Chapter Text
EPILOGUE
Jon was usually up alongside him in the mornings, but they’d had a late night. Jon (okay, both of them) had been far too excited for a new shipment of books to properly sleep. Usually, they’d take advantage of their shop being closed to sort out the organization of everything … but he’d been too keen to get his hands on one. One of the romances, not as tawdry as he had wanted, but that was fine. And then, of course, Jon was telling him all about the illustrations in a book of fairytales ...
Suffice to say they’d both stayed up far too late. Martin’s body still forced him up at his usual hour, but when he peeled himself away from Jon’s arms, Jon didn’t stir.
In fact, that bag of fur had taken over his spot. Martin furrowed his brow and stared at the white-footed tabby that stretched over his partner. Jon slept like the dead, he really did, and Socks knew it. Practically used him as a heating pad.
They’d gotten Socks when they first moved in here. Pretty literally, because right after Jon had gotten the key from the landlord, they’d come across Socks sleeping in a ray of light through the window. This is really Socks’ bookshop, Martin, we just live here.
Socks didn’t seem to mind the company.
Martin went to get ready for the day – splashing water over his face, brushing his teeth, combing out his hair. Jon liked to tease him about how long he took in the mornings, getting ready, but Martin liked to relish in it.
His partner still hadn’t stirred by the time he got dressed, but Socks had vanished to places unknown. Actually – Martin knew exactly where he went, and it was to flop by his food bowl – or have a quick morning snack of mice.
Maybe he’d go ahead and make breakfast for the both of them. A nice, relaxing day ahead, organizing the new books they’d gotten. Yeah, that was pleasant.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the bedroom mirror, and he stopped.
It’d taken about six months to really, truly stop jumping every time he caught a glimpse of himself. Martin reckoned it’d taken about four before Jon stopped waking up and flinching before things clicked into place. That wasn’t to say Martin ever really disliked being himself again, it was just … a shock.
Now, though?
… He was a bit handsome, wasn’t he? Martin pushed his chin up in the mirror a little, peering at himself over his own nose. Martin liked to let his curls flop over his ears, kept his fingernails neatly trimmed. Maybe something commanding to him, wasn’t it? When he chatted with people in the town square or in another shop, they listened. They stopped to listen, in fact! And he had on a nice shirt, all billowy white fabric and trousers that he hadn’t had to sew himself, and –
Two thin arms wrapped around him from behind, making him jump. “Jesus!” Martin barked out.
Jon’s mischievous face appeared over his shoulder. Ooph. Poor guy still looked tired. “Boo,” Jon told him warmly. His face buried in the crook of his neck, warm from the bed. Martin could’ve melted.
“How are you so quiet? Honestly.” Maybe that would’ve sounded cooler if he had managed to sound a bit less soppy about it, but there it was. Martin turned around, despite the grumblings of groggy frustration from Jon, and wrapped his arms around his middle.
They hadn’t found this village and immediately opened a bookshop.
It’d taken five days.
Jon was kind of terrifying in that way.
Though it’d taken them both some time to build up the stock and actually run the place, Jon had somehow found out about a recently vacated shop within hours of their coming into the village. What was worse, he seemed to treat it like it was no big deal, that opening a bookshop again was only inevitable, and Martin still didn’t think he’d managed to press into Jon how madly impressive that all was.
Maybe someday.
As it was, the bookshop had been chugging along for a little more than a year. Doing well (so much as Martin had any sense for business, anyway).
“I’m going to make breakfast,” he informed the man in his arms. Jon had already shifted to rest his head in the hollow of his throat. “Eat in bed? Be a bit lazy?”
“We’ll have to find out a place for the books …” Jon yawned, cracking his jaw like wood. “Later.”
“Yeah, later.”
“Need to stop by the baker’s, too.”
“I can do that,” Martin insisted gently. “You can rest.”
“I’d like to go. I like …” A pause. “Trevor.”
“Well, he might take a bit of offense to that, ‘cause his name’s Oliver, but …” But Jon wasn’t great with names, especially not when he’d just woken. “We’ll go out and run some errands later, sure. I’d like you with me.”
Not that he would be killed without Jon there, and maybe that was the biggest surprise of it all.
Martin had expected that they wouldn’t be liked. They’d wandered into this new village in the dead of night atop a horse they’d bought from the innkeeper. Not only that, but they’d properly bungled it when people asked them where they were from and what they did. Martin had vehemently and far-too-obviously denied having any noble heritage; meanwhile, Jon had accidentally upgraded his title to prince.
Wonder they had any friends at all, recently. It took time – days and weeks and months of trying to pull together a shop, having to chat with people about this new village. Jon had remarked that it was so odd to see so many people freely coming and going at once, with no apparent fear of the forest surrounding them. Maybe curselessness made people a bit more chipper.
People started to like them. They made friends. They thought Martin was a stableboy who’d run off with a bookshop’s assistant (Martin, Jon had fondly complained when Martin had brought up the cover-story, we’re in our thirties, please), but they often had people around and were brought around in turn.
Martin had been so scared of living out the rest of his days in Blackwood Castle. Now, the idea of not spending the rest of his life with Jon, in this village, in this shop? Unimaginable. He was getting scones and a hat next week. Had to be around for that.
“Mm,” Jon agreed sleepily. “Where’s Socks?”
“On your feet.”
“Mm.” That one was thoroughly more displeased. Jon brought his head up and pinched Martin’s cheeks with one hand, causing his lips to pucker awfully. “Too early for you to be cute, Blackwood. Knock it off.”
He looked so stern, squinting without his glasses on like that. Martin grinned when Jon drew his hand away. “Yes, my lord, right away. Get to bed and I’ll bring breakfast in.”
“Thank you.” Pushing himself up to the tips of his toes, Jon gave him a peck. He peeled himself away to go wrap himself back in the piles of blankets. Martin was pretty sure he’d fallen back asleep before Martin left the room.
Out in the kitchen, Socks languished by his food bowl and Martin sighed. Socks was the king of this castle, and he’d acquired his own staff, hadn’t he? He had scraps around here somewhere.
The sun shone through the window in the kitchen. The village slowly woke to life outside. Smoke poured from chimneys, a few horses and oxen rumbled by with carts, people sent up stalls in the market. All a very familiar sight, by now.
They’d made inquiries, a few months ago. Martin wasn’t sure for whose sake they’d done it. The paranoia got to Jon terribly some nights, gripped by some certainty that a member of the village or a member of Martin’s staff would track them down. For what it was worth, Martin didn’t think they’d get to that effort, but …
Well, Jon was one of the most sensible people he knew. And if Jon believed it, Martin got a bit scared over the whole thing.
As far as they could tell, Jon’s old village was still standing. They’d sent out a few traders, here and there, but they still stayed - for the most part – to themselves. A few of the shopkeepers around this village were reluctant on going there. The darkness of night was getting worse there, they complained, making it hard to see between the trees, much less the path in front of you.
Could’ve been nothing. Martin was disinclined to pick at it.
What happened to Martin’s castle was far more interesting. The staff (those that had survived) had taken up residence in there. Their own village, of sorts. It wasn’t like the castle, dilapidated as it was, couldn’t support it. They traded and cleaned up the place and lived the lives that had been taken from them for years. Odd buggers, people told Martin. But nice enough, if a little stiff.
If Martin was curious about anything in this whole business, he was curious about that. He’d known those people – grown up with most of them, been friends with some before the curse hit. Martin wanted to stop by himself, see how they were doing, but …
Well. Maybe in a few years. Martin still couldn’t be sure how they’d feel about him. He couldn’t even be sure how he wanted them to feel about him.
They were doing fine. That was all he needed to know.
Socks munched away happily at what meat was left from last night’s supper, and Martin reached for one of the pans.
He mostly slept soundly through the night. When he didn’t, it was usually some variation of that last night – the thunder and lightning and Elias’ grinning face and the crossbow. Or … there was a reoccurring one, where he found himself a beast again, and ran through miles and miles of hallways, looking for Jon, unable to find him, find anyone …
Jon’s nightmares were similar. Not a beast, but running through the forest, unable to rescue anyone in time. Jon’s nightmares were also a lot more frequent.
His poor love.
But it was behind him. He’d managed to prove everyone wrong, even his mother. He was loved – and he felt that, every morning. Even on his bad days, when he wasn’t quite certain if he loved himself, Jon loved him, and Socks loved him, and the village loved him. And on good days – well. He had all that and more.
Die a beast. No, Martin thought he’d live, actually, thanks.
To hell with anyone that tried to say otherwise.
With breakfast finished and smelling fantastic, Martin shifted it onto a plate. He held it in his hand, took a look down at Socks (cleaning off his own breakfast from his whiskers), and smiled.
Outside, he could see their garden was blooming. Tulips, daffodils, daisies, carnations … no roses, of course. He’d tried that once. Wasn’t going to be doing that again. This was their first good bloom. Previous seasons had died, and Martin had been shocked by his dread over it, but … no curses. Not even any anger from Jon. Sometimes flowers died, and it wasn’t anybody’s fault.
God, Jon really was a beauty, wasn’t he?
Plate in hand, Martin went back to his bedroom, humming a little tune to himself.