another post MAG 200 fic, sort of exploring the idea of jon and martin becoming entities of love, or at least entities to counteract the fears.
They say you can find him on Old Fishmarket Close, late at night, usually in colder weather. He is as tall as he is thin, and wears a long, dark coat with a high collar, and a wide-brimmed hat, and though you may catch sight of a nose or mouth, no one has ever claimed to have seen his eyes.
Though he has no voice with which to ask, he deals in stories, and if you have one to tell, he will listen. He hears stories of fear, of pain, of loss. The kinds of stories that are most difficult to tell.
To be heard by him is to be understood, when no one else will listen. As you tell your story, he will carefully listen, and he will solemnly nod, and perhaps, if it is called for, he will reach out and take your hands in his own, hidden by gloves of silken black, though they seem human enough.
His presence, despite his foreboding appearance, is a comfort, in the way a melancholy song is a comfort. He hunches over, as though trying to hide his stature, and his movements are slow and careful, as though he is afraid of causing any harm or fear the likes of which he hears in people’s stories. He walks with an odd gait, as though pained from old wounds.
They say that afterwards, it feels as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Your story is not forgotten; on the contrary, you remember it with more clarity than ever, but now he remembers it, too, and such a burden is better shared. They say that if you thank him, he will shake his head, but at the same moment he will clutch your hands in his, as if to thank you in return. And some say that, though there is only darkness beneath the brim of his hat, you can feel his eyes on you as he bids you farewell.
They say you can find him near the shore, on misty mornings, when you are alone and feeling it. He is easy to miss, unless you need him, and then he is impossible to ignore: his figure broad and heavy, his clothing soft even to look upon, his hands seemingly big enough to hold the world.
No one can ever agree on precisely what he looks like, the color of his eyes or the style of his clothes, only that perhaps he appeared just as you needed him to, in just the way you needed him to be. No matter what, they say, his smiles are always as kind as his eyes.
His presence is a comfort, in the way a mug of tea is a comfort. His voice, when he asks you what’s on your mind, is quiet and warm, and it feels as though you are confiding in the closest of friends when you answer him. He shares in your sadness, in your fear, in your anger, as readily as your joy. Sincerity seems to lie in his very bones.
They say that sometimes, he has a packet of biscuits with him, or a book of poetry, and he offers to share them with you. They say not to read the poetry, but the biscuits are always delicious.
He says at least three goodbyes before he leaves you, and though you continue on your way alone, they say you do not feel it. They say that afterwards, every stranger you pass on the street seems as though they could be a friend.
They say that if you are very lucky, you may find them together, under lone, yellow streetlamps when it rains, down alleyways, through the windows of dimly-lit apartments, in empty parks when a cool wind rustles fallen leaves. They will be standing face to hidden face, both shielding the other from unwanted patrons, carefully forming a space all of their own, in a brief place and time where their purviews meet.
They say it is best to leave them alone during these moments, but if you spend a moment to look, you may see the tall, thin one take the broad one’s hands, as the broad one lifts the brim of his hat ever so slightly, and smiles at whatever sight beneath he alone is privileged to.
And it is then that a streetlamp will wink out, or a shadow will fall across the path, or a car will pull up to block your sight. And it is then, they say, that you should be getting along. After all, they have more than earned their bit of privacy.
