a completely avoidable romance — martin edwards
in which two dumb idiots share one brain cell
a martin crackfic.
martin had the kind of face museums trusted instinctively.
this was unfortunate, because he was standing in the italian renaissance wing whispering, with priestly seriousness, that one of the cherubs “absolutely had access to cryptocurrency before the crash.”
“look at him,” you murmured back, staring up at the painting. “that baby has liquidated assets.”
the cherub in question possessed the damp, doomed expression of a tiny duke moments before bankruptcy. somewhere behind you, a docent shifted uneasily. martin noticed immediately. naturally, instead of stopping, he doubled down with the terrifying calm of a man reversing a car directly toward a lake.
“no, genuinely,” he continued, hands folded behind his back like a lecturer at oxford, “observe the posture. that is not innocence. that is a child who says things like ‘my father’s shipping empire will recover.’”
you nodded. “there’s cocaine in that baby’s summer home.”
the docent approached with the brittle smile of someone attempting diplomacy with raccoons. she informed you both, politely, that visitors were asked not to “disrespect the artwork.”
martin looked sincerely wounded. “i’m engaging with it emotionally.”
“you called a cherub a tax evader.”
“allegedly,” he corrected.
you might have escaped intact if you had not, at precisely that moment, stepped toward another painting and whispered, much too audibly, “oh my god, this one looks like he names boats after ex-wives.”
the museum removed you twenty minutes later with admirable professionalism. no raised voices. no scene. just two security guards escorting you through the lobby while martin attempted to argue that renaissance patronage was inherently comedic.
outside, the rain had started in that thin london drizzle that feels less like weather and more like passive aggression from the sky. martin stood under the awning, hands in his coat pockets, visibly trying not to laugh.
you stared at him. “this is your fault.”
“interesting interpretation,” he said. “counterpoint: you accused the madonna of insider trading.”
“because she knew something.”
that did it. he bent forward suddenly, laughter escaping him in one sharp burst before he pressed a hand against his mouth as though physically restraining the rest of it. martin laughed with his entire skeleton. not elegantly. not attractively, exactly. it arrived in violent installments, shoulders hitching, head dropping, the composure leaving his body like tenants evacuating a condemned building.
then he straightened, immediately regaining dignity with almost offensive efficiency.
“well,” he said smoothly, “at least we were banned together.”
“romantic.”
“very. next anniversary we can get escorted out of the british library.”
the problem with martin was that he treated bad ideas the way victorian naturalists treated exotic birds: with intense curiosity and absolutely no instinct for self-preservation.
three nights later, this became relevant in the kitchen.
“i think,” martin announced, staring at the cookbook as though it had personally insulted him, “that the author is lying.”
you were seated on the counter eating shredded cheese directly from the bag. “about what?”
“timing. there is no universe where onions become translucent in four minutes. that is propaganda.”
the kitchen already looked distressed. flour dusted the counters in pale handprints resembling forensic evidence. something wet and orange had achieved legal ownership of the floor near the sink. the air smelled faintly of garlic and impending litigation.
you slid off the counter. “okay, move. you’re stirring wrong.”
“there’s no wrong way to stir.”
“there absolutely is. you’re agitating them emotionally.”
martin scoffed. “they’re onions.”
“exactly. fragile people.”
the argument escalated with astonishing speed.
within six minutes, you were both speaking over each other with the fervor of rival attorneys arguing a murder case before the supreme court.
“you cannot sauté on vibes alone—”
“watch me.”
“that pan is too hot.”
“heat builds character.”
“that is something abusive fathers say.”
martin pointed the wooden spoon at you. “you added paprika without consulting me.”
“i didn’t realize the united nations oversaw soup.”
“this isn’t soup.”
“not with that attitude.”
then the oil caught fire.
not dramatically at first. just a sudden bloom of orange in the pan, almost elegant. for one strange second, both of you stared at it with detached academic interest.
martin broke the silence first.
“that feels significant.”
the smoke alarm detonated overhead with the spiritual intensity of a baptist preacher witnessing sin firsthand. the apartment erupted into chaos. you grabbed a dish towel and immediately made everything worse. martin seized the pan with alarming confidence for a man who had once injured himself opening aspirin.
“don’t move it!”
“i’m not moving it,” he shouted, actively moving it.
somewhere amid the smoke, the front door burst open.
james stood there holding an iced coffee and the expression of a man arriving at pompeii.
he took in the scene slowly: the burning pan. your coughing. martin swearing with aristocratic precision while attempting to smother flames using what appeared to be a linen napkin.
james blinked once.
“i genuinely don’t think you two should be allowed near civilization.”
“we’re handling it,” martin said.
behind him, something crackled ominously.
“that sentence has never once been true.”
seonghyeon appeared next, peering around the doorway. he looked eerily calm, which somehow made the situation feel worse. “why,” he asked mildly, “does it smell like a shipwreck?”
“small complication,” you wheezed.
juhoon leaned into the apartment, saw martin holding the pan at arm’s length like cursed treasure, and immediately started laughing so hard he had to crouch against the wall.
keonho arrived last, took one look at the smoke gathering near the ceiling, and quietly said, “i’m calling emergency services preemptively.”
“don’t be dramatic,” martin snapped.
the pan emitted a noise usually associated with medieval warfare.
keonho already had his phone out.
somehow — through means neither legal nor scientific — dinner still happened.
not the original dinner, obviously. that had become carbon. but eventually there was takeout spread across the coffee table, six people eating cross-legged while the apartment smelled faintly of smoke and irreversible mistakes.
martin, freshly showered, looked offensively composed again. dark sweater. damp hair. the kind of face luxury watches get marketed beside. meanwhile, there was still flour inexplicably on his ear.
you pointed at it. “you missed some.”
he narrowed his eyes. “where.”
“left side.”
he rubbed the wrong side immediately.
juhoon made a strangled noise into his drink.
james stared at the ceiling for a long moment before speaking. “i need all of you to understand something. from an outside perspective, this relationship looks less like dating and more like two highly intelligent raccoons learning how door handles work.”
“that’s unfair,” martin said.
“you tried to extinguish a grease fire by blowing on it.”
martin paused. “in hindsight—”
“no,” said seonghyeon. “don’t even finish that sentence.”
you leaned against martin’s shoulder without thinking. he adjusted automatically to make room for you, still arguing with james about whether fire technically counted as “an ingredient.” it happened so naturally neither of you seemed to notice.
everyone else did.
keonho looked between the two of you with the exhausted resignation of a man watching mutual destruction occur in slow motion. “you know what the worst part is?”
“what?”
“you genuinely make each other more powerful.”
martin considered this. “that feels true.”
“it shouldn’t.”
there was also the courtroom incident.
not a real courtroom. worse.
ikea.
it began over a lamp.
the lamp itself was hideous — enormous, asymmetrical, shaped vaguely like an object found in the ocean after a curse. martin loved it instantly.
“absolutely not,” you said.
“you lack vision.”
“you lack neurological caution.”
martin lifted the lamp carefully. “this is art.”
“this is what happens when designers start resenting the public.”
within minutes, the disagreement had evolved into a full legal proceeding conducted in hushed but venomous tones somewhere between the shelving units.
martin argued for the defense. you represented society at large.
he gestured toward the lamp with chilling sincerity. “may i remind the court that innovation has historically been mocked.”
“yes, and history also gave us the titanic.”
“irrelevant.”
“highly relevant. both structurally confusing.”
a nearby employee slowed down visibly to listen.
martin noticed. naturally, this encouraged him.
“your honor,” he said to the horrified employee, “the prosecution fears beauty.”
the employee, nineteen years old and making minimum wage, looked ready to fake a medical emergency.
you pointed accusingly at martin. “this man would absolutely buy a chair that cannot legally support a human spine.”
“because i believe in risk.”
“you microwave forks.”
“once.”
“twice.”
he drew himself up with grave dignity. “those were exploratory incidents.”
by the time james found you, a small crowd had formed.
he stood motionless for several seconds watching martin cross-examine you about “aesthetic cowardice” beside decorative storage containers.
finally he turned to seonghyeon and asked, very quietly, “do you think if we leave now they’ll notice?”
seonghyeon watched martin attempt to use a measuring tape like courtroom evidence. “not immediately.”
the thing was, martin could become frighteningly serious when it mattered.
that was almost worse.
once, at a party crowded with expensive people performing wealth at each other, somebody made a dismissive comment toward you. casual cruelty. the socialite version. delicate as a knife slipped between ribs.
martin’s entire demeanor changed.
not loudly. that would have been easier.
he just went still in a way that altered the temperature nearby. one moment relaxed and amused, the next carrying the calm menace of a man who knew exactly where all the exits were.
the conversation around you faltered.
martin smiled pleasantly at the offender. “what a strange thing to say out loud.”
the room quieted by instinct.
he did not raise his voice. he did not need to. his politeness sharpened into something almost surgical.
“i think,” he continued gently, “if you’re going to embarrass yourself publicly, you should at least have the decency to commit properly.”
afterward, outside in the cold night air, you stared at him.
“that was hot.”
martin looked offended. “i was defending your honor.”
“yeah. hot.”
he scoffed, opening the car door for you with unnecessary aggression. “you looked confused trying to find the bathroom fifteen minutes earlier.”
“i was drunk.”
“you opened a broom closet with confidence.”
“there were vibes.”
“there were mops.”
you climbed into the car laughing so hard your ribs hurt. martin got in beside you still muttering insults under his breath, though his hand found your knee automatically in the dark like it belonged there.
which, increasingly, it did.
not with dramatic realization. not with cinematic declarations. it happened quietly, through accumulated absurdities. shared glances across disastrous situations. the unconscious teamwork of two people uniquely equipped to make each other worse in the most enjoyable possible way.
like learning a language accidentally and discovering someone else already speaks it fluently.
the truly dangerous thing about martin was not that he was charming.
it was that being around him made every terrible idea feel briefly ordained by god.
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