Martin never learned how to knit.
It was one of those hobbies that he’d always idly wanted to pick up, but it was consistently buried beneath more pressing things.
It wasn’t like poetry, where he could sift through words in his mind as he went about his day, steal away a moment of free time to scribble them down. Maybe even read them out loud, if he was feeling indulgent.
It was a different kind of commitment, to go out and buy yarn and needles, to follow tutorials online, to start something that would demand hours upon hours of specifically allocated time. It was hardly something he could justify quite so easily.
But still, quietly, he wished for it. He couldn’t help but have these casually romantic ideas about the concept of creating soft things to be worn and to keep warm with his own hands, to have people he could gift such things to, who would see the dedication and the meaning behind the piece. Maybe, even, for himself as well. Maybe a version of Martin who has people to gift knitted blankets and scarves and mittens to would also see himself as deserving of such luxuries. Isn’t that a nice thought?
But Martin Blackwood wasn’t someone who had “Handmade Gift” friends. He had coworkers who found his presence to be pleasant enough, at best. His mother– who seemed insulted by the mere suggestion of needing his care in the first place– would scoff at anything so frivolous. Even aside from that, thoughts of the “sweater curse” and his mothers declining health would often appear in his mind unbidden, and he would shove the idea into the back of his mind like something unsavory being tucked into the corner of your closet.
So Martin never learned how to knit. Even though he once thought it to be a nice enough idea.
It’s one of those little, inconsequential thoughts that finds its way into his mind, leading up to the end. An incredibly stupid thing to worry about during the apocalypse. But he knows he’s going to die, deep down— it is a concrete certainty that sits stubbornly in his chest despite his best efforts to move it, or ignore it. He knows. He’s not stupid, he can lie to himself about a future where they make it through this alive, both of them, where they save the word and no horrible sacrifice has to be made. It’s just enough to keep him moving, one foot in front of the other, until they see this nightmare to its end. It’s just enough to keep him brave for a little while longer.
And, amidst it all, he thinks about how he never learned to knit. Maybe that’s just an easier thing to mourn, right now. Along with all of the other little “not right now”s and “maybe someday”s he’d taken for granted when the world was still whole. He had wanted to learn how to bake. He wanted to paint something on a real canvas. He wanted to see a play. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted—
When he still had the suggestion of a future ahead of him. It felt bleak, and his world seemed so small, and he was busy picking up jobs wherever he could find them and money was tight, and he just had every little excuse not to let himself live in a way that could make him feel too much, or want too much.
The world has ended, and he’s following the love of his life through the twisted mockery that remains and Martin Blackwood is going to die. He wishes he’d just went and bought those damned knitting needles.
