A day late, here's my ficlet for @tmaappreciationweek Day 3: Alternate Universe. It's inspired by this tumblr post
Jon's had several centuries now to come to terms with both his immortality and his all-encompassing but unrequited infatuation with one Martin Blackwood. The immortality, you can imagine, was much easier to grasp. When he was a boy, his grandmother had told him tales of the bloodsucking monsters in the hills, and Jon had the misfortune to not properly believe her and be full of unquenchable curiosity. He'd mostly abided by her rules as a child, having had one close call that instead claimed a neighbor, but in adulthood, he had found an excuse to travel into the hills in search of something or other for his village—he can't even remember properly anymore. Going on a thousand years later, he's still paying for it. He supposes that's why he's madly in love with Martin, a kind of exquisite cosmic torture for his sins. He'll love this man until the end of time and crave a kind of intimacy he cannot have that surpasses the cravings for blood. Chalking most of the negative things in his very long life up to paying for his sins has become so standard that, the moment he recognizes his handwriting in a display case, he immediately wonders if this will finally be the moment he's earned forgiveness for his foolishness as a young man. Jon and Martin had met up for their usual Saturday afternoon excursion, this time revisiting a museum to see a new exhibit on Victorian era letters and documents. Martin had joked as they walked in that he hoped he'd see one of his early poems here, since he'd lost a whole wooden box of them during a move a hundred years ago. They've been wandering slowly through the exhibit, Martin's arm looped through Jon's in the casual way they've developed, and have recognized the handwriting of a few other vampires they've come to know, but so far, none of Martin's poems. Until they come across Jon's handwriting instead. "Jon?" Martin asks, using his free hand to point to it. "That's…that's your—" He trails off, eyes glued to the words on the aged page. It's a letter Jon thought he'd burned over 150 years ago, and what little color his skin carries now is flushed away as he remembers the agony under which he'd penned it. He and Martin had spent the day at the World's Fair, much like this day at the museum, and there had been a moment when one of Jon's remarks had been returned by Martin with such affection that Jon had dared to hope. He wrote all of his burning feelings out on the page and determined to give it to Martin on their next meeting. The exact words Martin had said that made Jon hold back the letter have been forgotten now, but Jon remembers the coldness that spread through his limbs as Martin made a remark about the solidity and dependability of their friendship. Jon had never given the letter over. And now, it's here, his own handwriting laying him bare in this very public space. "That's—that's me," Martin is whispering now, getting closer to the display to read the words again, his expression hungry. Then he turns to Jon, eyes wide. "Jon, what…?" Jon takes a deep breath, even as meaningless as oxygen is for his system now, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He tries a few times, opening and closing it, and he scrutinizes Martin's expression as he does so. He has absolutely no idea what's going on in his friend's mind, and terror takes root in his soul. Is he about to lose his best friend? "All this time, and you've never told me?" Martin finally breaks the silence, stepping close to Jon. "You really felt that way?" Jon nods, a lump in his throat now. "D-do you…" At least seeing an opening, Jon dives into it headfirst. "I have loved you for hundreds of years," he says softly, taking a step to fill the decreasing gap between them. "How could I not, Martin?" Martin, eyes wide and flashing, smiles brightly back. "You idiot," he says, and then leans down to kiss Jon.