'Tell your partner something that you like about them already.' I like… you. From the moment I met you I liked everything about you. I know that's… cheesy, but… it's true.

"'Thirty-two: 'What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?' Many- many things. Too many things.

"'Thirty-three: 'If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?' I… I'd tell you that I love you. I'd tell you that I'd give anything to fix what I've done."

He wiped his eyes again, pretending not to notice the amount of tears that had fallen onto the paper. Not that he cared.

"'Question thirty-four: 'Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?' My box of memories from the Mechanisms. That's what we were called, my band. The Mechanisms. Feel free to look us up. Or, don't.

"'Thirty-five: 'Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?' Christ… I… Nastya's. If she even considers me family anymore."

He took a breath, "Last one. Thirty-six: 'Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.'"

It took a moment for him to come up with something.

"How do I… How do I live without you?"

For the longest time, he just sat there. His tape recorder as his only company as he sat with his thoughts.

"I really do have to leave, don't I?" There was, of course, no answer.

"I need to be better. I need to… get help. Maybe I'll prevent something like this from happening again."

The wind whistled through the trees.

Jon picked up his recorder and spoke directly into it, "I'm leaving this in your mailbox. I… I don't think I need it anymore, but… I want you to have a chance to hear my answers."

He stood up slowly and painfully. He could have grabbed his cane from his car before walking down the short driveway, but maybe part of him thought he deserved the pain.

"Goodbye, Martin. Thank you. I… I think I'll always love you."

The the mailbox was closed and Jon was gone. He let himself cry for only a moment longer before driving away.

[CLICK]

MARTIN

[he huffs] I don't know what your plan was, leaving this here. Don't even know why I'm bothering with… talking. That doesn't matter.

"Fantastic!" I thought, foolishly thinking I'd be rid of you, but no! You just had to let me be reminded of everything when I checked my mail on a random Tuesday.

[BEAT]

It doesn't matter. I'm just gonna mail this right back to you so this can be well and truly over.

Goodbye, Jon.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Right, okay, so maybe I didn't mail this stupid tape recorder to you. Maybe I just shoved it into my junk drawer with all the other rubbish I can't throw away and just let myself forget about it for a while.

I guess I…

What am I even doing?

[a clock distantly ticks from somewhere]

This is stupid.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

I… I listened to the tape. From that day. I listened back.

Fuck, Jon.

It's been over a year now, I think, so I- I thought I'd be fine, but… I listened and everything came rushing back as if I was experiencing those few hours over again.

I'm sorry, Jon.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

When I…

I heard myself leave. I heard the way I talked to you.

I'm sorry.

It hurt to listen back. I don't think you've ever let yourself cry like that in front of me. Ever. I'm sorry that I was the one who broke you. I… I wish we could start over.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

I got new tapes for this thing. It's dumb, I know, but I did. Wasn't sure how much was left on the one you were using, so…

Tim and Sasha have told me countless times that I did the right thing, but… I don't know. They didn't know you as well as I did? [he scoffs] Evidently I didn't know as much as I thought i did about you, but my point still stands.

I knew you, Jon. I've spent a lot of this past year thinking, and I see that now. The things you lied about weren't you. They weren't how you lit up when you heard the mention of a cat. They weren't your baffling-ly vast collection of books. They weren't the way you smiled softly when you were thinking about something you love. Your lies weren't your passions. Well, the… the music thing was, but… yeah…

Your lies were just things you had wished were different. They were things you wished couldn't be real, and I can't say I blame you for that.

[BEAT]

MARTIN

I looked up the Mechanisms, you know. A few months after. Tim and Sasha were both as surprised about it as I was, but… turns out Tim was a fan. He liked the album with the Arthurian legends. Said he'd never listen again if he didn't know about the band's breakup.

You… Seeing the videos of you on that stage? It was like I was seeing a completely different version of you. You looked like you had never existed outside of the stage, in front of an audience of adoring fans.

You were beautiful like that.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Jon, what the fuck?

Tim got ahold of me as soon as he saw that the Mechanisms had got together for one last concert. A proper goodbye you your fans.

Never once did I picture you becoming a solo artist.

[he hums]

It suits you.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Hi. Um… It's been three years since I… since we last saw each other.

Three years, and I'm still not over you. Pathetic, right?

Tim got me to go on a few dates with some people he knew. They were all nice, but that was the problem. They were nice and some quite lovely, but none of them were you, Jon.

I… I moved out of that house. Not long after everything, actually. I'd keep finding things that reminded me of her, and it just… It got to be too much, even if it was free.

Ended up moving to London. Crazy, right? But I got lucky with a cheap flat. It's a really nice place.

I saw some adverts for your upcoming concert. Part of me wanted to buy tickets, but… Don't want to cause more harm. I can't imagine you've given me any thought since then. It would only stir up old wounds for me if I went.

Still, good luck, 'Jonny D'ville'.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

I… I listened to the old tape again. Saw it and thought 'Why the hell not".

It was a mistake, of course, but…

You never did get those answers from me, and I… I feel bad about it. So, I took a page out of your book and… Well, you'll see the email. I let myself be impulsive and sent you a document with my answers. One of the pros of your ex-boyfriend (who you're still not over after five years) being famous is that it's not too hard to get in contact.

Of course, it took a small bit of digging to find your personal email address, but I did it.

No going back now, I guess.

Worst case scenario, you don't respond. I think I can handle that.

Oh, and I got a cat. She's called Flora. You'd like her, I think.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Hi, um… You- Jon- responded. I… I don't even know why I started recording, but I haven't clicked on the email yet. It's just been sitting in my inbox for the past few hours.

Okay, I guess I should just… rip off the band-aid.

[a computer mouse clicks]

"Hello, Martin. I appreciate this dearly, however, I am afraid there is something you're missing. There's been an update in the questions, and I feel that it won't be complete without that addition.

Participants should look into each other's eyes for four minutes

I can't go to most public spaces alone without security anymore, but there's a pub the Mechs and I frequent. I've attached the details below. As well as this, I would love to hear your answers in person. Should you accept my offer, I look forward to seeing you. All the best, Jonathan Sims. P.S. Thank you for the photos of Flora. I will be expecting more should we meet."

[BEAT]

O-okay! Okay!… Okay. I can… Yeah, I can do this. Holy… holy shit!

[CLICK]

Jon felt… strange. All those years, he had kept from reaching out, feeling as if it should be Martin's choice. He was still a wreck over everything that had happened, of course, but he hadn't been lying when he said he would try to be better. He'd got therapy and gained a few diagnoses; he had contacted Nastya after a few sessions. After telling her everything, she'd been understanding in her pissed off way. He'd let her tell the rest of the crew after she made him talk to Georgie.

The band had all forgiven him, which surprised Jon, but it was… nice. Everyone had moved on to other things in their lives, but ultimately agreed that a proper final concert had been needed.

His choice to continue as a solo artist had been one largely of necessity. He'd never had a need for a real job after the band took off, and in his time with Martin he'd just used money he still had from when he was in the band. After a few months, however, his bank account had started looking quite sad. His love for academia was pointedly worthless despite his well-earned degrees because he was a thirty-year-old who'd had zero job experience. No one wanted to hire someone like that, for whatever reason. That just left his secondary passion.

All through the years spent remaking himself, however, there had been a constant and steady thought trained on the man he had ruined his chance with. The man he had never bothered trying to replace with another partner, because he knew how unfair it would be to them.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There had been another man, for a short few months, but… He wasn't Martin. He reminded Jon how much he missed Martin and how he wished that the man he'd been with had been Martin.

He swore off romance entirely after that, at least until he'd moved on.

A bag was dropped tentatively on the table in front of Jon, causing him to blink out of his thoughts and look up.

Martin was… well, Jon could hardly put it into words — he wasn't the poet of the relationship — but… Martin was still as breathtaking as he had always been. He'd kept the same haircut, short and fluffy, and had the same style. Jon smiled fondly at the familiarity of the cloudy blue crewneck Martin had on. It had always been his favourite.

Jon nodded politely and gestured to the seat in front of him, which Martin nervously took.

"It- um… your recorder. A-and some tapes," Martin broke the silence after a moment. "I always intended on giving it back to you, but… I guess I understand now how comforting it was to have."

Jon just nodded again, becoming acutely aware of how he had neglected to work on his social skills at any point throughout the years.

"Th- thank you… I-" he battled with his bag for a moment before supplying a paper and handing it to Martin. "I took the liberty of printing off your answers. Feel free to ignore them if any have changed in the past… three days."

"R- right… um…" Martin took the paper and scanned it, suddenly feeling suffocatingly known. "Should I just…"

Jon nodded once more, "Go on."

Before Martin could, however, the waitress came over to get their drinks.

"Jonny, hi. Who's this striking man you have with you?" she asked in a way that was a polite level of nosey.

"Hi, Raph," he smiled, "This… this is Martin. Martin, this is Raphaella. She's one of my friends from the Mechs."

Martin held out his hand and Raph shook it lightly, "I've heard about you. Sorry you had to deal with this mess of a man here."

"Nice to meet you."

Raph took Martin's order and scurried off. She said Jon always got the same thing when Martin asked why she hadn't taken his. It made sense. Jon liked what he liked and never saw the point in straying from what was safe unless he was cooking for himself.

"She owns the place, you know," Jon started, "For some reason she insists on waiting tables, but this place is hers. We came here so often as the band that when it went up for sale, we didn't hesitate. Technically it's all of ours, but she loved it here the most, so when it came down to it, it was her name on the paper."

Martin couldn't help the fond smile that appeared on his face, "I'm glad you have… friends."

This earned a snort of laughter from Jon, "Yeah. Me too. Sorry, it's just- I really didn't have any friends when we were together, did I?" he said with an earnest smile.

"Well, you had Tim and Sasha," Martin reasoned before pausing, "Okay, well-"

"Yeah, they were always more your friends than mine. It's good, though. I'm glad you had them… Speaking of, are you guys still…?"

Martin nodded, "Y- yeah. We're proper coworkers now, so there's definitely no getting rid of them. Well, Tim and I are. Sasha got promoted to Head Archivist at the Institute a while ago now, and she enlisted us as her assistants."

A strange look crossed Jon's face, "Wait, that's- god, small world. Um, you… Melanie King works there too, right?"

"I-" Martin was stunned, "How did you… What?"

Jon laughed, "Don't worry, Martin, I haven't been stalking you. Her girlfriend is Georgie Barker, my- um… my ex-girlfriend, oddly enough, but we're… we're friends. Melanie talked about how she somehow got this boring archival job at a strange institute a while ago. Didn't click 'til now that she meant the Magnus Institute."

"Oh, funny coincidence, then."

"Yeah…"

The awkward silence that followed had been something Jon was expecting. It had been five years and their breakup was far from an amicable one, of course there was bound to be some awkward bumps in this meeting. Jon settled for just gesturing to the paper that Martin still held.

"Right… Okay. Question nineteen: 'If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?' I would want to change how things ended with you, but… that's sort of what we're doing now, isn't it?"

Jon didn't respond, but let Martin knew he was listening through the flicker of emotions on his face.

"'What does friendship mean to you?' It… It means a lot. If it weren't for my friends, I wouldn't be here. It just means being there to support someone in any way you can." Martin was surprised at the level of familiar comfort that Jon's presence was giving him.

"'What roles do love and affection play in your life?' They play an important role. Like I said in my last answer, I wouldn't be here without the people who love me. I need love and affection, really.

"T-twenty-two: 'Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.' Okay… You're blunt. I know a lot of people would view that as negative, but it's… it's a good thing to me. You- you have a sense of humour that not a lot of people pay attention to. You love cats, but you also love every animal. I'll never forget the day you helped that fawn through the fence when it couldn't jump over like its mum…" Martin could feel the heat that was rising to his cheeks. "You're not afraid to stand up to people, e- even if it's my own mother… that was… I think I fell in love with you even more that day. You are- you don't feel confined to being just one thing in anything you do. When you cook, you made recipes from all sorts of places. When you read, you explore every genre, non-fiction or otherwise. A- and when you sing… all your songs are different vibes."

Raph came over with their drinks and both men graciously started sipping.

Martin turned back to the paper after only a moment, "'How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?' I mean, you met my mother. She was cold and cruel. My childhood wasn't happier than most.

"'How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?'" he took another swig of his drink, "I loved her as much as I could. She hated me. I… I don't look back on memories of her fondly anymore.

"'Make three true 'we' statements each. For instance, 'We are both in this room feeling …''" he studied Jon's face, forgoing the paper for this question. "Nervous. Comfortable. Maybe… maybe a little bit hopeful."

Jon nodded along to each answer, which made Martin feel more confident in his answers.

"Question twenty-six: 'Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share …'' I wish I had someone with whom I could share… my life with. I- I know that's what you answered, but it- it's true for me too.

"Twenty-seven: 'If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.' Sometimes I… I shut myself off from everyone. I get too comfortable in loneliness. It's almost killed me a couple times.

"'Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.' I like your scars. You never told me how you got those circle-shaped ones, or the burn on your right hand, but they… I don't know. I don't think I have a reason for liking them, really."

Another idle sip from his glass.

"Twenty-nine: 'Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.' There was actually a lot of things I could've answered for this, but it was probably the way I convinced myself that I had any chance in getting my mum to love me. I wasted so much of my life on her because I was too scared to face reality.

"'When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?' Tim and Sasha held a movie night last week. One of the movies was Dead Poets Society… And, uh… I cried last night- may have have a bit of an anxious breakdown over… this. Um…

"'Tell your partner something that you like about them already.' I… like how unafraid you are to be yourself. It always did feel like I was missing something when we were together, like you were incomplete. It doesn't feel like that anymore.

"'What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?' This… I don't think I want to say all these out loud in a public space. There's… Well, there are a lot of things, I'll leave it at that."

Martin took Jon's nod to be one of approval, and he continued, "Question thirty-three: 'If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?'" he met Jon's eyes, "I never told you how sorry I am for… how everything happened. I should have at least finished the questions with you back then. I was just too angry. I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon glanced away, "It's okay, Martin. It was something that needed to happen. Don't feel bad, please." His hand twitched towards Martin's arm, but he stopped himself.

"Easier said than done. Um… where was I…? Right! Thirty-four: 'Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?' The notebook from when I started writing poetry. It's all pretty shit, but… it reminds me how far I've come; how much I've improved."

Two plates were set in front of the pair. Jon's held a salad of some sort with chicken laid out artfully on top. On Martin's was a serving of fish and chips. You could never go wrong with fish and chips.

They said their 'thank-you's and Raph topped up their drinks "on the house", to which Jon made a comment that implied he got drinks for free here. Which, yeah, made sense.

Martin continued once she left and he'd had a few chips, "'Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?' I don't have any living family that I know of."

Jon sympathised.

"'Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.'"

A beat of silence from Martin's hesitation passed.

"How do I move on?"

Jon fiddled with his fork in thought. "You… Sometimes you just won't. You have to learn to accept it and just… continue on with your life. But… You… you don't- have to, Martin. I- Well, um… I just mean…"

Martin smiled stupidly at Jon's fumbling, "Maybe we should just, do the last thing first, 'kay? Then we can… discuss."

"S- sure. I… I can get the timer going on my watch."

The next four minutes passed with awkward smiles and eventual fits of nervous giggles as they stared into each other's eyes. Jon in particular had never been comfortable with more eye contact than necessary, but he did put in a conscious effort to not glance at the wall behind Martin as often as he wanted to. A couple times, he even fumbled with his food, determined to fill his fork and get it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with his partner. When he earned that genuine laughter, it made everything that lead up to this point worth it. He wished he could drown in that laughter.

The quiet beep from his watch let them know they could look away, and Jon sighed in relief.

"Christ, that was possibly the worst four minutes of my life," he stated dramatically.

Martin rolled his eyes, "I don't know how I never guessed that you were a theatre kid. Dramatic ass."

"Hey! I'll have you know I make a living off of being a 'dramatic ass'," Jon defended.

"Oh, right. Maybe that's the real reason I still love you: you're rich and famous," Martin stated casually as he took a sip from his glass.

Jon didn't even try to suppress the laugh that escaped him, "Wow, I see how it is."

The moment died down after a small amount of more laughter, and they were left to awkwardly eat their food.

"So… are we… What are we doing, Jon?"

He hummed, "I'll do whatever you want, Martin. If this is the last you wanted to see of me, then I'll wish you well. And if… if you wanted to- to try again… I would like that. Even if it was just as friends." He looked into Martin's eyes, "I've really missed you all these years, Martin."

Martin stood up, and all the hope Jon had had in getting another chance vanished. But then Martin turned to him and stuck out his hand.

"Hi. I'm Martin. What's your name?"

The dread on Jon's face was replaced by a smile in an instant when he realised what Martin was doing. He took Martin's hand, "I'm Jon. Jonathan Sims. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Martin returned the smile as they shook hands, "Same here. Now, tell me, Jon, when's the next time you're free? I would quite like to take you out on a date."

Jon glanced at his watch, "As it happens, I have some free time right now. Please, feel free to sit."

They both grinned stupidly at each other and spent many hours in that pub catching up and regaining the trust that had shattered so violently half a decade ago. They were simply two people in love, willing to give the other a second chance despite neither feeling like they particularly deserved it.

The night ended with them both tipsy and besotted. They kissed, and it exploded into feelings of just how real it was. There were no lies, this time. No false pretences to keep up. Just them.

Jon wondered what he had done in a past life to deserve this.