Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind slammed the door to the cab shut as soon as Jon let go of it. The road wouldn't let them go any further, the driver had said, there was a tree in it or some other issue. His hair blew into his face and for a moment he was distracted enough to marvel at how long it had gotten; he hadn’t had time to get it cut since his first round of publishing. Then the beating rain and wind yanked at his bag, straining his fingers, and he remembered he was in the eye of a storm. He turned to tip the driver, but he had already gone, fleeing the harsh weather. Figures. 

He stood on a cobbled road maybe 50 meters from the shoreline, in front of what might have been the warmest and most welcoming building he’d seen in his life. The mid-sized lodge was built of weathered wood and steady stonework, all the vintage charm and brightly painted doors that Jon used to despise when he was a child. It looked like a fairytale cottage had expanded to fit guests. This sort of place was always catering to some inconsiderate population of tourists. The sign out front creaked and swung in the wind, still valiantly displaying the name: The Seabed B&B. The lot out front was empty, and while the lobby lights were on, very few of the rooms looked occupied, at least from the outside. With nowhere else to go, he stumbled towards it.

By the time he got past the doorway and into the main lobby, he had been hit with enough rain to form miserable puddles on the kitschy, worn-looking rug. The front desk was run by a lean, attractive man with an expressive face. “Welcome to The Seabed. You look like you could use a room and a phenomenal cuppa.” The name on his little namecard read: Tim Stoker, Owner. 

If Jon was in a better mood, he might have responded with something other than “Yes, well. It appears I don’t have a better option.” After taking a moment to consider how improper that was, he tried to soften it, feeling a bit like a cat that had been caught out in the rain. “Room for one. Please.” He offered his credit card. 

Tim didn’t lose even a fraction of his cheer as he plucked the card for Jon’s fingers. He gestured with his other hand at the cozy sitting area at the front of the lobby. There was a sizable fireplace at the center, with a welcoming ledge of brick to sit on. There was also a rack for his coat. “Go ahead and dry off while I get this sorted for ya,” Tim offered, and then he made his way off towards the desk.

Jon peeled off his coat and left it on the rack, moving close in towards the warmth. As the chill left his bones, it was replaced with exhaustion that made it difficult to keep his eyes open. Eventually, he was shaken out of his stupor by Tim’s hand on his shoulder. “Alright, you’ve got room three.” He offered a key and an extra towel. “Let me know if you want any complimentary food or tea. You look like you could use it.” 

Jon thanked him, and slowly trudged over to the direction he was pointed in. He could really use a hot shower, and then he could get to work.

Martin fumbled around at the top of the ladder. Its unsteady legs were definitely not made for someone of his stature, but he was determined to get up the garlands and holly in time for Christmas. The poor weather this winter kept most people away from the Seabed, but it was the spirit that counted, right? 

He secured another section to the wall with as much precision that he could hope for, and then leaned out just a bit further, to try and get the next one. The ladder beneath him complained with a screaming creak. 

“Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, but it quickly turned into “Ohhh no, oh no,” and then “shit, shit shit!” The ladder buckled under the last straw, and clattered out from under him. His stomach dropped and his heart leapt into his throat before he felt himself plummet. 

He braced himself for the cold hard floor, but instead landed on something warm and pointy, but altogether softer than he had expected. Still dizzy from the fall, he leaned into the warmth with a pitiful groan. 

The cushion to his fall squirmed beneath him, and it slowly, humiliatingly, became apparent to Martin that he was currently on top of a person. 

“Oh, Christ, I- “ he started, scrambling to get up off of the poor soul he had just crushed. “I am so very sorry, the ladder, it just- well it wasn’t very stable, and I had no idea you were there, and well… are you okay?” His face burned as he rambled.

The person he had fallen on just remained sat on the floor, staring up at him with a look of disdain. Martin wasn’t sure if it was the glare that made his stomach flop, or just how pretty they were. They had just-darker-than-olive skin and grey streaked hair that might have once been neat, but was now slightly damp and shoulder-length overgrown. 

“Can’t you be more careful?” they grumbled in a low rumbling voice. “Yes, I’m fine.” 

By some miracle, Martin’s customer service instincts kicked in, overriding the static of his brain. “Oh! That’s- that’s good. I’m glad you’re alright.” He reached out a hand to help them up, and after giving him a suspicious once-over, the stranger took it. They were surprisingly easy to lift. “I’m Martin. I, uh, I help out around here. Let me know if you need anything?”

Once standing, the stranger yanked his hand away with a jerk, like Martin had burned them. “Right. I’m Jon. Jon Sims.”

The name rang a distant bell in Martin’s mind. “I feel like I’ve heard that name before.” 

The look on Jon’s face morphed briefly from frustration to something more bashful. “I’m an author. Fiction. You’ve probably seen a book by Jonathan Sims.” 

Martin felt the little light turn on in his head. “Yes, actually! I’ve never read them, though.” That wasn’t entirely true, he’d picked up the hardcover copy and skimmed the back and inside cover. He remembered going ‘ Oh! He’s from Bournemouth’. It felt relatable at the time. He didn’t buy the book, since hardback books are expensive. It was strange to know the hometown of someone he’d never met, so Martin kept it to himself. “I mostly read poetry.”

Jon just gave him a dismissive scoff. “It’s not for everyone.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. It was such a tired, frustrated thing that Martin started to reassure him before he spoke. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work. Try to be more careful on ladders in the future, Martin.” Jon’s dark eyes flicked up to meet Martin’s one last time. And then he was gone. 

Martin stood in the hallway a minute, gawking and thinking. Then, finally, he turned back to the ladder that was now collapsed on the floor. Those decorations weren’t going to put up themselves.

Jon’s shower was not as nice as he was hoping. It was not for the lack of warm water to soothe his new bruises, or the shampoo, which smelled like juniper. The weight that had been floating over him as soon as he found out he would not be able to go past Bournemouth was supposed to have lifted as he relaxed, instead it settled into his slouched shoulders. 

He needed to contact Elias, he knew that much. Then, he had about four thousand words he needed to get into his next draft in the next few days, which out of the two felt like the much more manageable task. He spent about 5 minutes staring at his phone before deciding, no, it would be much more professional and send off an email. Best not to call at this god-knows time of night. With his hair haphazardly tied up and in his ratty flannel pajamas, it was difficult to feel professional at all.

He opened his laptop and swore. Of course the internet connection was spotty here, it was a seaside cottage in the middle of a storm. He stood up and walked across his room, intending to put the computer away, when he noticed the little signal bar flicker. He took another step. It flickered again. 

Before he even really registered what he was doing, Jon was out the door to his room and wandering down the hall, chasing that patch of signal that seemed to grow just slightly smaller with each turn. The B&B wasn’t large--it maybe had enough rooms for a dozen people over two floors--but its layout made for interesting hidden nooks and dead ends.

Finally, in one tiny corner, he found a steady signal. It was an odd end off of a hallway, maybe a meter across, with a wooden crate shoved up against a small round window. Why this was the only spot that had wifi was beyond Jon, it was secluded from the rest of the B&B. Still, he settled in on the crate as best as he could and started to compose his email to Elias. How much pleading to your boss was acceptable when neither of you could control the situation? 

Chances were Jon would still be held at fault for the holdup. It was his choice to travel last minute, during the holidays no less, and he hadn’t bothered to check the forecasted weather. Whatever movie or publishing deal Elias wanted him to sign off on would probably flop because of it. 

He was halfway through the thorough explanation of his excuses, when Jon noticed someone’s approach. Without thinking, he snapped the laptop shut with a guilty click. The sound cut through the silence more than the person’s shuffling.

“Hello?” A soft voice. Martin, the ladder person. From earlier. Something uncomfortable twisted in Jon’s stomach. Annoyance , he thought.

“What are you doing here?” He found himself asking in his incredulity, despite the fact that it was far more unusual for Jon to be here than Martin. 

Martin let out a little puff of breath as he stepped into Jon’s view. He was still in uniform, somehow even more disheveled. “This is… this is my spot. I like to come here, when I’m off work.” Jon’s eyes shifted from Martin’s freckled face to his hands, and realized he was holding a small notebook and pen. 

Jon suddenly felt the need to defend his own reasons. “It’s the only place with stable internet connection in the building.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact.

Martin mumbled something about how that was strange, the connection was usually fine everywhere, how it must be the storm, and how the weather wasn’t usually this bad this time of year and hopefully everything would be alright with the power. Jon stared at him blankly. How were you supposed to react to something like this? The way Martin fidgeted, reaching a hand back to rub at this neck, it stirred that annoying feeling within Jon. 

Martin caught his stare, and flinched. “S-sorry. I’ll go. Don’t mean to disturb a guest!” He gave the notebook a crestfallen glance, and then shuffled away. 

When he was out of sight, Jon let out a deep sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding in, and reopened his laptop. He had a difficult email to write.

Martin had been waking up before the sun since he was about eleven years old. He didn’t mind it, not really. There was something lovely and romantic about the way the world was quiet, that it was just him and himself and his work. And there was always work.

Tim had been nice enough to grant him this job when his mom moved into the care home a few years ago. He had been upfront and honest about it. There’s just the two of us, so it’s hard work, he had said, but there’s food and a place to stay, and I can pay you enough to care for her. 

So, Martin went from getting up early to prep medicine to getting up early to wash sheets, and vacuum floors, scrub out bathtubs. It could have been worse. 

Once he had his uniform pulled over his head, he wandered outside, for one of his little secret jobs. Living around the B&B was a little red-and-white cat that came by in the early morning. Martin started feeding her when she first showed up, but now that the weather was bad, he was trying to coax her inside. She never let him pet her, instead sitting by him wearily in silence until he had to go. If he could have, he would have picked her up by now. He was a little worried. 

He walked out through the front, holding her little saucer with can food in it. 

“Cloud,” Martin called, softly. “Cloud, come here!” 

She didn’t show right away, which wasn’t surprising. She was usually around the corner of the building, huddled by the trash. He turned the corner, and stopped in his tracks. There was Jon again. He was crouched under the lip of the roof, huddling against it to keep out the rain as he took a drag from his cigarette. 

At his feet, under his outstretched hand was Cloud. Martin watched as Jon let out a deep, smoky sigh, and gently brushed his fingers along the head of the cat, who, to Martin’s surprise, did not lean away. Instead, she leaned into Jon, and sat next to him, in a commiserating gesture of friendship. 

“You’re stuck out in the storm, too.” Jon said to Cloud, just barely loud enough for Martin to hear. His voice was so gentle. Realizing he was just kind of standing there like a creep, Martin turned to go back inside. He could feed Cloud when she wasn’t making new friends. He heard Jon’s exhale as he stood, and a quiet, surprised ‘murrrp?’ from behind him. 

Jon’s low voice spoke in a whisper. “I’ll sneak you in to sit by the fire a bit, okay?” 

Martin smiled a secret, fond smile. He found himself thinking about how nice it would be for Jon to be that soft, that gentle with him. He pressed a palm to his cheek to pair with the thought of those deft, crooked fingers stroking his cheek. Warmth spread through the imagined point of contact, down through his entire body and into his heart, ignoring the rain and cold. His stomach fluttered.

It wasn’t until he had hummed through all his morning tasks with a dreamy look, and set about cheerfully making breakfast that he noticed the feeling, and what it meant.

Martin had a crush on Jonathan Sims.

Jon was awake way before the time the card on his bedside listed as the start of breakfast. With little more to do than huddle in the fluffy quilted comforter and type on his laptop, his ages-old itch rose to the front of his mind. The one that told him he ought to have a cigarette. He hadn’t touched the pack in a couple months, having chosen to quit after enough prodding from his ex, but he kept a pack of Marlboros in his bag for emergencies. Being stuck out in a storm with only days to both finish his draft and get to a big event signing counted as an emergency, right? 

After struggling and failing to get the window open, Jon realized that he would have to brave the cold morning if he wanted to smoke. He had survived the winds that threatened to knock him over and the rain that came at him at horizontal angles for his cigarette, only to end up sneaking an armful of cat into the B&B. 

Well, trying to sneak in. Tim caught him in the lobby, wiping her paws on the edge of his sweater, and placing her gently by the fireplace to get dry. Tim drew a clear line with his eyes to Jon, and then the cat, and then gave Jon a playful wink. He’d been caught red-handed. At least Tim didn’t seem to mind.

The weather report on the news told Jon that the storm would be just as bad, if not worse, today. He put his head in his hands and sighed, turning to stare at the page he had yet to add any words to since his arrival. Every sentence that came to his mind twisted in his anxious state, and by the time he thought it might be worth writing down, it was incomprehensible. He waited the rest of the hour shuffling at the antique desk in his room, letting out the occasional groan or sigh. When he finally looked up, it was time for breakfast. 

The kitchen at the B&B was not sizable, but it was nice. Jon arrived just as food was served, and no other guests had yet to show up. The spread was impressive, with steaming stacks of toast and pastries, an assortment of butter and cheese, bacon and sausages. Martin walked in, proudly parading a quiche to the table. “Morning, Jon,” he said, smiling. His cheeks were rosy with warmth, and it reminded Jon of just how cold he was, even now. 

“Martin,” he greeted, his voice coming out a bit rough. The quiche looked pretty appealing, actually. It smelled of herbs and squash and had a healthy covering of cheese.

Martin set down the dish and surveyed the table. “Do you want some tea? Or- or maybe coffee? I’m going to bring down some juice in a minute.” 

Jon’s reply was automatic, rehearsed from many interactions. People kept assuming things about his hot drink preferences. “Tea. I don’t really drink coffee.” 

“Oh,” Martin replied. “Tea, I can do tea. I’ll bring it right out. Cream and sugar?” 

Jon nodded, and Martin must have felt dismissed, as he rushed back to wherever he had come from. Jon helped himself to the quiche and a pastry. The first bite taster even better than it looked. Had Martin made this all himself?

The tea in the cup Martin handed him was amazing. Jon hummed in quiet surprise as he let the warmth and flavor spread through him. He wondered for a moment what Martin did to make it so special. He pulled the cup close to himself, basking in the feeling.

Martin then set to the task of setting up decorations around the tables. Christmas decorations. Jon wrinkled his nose at that. Christmas was not his favorite. It wasn’t that he hated Christmas, just that, well, it was all kind of stupid, wasn’t it? For a month people put up lights and played music that had bells in it, bought and ate an unnecessary amount of food, and gave each other things they didn’t want or need in a facsimile of happiness and wealth. Every year, he watched people dress up their houses and plan out big parties, and every year he had to spend precious time and energy entertaining that fantasy of Christmas for them. It was exhausting. 

“Do you have to put those up for the patrons, or…?” Jon asked, picking at his food. 

Martin, who was juggling a handful of holly-patterned candle holders, turned to him at an awkward angle. “Well, I guess, yeah. I really put them up for myself, though. I like it.” 

“What, Christmas?” 

“Yes? I like making something nice and throwing celebrations for other people. Especially winter holidays. Makes you feel like you’re making it through the cold and the dark.” 

Jon scoffed. “It’s childish.” 

He had clearly hit a nerve, as Martin shifted nervously from foot to foot, and somehow shrunk in on himself, despite his size. When he spoke, his tone was clipped and cold. “If you say so.” 

Jon returned to his food with a huff. Martin needed to grow up, he decided.

The look Tim gave Martin once Jon had left the room told him he was in trouble. Not the angry, now-you’ve-fucked-up sort of trouble, but the kind that you get into when Tim got ideas. Specifically about Martin’s love life.

“So…” Tim started, as they put away the food together. “Mr. Sims?”

Martin knew better than to encourage him. “Nope. Not talking about it, Tim.” His face was hot, and judging by Tim’s expression, his blush was more than enough encouragement.

 “You know, he brought in your cat. The white and red one? Set her down by the fire and tried to not look guilty when I saw her running around.” 

“Oh. You didn’t-” Martin fretted, realizing that there wasn’t supposed to be a cat loose in the lounge.

“Kick the poor beast out into the rain? No. I’m not a monster, Martin.” 

Relief flooded through Martin. “Good! She’s a good cat.” 

“A good cat that likes your man.” 

“He’s not my anything, Tim! I met him yesterday, for Christ’s sake.” 

“Yup. And you’re already into him. What did it for you, the sweater vest?”

“Shut up, Tim.” Martin may not want to be involved in Tim’s matchmaker schemes, but the teasing and general interest in his wellbeing warmed his heart. He’d never had a friend as nice as Tim before he’d started working at The Seabed. He glanced over with a playful smile.

“I’m gonna break out the mistletoe,” Tim threatened, and Martin gave him a look. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’s all in the Christmas spirit!”   

Martin burst out laughing. 

 Jon was having heart palpitations. Probably the almost 30 years of stress, bad sleep, and too much caffeine. That was definitely what it was.

At least Martin was here, and would probably bring him to a hospital if he suddenly dropped. They were squished together in the back of Tim’s tiny car, pelted horribly by the rain. Martin’s warm, soft form was pressed against his shoulder, his arm, and his thigh every single time Tim took a hard turn, or they were hit by a bad gust of wind. Martin’s curls tickled his face when they brushed together. He smelled like bergamot and vanilla. Jon’s head felt like it was spinning, just a little.

Jon was only in this mess because Tim had called on him and Martin with a dramatically stern expression, and told them, in no uncertain terms, that if they were keeping a cat in his bed and breakfast, they had to get her some proper supplies. Since Jon was the one accountable for bringing her in, apparently he got to come with. It seemed like a strange line of reasoning.  Tim gave Jon  the same wink from earlier, and this time Jon didn’t understand it at all. Then, Tim had tossed over a wad of cash to Martin, who looked reluctant to have to do anything with Jon, and then told them to meet him out front in thirty minutes.

So, here he was. In an uncomfortable back seat, having a heart attack. At least I won’t have to do that meeting with Elias, he thought.

When they arrived at the shopping center, one Jon recognized vaguely from his childhood, Tim suddenly had to bail. “Oh, whoops! Better get back to the B&B before the patrons notice we’re gone. I’ll pick you two up in a few hours, okay?” He shot Martin a look Jon didn’t recognize, and then he was speeding back out into the rain, abandoning them in front of the M&S.

Jon tried to turn to Martin, to ask him what was going on, but a particularly determined gust of wind managed to push all his hair into his face, and by extension, his mouth. He spat, frustrated. “Inside.”

Martin obliged. His face, red from the cold, was mostly hidden in his scarf.

The store was fairly empty, both of people and of it’s usually overflowing stock. “It’s the storm,” Martin realized aloud. Still, there were plenty of the things that they needed, such as towels and cat toys and little dishes.

Jon noticed that Martin was avoiding looking at him, despite his smiles and small talk. It stung a little, but he wasn’t sure why. Surely he had better things to do than worry about bed and breakfast employees' ability to make eye contact. Like pick out the little sushi shaped cat toys and quietly offer them to go into the basket. And think about his still unfinished draft. 

The hour went on like that, quiet and comfortable, just the two of them grabbing things for a cat, then Martin asked if it was okay to grab a little food, and Jon followed him there. It wasn’t like he had a whole lot of other options, after all. 

Martin was polite enough to ask his opinion on what else should be included with breakfast, what his preferred type of tea is. It’s a good business model, for Martin to think so much about pleasing him. Helps their idyllic seaside cottage feel more personal and cozy. Martin must have had incredible tolerance, given how difficult it is to get along with Jon. He wasn’t a stranger to the drawbacks of socializing with him, as often voiced by the people in his life.

At the end of one of the aisles stood a child, maybe eight or nine years old. He looked like the sort of kid that Jon was at his age. Fidgety, reactive and generally difficult. He wandered the shelves with pointed aimlessness, picking at his threadbare hoodie. Jon frowned. The child was crying.

Martin, on the other hand, lit up with the intensity of a professional christmas display. “Alex!” 

Jon watched as the kid’s posture changed, softening from it’s defensive stance. He still fidgeted, but went from abrasive to sheepish in an instant. “Hi.” 

Jon felt a tender sense of awe as Martin brought out a tissue and handed it to Alex. “Hey. What’s going on?” he kept his tone even , casually kneeling down closer to him, under the guise of looking at jam jars. Jon watched, feeling a little like he was witnessing a secret. He didn’t have a role to play here.

“It’s nothing.” Alex replied. 

Martin let out a small, gentle sigh “If you’re sure. Remember what I told you about being alone with our problems?” 

“...yeah. Just don’t want to do it now.” 

“Okay.” Martin replied, and Jon noticed that Alex had stopped sniffing. “I’ll give you a hug now, yeah?”

Alex nodded, and Martin wrapped his arms around him, almost hiding him entirely in the mass of his body, sweater and coat. Jon briefly wondered if Martin gave good hugs. Alex certainly seemed to think so. After a moment, Alex squirmed, and Martin let go. He said some things in a quiet tone that Jon couldn’t quite make out.

The whole situation made him uneasy, but also pleasantly warm. It was… fondness, he supposed, looking at Martin interacting with the little boy. Jon didn’t know anything about children, not even when he was a child himself. It was really good of him, in a way Jon had trouble wrapping his head around. 

It would have been nice to have a Martin in his life.

“Are you here with your aunt?” Martin asked.

“She’s looking at wine. It’s boring.” Alex replied, flicking his fingers at a string on his arm. There was a silence for a moment that made Jon feel small. Then Alex looked up. “I started that book you gave me.” 

“ Where the Mountain Meets the Moon? How are you liking it so far?” Martin asked.

“It’s good. A little weird.” The kid replied. “I don't really get why her parents don’t keep looking. They give up halfway through!” 

“Usually, when someone is missing, you wouldn’t give up on them, yeah. But with Minli, they know where she is going, and what she wants to do. They have to trust her.” 

“I guess.” Alex kicked one of his shoes with the other. They were torn up and too large. “What’s up with the dragon?”

“You’ll find out later. No point in reading it if I tell you now.” Martin took one of the jam jars and stood up again. “We should go find your aunt.” 

They walked away, and Jon, who realized he was supposed to be with Martin, followed. He only half felt like a creep. 

“Hey, Martin.” Alex asked, reluctantly following behind. “Do you think she’d let me have a goldfish? I could feed it and clean the bowl, and find pebbles for it. They’re good luck, right?” 

Martin gave him a genuine smile. “I think she could be convinced. I thought for this year you asked for legos, though.” 

“Oh, right! That, too.” 

They returned Alex to his aunt, who didn’t seem too worried about Alex’s store wandering. She did seem to enjoy conversing with Martin, who did ask her if she had anything against pets. Apparently, she didn’t, as long as they weren’t her responsibility. Martin lit up at that. It was a contagious feeling, and Jon found himself starting to smile. 

While they walked away, Martin apologized profusely. “I’ve been helping Alex out since he was four, especially around the holidays. He’s only got his aunt, you know. She was in my book club. I try to make Christmas a big deal for him, buy him really nice things. That’s what Christmas is supposed to be for, you know? Doing good things for the kids, and stuff.” 

The pushing, twisting feeling in Jon’s chest was stronger now than ever before. Not everyone’s got room in their hearts for the orphans of Bournemouth, he thought. Martin was… Martin was the kind of person that was so good it was stupid. He celebrated stupid holidays as an excuse to cheer up other people. He fed stray cats that lived behind smoking areas. He put extra effort into buying Jon the right kind of tea. He talked to crying children and gave out hugs. Jon stepped closer, like Martin had some magical gravitation to him. 

Martin  was still talking about Alex, but Jon wasn’t really listening. “We’ve been trying to get him to read more, but his aunt’s always busy, and…” Martin’s lips were soft and pink, and when he smiled, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. 

Cute, his mind supplied, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to process that. What? 

He’s lovely. He’s kind. He’s safe. I want him to smile again. I want- He cut off that train of thought.

He spent the rest of the trip finding excuses to be near Martin, blaming the flush on his cheeks from the cold, and pretending he still didn’t know what the warm, giddy feeling in his chest was.

Before he really had time to process it, Martin woke up on Christmas. He got out the gifts he had managed, most of them for nearby kids or business owners, a few things for Tim, and something he had spotted in a charity shop that reminded him of Jon. Was it inappropriate to give gifts to someone you met just a few days ago? He hoped not.

Jon had just warmed up to him, despite being increasingly cranky about being stuck at their little bed and breakfast for this long. He was being nicer. Coming around to chat while he worked more. He’d even left some things in Martin’s private writing spot, some snacks with a note. It was nice. It was really, really nice, actually. 

He was stacking everything onto a little cart to put under the giant tree in the lobby, when his phone rang.

Devonshire House Lodge and Care Home.

As if someone had thrown him into the sea, a cold, choked feeling came over Martin. His hands shook as he reached for the phone. She never called. 

After a deep, shaky breath, Martin put on his brave face, the one he used when he was uncomfortable and scared, the one he used when he was lying. The frown he had earlier smoother over. His jaw softened. His eyes turned to glass. 

He took the call.

“Morning, Mum. Happy Christmas.” 

Jon was up early again with another cigarette. Elias called him early that morning, to stress the importance of getting there tonight, or risk everything they’d worked for. He was being a little dramatic. Jon made a decent amount on regular book sales, without having to make big special deals for it. But, Elias was right. This was what he was supposed to do,= as a published author. 

The good news was that the storm was clearing up. He could take a cab that afternoon. The bad news was that he’d have to leave Martin, at least for now. Probably forever. He brought it up over dinner the night before.

He drafted a few letters to Martin in his head. A brief thanks, some words of affection. His own phone number, should Martin want to call. It all sounded flimsy, stupid. Too hopeful for his own good.

He jolted with surprise as he watched Martin trudge past him. At first he was happy to see the other man, his hair still mussed from his sleep. It became immediately apparent, however, that something was wrong. 

Martin ran out towards the sea, ignoring Jon, and the force of the wind. He wasn’t wearing a coat, or even his uniform, instead just a faded t-shirt and rapidly-soaking flannel pajamas. Jon dropped his cigarette.

“Martin!” he called. It was ignored. “Martin!” He jogged to try and catch up. There were only 50 or so meters to the water.  Martin was curled up against a rock, the waves washing up to his feet and dragging back again. 

“Hey,” Jon said, softer, but loud enough he was sure Martin had heard him. He reached out, and then hesitated. Martin didn’t flinch or pull away, so slowly he brought his hand to Martin’s face. “Look at me.” He struggled for what to say. “You… you know, I think a really smart guy once said something about being alone with our problems.” 

Martin let out a laugh, at that. Not the nice, easy laugh Jon wanted. But it was better than a sob. “It’s nothing,” Martin admitted shakily. “Just my Mum. I just-- I wanted to have a nice holiday. I like to make it nice, you know? Or at least, I try to.” 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Jon replied, brushing away seawater and tears. “It’s going to be nice. It’s not over yet.”

Martin just looked out at the sea. “Maybe.”

“It will.” At this, Jon pulled his jacket off and slung it around Martin. As oversized as it was on Jon, it fit tightly to Martin, revealing the curves and definition of his arms and shoulders. It gave Jon a possessive little jolt. He would like to buy more oversized things, he thought, so he could offer Martin his clothes. If it was an unrealistic thought, it was, at least a nice one.

They sat like that, for a while, Jon huddled up next to Martin in the cold. The rain let up, and Jon noticed as Martin wondered at the first few flakes of snow. Now was his chance to coax him inside. 

“Come on. You need warmer clothes. I’ll even try and make you tea. No promises on it being as good as yours.” 

Martin gave him a little smile, then. It filled Jon with relief. 

After ensuring that Martin was warm and dry and something resembling alright, Jon found himself in a desperate search for Tim. He scrambled up to the front desk, excited and out of breath. 

“Tim!” he called. “I need your help with something. It’s for Martin.” 

Tim dropped what he was doing and listened to Jon’s plans. They left for the car with matching grins.

Chapter Text

When Martin finally left his room, he was feeling like a human again. He wiped his eyes, pulled on his sweater, and combed his hair. Tim had taken on his work for the day, which was incredibly kind of him. After he had showered and everything, it was already late afternoon.

He opened his door and peered out into the hall. The lights to the lounge were out, leaving only the soft glow of the fireplace. He approached it, confused. 

When his feet crossed the threshold, a party cracker went off, and the lights came flooding on. 

“Happy Christmas!” two voices cried out at him. 

Soft music came on, and Martin was left to marvel at what Jon and Tim must have done to the front room of the Seabed. He had put up the tree earlier, yes, and a few garlands and things, but now almost every wall, corner and surface he turned to had something. Bells, figurines, hundreds upon hundreds of lights. It looked like a theme park, or a miracle. 

There was snow outside, a fire inside, the smell of cookies and the sight of decorations and the two people he would always want to spend time with him were there. Cloud appeared behind Jon, wrapping her tail around his thin leg.

“Those are for you,” Tim announced, his voice full of mirth, gesturing at a pile of presents that would have come up to Martin’s elbow. “From us and some folks around town.” 

Jon had a plate of freshly baked sweets. “Tim gave me access to your kitchen.” He gave Martin a shy little smile, and Martin just about melted into the floor. 

“Oh… Oh my God!” Martin laughed with wonder and confusion, spinning slowly to take it all in. “You, you guys did this for me?” 

“I told you it was going to be nice,” Jon defended. “I wasn’t going to lie about it.” 

Martin laughed again, and then again. He wrapped them both up in a crushing hug, and didn’t let go until Tim struggled out of his grasp. “Are we going to eat and exchange presents, or what?” 

Martin remembered that he had something for each of them. “Oh! Right!” He scrambled back to his room and returned with his arms full.

After dropping most of them unceremoniously, he handed a box to Tim, on the couch, and a slightly larger box to Jon, who was leaning casually on the doorframe, holding the cat. When Martin approached, Cloud leapt out of his arms to nuzzle Martin. That was the most affectionate with him she’d ever been.

Tim opened his first, tearing the package open to reveal the console that Martin had been saving up to buy for the past two years. It was the newest, fanciest one that they’d released this year. On top was a pair of knitted gloves. Martin’s heart turned to a fond, comfortable mush as Tim held it up over his head and let out a loud whoop. He jogged a victory lap around the room for good measure. 

Martin and Jon opened their exchanges at the same time.

The box Jon handed him was stuffed with books, everything from A Collection of English Poets to Jon’s own hardback publication. The front of it was signed, with a note mentioning that it was annotated. “Tim had to help me out.” Jon admitted.

Martin watched with anticipation as Jon opened his gift. If he was gone tomorrow, Martin would still be satisfied with knowing he had brought a smile to his face. He was not disappointed, as Jon practically began to glow as he reached in and pulled out the typewriter. 

“Thank you,” Jon whispered, breathless. “This… I think this is just what I need to finish my next book.” Martin gave him a smile so wide it was painful. 

“You can use it when you go tonight,” Martin said, and just like that, the dreamy look on Jon’s face disappeared.

Jon looked at the box in his hands, and back at Martin. He made up his mind then and there. “I’m not going.” 

Martin’s heart stopped. “You’re not? But that whole thing was supposed to be such a big deal for-” 

Jon waved his complaints aside. “Other opportunities will come. I’d rather be here. With you.” It was the truth, but saying it felt vulnerable. It was difficult. He wanted to be there for Christmas, for Martin. Screw the signing event.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin sighed, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, Jon.” In the warm light of the room, you could just see where Martin’s blush stood out against his freckles. Jon had to steady himself, caught up in how warm and soft and in love he felt.

Behind them, Tim coughed loudly. Martin jumped and turned to look at him, startled out of his daydreaming. 

Tim pointed up. Mistletoe. 

With a sudden burst of courage, Jon stepped forward. “I believe there’s a tradition surrounding this.” 

Martin looked at him in shock, in love. His eyes fluttered shut, and while Jon wasn’t a poet, not like Martin might like him to be, he could write hundreds of words about the look on his face.

As their lips touched, Jon thought: There might be something good about Christmas after all.