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Martin had always imagined it would rain the day he buried his mother. He didn’t want to think about the fact he’d imagined it a lot — perhaps too much for a dutiful son — because he didn’t want to think , period, about any of this. Still, the whole day he kept looking up to the lovely blue sky above their heads and waiting for the clouds to appear. Surely, any moment now, there was going to be rain. But no. It was an unusually nice day for November, if chilly; though for a while there, while everybody chatted about his mother’s qualities, and how sad it all was, and what a brave woman she’d been, hadn’t she, he’d caught sight of a twirl of fog at the edge of the Church. It had promptly disappeared as Elias pulled him back to his side, graceful fingers wrapping themselves around Martin’s wrist and never letting it go again for the whole ceremony.
Martin didn’t have anywhere to receive people after the funeral — the council flat he and mum had lived in the longest had never been theirs to start with after all — and he’d hoped to get away with cutting the afternoon short, but of course Elias wasn’t going to let him have any sort of reprieve. Although after an hour or two of walking through the rooms of the elegant little coffee shop Elias had apparently rented, discussing with great-aunts and uncles he hadn’t seen in forever, neighbours and friends of his mum and a couple of nurses from Devon, it dawned on Martin that if Elias was having fun at anyone’s expense, it wasn’t Martin’s, for once.
Great-aunt Mildred said, “Oh, that was so good of you, Mr Bouchard, helping Martin through all this! You really went beyond your duty as an employer—”
“Not at all,” Elias replied, smooth and charming, his smile just a tad too sharp, his eyes a shade too dark, the way they’d been the whole day. “I did what any good person would do, of course. Martin was only seventeen when he came to work for me and told me about his situation. Could you imagine anyone letting a child fare for himself and his mother and not helping in any way?”
Aunt Mildred’s cheeks went pale then bright red then pale again. Once, Martin recalled, she’d come to visit mum, when Martin was thirteen or so. She’d commented about the kitchen and the dirty dishes, and she’d patted Mum’s hand and told her to call if they needed anything, truly dear, and then an hour later she was gone and Mum had weakly gripped Martin’s hair and snapped at him to go clean the kitchen, why hadn’t it been cleaned already, what sort of people were her guests going to think they were, letting the house rot like that?
Martin didn’t manage to feel very sorry for her and whatever Elias was doing right now. Just like he couldn’t make himself care for most of the other guests Elias had been playing with all day. By the time they all left, most had a shameful or haunted expression on their faces, everybody offering Martin one last kind word. If he was still feeling like himself, Martin would have probably felt awful for them, and angry at Elias for torturing innocent people in front of him, but Martin’s world and sanity right now laid solely on not thinking and therefore not feeling.
He was tired. It was done. Elias was done. Everything was just — done.
“Let’s go home,” Elias whispered in his ear, hand steady against Martin’s back, and Martin nodded without protest, because what else could he do ?
The truth was that although he knew that everything Elias was playing at was meant to hurt more in the long run, Martin had lost the will to be mad or freaked out about it. He’d tried to muster the feeling, three days ago, when he’d come home from visiting Jon at the hospital, the nurse’s voice still ringing in his ear: I’m sorry, Mr Blackwood, your mother is dead. She died peacefully, in her sleep. He remembered sputtering and holding his umbrella up as a make-shift weapon, as if that would be enough to stop Elias if Elias wanted to hurt him. He remembered asking, voice too high, too stupid with shock, Why are you not in prison? And Elias grinning, amused and indulgent, answering Oh, I’ll be back soon, I assure you. But we wouldn’t want you to deal with this new tragedy on your own, would we?
And maybe soon Martin would wake up and realise how terrifying and demoralising it was, that Elias was here when he really, really shouldn’t have been. Or maybe he’d start thinking as to why Elias was bothering to go along with the whole being in prison thing when he clearly had the means to leave whenever he wanted. But right now he was tired, and he didn’t want to think, and Elias had spent the last three days handling everything. He’d made all the calls, prepared all the papers so that Martin only had to sign them. He’d organised the funeral and the get-together after.
Martin had never had anyone handling things for him before, at least not for his mother. It had awoken something sharp and warm in his lower belly, the same sort he’d felt a year or so ago, when Jon had offered the cot in the document storage room and proceeded to go talk to Elias for him, and talk to Sasha and Tim, and then brought back blankets and clean clothes without Martin having to ask for anything at all.
The truth was that Martin was pathetically, horrifically grateful, which was of course the way Elias preferred him to be. If this was meant to be a game, Elias was winning this one for sure, and Martin — Martin couldn’t make himself care either way.
“Tea?” Elias asked once they were back in the flat.
“Sure,” muttered Martin, half falling onto the couch. Elias had had to remind him to take off his coat and shoes as they passed the door. If it’d been just Martin, he would have probably headed to bed just like that.
He watched Elias move around the small kitchenette, barely restraining himself from pinching his skin again — he’d tried that, the first few times Elias had made food or tea, because the image was so bewildering Martin had wondered if he’d finally lost it. Why would he imagine Elias being here, of all people, and not, say, Jon ? Well, that sure was another thing he didn’t want to ponder about too long, so he’d had to admit to himself this was all real. Elias Bouchard, his boss, his — enemy? Lover? Torturer? Fuck buddy? — had escaped from prison to take care of Martin. ‘Cause Martin’s mum was dead. Martin’s mum who’d hated him, and who’d died peacefully in her sleep.
Martin’s mum who he hadn’t seen in months. Martin’s mum who’d probably been glad he hadn’t tried so hard to keep contact lately, because she’d hated him, she’d truly, really, hated him —
“You’re spiralling,” Elias tutted, putting the tea in front of him on the small table.
“Gosh, I wonder why,” Martin said, sarcastically, and Elias huffed a laugh before sitting next to him.
“Cheer up,” he said. “It’s all over now. If anything, you should see this as freedom.”
Martin stared at him, incredulous and a bit aghast. “You’ve really never loved anyone, have you?”
Elias blinked at him.
“I’ve loved plenty,” he said, but it was with the same tone of voice he used to tell Martin he was very fond of him so Martin just snorted and Elias sighed like he was being difficult. “There’s no point in holding on to the things or the people that bring us down, Martin. You are worth much more.”
“She’s my mum,” Martin snapped.
“Hardly a good mother, though,” Elias pointed out and oh, there it was — the intense and burning desire to punch him – seizing Martin’s entire body, making his fingers twitch. He wanted to say fuck you but he knew all too well how Elias would take that. (Maybe, Martin thought, he wanted that too; wanted to grab Elias by the hair and bite his lips and leave bruises against his thighs and fuck him so hard that Elias forgot to be a smug evil asshole, just for a minute— but then that still didn’t feel right, not quite. Even though when they'd done this two days ago Elias had laughed in quiet delight afterwards, kissed him and said oh you truly are more than I thought, Martin, you are so good for me, and Martin’s chest had filled with horrid pride and satisfaction a brief moment, because yes, he was more than what they’d all assumed, wasn’t he?)
“I’m not talking about this with you,” Martin said instead. “I’m not — talking about this. At all.”
“Very well.” Elias shrugged and settled more comfortably in Martin’s shitty couch, like he belonged there, even though he so clearly, obviously didn’t, in his pristine expensive white shirt and dark suit pants and tie. He sipped his tea, eyes going far away, and Martin tried to go back to that quiet, tired place of not caring.
It was too late though. Elias had dragged it all back up, effortlessly, and now Martin felt… irritated. What was the bloody point of Elias, if he was just going to hide in other people’s gazes and minds instead of being here, asshole or not? Did he think it was all over now that Martin’s mum was buried? That he could just wash his hands of Martin, the same way he’d done time and time again for the past ten years, every time he inevitably got bored of their games? Fuck that, thought Martin, restless and annoyed and craving. Elias had started it — he ought to commit to the bit, properly. Until Martin had enough of him, for once.
Martin drank the tea in one go and put the cup away. Then he took a deep breath and shifted his weight on the couch until he was laying down on it, legs curled to one side and his cheek carefully resting over Elias’ thigh. Elias was warm and solid underneath his head, and Martin didn’t resist the childish impulse to nuzzle the soft fabric of his pants before he reached and pinched Elias’ leg as hard as he could.
Above him Elias hissed; then he said: “That was careless; I could have burnt you. There are much nicer ways to get my attention, you know.”
“I’m sad,” Martin only replied.
“And that’s meant to be an excuse?”
Martin’s shoulders began to relax. Elias was starting to use the Voice. He hadn’t used the voice properly in a long time.
“That means you’re supposed to comfort me,” he retorted.
“I tried to, merely five minutes ago,” Elias pointed out.
“Well, that was rubbish,” Martin said. “Do it better.”
It was a gamble; Martin wasn’t exactly used to being the one in charge, when it came to all this, or with Elias in general, really. He didn’t want to , per say, although it did make it all sweeter, the fact that the whole thing was happening because Martin was demanding it, rather than Elias deciding Martin needed it, whether Martin was ready for the emotional turmoil it inevitably set him in. Elias stayed silent for a long minute and then, Martin heard him set the cup of tea away.
“You’re a spoiled thing,” Elias told him. “I’ve indulged you too much.”
“You’re the one who came here.”
“Of course I did, sweetheart,” Elias said, soft and warm, and Martin’s eyes fluttered closed at his tone, his throat tightening with something too intense to be named. “You needed me.” One of Elias’ hands settled on Martin’s hip, and with the other he started to stroke Martin’s hair, careful and gentle, the way he’d only done a handful of times before. “I’ll always be here for you,” he continued, his voice low and almost tender.
It was a lie, of course. A stupid, silly game, that he’d probably enjoyed playing with Martin for years because it made Martin feel small and defenceless and raw. Except this time, maybe for the first time, it was Martin’s game too. It was Martin who wanted this.
“Daddy,” he breathed, the word heavy against his lips and so, so good, so comforting —
“I’m right here,” Elias murmured. “You can cry if you want to, Martin. I’m right here. Daddy’s going to take care of you, as long as you need.”
Martin let himself be tricked. Elias had come here to play, and yes, sure, Martin had made it easy for him to win. But maybe this didn’t mean Martin had to lose, really. Maybe he could have this and feel good. Maybe even loved. Just for a moment.
Just for a moment.