Chapter Text
Gerry leans out his window one early, early morning as summer dies in a crushing heatwave. Even at 4 A.M. the humidity presses against him, and his cigarette does nothing to soothe it.
He smiles as a bird begins its first song somewhere nearby and moves back inside.
He glares at the half-completed commission painting on his main easel, petulantly flipping it off as he walks past to get to the painting he's actually been working on.
The painting shows Frankenstein's monster in a white dress and a flower crown, walking through a library, barefoot and beaming. It's a small one, nothing like the monster in the other corner, but he thinks Martin will like it and plans to give it to him to hang in the bookstore.
Martin had cooed over the sketch, and suggested that they should name the painting so people finally had something to call it other than 'Frankenstein' or 'Monster.'
"Everyone deserves to have their own name, Gerry," Martin had told him firmly, "Even if they have to pick it themselves."
Both intimately familiar with the concept, they had exchanged a significant look over those words.
"Not spiders," Jon stated firmly from nearby.
"Yes, spiders." Martin had whispered into Gerry's ear, and they had dissolved into secretive laughter.
Gerry had painted a small spider and cobweb into the corner of the final piece, hoping Jon would notice and shudder every time he noticed the little guy. If Martin saw it and thought of their sweet camaraderie, then that was all the better.
He signs his artist's mark into one corner and considers it a job well done.
Martin's eyes fill with tears when Gerry takes it over to the store to give it to him later that week, when it has dried and he can wrap it in soft tissue paper to deliver it.
The weather is still oppressive outside, and Gerry orders something icy while Martin looks it over.
"You shouldn't have." He tells Gerry weepily, dragging his eyes away from it.
"Why not?" Gerry shoots back, leaning over and tucking a piece of wavy blonde hair behind Martin's ear, tactile as ever. "It makes you happy, and art is meant for enjoying, not sitting in sketchbooks."
Martin comes around the counter and pulls Gerry into his arms. He hugs him back, absorbing the sweetness in the embrace.
"Thank you, Gerry."
"You're very welcome, Martin."
Gerry texts them all at 3 in the morning to invite them to the park the next afternoon. Martin replies immediately that he would love to, Jon replies the next morning grousing about being texted in the middle of the night. Gerry and Martin both understand that it's because he had probably only just gone to sleep when it arrived, but they say nothing.
When they arrive, Martin goes immediately over to coo and feed bread to the local ducks, while Jon and Gerry settle nearby.
Martin glances over at one point to find them looking at him with identical looks of adoration on their faces and feels all the blood rush into his face.
Gerry is leaning against a big tree that they chose to set up under, trying to escape the afternoon sunshine. Jon is laying with his head on Gerry’s lap, uncharacteristically relaxed and amicable as he smokes an indulgent cigarette. Nearby, Gerry’s sketchbook is laying open, but his pencil lies abandoned as he plays with Jon’s hair instead.
Martin wasn't sure what he thought was going to happen when Jon told him about Gerry. Honestly, he had supposed that Jon would simply prefer to be with his previous lover and that would be that. And yet somehow Martin found himself courted by both of them, and it fills him with pleased warmth every time he allows himself to think about it. Being wanted and pursued was a feeling that Martin had never let himself bask in, preferring to ignore the idea that he was desired in any way, rather than risk the crushing rejection that he so feared if he wasn’t.
He had let himself go after Jon anyway, so hopelessly enamored with him that Martin had been willing to risk any dismissal, even the razor-sharp one he was convinced would be the only result of his rushed date offer.
Jon’s enthusiastic acceptance was the biggest shock of his life, and each small way he showed Martin that he cared for him was like opening the curtains in a dark room; bright, unexpected and so beautiful it hurt just a bit.
Martin wanted to default to the assumption that Gerry was only playing along to benefit his relationship with Jon, but with Gerry, it's hard to deny that he is actually interested, his attention so focused and his flirtation so palpable.
Now they're on a date in the park, and things are so easy and affectionate between them, and Martin can't help but let himself feel a fond hope in that place that he hasn't ever allowed himself to feel before.
It turns out Gerry's idea of a picnic is just junk food and pink lemonade from Martin's bookstore, but he gets no complaints as they lie together in the dying light of afternoon and toss candy and chocolate between them.
Jon migrates from his lap to lie between Martin's legs eventually and Gerry takes the opportunity to sketch them together. The light shifts in Martin's blonde hair, gilding it golden, and Jon's smile shines out of his mossy green eyes as he tips his head back to look up into Martin's face.
Gerry hopes he has the adequate talent to capture the magic that moves between them, that he feels moving between all of them.
When the sketch is finished, Jon demands it, obviously enamored.
"Ask nicely," Gerry replies tartly, holding the sketchbook to his chest protectively.
Jon narrows his eyes at the sass and rolls up to his knees to shuffle towards him. His eyes are narrowed rather intimidatingly, but Gerry knows it's more of a face of consideration than an actual threat.
"Gerry." Jon takes his head into his long-fingered hands and tilts his face upwards. "Please." He presses a kiss to Gerry's mouth and punctuates each successive word with another. "Can. I. Have. That. Sketch."
Trying to appear unmoved by the display, Gerry responds with a dispassionate, "Why should I?"
"Because," he leans down to whisper, "My heart shall break without it."
"Well, I suppose we can't have that," Gerry tells him dryly, handing it over.
"Thank you," Jon says, offering him another kiss as payment. Gerry leans into this one, sliding his hand up into Jon's hair and pulling them closer together.
When they separate and Jon flops down next to Martin again, his attention has been captured by something across the park.
“Martin?” Gerry nudges him with a foot.
Martin’s attention snaps back towards him, a grin spreading across his face. “Can we get ice cream?”
They do go get ice cream. They pack up their things, and meander across the park with only a vague sense of urgency as the sun sets around them.
In the ice cream parlour, they stand in a line before the freezer window and consider their options as a bored-looking clerk eyes them.
"Really, Gerry?" Jon asks in disbelief as Gerry orders the black charcoal flavor.
"Obviously. Have you met me?" He gestures at the length of himself. His hair is dyed a violent shade of blood orange, and his piercings glint in the light of the setting sun. He's wearing combat boots and black skinny jeans, and the tattoos on his hands and arms stand out starkly against his pale skin. His black tank top has a Metallica album cover on it, and he's wearing enough black eyeliner to put an over-dramatic teenager to shame. The ice cream will certainly fit with his aesthetic.
"But what if it doesn't taste good?" Martin asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
"And what happened to your obsession with drinking pink things?" Jon adds triumphantly.
Gerry just shoots Jon an offended look. "You don't drink ice cream, Jonathan. Get a grip. Besides, it's lemonade flavored, it'll be just as good as if it were yellow."
Martin giggles, although it's not clear if it's at Jon's flushed embarrassment or Gerry's firm opinion on the matter. “I’ll have the strawberry,” Martin tells the server, who then looks to Jon for his order. Sensing his distraction, Martin adds, “He’ll have mint chocolate chip.”
Jon, chastised, doesn’t even argue.
They sit outside on a bench, the air finally cool enough for them to brave sitting in the open for a few minutes, side by side, Jon in the middle. One hand occupied by his ice cream, he can hardly link hands with both of them, but Gerry takes his left hand, and Martin reaches across his lap to hold both their hands in one of his. It’s a bit tangled, but all of them are happy.
Jon, always a speedy eater, practically inhales his cone and sits looking very satisfied indeed. Martin also appears content and at ease as he eats at a far more reasonable pace, savouring a rare indulgence.
Gerry faces twists at the first taste of his own ice cream, but he says nothing, resolutely working his way through it.
“No good, Ger?” Martin asks, looking over Jon's head at him.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, although his expressiveness calls him a liar.
“That bad, huh?” Jon crows, voice filled with triumph.
“Bite me,” is Gerry’s only response, eyes rolling sullenly.
“Can I try it?” Martin asks earnestly, reaching a hand out. Gerry hands it over, nose wrinkling. Martin secretly thinks the expression makes him look quite adorable, but would never mention that to Gerry. He tastes it and makes a face. “It’s weird. Too sweet, probably to overcompensate for the taste of charcoal. And not lemony enough.”
Gerry grunts in agreement. Jon, overcome with curiosity, slips it away from Martin as he attempts to pass it back to Gerry.
“That's just rude, Jon.” Martin pronounces, scandalised. He pinches Jon just above the knee for good measure, but he simply accepts it as his due and takes a big bite of the pilfered dessert.
Jon sits up straight, eyes lighting up.
“Really?” Gerry grouses, “After the shit you gave me for ordering it?”
“Yes, actually. It’s good!” Jon’s voice is filled with rare animation, and Gerry waves him away as he tries to hand it back.
“Someone should enjoy it. I wouldn’t want to deprive the ice cream of its purpose in life,” Gerry’s expression lightens. “Besides, I’ll probably get more satisfaction from watching you eat it than by eating it myself.”
Jon blushes at the suggestive comment but doesn’t let it deter him, finishing the ice cream almost as fast as he did the first one, sitting between his two favourite people in the world.