Thinking about Martin conflating asexuality and aromantism and being perfectly content in his unrequited feelings for Jon, he knows he never had a chance, it’s not him it’s just that Jon doesn’t want that from anyone.
Thinking about him learning in season three that Georgie is Jon’s ex-girlfriend and being so confused because he didn’t think Jon really? Dated? At all?
Thinking about him actually getting up the guts to talk to Jon about it, to say “hey, I think I’ve misunderstood something here, if it’s not too personal a question to ask could you explain to me what asexuality really means because I think I’ve got entirely the wrong end of the stick.”
Thinking about him listening to Jon’s explanation and having a minor existential crises as he realizes holy shit, I think I’m asexual too.
Written for the prompts: AU and Touch for AspecMartinWeek
Ace Jon / Ace Martin, AU – Daemons, post 159.
They are lying dozy and lazing on the settee when Jon clears his throat and apologises.
Martin's thoughts have been like the unheeded tumbling of water through a brook. He hasn't spoken, he's sure, for a long while, not confident that he's fully awake. Jon's tucked neatly against Martin's graceless outstretch of limbs, mumbling whatever comes to mind against his throat. His breath is hot, mildly damp, condensing Martin's skin like he's fogging up a window.
There is the curiously new, near-dazed feeling that Martin is basking in like the shallow waters of some island beach. Every tension unhooked from him like an unburdened yoke, of having said everything that he has always wanted to say. Digging out the gristle of small deceits from his stumbling mouth was a stop-judder-start of a conversation, and it's been a painful, physical release to bring them up. Martin's held his hands over his mouth and the words have spilled out anyway, scraping his throat on the way up, and Jon had rubbed his back and listened as every emotion he forced down came back in nauseous waves.
It's been exhausting, feeling so much all at once. Martin's snapped and snarled and sobbed and slept a lot. And now he has the blessed relief to lie, feeling like he's dug up all the weeds of his fears, the soil of him loosened enough to allow something better to bloom.
Jon knows Martin loves him. Vast-welled, bone-down-deep. Jon knows that love will never be physical, and had still cradled him and declared him beloved, confessed that it was a form of expression he'd never sought either. Jon reframed question after question so they barely resembled enquiries at all, and Martin laid down all the cards of himself with a trustfulness he is having to practise again.
“Hm?” Martin questions sluggish. He opens a squinting, disgruntled eye, discomforted by the radiance of the room, and sees Jon gnawing on his bottom lip. He is managing to give off the impression of both staring intensely at Martin and attempting to avoid his gaze entirely.
“I'm sorry,” Jon repeats. His words are steady enough, but Emer is fluttering hither-and-thither over his head like an anxious coronet. Landing on his shoulder, antennae bobbing, crawling flustered over to his other shoulder before returning airborne in an overactive bluster of motion.
Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon's head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.
“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It's rude.”
“What're you sorry for?” Martin asks. The question comes out squashed, half-sighed. His arm encircling Jon's shoulder, he strokes the skin of his upper arm in a light reassurance.
Jon's forehead is establishing trenches as he deepens the lines on his brow. Emer lands and whispers harsh, insistent words into his ear, but he shakes his head like shedding water, and she goes back to hovering.
“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead and Emer wouldn't leave him. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”
It takes a few moments for Jon's garbling to reach understanding.
“I'd kind of assumed you must have,” Martin replies slowly. “I'm the – I'm the one who left him behind.”
At the hollow of Martin's throat, he can feel the crouched and scratchy weight, still unfamiliar to him. He brings up his hand, uses a finger to stroke the short, bristling fur down his rounded abdomen. He stops, leaving his hand nearby, close but undemanding. A second later, delayed, two probing legs tap affectionately and tiredly onto the back of Martin's hand, before withdrawing again.
He was never so steady before. He used to crawl, scramble, quiver and jump, always in motion under the cover of Martin's shirts, the camouflage of his bramble-coiled hair. If he got excited, he'd jump from Martin's shoulder to ear to get his attention, chatter and chirp animatedly. Most of Martin's life, he's rarely strayed a foot from his side.
Martin doesn't feel him now. Not like it was before. There's no solid anchoring when he concentrates. Like a weak signal, a light seen through fog, a previously taut string scraped threadbare.
Peter had suggested a knife. Had even held one out to Martin with a chummy, encouraging smile. Telling him how clean it could be to slice through.
“It won't even kill you,” he had said. “Best part of it.”
“It'll hurt though,” Martin had replied dully, jaw set, as the spider quivered against his throat.
“Oh, certainly,” Peter had replied, admiring the sheen of the blade. “But you've already given away so much, Martin, what's a little more in the grand scheme of things, hm?”
Martin had refused, and Peter had sighed, pocketing the knife again, responded:
“Pity. You'll have to leave him anyway. It would be so much easier to make the separation quicker for the both of you.”
Aron hadn't said anything when Martin scooped him off his neck, setting him down on top of the tape recorder. He'd stared, resigned but with still enough expectation in him to feel betrayed.
It hadn't made the rending, punch-breathed stretching of their distance hurt less.
It had stopped hurting after a while, like everything else had.
Jon must have carried him all the way into the Lonely and out, Martin thinks, stroking Aron again. Maybe longer. The days, they've not been as clear as Martin would like. It's been as treading through murky water a lot of the time. He's not even sure when he woke up blearily, cosseted by the tight bundle of blankets Jon had barricaded him with, and felt Aron nestled in his hair like the old days.
“You couldn't have asked anyway,” Martin continues. “It's not like, well, not like I was around to say it was ok, was I?”
Jon makes a grunt of agreement, but it's one of those distracted sounds he makes when he's taken something in but not really listened.
“When you got out though,” he says, seeming, if anything, even more shame-faced. “When we got here, you didn't – you didn't even ask about him. He'd be at the other side of the house and you didn't blink at how far that was, he-he'd climb onto you and try and get your attention and you wouldn't flinch. I don't think you even knew he was there. And then Emer talked to him, wouldn't move from his side, and then – it-it was the second night, guess you don't remember but you were – you were struggling to come back to yourself. And he – he crawled onto me, and I didn't – I didn't push him away.”
“I'm not mad at you, Jon,” Martin says. “'s like you said. I wasn't – I wasn't in the right place. You kept him safe, how could I be mad?”
Jon nods stiffly. Looks at Aron. Martin likes the way Jon looks at him, carefully, like something might have changed while he wasn't looking.
“I just... thought I should apologise,” he says, more lamely than before. “It's not right, to go around touching other people's.... Anyway. I won't – won't do it again.”
Aron's chelicerae twitch against Martin's adam's apple.
“What's your thoughts on all this then?” Martin says, directing it lowly at Aron.
He's not expecting a response. Their conversations have been stilted, working through the gap Martin ripped between them. Those last few months, they'd mostly fought. Peter Lukas' arrival had found Aron sullen and petty, argumentative and frightened, and Martin had ignored him or snapped back in kind. Aron had stopped speaking to him long before Lukas dragged him into the Lonely, and it's a slow cautious revival, to find out how to talk to each other again.
Aron unfolds his legs carefully, creeps unobtrusively up to the side of Martin's face to lurk near his ear. Even as a bigger example of his species, he's still about the length of Martin's thumb. He flexes the stubby pedipalps under his eyes like he's kneading something.
“He's the best decision you've made in a long time,” he says resolutely to Martin. “He loved me even when you thought you couldn't.”
Martin's mouth is raw from saying sorry but he murmurs it again. Aron's front legs tap him like a reassurance.
“Would you like to?” Martin turns to Jon, who is militantly trying not to listen to their conversation. Emer is circling the ceiling as though to further compound the gesture of privacy. “Touch him, mean – intentionally this time?”
When Martin was younger and working everything out, he'd diligently done his research on the ways he thought he was failing. He'd watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Romantic stuff, filled with swelling, stirring scores, or purple-prose dramatic declarations of passion. It's quite a common trope in a lot of these; the couples confessing their tormented adoration, their daemons touching, tail in tail or rough-housing in play. Then one half of the couple will reach out, suddenly tender, tangle their fingers in the fur of the other's daemon or scrape along their scales. The other will gasp like they've been shocked, their body rocking with the aftermath of it, before they follow with shaking hands. Martin would replay those moments of intimate connection, fantasising about how someone might hold his own bristled and secretive soul.
It inevitably leads to sex. And Martin would switch it off, then, feeling nonplussed and uncomfortable and wondering if that part was necessary.
It doesn't matter to Martin if Jon doesn't want to, if he never touches Aron again. Jon's already carried his soul so many miles.
It's important to him that Jon knows he can. That Martin wants him to, that Martin trusts him with Aron more than he trusts himself.
Jon's face goes a dark spasm of oxblood red.
“It's – I mean – I'd – course I'd – that's a lot though, are you sure – ?”
Emer chooses that moment to make some quick fed-up comment to Jon before decisively fluttering down and landing on Martin's nose.
Jon gives a squeaking, mildly scandalised gasp. So does Martin, more at the shock.
It doesn't feel like how he expected it might.
There's no rush, no swelling violins or heightened poetry.
“Hey,” he whispers to the white-winged moth. Emer preens, giving a show-off little flap before closing her wings against her back.
“She's beautiful,” he says to Jon sincerely.
Jon's holding his breath like he's trying not to disturb the moment.
“How – how do you feel?” He asks tentatively, his words slightly strangled.
“Warm,” Martin says. There's a steady coil of heat in his chest that matches the warmth of their close-knit afternoon. He feels beheld in the surest of light, cherished and reverential, the same feeling he gets whenever Jon says he loves him.
“Like you expected?”
Martin told Jon about the films he'd watched, the books he'd read, the expressions and sensations he'd thought would make him happier. Jon had listened in the blanketing dark of the evening, and admitted the same in kind.
“I mean, I still don't feel much of an urge to suddenly rip your clothes off, if that's what you're asking.”
Jon's lips hook up in a smile, releasing some of his nervous tension.
“How disappointing,” he intones, and Martin, going a little cross-eyed staring at the speckling spots of black over the fuzz coating Emer's body, laughs.
He reaches up, his hands gone a little shivery, glances over at Jon.
“Can I...?” he asks.
Jon gives a jerking motion, looking like a rather demented nodding dog in his poorly disguised eagerness.
“Er – y-eah – that would be – I-I'd like that.”
Martin strokes a blunt nail from her thorax down.
“Oh,” Jon says, sounding more than a little awestruck. If possible, he sinks even more limbless against Martin. “That's.... that's lovely.”
Martin strokes Emer for a while, rhythmically rubbing the fur with a precise concentrated effort. Jon hums, looking dazed and pleased.
He wonders if it'll feel the same with Jon touching Aron. If Martin will be able to tell, if the sensation will be muted or altered in some way.
Aron, impatient and with apparently less decorum about the whole thing, gives a restless huff and decides to find out himself by jumping onto Jon.
Jon, jolted from his near-soporific state, rather valiantly does not shriek or flail the way he might if an actual spider flung itself onto him. He jerks but makes a serious effort to hold himself ramrod still.
“Stop it,” Martin warns.
“You are absolutely no fun,” Aron answers back playfully as he skitters down to where Jon's hands are. Jon if anything holds himself even more still.
Aron reaches his wrist and taps the skin there, waiting. Slowly, Jon cups his hands together, and Aron clambers delicately onto his palms. Jon's face is making another one of those wowed expressions. Martin feels another pulse of that settling warmth, not as dulled as before, strengthening as Jon rubs a self-conscious finger down Aron's abdomen.
Martin feels Emer flutter up and settle against his hair as he hums and closes his eyes, his soul held in the safest hands he knows.
On assumptions, understanding, belonging and love.
Moments in Martin's journey understanding other people and finally himself.
or
Martin's journey in understanding, accepting and loving his asexuality.
a/n: some quick notes: Jon is sex repulsed, Martin is somewhere between neutral and favorable. While Tim and Sasha dont exactlty say they are aro they are! Jon is non-binary and uses he/they pronouns and i desperatly wanted to explore that but this is already twice as long than intended-
also while I am (half) Bolivian and speak spanish I am not at all fluent in Tamil so if there is any mistakes lmk! hope you all enjoy!
-------------------
Sasha had convinced them to go get drinks together, as it had been a rather stressful couple of weeks since Martin came back from the siege of his apartment by Jane Prentiss.
Sleeping in the archives was not exactly helping the situation for Martin, or Jon for that matter.
So they decided to go to a pub and try to force a sense of normality everyone really needed.
Martin was having a great time, with the relative calm and safety he hadn’t had in a while, even Jon had something like a smile playing on his lips as Tim told a story from one of his university mates that had accidentally thrown his roommate's engagement ring down a drain.
Martin zoned out for a bit, enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol and his friends laughter and Jon’s animated movements that indicated that he was talking about something he actually found interesting.
Jon was apparently telling his own story with some relation to engagement, something about a girl at a wedding that had acted strangely, Martin caught something about “purposely spilling wine on her dress”, which Martin agreed was quite wierd.
“She was totally trying to woo you, Jon.” Sasha said as Jon got to the bit where they had to help her find some clean towels in a storage closet.
“I assumed she was just having a rather hard time,” Jon said, seemingly only now thinking of the implications of spilling wine on your dress and then faking needing help, to be fair to Jon that was a very weird tactic to pull and Martin would not have put two and two together either.
“Well what did you do in that closet then?” Tim asked with an incredibly over the top suggestive look.
Jon pulled a face then, Martin thought it looked rather endearing really with his nose all scrunched up and his eyes narrowed, but he was clearly uneasy.
“I don’t- I don’t really do… that sort of thing.”
Martin snapped back in the moment, feeling a weird but familiar anxiety in his stomach as the conversation lulled. He felt rather protective for a moment, instinctively knowing this seemed important. This turned out to be rather unnecessary, as Tim spoke up again quickly.
“Oh,” He and then, earnestly, ”I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Jon.”
And then Jon smiled, properly, like he didn’t often and waved his hand dismissively but pleased.
“Thank you, well it's not like you could have known that, but anyway as I was saying-”
It was but a moment, but it stuck with Martin for a bit, mulling it over and not really understanding his own reaction.
Eventually Martin settled back into the pleasant buzz, enjoying his friends chatter and Jon’s over exaggerated hand gestures.
-
It was an uncharacteristically slow day in the archives, not a worm in sight and Martin had only a bit of boring research to do for a very clearly fake statement.
Martin usually tried to be nice about it but this one featured a guy named “Richard Dickson” and was entirely about a fever dream someone had about a haunted accordion, he had listened to the recording that Jon had emailed him and it sounded like even he was having a very hard time trying not to laugh at it.
“Who comes up with this stuff?” Sasha said as she handed him back the statement. “Sure, I know we are being attacked by a worm woman but I really hope we can draw the line at haunted accordions that play spooky renditions of High School Musical and a prophetic dream guy called Dick Dickson.”
She was laughing too and Martin thought that she looked better than she had in awhile, it was nice, seeing her like this.
“Well at least I won’t have to stay extra time for the research of this one, I would go home early but.” he shrugged and gestured in a you know the whole staying here cause of a worm woman situation, she gave him a sympathetic look.
“Well I am leaving early, got a very fun evening planned.” she said with a wink.
She had looked really rather excited and somewhat giddy all day, Martin realized.
“Oh,” Martin said, “Who is the lucky person then?”
Sasha looked at him puzzled for a few seconds, slowly blinking at him, then the penny dropped.
“What? Oh no, I mean- Tim I guess, we usually have a sort of movie night every once in a while, this one is extra special though, because I found this book about the categorisation of demons, it’s partially in latin? Tim said he would help me look into it. ”
Martin felt his face heat up, feeling the urge to profusely apologize, Sasha continued however:
“It’s not like that though,” she said with a rather annoyed look, and then somewhat softer, “I am not really a dating kind of person, you know?”
Martin wasn’t sure he fully understood what she meant, but that was fine and she was clearly still very excited, so he relaxed.
“Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed, I do hope it’s not one of those books Jon goes on about, they aren't exactly...friendly.”
Her eyes lit up once again.
“Oh it's definitely not a Leitner! I do look out for that sort of thing, the interesting thing about the book is though-”
And she went on for a bit, the moment somewhat unimportant in a way but it still churned in Martin’s mind.
-
Things with Sasha...shifted after the Jane Prentiss attack, everyone had different ways to cope with trauma of course, Martin knew that.
Maybe that was the thing really, while Tim, Jon and Martin himself were having a hard time processing (even if Tim and Jon refused to properly acknowledge it) Sasha seemed fine, a few weeks of being shaken maybe and she was now back to her regular old self.
She even had a new boyfriend, Martin had no idea why that irked him so much.
He’d said as much to Tim, who was sitting next to him while both slacked off from their jobs on the stairs to the back courtyard of the institute (why there even was a courtyard was one of the great mysteries of this place).
Tim looked uncharacteristically solemn, seldom did he let his walls down like this.
“I thought I was in love with her you know,” he said rather suddenly, “I mean we’ve been friends for years now and there was- is no one I would rather spend time with, so I mean if not her then- then who?”
He sighed and Martin made comforting noise, trying not to break whatever spell had made Tim genuinely speak about his feelings.
“I mean I figured out I wasn’t in love with her before this whole...thing, we talked about it, I think? Some stuff is hazy. Just- I shouldn’t be jealous you know? She is allowed to have a boyfriend.”
“Your feelings are valid no matter what they are.” Martin said seriously.
Tim sighed and leaned into Martin, who enveloped him in his arms.
“Sure, doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck though.”
And well there wasn’t much Martin could say about that.
After a bit of comfortable hugging silence Tim spoke up.
“Maybe her boyfriend is a vampire though, I totally get to be jealous about a vampire.”
“Tim don’t say that.” he said, trying to hide a smile.
“What?” Tim said, pretending to be serious, “Everything is possible Martin, worm women and all that, I could obviously not compete with a vampire and their sexy glittering skin.”
Martin shook his head, not able to contain his laughter anymore.
“Can’t believe you are exposing yourself as someone who watched Twilight.” he said.
Tim smiled wickedly up at him from where he was still half cuddled into him.
“The fact that you got that reference exposes you in turn,” he said, sticking his tongue out, “Check mate.”
“Touché.”
Then Tim stood up and said:
“Well, Time to go back to our trans containment zone.”
“The fact that we just happen to be trans and were transferred to the archives is a coincidence.”
To that Tim only answered: “Trans-ferred Martin, can’t you see? You cannot call that a coincidence.” winked and back in through the door he went.
Martin let out an exaggerated long suffering sigh.
Back inside they walked to their respective desks.
“Well lets hope work gets lets shit.” Tim said. “That’s such a low bar, and yet.”
“Paciencia y fé.” Martin said, which was in his repertoire of spanish phrases that just didn’t pack the same punch in english along with “ya pasara” and “digamos que si”.
Tim shrugged.
“Don’t think whatever grandmother made up that phrase could have imagined it being applied to our situation.”
“And yet we still have to hope for it to get better don’t we, see it works.”
Tim flashed him one last smile as he sat at his desk and Martin went to put on the kettle.
-
Martin had assumed Jon’s I-don’t-do-that-sort-of-thing included dating as well and it hadn’t bothered him really, he enjoyed clinging to his crush to Jon like a small steady comfort, even if he knew it wasn’t actually going to amount to anything, there was no harm in day dreaming after all and Martin was perfectly capable of caring about him as a friend too, it was harmless.
Of course the fact that he now knew Jon had been staying at his ex-girlfriends place and the fact that Jon might actually date people didn’t really change anything.
At least that is what Martin tried to tell himself as he shakily poured two cups of tea and mustered the courage to walk to Jon’s office.
And he was at least a little right, even if Jon dated people, even if Jon would return his feelings (which Martin really did not let himself dwell on), these were particularly unfavourable circumstances to start a relationship, there was the matter that neither of them was able to string together a conversation, because the mundane ones sounded so inane and hollow and the important ones required being genuine and vulnerable and they might just be somewhat allergic to that.
And there was the matter of the impending apocalypse they had to stop.
Martin knocked on the door and he heard a soft: “Come in, Martin.” from the other side of the door.
The office was a mess as always and Jon looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and had aged about ten years in the last few months.
But Martin’s breath caught in his throat anyway because, as was usual for Jon now, he also looked just a little more...comfortable, as you could anyway. They were wearing a hoodie with cats on it that was just slightly too big and a long flowy patterned skirt.
Jon clearly caught martin staring because he ran his hand through his hair a bit self-consciously and said: “I know it goes against dress code, but I think you get a pass after you get kidnapped by an evil circus.”
“Oh I mean, you look nice, I mean it looks nice on you. I didn’t mean to uhm, stare?”
“It was- I was just joking.”
“Oh.”
They just stared at each other, painful silence falling over them.
Jon broke the silence clearing their throat.
“So... you brought tea?” They said.
“Yeah, it's for you.” Martin said and immediately cringed because who else would he have brought Jon’s favorite chai exactly the way he always takes it.
Jon smiled though, reaching out to take the cup from him. Their hands brushed just a little and Martin's brain briefly shut down and he realised that maybe he should admit to himself he was really hopeless and too far gone.
That is though, how he ended up stupidly staring at Jon’s hands and how he spotted the shiny black ring on the middle finger of his right hand.
“Thats a nice ring, don’t think I have ever seen you wear jewelry before.”
That seemed to snap the tension out of the moment a little, Jon looked down at the ring and smiled a little.
“It's an ace ring,” they said, “I used to wear it a lot a while back, not sure why I fell out of the habit, but now I guess I think I am allowed whatever small comfort I can get.”
They were looking at the ring and then at Martin.
Martin wanted to freeze the image right there, at the small not quite guilty smile Jon had as he looked up at him, at the feeling that things were OK, good even just for a bit.
Then something fell off Jon's desk and they both startled, flinching at the sudden loud noise.
All the worry and tension flooded back into the room immediately.
“Right.” Jon said. “Did you need anything else?”
Martin wasn’t sure how to even answer that.
So he just shook his head and started to leave.
Just before he was about to turn around Jon called his name, Martin turned around to face Jon that seemed to be fighting for the words he wanted to say.
“Yes, Jon?”
“Thank you.”
Martin smiled a sad smile.
“Anytime.”
-
It’t not that Martin had never heard the word asexual before, or that he didn’t know Jon was ace, he’d just never dwelled much on the actual meaning of it.
He had however never heard of ace rings before and he gave it a google for curiosity's sake.
A black ring usually wore on the right middle finger to indicate the wearer is asexual (“ace”).
It seemed nice to Martin, small token of your connection to a community, of course his curiosity did not end there, he had assumed previously Jon didn’t do relationships at all, and if he did, what did asexual mean then?
He found out rather quickly that asexuality was about sexual attraction, and aromantic was another thing all together, he also found out that asexuality didn’t mean a person couldn't have a libido, or like sex.
And maybe he just stood there staring at his laptop screen for a while knowing that sexual attraction had never really made sense to him, maybe it felt like something clicked.
And so knowing he definitely did not have the time or the emotional energy to deal with it he quickly closed his laptop, he had an apocalypse to stop and a boss to dispose of after all.
-
Martin was trying very hard to read Hija de la fortuna by Isabel Allende, every other sentence he sighed and grabbed his phone to look up a word the meaning of which he didn’t know.
It was frustrating, he once had been almost fluid in spanish as a child, but then his dad had left and his mother wasn’t able to and didn’t want to maintain his fluency. He hadn’t exactly had time or money for classes either and so now he attempted to regain some of it by watching movies and reading books.
It was not just the language of course that made it hard, Martin was so entirely full of worry. It was rare he got to spend a day in his flat these days, usually cooped up in the Institute hiding from something, or at the side of Jon's hospital bed talking to him, reading to him on occasion.
The anxiety, the fear, the pain, it had festered into Martin, the tiniest sounds made him jump and even when he got tiny little moments in which he wanted to, needed to, rest he still felt like a watched prey animal, or the full force of grief threatening to crush him.
Today he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing remarkable had happened in a handful of days and it made him uneasy, he was waiting for Melanie to call him about a new attack, he was waiting for Peter to summon him with a weird cryptic request.
And you would think that with all this other worry he wouldn’t be fretting about his sexuality.
But apparently there was plenty of anxiety to go around for all the areas in his life and he just couldn’t get that moment, months ago now, out of his head.
He sighed at set the book aside, grabbing his phone and opening google.
He felt like he was 14 again asking his mother what gay meant and getting only a nasty look in return, or 17 and anxiously looking for a book about being trans in the library.
It was silly to look it up and read articles about how to know you were ace, because he already knew somewhere, but he desperately needed the confirmation.
The third or so blog post he opened was about a woman in her 50’s that had recently figured out she was ace.
Its freeing the article read it’s freeing to be who you are and to understand yourself better, even if you aren’t sure, its OK, it will be OK.
Martin was only crying a little, he laid down his phone and stared at the wall.
He thought about how he had never quite fit, he wasn’t quite english, not with the people asking him where he had come from or asking his mother as a child where she had gotten him from. He wasn’t Bolivian either, he had never been there, his spanish was limited, he could only cook about three and a half recipes that the internet had taught him.
He had never been a woman and he would never fit what society thought of as a man. And what that exactly meant for his relationships.
He never understood other people, but he never thought he was bad enough to seek help for it.
Sexual attraction was vague and he didn’t get it, but in the few relationships he had had in the past he hadn’t minded sex, he enjoyed watching a nice movie together just as much but there was a nicety to it, especially taking care of someone else, having them unravel infront of you. And he had found it weird that he didn’t want anything back, that he felt uncomfortable sometimes.
He imagined he meant he was wrong, like with everything else Martin Blackwood also couldn’t do that right.
But maybe there was something here, in Martins corner of human experience, in the small stack of books about Bolivia that he read, in the trans pin on his backpack and patches he sewed onto his clothes, in calling himself gay man even if that didn’t cover the nuances because it felt good, in the chew necklace that hung around his neck because it eased his anxiety.
Just like all of those things, Martin was ace, he wasn’t wrong or broken he was just different and there were all those other people who were different too and it was nice.
And Martin was crying because of the overwhelming sense of belonging, and because he finally understood Tim when he had once asked “But what does romance even mean, Martin?” and he would never get to tell him, because this is yet another thing he and Jon could have talked about if the world had been kinder to them, this is something he could be talking about to Jon if he wasn’t in a coma.
But even in these miserable circumstances Martin made sense to himself a little more and no one could take that away from him.
-
The past week in the safehouse had been a whirlwind of emotions, but both Jon and Martin were trying, trying hard to heal, to learn how to feel safe again, to love each other.
For all that trying they hadn’t talked about it much, it was hard still, but Martin was quietly holding on to the hope that they would get there.
Today had been quiet, with the biggest setback being that Jon had found it hard to find all the ingredients for the sambar he wanted to make for dinner.
“I know it won't be like my Pāṭṭi (பாட்டி) taught me, but you would think they would at least have coconut.”
Martin found their grumpiness adorable, reveled in the mundaneness of this worry. And he hadn’t been able to contain his laughter when they finally had found coconut and Jon had held it up triumphantly.
The food had been delicious and now they sat on the couch, it was hard Martin craved touch so dearly but it was like stepping into hot water after standing on ice for a while and Jon flinched so often, not used to not being hurt and sometimes Martin’s unnaturally cold skin brought up unpleasant memories.
They could have wallowed in guit and yearning, but they were both stubborn, and so even if it took a while and millions of slow movements and asking if something was OK they managed.
So it was that Jon had his legs draped over Martin's lap, enough to bring comfort, not too much as to be overwhelming, and their hands were lightly on top of eachother.
Jon seemed pensive, but not worried, Martin shot him a questioning glance.
“We went at this in such a sideward way,” Jon said, “I mean we live together now but we haven’t really...talked about it. We never- we never asked?”
There was a beat of silence where Martin just looked at Jon and then a smile spread over Martin's face.
“Jonathan Sims do you want to ask me out?”
Jon averted their gaze in a way that meant even though Martin couldn’t see it they were definitely blushing.
Martin just couldn’t contain his delighted laughter.
“Must you laugh at me,” Jon said, faking offence, he was also smiling now.
A bit of seriousness returned to his voice as he spoke up again.
“I don’t care that we have done it all backwards Martin,” they said, “But, I love you.”
And as he said that Martin stared at him, mouth agape and his heart thundering in his chest, he lost his ability in any language. Jon said it firmly and securely and Martin really didn’t know what he was supposed to do with all the feelings he had, Jon continued however.
“And we don’t have to do anything but it just feels like we are dancing around several conver- Martin? Are you alright?”
It was only then Martin realised he was crying and he could only ask:
“You love me?”
Not because he didn’t know, but because sometimes you just need the confirmation.
Jon squeezed his hand gently.
“Of course I do.”
Martin wanted so badly to answer him, to reproach but he couldn’t, not yet, instead he blurted.
“May I kiss you?”
Jon smiled, a tad nervously.
“That's sort of what I wanted to talk about,” they said, “boundaries?”
Martin understood the necessity of such conversations he really did, but it did not mean he was going to enjoy them.
It did come as a surprise however that Jon suddenly got very nervous and said.
“I mean- I just- I am ace, Martin.”
Martin cokced his head in confusion and said:
“Yeah, I know.”
Jon mirrored his confused look.
“You do?” and then more sour, “You listened to the tape?”
And fine Martin admitted to himself, maybe they should talk more.
“No? You told me, like ages ago.”
Jon laughed, relieved, happy.
“Sorry,” he said, “Ironically my memory is foggy. It has been a rough couple of...years.”
Martin hummed something of affirmation, because he also knew this seemed like a nice moment to come out, and he felt the very familiar anxiety in his belly. Idiotic anxiety because Jon was also ace and there were no stakes in this situation at all.
Maybe it was just the fact that he had never said it aloud.
Martin heard himself speak:
“I think I am too,” and he could hear how stupidly nervous he sounded, “ace, I mean.”
There was a vague ringing in his ear and if he had been in the position to he might have just run out of the room, apparently facing down unknowable monsters didn’t make coming out easier.
His fear was cut down by the fact that Jon was absolutely beaming at him.
“That's great!” they said, “I mean not that I would have minded if- but it is nice to have someone understand, that's all.”
It was, it was amazing to have Jon here smiling up at him holding his hand and understanding him.
“It really is,” Martin said, then gently bringing the back of Jon’s hand to his cheek and leaning into it, “Doesn’t mean we don’t have to talk boundaries though.”
Jon smiled at the small gesture and then said serious:
“I don’t want to have sex, ever.”
Martin knew it sounded like people had tried to debate them on it before and it made his chest ache.
“I know,” he answered and then because honesty was key, “I am not adverse to it, but obviously if you don’t want to, we won’t, ever.”
Jon sat up a bit then, lifting his hand from Martins and gently cupping his cheek. Martin's pulse quickened, his hand moving almost automatically to Jon’s arm.
“How do you feel about kissing?” he asked.
“It's nice,” Jon said, smiling a bit cheekily leaning forward, “So long as it isn’t tongue kissing that is.”
Martin leaned forward until their breaths mingled at their lips where all but touching.
“May I kiss you then?” He asked, breathless.
Jon could only nod and they both leaned forward the last inch.
Time must have stopped for a bit as they kissed, gentle and full of a thousand promises.
They both moved away from the kiss gently, they were both tearing up a little, Martin felt so much so strongly and he pulled away from Jon completely.
“Just need a moment.” he said and smiled at Jon's reassuringly if a bit shaky.
“Take all the time you need,” Jon said and then softer, “Anything you need.”
And Martin was sure he had never loved anyone more.
-
On the fourth day of their third week in Scotland Jon had gone to run some errands in town and had come back with an incredibly nervous air about him they were sitting across from Martin at the table twirling their hair and checking his pocket every once in a while.
It was making Martin incredibly antsy and by the third time Jon had looked like he wanted to say something only to then go back to the crossword he was definitely making no progress on Martin had had enough.
“Sol mio,” Martin said, very much enjoying Jon’s wide eyed flustered he always got when Martin called him pet names. “Will you please tell me what is wrong.”
Jon looked at him sheepishly.
“There is not something wrong, per se.”
Martin gave him a look.
Jon sighed and stood up, grabbing a small box from his pocket.
“Nothing is wrong I just… bought something for you beloved.”
Martin very nearly had a heart attack when Jon opened the box and there was a ring inside. Upon closer inspection it was a beautiful black ring and Martin understood.
There was silence as Martin could do no more but stare at the ring and then at Jon.
“I see how a ring might come over as a gift now,” Jon rambled nervously, “it is not like that- I mean that is something we will have to talk about. I was afraid it would be too much? It is engraved too and I just hope I didn’t-”
Martin cut him off: “Jon let me see it properly.”
Jon handed him the ring.
Martin lifted the ring out of the box and saw the engraving on it.
நான் உன்னைக் காதலிக்கிறேன். I love you. Te amo.
Martin promptly sat down again, it was so sappy, just a tad ridiculous and stupidly cute. It hurt in his chest and tears stung in his eyes.
“How did you know I wanted one?” he asked, because he didn't know what else to say.
Jon rubbed the back of his neck self consciously and said:
“You were talking a few days ago, about how you would like something like a- like a token, to remind you and I thought an ace ring might be nice.”
They lifted their right hand.
“We match now.”
Martin silently moved to put the ring on, it fit perfectly. He ran his fingers over the tiny groves of the words on it.
An anchor.
A small reminder that he belonged, here in the world, here with Jon.
Martin stood up and gently enveloped Jon in a hug.
“Thank you,” he murmured into Jons hair as he placed a small kiss on top of their crown. “It’s perfect.”
(Thank you! - I'm fully aware that this is less of a sentence and more of a wodge of a WIP, I accept full responsibility xD)
(rated T for discussions related to sex – the fic is very loosely about ace!Martin and Jon navigating their relationship in terms of their places on the ace spectrum)
“Do you think we need more towels?” Martin says. It's not the first time tonight he's voiced this particular snag of thought. He gnaws at some skin near his nail bed, standing at their bedroom door, rocking indecisively on his slipper-clad feet. The frown on his face is exactly the same one he gets, a craggy crinkling at his forehead, when he's trying to win their ongoing fight with the combi-boiler.
Jon pokes his head around the door. Sees the duvet carefully folded up and placed in the corner of the room, the bed now patchworked with what looks like every towel from the linen cupboard.
Because Martin's bizarre nesting is quite obviously poorly papering a well and truly brewed-up anxiety, Jon very carefully does not laugh, or smile or permit a single muscle on his face to twitch. His heart does, however, make a fond tumble in his chest.
“I think,” he approaches diplomatically, “there might possibly be too many.”
Martin hums in something that is wavering on agreement, but continues nibbling on his nail.
“I just don't want to have to wash the sheets,” he says.
“Whereas with the setup now, we'll be washing all the towels. I am failing to see the improvement.”
Martin huffs at himself, throwing up his hands irritably.
“It was a stupid idea anyway. It's meant to be spontaneous surely.”
“Martin,” Jon says, and then he leans his body against Martin's in a nudge to knock him free of the frustrated annoyance that's started to rogue his expression. “Martin, it's not stupid. It's not.” Reaching up, he rubs up and down Martin's arm. “Hey. If this isn't working – if this is all a bit - We don't have to do anything, is all I'm saying.”
“... but I bought all those condoms,” Martin says with such a petulant tone that Jon snorts, butting his head against Martin's shoulder.
Martin's first Pride ft. OG Archive Crew. Set sometime during S1.
Martin hangs close to Sasha near a stand selling gaudy accessories and spinning fans while Tim bounds off, shoving cheerfully through the mass of people, promising to search out somewhere that might have something approaching alcohol.
He's been gone a while now, and Martin's been anxiously adjusting his scratchy, over-loose bow-tie to try and distract himself, feeling sweaty and visible and uncomfortable. Sasha and Tim, in their early morning marshalling of their small group, had convinced him to paint his nails in some gauche glittery material that ripples rainbow when the light strikes it. He doesn't like the colour, and he's half ruined it anyway with his picking and fussing. Someone hasn't adjusted the volume controls on whatever system they've set up, and the next song blares out screaming-loud before someone lowers it, and Martin winces at how much it all it, every time someone gets hold of a garbling microphone and hollers something in the distance that gets muffled by a feedback whine.
He keeps checking his phone to make sure his mum hasn't called. He still isn't sure what excuse he'd try.
“What do you think?” Sasha angles her neck up to half-shout in Martin's ear. “For your first one?”
She's better dressed for the day, that's for sure, a flowing cotton summer dress with sewn-on streamers like some particularly striking maypole. She has a fake flower crown and it makes her look like a wispy fae creature. Her earrings dangle and chime, and Martin's glad he's not here on his own.
“Loud,” Martin complains back, and he thinks she laughs and nods in agreement before he's glancing around again at the masses of people. “Are you sure Tim's ok, I really think he should have been back by – ”
“Oy, over here!” comes the shout, and from the assembled gaggle, Tim emerges, looking delighted and smug and red-faced, his cheeks and the top of his nose having caught the sun. He adjusts his cap from where it's been jauntily knocked, and he's somehow gained the most tacky pair of rainbow sunglasses and at least five new roughly slapped on stickers since he vanished.
“Finally!” Sasha shouts back to him. “Took your time!”
“OK!” Tim says, clearly having not heard her or chosen not to. “Firstly, very important, on the alcohol front, ta-dah!” he gestures at his now bulging backpack. “Who's the man, huh, who delivers on his promises?”
“Like some sort of boozy Santa,” Sasha agrees, and unzips the bag to get a better look. “Someone's had a few on the job already!”
Tim makes a face. “Only one!”
“Tim, are you thirteen, what you doing buying us this shite!” Sasha rootles around, pushing the Heineken cans out of the way and pulling half-out the three litre bottle of Frosty Jack's.
“They don't sell White Lightning any more!”
“For good reason!”
“C'mon, it'll be a reminder of old times! A misspent youth...”
“Not all of us hung about the parks getting wankered off cheap cider, Timothy.”
Martin's letting the rhythm of their conversation wash over him. Someone gave him a big beaming grin two minutes ago as they passed, an easy and appreciative look-over, and the heat of that interaction hasn't quite left his cheeks.
“And secondly, if I can be allowed to get a word in edgeways – ”
“You may.”
“A kindness, m' lady.”
“Get on with it, serf.”
“Secondly, guys, look, they were giving them out for free!”
Tim presents his snaffled haul, his palms full of colours and patterns. A collection of cheaply-made paper flags, clearly printed and folded over and stuck onto cocktail sticks. There's a good number of them Martin doesn't recognise, but he doesn't want to feel ignorant by asking, so he keeps quiet.
“Sash, Sash, Sash,” Tim sing-songs at her.
“Tim, Tim, Tim,” she warbles back in a faux operatic voice.
“Got this one 'specially.”
“Charmer,” she smiles, but she allows Tim to stretch up to the height she's achieved with some seriously fuck-off heels, to plant the little flag behind her ear like a flower. She makes a show of preening, twirling it dramatically so the blue, white and pink of the stripes blur together for a moment. “It's acceptable.”
“You're too gracious,” Tim gives a mock bow. He's already stuck his blue, purple and pink flag into one of the belt loops of his jeans, the corner of it already bent slightly at the rough treatment.
He then turns to Martin.
“Let's spruce you up then Marto!”
Martin's in half a mind to refuse. It took a lot for him to even come here, and he's still not quite gotten rid of the tension that's strung across his shoulders. But he sets his jaw and knows he can always pocket them so no-one can see later.
He shyly grabs a multicolour pride flag from Tim's open hands. Then, daring, almost surprising himself, he grabs a second flag.
Sasha gives him an elbow nudge and a smile. Tim gives a whoop and a cheer and attempts to crush them both into a poorly aimed hug, before he shoves the rest of his haul into his trouser pockets.
Martin doesn't stick his own flags anywhere. He holds them fisted in his palm all day, over-aware of them, doing his best to protect them from the tides of people even though they eventually get a bit bashed and crumpled.
Tim's all for spending the night out on the town. But they spend most of the afternoon baking and hot, covered in glitter and day-drinking, finding a park along the way and casting themselves limblessly on the grass, so it's early yet when they start away from the street parties and thumping dance music. Tim ends the day with one cheek striped blue, one pink and his forehead purple, with some face-paint he's somehow gotten somewhere, waxing effusive about someone he danced to Taylor Swift with and didn't get her number: 'stunning, honestly, Martin, she was like one of those hot 1940's Hollywood people.'
“Didn't know you were into grandmas, Tim,” Sasha mumbles, half the words directed into Martin's ruin of hair. She's taken off her heels – which Tim is now holding, having tried and failed to get them to fit – and as the most sober one, Martin's carrying her on his back as she half dozes, sleepy and headachy from the music.
Martin hasn't checked his phone in hours. He's still got the little flags crushed in his grip. Tim keeps trying to hide a bear pride flag on Martin when he's not looking, and giving a giggling squawking protestation whenever he gets caught.
It's been a good day. Martin's head is buzzy on shit cider, and he's lost his bowtie, but he keeps looking at his little flags and smiling.
It's been a really good day, he thinks.
Restored from their dramatic hangovers, Monday comes. Martin arrives huffing and delayed from the Tube to see Tim's stuck his flag so it stands battered and proud over the lid of his laptop. Sasha's made her small desk teddy bear hold hers. And it's the memory of the day, the sun and the heat and the wild dizzying lack of expectations of it all, that gives him the courage to bring the flags he carefully preserved in on Tuesday, to put them jutting out of the mug on his desk that holds his stationery.
Honestly, he doesn't expect anyone to comment on them. It's not like anyone else comes down to their offices anyway.
So it's a surprise when Jon, striding past their desks, stops. Looks at the multicolour flag with its bent edging. Its sister flag, the stripes of grey, white and purple only a little sun-faded.
Tim has been lost to Archive Storage for hours now, Sasha hard cross-referencing over at another department. Martin always feels like he's failed some sort of test he didn't know he was taking, when he's in the room with Jon alone.
Martin stiffens but Jon just looks for moment.
“Where did you get them?” he asks briskly, gesturing.
“Oh!” Martin says, relieved that Jon's not stopped to tell him how poor his filing skills are again. “It was, erm, Pride? At the weekend. Tim, he got some for all of us.”
“Hm,” Jon nods. Still staring at Martin's flags. Especially the one Martin had hesitated over, held that bit tighter in his grip. He has an expression on his face, but Martin doesn't know what it is. He rarely knows how to read Jon.
“I think Tim might still have some!” Martin says, anxious to add something in this interaction he doesn't quite know how to navigate. “If you – you wanted any of your own?”
Jon pauses, gives Martin a sharp look as though annoyed he'd mentioned it, but then his face softens, and he looks at the flags again.
“I'll ask him,” he says, giving a short, hard nod. “No need to disrupt him when he's doing something productive.”
“Right,” Martin says weakly.
Jon gives him another nod, and then he vanishes back into his office, leaving Martin unsure of what's just happened.
(Later that week, Martin sees the flags struck into the soil of Jon's beleaguered desk cactus. The blue, pink and purple flag like Tim's. The grey, purple and white flag like Martin's. He doesn't comment, doesn't think Jon would like the attention. But he smile to see it nonetheless).
Written for Aspec Martin Week – Day 3, Prompt: Frustration
Ace!Jon / Ace!Martin
NB:// this is tagged for internalised acephobia and unhealthy ways of dealing with repression. I've discussed these in greater detail in the tags, or if it’s easier to read, I'm going to put them in the end notes when this goes on A03, so you can prepare yourself more going in if needed.
(If you need me to add tags, send me a message, and I’ll gladly)
You know lots of words.
You don't use them. That's not what they're for. They sit and fizz under your tongue like sugar pills, a crackling burst of flavour like popping candy. You're not so good, are you, with getting the words out. All those words you know and you dredge up seaweed and detritus and plastic from your sea-beds when it's time to speak. The words you want to use stuck between your molars, flattened like stuck toffee behind your slightly bucked teeth. You used to have a stutter, when you were younger, and the poorly-set bone fragments of that linger.
You collect them though. Words. It's easier. You press the petals of them into the back of your notebooks, line the corners of your nest with them. You like to admire them, the carefully noted lines and lines of obscurities.
Some of them are about Jon.
On earlier pages, you wrote saw-toothed, caustic, mettlesome. Evolving to revenant, indomitable, hallowed.
Your word for Jon at the moment, your most recent, ink-damp addition is lucent.
[lucent (adj), you wrote, meaning: giving off light, glowing, or being clear, translucent]
Since you came to the cottage, Jon's shown you everything. Like he's sworn off anything but an intense, avowed honesty, like if he's not offering you his everything, he's somehow failing you. He shows you all the places he is glass and trusts you to look through.
He sits by the window wearing the biggest jumper you own, and the light patters through him and he has his eyes closed like he's sleeping or praying or giving grace and you think of him as shining.
All of your words, and still you're so prone to lying.
–
You should be used to this.
You are kissing. Jon caught you mid-lecture on the appropriate footwear for the ground this home is founded on, and smiled and there suddenly wasn't any words for you to use at all. Jon has his fingers tangled in your hair, and you have a palm splayed steady at the dip of his back.
He plants a hand on your hip. There is an ossified mass in your chest that's gathering bigger, and it's nerves, it's always nerves with you, the stutter in your soul that never played out.
“You want to...?” he asks, and he glances up at you with a dappling light across his face that follows the streak of his giddy smile, and he looks antic, elfish. The hand on your hip gives a suggestive, implying squeeze.
You wait for him to add more, but he doesn't, so you lean back down like the submitting bough of a willow branch, distract him with another bruising collision of a kiss and hope it will drive all thoughts from his head.
Finally, you separate. He kisses like he used to talk, like he wants the last word in an argument, so every kiss is chased by a follow-up, a softer imprint like the closing of a wax seal.
His hands work on the top button of your shirt.
“Would you like to....?” he asks again, short-winded, his breath a little more gone from him than you. He even tries to wink. It's goofy, purposefully, looks silly on him, and all this feels too heavy.
This is not the first time you have done this, but it's never been right before. It'll be better. It's with Jon, you want this with him, you can do this with him and it'll be everything you've always suspected it could be for everyone but you.
You surge against his lips again so he can't see your nerves, you stupid, unfounded, calcifying anxieties, the barriers you keep putting up yourself because you are so terrified of being happy.
“Maybe... not tonight?” you mumble into your shared air. If he pushed, if he asked again, you would. He dragged you from the shoreline, out of the fog, this is the least you can give him. You'd lie on your back, or you'd cover him with your shape, and you'd try so hard to make him happy so he wouldn't notice you not sharing the same. “'m a bit tired.”
Tricky, is what you are. Perjurious. Prevaricating. Two-faced.
You're not tired. The lie makes your tongue swell, like allergies, hay-fever, rigor mortis. Something damningly biological.
These days, Jon is artless, candid, forthright. Everything is a solemn rite, a service he's engaging in that he thought he was unsanctified for.
You are the most proficient dealer in dishonesties you know. It's a growth, down to the bones.
“Alright,” Jon says lightly, like he's not disappointed, like you haven't been substandard, below par, vexing. “Do you want to continue this for a while? Or, you know, we've still not done that jigsaw.”
His easy joy is so bright it shames you. You wish the Lonely had eaten that emotion out of you.
“That jigsaw's not going to solve itself,” you say, and Jon smirks, and moves away but keeps your hand locked in his, and for a while you allow yourself the easy deception of being uncomplicatedly happy.
–
You are a solecism.
It's a useful word. It's all the words you've ever misspoken, all the poorly expressed sentiments, the wrong things you should have said or felt or been, but didn't or weren't. It's the stammer you've got ingrained in the warp and weft of you.
You are in bed, and you are kissing again. You like kissing. The pressure and huff of air. You like holding Jon's head in your hand, stroking the stubbled skin down his chin, the abrasive landscape that travels down. Scar-shiny crags and rises, his personal geography. You like looking at the evidence of his survival. If you scrape your blunt nails against his scalp, he'll take a ragged in-breath; when you press a little harder, nip with teeth against the skin of his lips, he'll sigh and hum. And you like these things too.
You've been kissing for a while now. You've been worrying whether it is acceptable to carry on like this. If you should be doing something more. If you have to.
You are on your side, and Jon has slipped his hand over your hip. Moving it up to the bunching skin circling your stomach. You breathe out shaky, because his hands are algid, nippy – 'God, Jon, you're freezing,' you complain, and he smirks, gives another goofy eyebrow raise, 'are you going to let me warm up then?'. He moves them again and he must take the noise you make as encouragement, as desired – stop it, you've done this before, it's not so bad, it's Jon now, it'll be alright this time – and traces them further up to skate over the more delicate skin below your collarbone, over your chest.
You know he's looking at you. He rarely blinks these days. He watches because he wants to see you happy, wants to know he's making you happy, cataloguing the things that bring you joy like the words you scribe at the back of your notebook.
You've never told him that you've never caught the art of this act, that you know what he wants, and that it makes your stomach fizz like you've swallowed all the words you can never say, how it's not like the books make it sound, not like all the poetry you wish you could understand. You never feel buzzing, live-wire, heady, champagne-drunk on an overwhelming, delirious passion. You feel anxious, deep-down heartsick, overthinking and second-guessing what you're meant to be doing.
But there are some parts of it that are nice, you guess. And Jon loves you, you Saw that, you see that. And if it's the admission price for all the other things, the hand-holding and kissing and the waking up with him coiled around you like a warm and sweaty bracket, then it doesn't matter, does it, not really. You've borne worse in this world for less.
“Do you want to...?” He says, and brushes his palm over your chest again. You nod, make an encouraging sound, and you don't flinch. You make to pull him closer, so his weight pushes the air out from you, and his knee has moved between your legs, and you don't flinch, and your body shores up its well-hammered armour, and he kisses you again, deeper, wetter, and your eyes clench shut even as you hum an appreciative noise, because you know that this is easier in the dark.
The weight lifts suddenly, pushing back and away.
“Martin?”
“Hm?” you ask, opening your eyes again, unsure as to why you've stopped. Jon is staring down at you, face frowning, and whatever he sees, it has him sit back on his hunches. Hair askew, eyes dark, unblinking. He fumbles around for the beside light.
You sit up slightly. You feel cold again. Frigid. Hyperborean.
“I-is everything ok?” you prompt. Jon's frown deepens like a fissure, and you wish he'd stop looking at you like he wants to solve you.
“Something's.... I Know something's not right,” he says, distractedly, looking down at his scar-seared palms. Then he looks back at you.
“Is everything alright with you?” he asks back.
“Yeah! W-why wouldn't it be?”
“Are you... do you want to do this?”
The heart in you cadaverous. You lean closer because he's too far away, because you don't want to be alone, because you don't like the creeping distress that casts itself across like shadow over his face. He leans back, keeping a distant point of orbit. Perigee. He's close, but not in your atmosphere, he's close but he won't touch you and you can hear your own voice getting pitchy.
“Course I do!”
“Do you want me to take it slower?”
“No...”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, it's not – ”
“It's... you don't seem happy, Martin. There – there's something wrong, I can, I know it...”
“Maybe I don't like you using your bloody mind-reading powers when we're in bed together, Jon,” you snap.
Jon winces.
“I can't exactly switch it off,” he says, obviously hurt.
His eyes roaming over you, peripatetic, taking in all the parts of you you are desperate for him not to look too closely at.
Jon is breviloquent. He doesn't amble along to what he's going to say, he's direct and terse and brief as he needs to be.
“Is this – is this ok?” he asks again.
You realise you're breathing a bit harder. Force yourself to relax, showcase an almost easy smile. Because this is what you're excellent at. Evading. Equivocating. There's not an honest answer you couldn't twist into incomprehension, there's not a simple option you can't complicate because you worry and overthink and fuck it up for everyone else.
“Just nerves, I guess,” you hear yourself say. “We can... let's keep going, I'm sure I can build myself up to it.”
You reach out a hand to his, and he yanks it away. And that, that hurts. Like tearing scab-tissue, like splitting skin.
“Build yourself...” he repeats with a tinge of something horrified. “Martin, you don't have to make yourself do anything, why are you – ?”
“I'm not making myself.” You've started breathing wobbly now, desperate. Why did you have to mess up this performance with him, when he's right here and he wants you, and you can't get through dress rehearsals, never mind opening night because you can't remember your lines, where your feet should stand, what words you need to trot out of your mouth. “I – I'll, I'll manage, ok, it'll be fine, c-can we just forget this and carry on?”
Still he won't stop looking at you, won't get any closer, and you feel like crumbling.
Jon's voice has dropped soft.
“I'm not just going to forget it. Martin, you're not comfortable, you're not happy, how can I ignore that?”
“It doesn't matter,” you say, “it's nothing, it's stupid, it doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Adamantine. Headstrong.
Jon pauses in the shallow waters of the awkward silence. He reaches out, and takes your hand. Laces your fingers together, and the ossuary in your chest loosens.
“I don't trust... I don't want to ask you questions,” he finally says. “In case I... well. You know. But I'd like to understand. I want you to feel that you can tell me anything, even if you think it's not what I want to hear.”
You are suddenly so very tired of pretending with him. His brightness keeps finding the cracks in you you've poorly papered up, and it fills you with something that could be bravery if it didn't leave you feeling so hollow.
“I don't know if I can,” you reply. You sound burnt out, structurally compromised in the yellowing halo of light. You sound ashen, like you've been set on fire.
He clenches the hand he's holding, and waits. He'd keep waiting, you realise. Even if you never said the words out loud, he'd be patient.
“I can't,” you try again – Christ, it's Sisyphean, Herculean, “I can't – it's not, it's not you, although I-I'm sure everyone says that, right, but it's not. I thought, finally with the right person, I could... but it's – I can't. I can't be what you want me to be. I don't – I don't think I want the same things.”
“You mean a relationship?” Jon asks, eiderdown soft. He shrinks in on himself at the idea, but holds his head high, doesn't lose your gaze.
“N – no,” you say quickly, needing him to understand. “No. I-I want that. I want you. I love you.”
“Then what...?” he prompts.
You feel the gravel of the words under your tongue.
“I don't... I don't like it. The – when we – I don't want it, and I know that's not what you want to hear, and I'm sorry, and it's me, I can't just get out of my head and make this work, and I know it must be disappointing....”
“You don't want to have sex?”
You cringe in on yourself as he lays it out. He's always been better at jigsaws than you.
“If you – we can! - it's not, it's not such a big deal, right! Just give me a few minutes, I can work through it – ”
“Martin,” he grumbles out, and he's shuffled closer, captured your other flailing hand. “I don't need to have sex with you. And if it's not something you're comfortable with, then I don't want to have sex with you.”
“It's not about – about being comfortable, it's about making each other happy.”
“I am happy! You make me happy! I don't need sex. And it's hardly making you happy, is it?”
“That's not the point.”
“It is! Of course it is.” He deflates. Reaches up. Wipes your cheek and his fingers come away damp. “Explain it to me. Please.”
You spit the words out like sunflower seeds.
“I've never... I don't, I mean, I-I have, this isn't, y-you know, the first time, but it's not something I-I like, necessarily, a-and I'm not, I don't think I'm made like that. And I know, it's – it's not what you want to hear...”
“Martin.”
He stops you and you clamp your mouth against the onslaught.
Fractography is the study of cracks, or flaws in a material or structure. It works through observing broken, collapsed, irreparable things and figuring out what final weight snapped its back. It works through observing things unweathered by life, predicting where stresses and pressures might eventually start to form. You are worried Jon will look at you like something due to shatter.
“Martin, I think we need to talk. I think we should have talked before.”
Your voice, miserable, dull with expectation: “If you're breaking up with me....”
“No – no, oh god, Martin, of course not.”
He shuffles closer, lies back down next to you, pats the pillow to indicate that you should join him.
You slide down. He clasps your hands against his breast, and he's so close he's blurry, the air between you warm and dense, your bodies making a cocoon.
“Shall I go first? If that's ok?”
You nod.
“Alright,” he says, and for a second, you just listen to him breathing. “So, I'm asexual. I don't experience sexual attraction to people. Romantic attraction, yes, definitely. I've been in relationships with em, mostly women, a couple of men, and generally they didn't have, shall we say a physical element. But I've been in love. A few times. I'm in love with you, in case – in case you didn't know.”
He says it so matter-of-factly. You can see some of that light shining from the insides of him, incandescent when the words leave his lips.
“And I'd be lying if I said I didn't think you were attractive, aesthetically speaking. But I don't – it's hard to explain, but I don't want to have sex with you, you know, want want. I don't have that urge. But I have been in a few relationships, where I've had sex. Not often, and I don't mind the experience personally, though I can take it or leave it. I like to be involved if my partner enjoys it, and that's – that's what I thought we were doing here. You didn't seem like you were going to make the first move, and I wanted to make you happy, because I thought it was something that you'd like to do together. Like doing jigsaws, or or listening to the radio. I should have – I should have checked. I should have explained first.”
“The word,” you say, dry-mouthed.
“Pardon?”
“The word. What's the … the word you said?”
“Asexual.”
You mouth it to taste the sound. Wonder if you'll write it at the back of your notebook, next to deflagrate and ideoneous.
“That's... that's a new one to me,” you say slowly.
Jon's eyes go lower, go sad. He strokes the dampness from your face again.
“B-but I like kissing,” you say quietly. Because if this word means no intimacy, then you couldn't bear it, the way Jon held himself apart from you before. “I – I like hugs, and holding hands, a-and you know, relationshipy stuff like that. S-so I can't be... can I... those things are all part of it right, so I can't.... And my body, it has – ”
Here, you redden, the stalks of your words knotting.
“– it has r-reactions, i-i-in the mornings, and sometimes if I'm a bit stressed or I can't sleep, I want to, y-you know, sort myself, and that's....”
“These things don't disqualify you,” Jon says earnestly. “It's not something someone will give you a test on. It's personal. It's a personal thing. It's no less valid than anything else. But I want nothing from you that you don't want to freely give. Not because you think I need it, or you think it's the only thing I want from you.”
“Oh,” you say, and for a moment, you have no words left.
Jon waits.
“I don't want to have sex with you,” you manage finally. Small-worded, slipshod voiced.
Jon nods.
“Alright. That's alright.”
“I – ” You try again, and he makes an encouraging expression, and your sentence staggers forward. “I don't, I won't ever want to.”
“That's alright,” he replies.
“Yeah?” you croak, feeling your eyes go blurry with damp.
“Yeah,” Jon says.
You let him hold you for a long time after that. His fingers stroke your back, scrunch and scratch soothing motions in your hair.
“Asexual,” you repeat the word after a long while quiet.
“Hm,” Jon says. “There are some websites, I could show you. When you're... if you're ready.”
“I'd like that,” you say, and you mean it. You make no effort to move.
“There's even a flag,” Jon continues.
“Yeah?”
“Hm. It's pretty cool. Greys and white and purple. I think I've got some socks with the colours somewhere. One of my exs got me a bi-flag set, and an asexual set. ”
You give a wet laugh, imagining Jon's garish footwear.
“What a striking look,” you tease, and Jon elbows you and responds that it's incredibly dashing, thank you very much.
You linger in this liminal doze for a long time. For once, you feel like nothing is expected of you at all.
“You want to get up?” Jon says, yawning wide, cat-like. “Have another go at that jigsaw?”
“ Let's stay here a little longer?” you murmur. Your t-shirt is starting to stick to your skin. Jon's petting has made your hair go haywire, bed-headed. You don't quite want to let this go just yet.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Martin Crieff/Douglas Richardson
Characters: Douglas Richardson, Martin Crieff
Additional Tags: Unconventional Relationship, Asexual Relationship, Platonic Romance
Summary:
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Martin Crieff & Arthur Shappey
Characters: Martin Crieff, Arthur Shappey
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Asexuality
Summary:
Arthur! You know what you are? In a word? Brilliant.
