Chapter Text
The move from their old house to their new house shouldn't have bothered Martin so much. After all, it was for the best - there were more jobs, more people to check in on Mum and the new flat would need less cleaning.
Sure, Martin really wasn't happy about having to move right before getting his GCSE results, and he had actually wanted to be at school for that since Jake Hays had hinted at a pub trip on the day. He'd never been to the pub before and thought that beer smelt and tasted like piss, but it was Jack Hays. Literally everyone knew Jack was gay and so him asking Martin was basically a date, right?
Well now Martin would never know because he was in London. Smoggy, noisy and full of rude as fuck people, London.
Still, he wouldn't complain. After all, complaining never got him anywhere with Mum and he wasn't in the mood for a lecture.
He had just finished unpacking the dinner plates for the kitchen when there was a knock on their door. It had only been a week since they'd moved in but all the neighbours had poked their heads in already. One time, it had been when he was ladling broth into plastic containers to freeze, leading to way too many questions that Martin hadn't wanted to answer. Surely there wasn't anymore to say about the new mother-son duo. Martin certainly had no news to share.
The knock comes again.
"Martin, I'm trying to not get a migraine here, so could you please go and open the bloody door!"
He winced.
"Sorry, Mum."
"Just open the door, for Christ's sake."
"Yep, yep, on it."
He grabs the keys from the dinky little plate he bought from the charity shop. He thought it was nice, a splash of colour, but Mum had muttered something about spending. He opened the door and blinked in surprise at the Catholic priest standing outside it.
"Ah, you must be Martin, yes?"
"Um, yeah. You are?"
"Father Nowak, from the local parish. Margot Jenson, your neighbour, buzzed me up to see her and she mentioned you moving in. I just wanted to pop in and say hello."
"Oh, er…"
"Martin? Who is it?"
Mum should really use her cane when she walks, but Martin was never able to convince her. She was stubborn to a fault and he supposed he couldn't really blame her. But there was something so nerve-wracking about seeing her hobble over, eyes sharp and intelligent, knowing that she could stumble and fall in a moment.
He didn't go to help her though.
"Ah Ms Blackwood."
"You must be Father Nowak - please, come in."
And suddenly there was a Catholic priest in the flat. Christ, Martin wasn't prepared for this. Actually, he should prbably stop with the blasphemy, that is, if he isn't smited by God for being gay first.
"I, er, I'll make a cup of tea, shall I?"
"That would be lovely, Martin - milk and one sugar please."
He nodded and made his escape to the half empty kitchen whilst Mum led the priest to the sofa. Also known as Martin's bed.
It was nice to busy himself though, and tea was always good. And he could have sworn they still had some custard creams left from when they still had people coming over - yep, half a pack. Shame to give it all to the priest, especially when he was planning on having those himself for tea, but oh well. He left two on the counter in the kitchen before taking a plate of the remaining biscuits, along with a mug of tea back to the living room. Father Nowak and Mum seemed to be talking quietly so he placed it on the coffee table as non-obtrusively as possible (meaning, mouth shut, and eyes facing down).
"Thank you, Martin."
"Oh, er, no problem."
(Well. Not too shut.)
He hadn't expected to be acknowledged but Father Nowak looked weirdly grateful for the mediocre tea and biscuits. Was this a Christian thing? Charity or something?
Luckily, Father Nowak (who seemed to be the chatty kind), rescued him from having to say anything.
"Your mother and I are going to pray quietly for a while. You're welcome to join us or-"
"Ah, no, actually, I think I'm heading out - got that shopping to do, remember Mum? Would rather head out before it gets dark."
Mum, for whatever reason, goes with the lie. Probably to get him out of the flat for a bit but it was appreciated all that same. Father Nowak nodded at him, still with that weird smile. Martin ducked out of the room, back to the kitchen where his jacket was abandoned on the floor. He grabbed that and the two biscuits, shoving them in the jacket pocket next to his wallet.
Then he awkwardly heads back out into the living room. Martin isn't sure why he said it. It was a spur of the moment decision, not like him at all. But before he heads off, he murmurs a small 'dzień dobry'. Some vacant memory he couldn't stop. Recognition and familiarity he wanted to ignore but couldn't. The priest's smile became something gentler.
Martin decided to leave before ever hearing a response. Instead, he made a half hashed plan in his head, as if that was going to distract him from anything.
Martin decided he was going to take the Tube. It was a fun enough way to make use of the day and he honestly didn't give enough of a shit anymore to think about the waste of time it was. After all, wasn't sitting around, praying to God and drinking tea and eating biscuits also a waste of time? Besides, he wasn't an adult, not really, so surely he was allowed a bit of time wasting?
He was lying to himself, he knew that. He wasn't much for rebellion, was never his thing. He'd smoked for two months, and then heard about the health risk and forced himself to quit, despite the awful cravings that followed. He'd drank until he was drunk the week after GCSEs were over and then after the hangover, decided that he would do it never again. He'd even gotten high a few times before coming to the conclusion that he liked being in charge of his own mind, thank you very much. And he'd never tried sex and was probably never going to.
All in all, Martin was pretty fucking boring. Therefore, just to make it seem like he wasn't, he would take the Northern Line and get off and walk around London. No Mum, no work, no school. Just him.
Martin never expected to make that journey ever again. He never ever thought it was going to become a routine.
But the day he got off the Tube at Morden Station and ended up outside Pinhole Books, things changed. Years later, Martin would still never be able to confirm whether it was for the better or worse.
All he could tell you, was that on that fateful day, his best friend Gerard Keay stormed out of the shop and started shouting at him nonsensically, about him being an ignorant idiot who didn't know shit about the world. And Martin had shouted back, telling this guy that he didn't need a London twat to tell him about how rough the world was.
In his defence, Gerry never wanted to shout at Martin - that was never his intention - but well, the timing was bad.
"Oh for fucks sake!"
"Sorry, sorry!"
"God, you people are always in the way, aren't you?"
"'Scuse me?"
"I mean, you're all so stupid and don't know shit, but here I am trying to make it easier for you all! What's the fucking point if you're all in the way!"
"Oi, calm down, don't just call random strangers idiots!"
"Please, like you know shit about real life!"
"I don't need some London twat to fucking lecture me about how bad everything is!"
If you asked Martin, he'd say Gerry shoved him first. And he was probably right, but Gerry didn't remember that. All he remembered was being surprised that some random guy took the bait he'd been casting out and decided to pick a fight. He was lucky Martin was in a bad enough mood for it as well.
The fight (if you could call it that) didn't last very long. A footpath in London where commuters were still on the streets wasn't really a prime scuffle location. Martin had earned a nosebleed, bless him, and Gerard was fairly sure he had the beginnings of a black eye.
They sat down, right there on the pavement, and Gerard fished out a pack of tissues from his pocket handing it over to the stranger he just punched. The guy seemed to be around his age, rust coloured hair, cheap plastic framed glasses, fat and freckled. Fat but not weak, clearly.
"Look, didn't mean to come out and fight you. Just a bad day, okay?"
"Oh er - same here, I guess?"
"You guess?"
"Didn't really realize how pissed I was until you sort of barged out here shouting, so…"
"Fair enough. Still, apologies and all that. Really wasn't trying to get you hurt. Kind of the opposite of what I usually do."
"Right. Er, apology accepted, I guess."
"You do a lot of guessing."
The guy snorted at that.
"Yeah well, I'm not sure of much. Er, I'm Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood"
"Gerard Keay."
Martin raised an eyebrow. Gerard really wasn't sure what that meant so he asked. Not one for social niceties and he really was fucking done with the day.
"What's that look for?"
"Oh, well - posh knob name, is all."
Gerard couldn't help but laugh at that.
"Says the guy with the last name Blackwood."
"Yeah, but like, not like anyone's going to call me Blackwood right? So I'm just, Martin. meanwhile you're Ger-ahhhh-rd."
"Well, what would you, 'oh voice of the working class', call me?"
Martin grinned.
"Oh, you want a nickname? Let's see, would Gerry suffice, my lord?"
"Hm, not bad, not bad. Definitely heard worse. Gerry it is then."
They were getting some weird looks, the two of them, bloody and bruised and grinning at each other like old friends. He liked the feeling though. Some random levity in his weird life. Martin put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a biscuit. The look on his face set Gerry off again. Martin offered it to him.
"You'd give a stranger your pocket biscuit?"
"Dunno, d'you think a custard cream is below you or something?"
"I'm not even posh so I'm taking offense."
"Look, d'you want it or not?"
"Hand over the biscuit."
It was weird. Usually, he'd be smoking a cigarette and skulking off to a pub before the paranoia set in and he'd head home. He was pretty sure he'd still get drunk later tonight but it didn't really feel like a priority with Martin Blackwood and his fucking pocket biscuits.
A lot of things stopped feeling like a priority with Martin around. And then a lot of things had to become a priority for Martin's sake. Not that his friend would agree, of course not. But in between the trips with Mary and the sporadic visits to London, he'd take the train to Stockwell or Martin would meet him somewhere in Morden - never Pinhole though. Wasn't safe.
They did have some safe time. The flat, the dye, the bed, the food, the them.
If there was one thing Gerry would regret, it would be not stopping Martin from getting the Institute job. He wouldn't live to regret it though. But regret it, he would.
But for now, they were friends. And that was nice.