Archive of Our Own

He knows before he even opens his eyes, knows by the way his breath feels heavier in his lungs, today is going to be a bad day. Not for any reason. Not any one’s fault. It will simply be a terrible day, it was just the truth of the matter. So by the time he pries open his crusted eyes, Martin’s already given up hope for the day.

Jon is using him as a pillow again. His nose squished against his shoulder as he twitches and mumbles something about chains of sinew and marrow. Other days, Martin might find it charming how cute he looked while he dreamt of horrors beyond imagining. Today it’s only a cruel reminder of all the things Jon’s gone through and all the things he would be haunted by forever. He rolls him off, gently as he could, but it does no good. Jon was a velcro sleeper, clinging to anything within reach, and is crawling back ontop of him in seconds. And it’s not fair that Martin cringes away from him. His boyfriend was adorable and loving and wonderful but days like this even that simple joy is robbed from him. Today he was just annoying and clingy and awkward and hot. 

The second time he moves him, Jon opens his eyes and it seems he can also tell right away what kind of day this will be. Maybe it’s something in Martin’s face, maybe he can smell it on him, maybe he also felt the way the air seemed that much heavier today. “Today’s your day off, right?” his boyfriend says as a greeting “Why don’t you sleep in and I’ll get breakfast ready?”

He hadn’t even thought about work today, or the lack thereof. It was a relief and a grief at once. It was the gentlest way he could pass through this godawful kind of day, and yet there would be nothing to distract him from just how godawful it was. He nodded and laid back down again. A small, worried smile twitched at Jon’s lips. He reached as though to brush his fingers through his hair but he stopped short. Martin hated to be touched on days like this, every brush of skin making him shiver and cringe, as though everyone else was covered in some cold slime only he could feel. And Jon knew that, so he didn’t touch him and Martin was relieved. But also Jon’s face was very sad and that made Martin feel like shit. That was the trap of days like this, when Martin never felt so loved, or so miserably undeserving of it.

He buried his face in his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. But he could feel Jon’s weight next to him as he hesitated to leave their bed and the rush of cold air when he went anyway. Even worse was how he pulled the blankets back up after himself, tucking Martin into the covers, making him as warm and cozy as he could make him. Taking more care and kindness with the lump in his bed than he ever would have with himself.

“I love you.” Jon whispered, as though to ease the blow. Martin’s eyes were already pricked with tears.

He laid under the blankets and watched as Jon leaned over in his wheelchair to stir at a pot of oatmeal over the fire. Littered around their tiny room was Jon’s spinning wheel and Jon’s yarn and Jon’s notebooks. The walls were decorated with pressed flowers Martin had brought him and on the shelf was a jar of perfume he’d made especially for Jon out of as many smells that were known to repel spiders as he could shove together. There wasn’t much of Martin to see in the space except his muddy boots. He remembered those paints he’d wasted their money on a while back, and the singular, ugly mess of a picture he’d made with them and felt himself sink deeper into the bed.

He was nauseous as all hell. The oatmeal was lumpy and much too sweet with all the honey Jon had used. It was offset by how bitter the overstepped tea was, because Jon always overstepped the tea. It took him a moment to recognize it as Valerian. Jon’s way of helping him rest. Because the sooner they got to the next day the sooner he’d be forced back into the fields, doing menial, backbreaking labor for the profit of some teenaged nobleman, the sooner he’d have to get back to putting one foot in front of the other with no choice but to go through the motions of living. He’d just woken up but already a nap seemed like a great idea.

It didn’t take Amelia long to come looking for them when they didn’t turn up at her breakfast table. Jon spoke with their host in hushed tones at the door, not letting her into the room itself, as though shielding her from the wave by of gloom seeping from their bed. They had plans for that day, Martin remembered suddenly. They were going to use the pool for water exercises before the baathhouse got too busy. There was a stab of guilt through the numbness when Martin realized Jon was trying to get out of it. Luckily Amelia didn’t seem to be having any of whatever weak excuses he was supplying. Their argument was getting heated. 

“Jon. Please go.” he said with the dull realization it was the first thing he’d said all day, wincing to hear the words aloud.

 Jon looked at him with that expression of conflicted hurt and guilt that plagued Martin on days like this “Martin, I–”

 “I’m tired.” He cut him off “I’ll take a nap. I won’t even miss you.”

Jon inhaled sharply through his nose, the way he did when he was swelling himself up before an argument. But he only stared at Martin with his infamously piercing and knowing stare. And Martin only stared back, unable to find any more words worth saying on the matter. 

 “Fine.” Jon huffed eventually. Martin had clearly made him very unhappy.

But it was no secret Jon was eager as hell to get back on his feet as soon as possible. After a painful and frustrating year housebound, disabled with constant fatigue and muscle weakness he was finally starting to make notable progress. What he thought he would accomplish confining himself to the same room as his cold and depressing lover he couldn’t phantom. If Jon halted or even damaged his recovery just because Martin was sad of all things he’d never forgive himself. 

He knew Jon didn’t think much of it since he was stuck in bed so much but in reality he tended to Martin ceaselessly as long as he could stay awake through it. Amelia made him ointments for his blisters and sunburns but Jon made a damn point about being the one to dab them on himself. Everyday when Martin came back exhausted and sore from working in the fields, he’d rub his shoulders and feet. Cooked him meals and then made sure he ate them. (his cooking was getting better,) He’d even honored Martin's request not to talk about things before. You know, the trauma they never resolved. At the time Martin had insisted to himself it was so they could focus on moving on and building a new life. But, really, he knew he was just being selfish and cowardly.

Before they left for the baaths, Jon had Amelia pull out the weighted blanket he’d been working on (it was too heavy for him) and lay it out over Martin. The even pressure sinking him further into the straw bedding. Sapping away any will to get up that might have remained to him. It sealed him into bed like a tomb.

“Sleep tight. I’ll be back soon” his beloved promised and turned to roll himself away before he could fail to respond–clearly not expecting one. Just before Amelia closed the door behind them, he did something so strange it kept Martin up for what seemed like hours thinking about it. The most un-Jon-like thing he’d seen him do since he asked him if he was a bloody ghost all those years ago. He blew him a kiss.

Not two minutes after the door had closed, Martin blew chunks in their chamber pot.

He did sleep in the end, and it must’ve been for longer than he expected because when he opens his eyes again there’s a covered plate of what must've been his lunch waiting on the nightstand. Jon was sitting in his rocking chair, knitting a new pair of socks for Martin since he’d worn through his old ones last week. He didn’t notice Martin was awake, which was only fair. He’d dressed and bathed and now he sat in his rocking chair humming to himself as he worked. HIs hair was braided up and Martin wondered if he’d braided it himself or if Amelia had done it for him, since usually Martin braiding his hair was a favorite morning ritual for both of them.

Amelia had introduced Jon to spinning last year to act as a kind of physical therapy as his legs recovered their strength ever so slowly. Jon had taken to the craft like a duck to water and, building on the basic skills his grandmother had passed along, and ended up making their entire winter wardrobe from scratch. Really the longer they stayed here the more of Jon’s talents found their way to the surface in an environment that appreciated them. Meanwhile Martin’s only notable asset in this society was his size.

Is… Is that why he was feeling this way? Was he… was he jealous of Jon? Because he took to this new world better than he did? Was he upset that he didn’t depend on him the way he used to? Did he resent him for getting better and not needing him anymore? Christ what a horrible thing to think. Was he really that desperate to be needed that he was spiteful his partner had gained a degree of physical independence? What an abominable person he was. His mother–

“Martin.” the word pulled him from his thoughts so suddenly he flinched. 

Jon grimaced beside him and did not meet his eye. He could see plainly how much Jon wanted to kiss him. To cuddle into him. To hold his hand. Yet he held himself back, because he knew Martin wouldn't like it. He wanted nothing more than for Jon to kiss him. He wanted nothing more than for Jon to vanish from his sight. 

In the end all he said was “You should eat.” and went back to his knitting. He didn’t even watch him to make sure he did. 

The day passed like that. Martin rotting in bed as his thoughts bullied him for rotting and the longer it went on the louder and crueler they became. He tried to sleep as much as he could but his body wouldn’t let him. Time moved at a dreadful crawl. Jon made no demands of him. Not that he get up or wash his face or do the chores that needed doing. He only placed food in front of him with an uncommanding word that suggested he’d like it to be eaten, one hand clenched in his lap to keep it from reaching. And he refused to leave. Silently but firmly. The room was so small he took up almost Martin’s entire field of vision. The weather outside was lovely, the sort of day Jon would usually spend on the porch, with the fresh air and whatever meager entertainment birds passing and windchimes provided. Instead he spent the day in front of a cold fireplace, knitting Martin’s socks. 

Eventually he noticed Jon start to yawn and rub his eye and realized he must’ve skipped his nap today and was exhausted. He sat up in bed, startled. Chronic fatigue was the least of Jon’s colorful bouquet of health issues, (alongside muscle weakness, chronic pain, migraines, his fucking heart…) insofar as it was the easiest to manage. Or at least it was when Jon wasn’t afraid to crawl into his own fucking bed and upsetting the giant cold log occupying it. Oh Christ what a selfish, thoughtless—

Something fuzzy and blue tumbled out of his blankets and caught his attention. It was a small stuffed square, pinched in a clever way so that it resembled a bunny. Martin didn’t recognize it and realized Jon must’ve knitted it just today and left it for him to find. It would’ve been trivial for him to put something like this together. A little trinket to waste on his boyfriend. Something soft and friendly to keep him company when everything and everyone else was cold and rough and unwelcome. 

Jon was snoring, his chin in his chest, and Martin felt like a complete arsehole.

“But that’s not fair !” Charlie whined dramatically, because he did everything dramatically “How is anyone supposed to guess the day is meant to be the man’s life?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a very good riddle if it didn’t require some thought.” Jon replied.

“It’s a cheat.” he insisted “A good riddle tells you everything you need to know. The answer hidden in plain sight. Never something you’d think to guess but obvious once you know the  solution.”

Jon made a mental note to tell him the story of Hiranyakashipu sometime “You say that because all your riddles are just puns and word-play. Look, I didn't write it. It happens to be very famous where I come from.”

They were peeling potatoes for supper. This was a new way they’d found to pass the time through the mundanity. The riddles could be tedious but Jon would take them in a heartbeat over his deafening singing, or, even worse, his magic tricks. Charlie made his living as a clown and was horribly suited to the work. He was all mouth and he used Jon as a captive audience to test his newest material. He shared a bed with Amelia when he was in town—She was a nun yet no one seemed to find this scandalizing in the least. Apparently members of her order sterilized themselves upon graduation so her sex life wasn’t an issue—and he still didn’t have the slightest clue what they saw in each other. Especially with how they made a sport of fighting with each other. He would never understand allosexuals.

“...So you admit you were cheating.” Charlie muttered 

“How do you cheat at a riddle?!”

“Is Amelia still not back yet?” Martin wondered aloud as he returned from his soak. He kissed Jon sweetly in greeting. He was cold to the touch as always, even the lips, but kissing him always made Jon feel very warm.

“No. For as eager as that baby was to arrive, it’s taking its sweet time about it.” Part of Amelia’s job as a follower of Baathar, god of medicine, was to allow herself to be pulled away in the dead of night to tend to emergency wounds and spiking fevers and, of course, to deliver babies. After an hour or so of dithering about eating without their host they had finally decided to push on without her.

Charlie handled most of the cooking when he was around and Jon had been slowly but surely picking up his skills. Together they boiled the potatoes until soft, mashed them, mixed with onion, salt, and a bit of flour and egg to hold it together, then spooned the dough out into piles on a hot, pan. Meanwhile Martin chopped and fried the cabbage with some garlic. They ate it with milk on wooden plates while Charlie and Martin made an art of yakking about nothing. Afterwards Martin washed the dishes, Jon dried, and Charlie cleaned the counters. Then Charlie suggested a game of cards and it was while he was dealing them into their third hand that Amelia limped into the temple kitchen. They all knew something was wrong immediately, not because of the deep bags under her eyes or the haunted expression on her face but because she didn’t bother to even take off her shoes. She’d have chewed Martin’s ear off for such disregard to the sanctity of her temple.

Charlie, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He put her arm around him so he was supporting her and led her away in the direction of her bedroom.

“What happened?” Jon couldn’t stop himself from asking “Is the baby...?”

“Baby’s healthy and well. It’s the mother who’s dead.” The nun muttered

In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, Jon found himself at a funeral. Why was he there? Had Amelia asked them to come? He barely recognized the white-faced father spreading his wife’s ashes with no great elegance. Glenn, he thinks his name was. Amelia held his infant son in one arm, the other held Charlie’s hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. A priest dressed in green led them in a prayer and all around them were wet eyes and faces full of pity. People seized by that annoying, clawing need to make each death their own personal tragedy.  

Martin’s hand was on his shoulder, his eyes a million miles away, visiting another mother’s funeral. Jon remembered his own mother’s funeral more clearly than the woman herself at this point. He took his hand and kissed the knuckles and he seemed to remember that he was there.

The infant himself seemed the only one content, lazily trying to fit his entire fist into his mouth. Wonderfully ignorant of the pain and misery that were his by right. Rowan, the local match-maker, was already taking Glenn aside and speaking to him in low, sweet tones. That baby’s father would remarry before he had formed his first memories and he would never know the difference between mother and step-mother.

But, then again, there was a world of difference between not knowing pain and living with one so constantly present you hardly noticed it. And there was no one who could hurt you as effortlessly as a parent, living or dead.

He doesn’t think he’d ever seen Amelia truly in her cups before that night, which was probably for the best because as it turned out she was a sloppy drunk. Not five minutes ago, she’d been bad-mouthing Rowan (“She’s just so, and I apologize for my language, but she’s so annoying!”). Now she was dancing a jig while Charlie played her a tune on his hurdy gurdy. 

“Now I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Well it goes like–”

Jon, unsurprisingly, had a lovely singing voice. He was also more sloshed than Martin had given him credit for, but stopped when he noticed everyone looking at him. “What?”

“Well you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Charlie noted, amused

“Oh! Oh, Jon, tell one of your stories!” Amelia demanded suddenly. She sat on the floor and Charlie joined her without hesitation. They looked up at the man with his head in Martin’s lap with wide-eyes anticipation like children at story time. “The ones about the maiden who fights demons! What was her name again? Bloody?”

“You mean Buffy?" Jon squinted "Uh, sure. Wh–Whe–Have I told you about the mummy girl yet?”

“No, what’s that?”

“Um, it’s a sort of monster… a stupid one, really… Anyway it’s like a dead king that rose again or–”

At the mention of death, Amelia was suddenly weeping. 

“I keep wondering… If I’d been more careful… If I’d realized the baby was upside down sooner… If I’d done anything differently…”

“Oh no, don’t do that to yourself. I’m sure you did all you could.” Martin patted her shoulder

“Some things are simply beyond knowing. Hypotheticals are a noose to progress. The harder you try, the more you struggle, the tighter the rope gets.” Jon muttered into his own wine. This didn’t prove especially comforting. 

Eventually Charlie calmed her down with more wine but that wasn’t the best idea either because ten minutes later she was running for the chamber pot, her lover hot on her heels.

Jon’s hands found their way up to Martin’s face “You’ve been so quiet tonight, darling. Something on your mind?” 

He shrugged “Just don’t have much to say, I guess.”

Jon hummed, staring at him intently like he was trying to decide whether or not to push but was too drunk and stumbling over his thoughts. Eventually Martin just said “I’m sorry could you come up here please?”

What Jon apparently heard was “Could you please kiss me within an inch of my life?” Not that Martin was complaining, of course. He really didn’t have anything of worth to say about the whole sad situation, so this was as good a use for his mouth as any.

After a while there was a sudden creak in the floorboard and they jumped apart.

“Oh, don’t mind me. By all means, carry on.” Charlie insisted cheerily. He was crouched in front of a large cabinet where Amelia kept dried herbs and roots and other ingredients for her medicines. From the bottom shelf he pulled a jar of shriveled up green flowers. Very distinctive and recognizable green flowers. Sometimes this world was baffling and alien and strange and other times it was almost distressingly familiar 

“Want some? Muyla always keeps some on hand in case her elders honor her with a visit–”

“Her church elders ?” 

Charlie clearly didn’t understand his confusion, and shrugged “They use it in prayer to commune with the heavens.”(“Oh, of course they do.” Jon scoffed) “But Muyla’s tucked in for the night, she won’t notice a bit missing.” 

Jon barked a laugh. “No, thanks. I don’t need any help— I mean, I have my poison of choice right here.” he raised his cup.

But Martin stared at the jar’s contents, thinking about how those buds still weren't legal in the United Kingdom when they’d, ah, left, and found himself saying “Yes.”

That night he smoked his first joint. Jon was shockingly nonplussed by this development, though he still declined any for himself, which Martin thought was for the best. He even went as far as scrounging up that old pipe Charlie had found for him over a year ago (they couldn’t find any tobacco to go with it, so this was the first use it had seen) and giving tips on how to breathe around the unfamiliar burning fumes. He held Martin’s hand through his first high, watching him with unmasked amusement and love. It tasted terrible, especially the first few puffs. He wondered if it was stale but if it was it hadn’t lost its potency. Within minutes he feels some awful tightness in his chest that had been there so long he’d forgotten about it, sliding loose. Everything was funny. He felt wonderful. He was floating. The only thing tethering him to reality was Jon’s hand in his.

Charlie took a puff of his own pipe, and smiled “That’s the way, my friend. Just because the fruit hangs low doesn’t mean it’s not sweet, as I’ve always said.”

Martin couldn’t remember him ever saying that. Vaguely he wondered if it was an expression in this world. It didn’t matter. It was funny and he laughed and Jon looked at him like he was precious. He could see why people got so hooked on this stuff.

His pain was ceaseless and intense. Like thousands of angry, accusatory hands grabbing at his muscles and squeezing, clawing, pulling. Some days even the hands grew tired and had to retreat, and his pain was a dull pulsating annoyance he could almost ignore. Other days they pinned him down and tore into him and all Jon could do was lie there in bed, whimpering and crying, and wait for them to tire themselves out again. But one way or another he knew they would never leave him completely for as long as he lived. 

Today was decidedly not a good day but it wasn’t so bad he was immobilized so he must be grateful for that, he supposed. Really the problem was that Charlie took every sullen face as a damn challenge and was trying to ward off his aches with a juggling routine. 

“Charlie, what have I told you about harassing my patients?” Amelia asked tiredly, appearing in the doorway “Go find something useful to do, I don’t care what.”

It said something about how gentle he was being with her lately that her boyfriend did not argue, which as far as Jon could tell was their favorite pastime. 

“That time of the month, huh?” she asked, already searching for the willow’s bark.

Jon sucked a withering breath, a piercing sensation beginning in his temples already “What makes you say that?” he said with forced patience. Amelia was often rather blunt when it came to her bedside manner and it had taken him a long time to realize it was a reflection of the culture she lived in, which was far less precious about the body and bodily functions than he was used to.

“You’re bloating.”

Of course, just being a bit of an arse wasn’t beyond her either. 

“Oh, don’t be like that. It happens to the best of us.” And she handed him a cup of wine, which was her preferred method of giving him his medicine because most of them tasted like ass. Christ, he missed ibuprofen. This was a bit like gagging someone getting amputated to stop them biting their tongue off. It didn’t come close to solving the problem and at best muffled it a bit.

“I do wonder though, does it make it harder? The whole… man thing? When your womanhood makes itself so apparent.”

Jon drank his wine. She couldn’t be faulted for being ignorant, he reminded himself forcefully, but he did get tired of answering small-minded questions and having to explain every aspect of his transness to people who have never heard the word before. Martin always made such a fuss every time a local ignored or forgot his gender and it really was so sweet of him. But most of the time Jon just didn’t have the energy for it. 

“It can. Personally I try not to think about what is causing my discomfort. But don’t call it womanhood. I don’t have that.”

“However,” he added before she could speak “I think you’ve stumbled into something quite relevant to the whole ‘man thing’ as you eloquently put it. People like me do often struggle with a feeling of cognitive dissonance between ourselves and our bodies, we call it dysphoria.”

“Cognitive…?”

“When two opposing ideas seem to exist simultaneously. Like… eating meat even though you love animals.”

She cocked her head like that hadn’t occurred to her before. It happened sometimes to both of them. This world largely resembled a much younger version of theirs but their values, languages, and ideas had formed independently and there was a lot of nuance in how they arrived at the same conclusions. The people of this world had their own history, their own culture, and their own taboos. No one batted an eye to see a woman pull out her breast to feed a baby but god forbid you touch someone’s back in public. It was for the best, he told himself during moments like this, because the more alien their customs, the longer it would take the fears to learn what truly frightened them and begin their wicked feast anew. Amelia would not fall prey to The Stranger’s tricks with poor Father Burroughs simply because she had no concept of the Eucharist.

“How are you holding up?” he asked a bit forcefully. Because he wanted to change the subject, and because he wanted her to have her turn being prodded and uncomfortable.

Ever since that night–or rather, the hangover the next morning–she had made a point of acting as though the whole situation had never occurred. Instead she busied herself with her work, speaking less at dinners and being more brusque when she did. He hated it when she did the things he knew he would do in her situation.

She shrugged “Grief will not help anyone still living and furthermore I haven’t the right. So we trudge on. I wish people would stop asking.”

Jon had never been good at not asking “You’ve been in this village a year and a half now. Surely this can’t be the first time you’ve lost a patient?”

“No, but it is the first one I’ve lost in childbirth and that’s different than other kinds of death.”

“Because there’s a baby by the end?”

“Because of how she struggled! It’s not like a fever or infection or even a horse kick. Those deaths are slow, confusing, and exhausting. Those who find them want comfort more than anything. When I say my final prayers or give them the drought so they can sleep forever I tell them how they are escaping this wretched human shell and going ahead to save their loved ones a seat in the Feasthall of Duligah. And there is something like relief when they close their eyes and it is over. But this one—Kara—was dragged out of this world kicking and screaming, bloody and violent, desperate and furious. It was horrible to witness.”

Jon hummed and considered this. It had taken them almost a full year of immersion to learn the local language and during that time Amelia had often felt like a looming, authoritarian, overly suspicious bitch just waiting for an excuse to take advantage of them. Now that they were able to properly communicate, he could appreciate the ambitious but overworked and cynical young woman she was. Her church had set up for failure for some reason and she was determined to succeed out of spite. He still didn’t know why, and he’d bitten his tongue more than once to stop himself from prying. Old habits and all that. 

“Pardon me the taboo but… how old are you exactly?” he asked her as gently as he could

Her face was guarded but curious when she told him “Nearly thirty.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re a baby.”

She did not appreciate that. “You are not five—“

Jon snapped “Anyone who can still be surprised that fighting to live can be violent and ugly could only be a baby.”

She scrunched up her face and clearly didn’t appreciate that either, but then she slumped a sighed. “I suppose that’s only fair. You’ve seen men die before too, haven’t you Jon?”

The question startled him before he remembered she thought he was a refugee from a country destroyed by a volcano (a bit dramatic in his opinion but Martin was kind of on the spot) “Yes. Yes I have.”

She didn’t ask for details, for which he was grateful. He was terrible at lying on the spot.

To call it a party was overgenerous. The only guests were Amelia and Charlie because even after a year they still didn’t know anyone else well enough to invite them to dinner, let alone call them friends. Also they did live here. It also would be disingenuous to call it a birthday party, since they still weren’t sure when that was supposed to be. Jon had simply chosen the day before the Spring Equinox because it was easy to remember. But there was a surprise.

 “Happy birthday, love.” Jon said weakly. He was using a walker to support himself, his knees still a bit unsteady, and it took a great amount of restraint from Martin not to scoop him up and ruin it. 

Jon looked away shyly. Self-conscious in that fretful, timid way of a person was when showing their partner their new haircut. Waves that this morning had flowed past his waist now halted suddenly between the ear and chin. It was choppy and uneven and Martin could tell at a glance he had cut it himself. But more than that Jon had colored his hair. The distinctive silvery streaks that had started so young on him and accumulated more and more over years of trauma and stress and overwork vanished all at once. Replaced with a uniform inky blackness that Martin had never seen on him. 

“Why Mister Sims. Don’t you look so handsome!” he declared, burying him in a hug. He could feel the heat of Jon’s blush through his shirt. Martin attacked him relentlessly with a series of smothering, smooshing, bruising kisses. 

Then he whispered in his ear “Never took you for the mid-life crises type.” And Jon shoved him away. 

He thinks Jon had the right idea surprising him with this, because the constant nausea the Lonely had left him didn’t have the chance to creep up and numb his tastebuds. Coupled with the indulgent spread–how on earth did he convince Amelia to spurge on pork chops?–it was the first time in weeks he thoroughly enjoyed his meal. He’d been quite fond of pork chops, once upon a time and thinks he might be still. There was a good mead and sauerkraut and applesauce and honey cake afterwards. Then, after dinner, they played board games and drinking games and talked about nothing important, and somehow they all wound up painting each other’s fingernails before they wandered off to bed.

Just the same as any other night Martin took a comb and sat behind Jon, unbraiding, brushing, and re-braiding his hair before he went to sleep. Still the same comfortable rhythm, just shorter.

“Do you like it?” Jon finally asked, his voice a little too soft 

Martin knew better than to deflect “I think I will miss the silver, but you know you’ll always be stunning to me.”

“Silver.” Jon scoffed

“Do you like it?”

“I… I don't know. Mostly I think I’m just not used to it. I keep staring at my reflection because I barely recognize myself.”

“Well, the good thing about hair is it grows back if you change your mind or want to try again.”  Martin wrapped his arms around him. He kissed Jon’s newly-exposed nape and he sucked in a breath like he’d been stung.

“You know, we don’t have any money to spare for presents right now but… if there was ever anything in particular you… wanted…” Jon suggested huskily, guiding Martin’s hands across his body.

He almost laughed and barely restrained himself to a smile. Jon seduced like a teenager who’d seen too many spy movies and it probably spoke volumes about how smitten he truly was that Martin found it hopelessly attractive

He’s not sure what he expected, honestly. Perhaps he’s gotten too used to life events being tied up in the grotesque and strange. But, somehow, the ordinary parchment with its common wax seal that delivered a perfectly normal rejection letter simply felt too mundane to apply to him. It wasn’t even the rejection itself that bothered him so much as it was the plain, brief, politely un-offensive way it was delivered. The way it was so easy for them to reject him. So simple.

The Weaver’s Guild provided three reasons for his rejection where only one was needed. One, that he had unfortunately been misinformed as to how their recruitment process worked. In order for his candidacy to even be considered he needed a letter of recommendation from an existing guild member. Two, that it was common practice for the guild’s newest members to be given the heaviest workload until they earned their stripes as it were and that understood this may be an unfair burden on one as, ahem, of delicate disposition as himself. And three, that even though they were assured he had made great progress from where he had started in their craft, his technical skills were still rather shy or the strict standards of quality the Weaver’s Guild held for their members.

It was all Jon could do to sigh and stare out the window at the stars.

He remembers his grandmother. She refused to go into detail about it but he knew she didn’t come to England entirely by choice, but also refused to return to her home for the rest of her life. There was this stubborn pride in her heritage that, to her inextricably british grandchild, had often read simply as a sort of bitterness, refusing to integrate where she could help it. She’d always been so proud of him for getting into Oxford, even if she never understood why he insisted on spending his time there on Supernatural Studies. His father had apparently planned to further his education but died before he had the opportunity. (Their graves are universes away now. He’d never liked visiting them.) And he’d been so obnoxiously proud of it too. 

He had worked so hard for so long to get to that place where so very few of his peers looked anything like him. And then he continued to work just as hard. To prove he deserved to be there. And then, when he finally got that piece of paper he’d so agonized for, and yet somehow job recruiters were still not tripping over themselves to offer him six figure salaries and spring open all their doors to him… He kept working hard. Told himself that maybe if he went above and beyond and really impressed that Mr. Bouchard… 

What a fucking joke. What a pitiful excuse. What an absolute waste.

Each day at the Commfields presented a different daunting, grueling, yet deeply boring job to complete. Today Martin was tasked with spreading fertilizer. It was shit work, pun fully intended. Hours of shoveling heavy, sticky, disgusting slop around acres and acres and acres of wheat fields. Martin always got the hardest jobs, the most physically demanding, since he was so huge. He’d always been big, just the way he was built, not that he’d ever done anything with it before they came here. (The way he had run off and left Melanie to fight off Jared had made that tremendously clear.) Now it was all he was. A big, strong body that could do the worst tasks available. 

Paroling around the fields were Cromac’s men in their yellow cloaks, enforcing the rule of law in the name of their god—and money. Martin must’ve been moving rather sluggishly and one of them came over to yell in his face about it. Almost all the workers here were prisoners, debtors and petty criminals mostly, forced into hard labor to pay off their debts to society. The hours in the sun passed to the sound of jingling chains around his co-workers' ankles. 

The damn thing was Martin honestly couldn’t understand why he was so exhausted. Between his own nightmares and Jon’s he was no stranger to working through sleep deprivation. But last night had been wonderful. He’d snuck another cup of weed, had a blowjob, and was out before his head hit the pillow. Jon had even told him with this proud little smile how he’d slept like a baby all night. (His own sleep had eluded him, so he'd watched Martin instead.) It was the exception that should’ve proved the rule—except that he was somehow even more bone tired than before.

Really the weed worked wonders on Martin. It felt like unplugging after a grueling day serving this world he would never belong to. Color seeped back into his vision and everything was bright and funny as he floated through the hours. Completely free except for the place where his fingers entwined with Jon’s. He did feel a bit bad for taking from Amelia’s supply without asking but she was strict as hell where her religion was concerned. There was no way she’d just give to him what she thought was a sacred tool to commune with her god. And with Charlie off on his usual tour, and not tidying up after her, Amelia is usually too busy to keep an eye on them. Evenings in the temple often grew quieter and, honestly, a bit boring without him around. She left Jon and Martin to entertain themselves with whatever they found, usually board games, it’s not like she’d ever said the herbs in her cabinet were off limits.

(Yes it was a pitiful excuse but anyway.)

It had taken some trial and error. You couldn’t just put the leaves in boiling water or it would just be a woody, slightly bitter tasting tea. It was just dumb luck that Jon knew enough about cannabinoids to think of adding butter to the water. To say nothing of dosage, steeping time, and how much milk or honey to add to make it taste good. But soon enough they had a consistent recipe that they used to get Martin high as a kite. Jon tended to drink more heavily on those nights and they would waste hours together swimming through their respective intoxications. Staring at the stars, talking about bullshit, and snogging like teenagers.

He must not have been paying attention or something because the guard hit him. Another of Cromac’s men who was watching gave a whoop. It caught him in the jaw, which was not good.  Usually they aimed for his stomach and Martin had gotten good at milking it by falling on his ass and groaning, and pretty much letting himself look so pathetic they were satisfied. Old habits die hard, he supposed. But he knew from the spring of the guard’s bushy eyebrows it was about to get worse. Something dark and angry and deeply annoyed must’ve settled over his face (he used to be so good at stopping that) and the guard was frightened. Frightened and armed generally made for a terrible combination. 

But then someone was stepping in to quell the matter before it began. Rory was one of the few workers in the Commfields that was not a prisoner of any sort, and that meant the guards could get in trouble if they touched him . He worked there because he was mute and couldn’t hold down any job that required talking so he’d carved out his place tending to the few animals and beehives on the farm. With nothing more or less than a jerk of the head, he explained that Martin would be helping him in the stables the rest of the day. 

Even after Martin saw the state of the stables, Martin wondered why Rory had intervened for him. Sure, he’d need a pair of hands that weren’t his own but Rory hated him. He tried to ask him about it but Rory just pretended he couldn’t hear him and ignored the question.  

He rubbed his hand along the bruise “Hmm, I wonder how dark it will bloom.” he mused to himself “Jon will usually believe it was an accident as long as there’s no blood and it’s not too obvious. But this is on my face, hmm…”

He started brainstorming convincing cover-stories as he worked. Of course, it’s not like he lies every time something like this happens. Jon wasn’t under any delusion the Commfields were anything less than what they were. He just plays down the more gory details because he wanted to spare him any unnecessary worry, he swears!

Suddenly Rory cleared his throat and Martin looked to see the mute all crossed arms and cocked a single eyebrow. Somehow making himself the exact image of “Really? You’re really going to lie to your boyfriend? Really?”

“Hey mind your business.” Martin snapped

Rory held his hands up, palms out, rolling his eyes so much his rolled his neck with them “Well exscuuuuse me.”

Martin flushed under this stranger's judgment “I don’t—Look. What would be the point in letting him get all twisted up kicking himself for a situation he can’t do anything about? You don’t know the first thing about Jon but I can promise you he has enough weighing him down right now. An accident can be learned from and avoided, injustice and indentured servitude less so.” He added sullenly 

Rory considered this, scratching his chin for effect, then made a sympathetic little hum. He pulled out a set of painted cards, which Martin had seen him use before. They were how Rory communicated ideas too nuanced or precise to be captured in an exaggerated gesture. Since literacy wasn’t common here, though, each one had a different symbol but the symbols were native to this world and didn’t always line up with those back home, so talking to him for any length of time felt half like getting a tarot card reading and half like texting someone who only used emojis. Rory shuffled through the deck and presented him with three cards. There was one that showed a crow (bad luck), a lamb (innocence), and a strange one of a sun with a wedge missing (he knew the sun was the symbol of Clahdie, their god of truth, justice, and blah blah. And a broken circle usually meant a broken promise. So he thinks this means injustice.) 

Martin gathers he is saying something like Just rotten luck. You didn’t do anything wrong.

In response, he says “Well, you don’t know that.” and Rory just tilted his head.

In the end, he compromised and told Jon half the truth. That he had been bent over in his work when one of the guards decided it would be funny to shove him into the filth. He hadn’t even realized there’d been a rock under there. Jon was absolutely pissed of course, but at least that was all he was. Anger could be invigorating, fear was just exhausting.

“I don’t know how you can bear it, Martin!” gripped the man who made it bearable, rubbing his feet that night. It was the only thing they’d found effective at treating his crap circulation so Jon made doing so daily a point of pride, working the muscles deep in order to knead open his blood vessels.

Martin just smiled idly from his spot lying on the floor in response and they stared at each other a moment. Martin’s calm only served to irritate Jon further, until eventually he told him “Come here.”

Jon frowned but did as he was told, sliding down from his rocking chair. He didn’t seem surprised when Martin pulled him down for a kiss. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too.” Jon sighed, resting his head against Martin’s shoulder in defeat.

Jon took a long swig of wine, knowing he would need the liquid courage for what he was about to do.

“Are you sure about this?” Amelia asked besides him

Jon made himself take a deep, steadying breath and nodded “It has to be someday. Might as well be today.” Then he finished the dregs of the bottle. For luck.

Amelia sized him up critically. He’d already been a bit tipsy when he decided today would be the day he conquered this fear which she had indulged but never understood. Part of him wants her to tell him no, so he can leave this for another day. The rest of him didn’t want to waste this sudden rush of bravery. Eventually she just shrugged.

The central chamber of the baathhouse was dominated by an enormous bathing pool and, for the first time during one of Jon’s visits, it was bustling with activity. About two dozen villagers milled about in the warm, soapy water, washing themselves and chatting with neighbors without any mind to their nudity. His walker seemed especially clumsy as Amelia led him to the pool’s edge. Louder, somehow. With a final, determined nod, Jon slid his robe off of himself and allowed Amelia to support him as he slid into the water.

“Alright. I’ve got some chores to do in here so I’ll be around. Don’t try and get out on your own. Last thing you need is a twisted ankle at this stage, am I clear?" She instructed him firmly like an adult about to leave a small child. He gave a small nod and then she was off in a whirl of red skirts. 

The world did not freeze. No one gasped in horror at the sight of his body. But he could feel the eyes on him, lingering on his scars, the little dip in his torso where Jared had taken his ribs. He had been in town long enough for people to wonder why they never saw him in the baaths. There were already a hundred and a half rumors about him and Martin, explaining their strangeness with varying degrees of accuracy and creativity. By tonight there were bound to be two hundred and a half. His knees wanted to creep up to cover his chest and he kept them down with an active will. 

He tipped his head back and watched the sunlight catch the steam dancing through the air. The smells of lavender and sage swirling around him. It reminded him of one of the first baths he’d taken in this place, back when Martin had had to wash him because Jon was too weak to even do that much himself. 

“So this is… it then?” His voice echoed through Jon’s mind.

His scarred fingers worked shampoo gently through his hair. They felt too small somehow. Clumsy and unsatisfying. He wished Martin was there. He loved the feeling of his fingers scratching at his scalp, blunted and calloused from hard work in the fields but still so gentle and kind wherever Jon was concerned. He remembered seeing a nail file in the general store and made a mental note to buy it for him, not sure if he’d go through with it when sober. Even living as a charity project, they’d had to take out a loan when they’d first arrived. The longer they took to pay it off, the higher the interest would gather and the harder it would be next year. New world, same shit he supposed. And for every year they failed to pay off their debt Martin would have to work another year in those godawful Commfields.

Still, Martin deserved something nice for himself. Proper tools to take care of himself when this world was so set of chewing at his body. He was finally taking an interest in his grooming again after a… a bit of a drop off when they’d first arrived. He used to spend months avoiding shaving, now it was practically his hobby. He would stare at himself in the mirror, watching the straight blade slowly scrape across his skin, very rarely leaving a small nick. Then he’d catch Jon watching him in the mirror, and he’d come over and kiss him in a way that tasted like devotion and Jon would decide not to say anything.

“Jon?” a voice said beside him. And he realized with a start that next to him in this baath, sunlight catching in her hair and naked as the day she was born, was Merida.

The world narrowed from dozens of unfamiliar eyes roaming his body to the one pair clearly afraid to look down. They were a soft, forest green. Timid and pretty. If he’d known she would be in here, he’d have stayed away. Or at least gotten drunker first. Suddenly he was very aware of the wine stains on his teeth, the pimples in his hairline, his scraggly beard. A moment passed.

“I–”

“What–”

They both stopped.

“I’m sorry. You first.” He said

She had to try twice before the words would come. “What happened to your hair? That’s a good look on you.”

Oh. He’d forgotten he’d done that. “Um, just felt like a change, I suppose.”

“Is that all? How bold. I doubt I’d have the nerve to go so short.”

Jon smiled wryly “Martin said the opposite, actually.” As soon as he mentioned Martin he regretted it, but he couldn’t stuff the word back in so he opted for more to bury the lead. “Where we come from, people are less precious about their hair. We cut it, dye it, burn it without a care–”

“Burn it?” she asked, alarmed. Then “Sorry, I shouldn’t interrupt.”

“No. No, it’s–it’s alright.” Said Jon, who usually hated when people interrupted him. Somehow it was hard to feel anything sterner than awkward around this shy woman who’d once asked to marry his boyfriend. “Well, um yes. Sometimes we burn our hair. Not intentionally, usually, but people would use hot irons to straighten or curl their hair and sometimes it would burn.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But it’s a give and take, you know? If a man were to paint his face or nails, like they do here, it would seem unusually feminine.” Jon continued, remembering he was very good at rambling, especially when drunk, especially when his conversation partner was too shy to interrupt. And his mind didn’t have to wander far to find Martin again, waiting patiently for him to reach the point.

“I told him he should take you up on your offer.” He blurted out 

“Hm?” Said Merida, who did not have access to his thought process

“Martin.”

For the first time she looked away from him “Did you?”

“Mmm, he was pretty miffed about the whole thing. It wasn’t personal, you should know. The idea of marrying for anything less than true love… it just doesn't sit well with him. Always the romantic, my Martin.”

My Martin . The words slipped out from him before he realized they’d even formed. They tasted so sweet it startled him a little.

“How is he? Honestly I’m surprised you’ve been talking to me this long. He has been avoiding me.”

“Oh, of course he has. But he’s actually been in a pretty good mood lately.” he admitted, remembering just the other night when he’d spent an hour talking about how soup was a perfect metaphor for the universe. It brought a smile to his face. “I take it you’re going to marry Glenn then?”

Her mouth made some interesting shapes. “That certainly is what Rowan would like us to do. Nosy woman, that one. Always convinced she knows best without you asking her… And I have decided I will accept if he asks me. But the truth is he needs a mother, not a wife. You and Martin needed my womb and my money but had no need of my time or my ambitions. I think I would have preferred that arrangement. But perhaps I’m past the point now where beggars can be choosers. I need to be wed before my father passes or it all goes to my kid brother who’ll piss it away before the body’s cold. And the way his health stands he won’t last the winter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jon said

“Thank you.” she said in that automatic way a person did when they’d heard the same condolence too many times for it to matter any more.

“Hey, maybe we should get married, if you’re still interested.” That made her laugh.  It felt so good to make someone laugh. She had a gap in her teeth you could fit a cigarette between.

They chatted for a while about village gossip and her father’s health. And Jon was surprised how much he liked talking to her. She was soft spoken and happy to indulge his drunken rambles, but she also had a dry sense of humor and was as coolly practical as you’d expect from a woman who willingly seeks out a marriage of convenience. When Amelia comes to get him, she helps steady him and hands him his robe.

As days became weeks of regular drug use, time seemed to have two settings. There were the long, tedious hours of grueling physical labor and menial chores. Puppeting his own body begrudgingly through his tasks until the time Amelia left them alone in the evenings. And then there were the long, blissful hours where he floated in that euphoric state where everything was funny and everything tasted good and everything was comfortable and he felt light and alive . 

Really it was shocking Amelia hadn't caught onto them yet. She kept muttering about how they were going through their stores of cheese faster than they should be. Munchies did not pair well with the sort of rationed diet they observed in this holy temple. But then again Martin had always been a skilled liar, and Jon covered for him without flinching. As did Charlie, who had laughed himself silly when he saw how much emptier the jar had become, then pinched off another blossom for himself.

And it was a shame because the weeks when Charlie returned for his usual visits used to be the highlight of that month, when the food got better and there were more hands to do the chores and even a bit of entertainment at night. Now his visits were tedious because he always managed to badger his lover away from her scrolls and into spending time with the rest of them, so Martin had to be cautious and sober and grumpy. Jon held his hand under the table while they sat through another round of cards.

Nothing was real when he was high, not fully anyway. Words, actions, memories, feelings, pain physical and otherwise. It was like he floated above all of it. Being high was like having all the best parts of life and only half of the worse, and even those were distant. 

But of course sometimes things did get a bit away from him. Like moments when he got scared real bad because he realized he’d forgotten something or he didn’t know what was going on. That tour of memory manor had lodged still haunted him. Other times he forgot himself in other ways. Like that one time when he’d gotten excited about something, he couldn’t recall exactly what, and he lifted Jon right out of his wheelchair and swung him around like a ragdoll. He had not been happy about that at all. Cursing and hitting and demanding he be put down immediately. But Jon had just looked so cute tucked into his arms like a baby, and Martin was too far gone. He’d done two laps around the living room, cooing down at his boyfriend, before he finally put him back in his chair. At the time it all seemed like good fun. In the morning he realized how badly he’d fucked up and was tripping over himself with apologies, but Jon just shrugged it off. And why wouldn’t he? He wasn’t above a thoughtless joke when he was intoxicated either. Like when he told Martin how much he hated his mother.

An unspoken agreement reared its head as the weeks continued–As long as you were intoxicated, it didn’t count. The careful, gummy emptiness of their interactions over the last year started to fade. They allowed themselves to speak the tiniest bit freely. Permission to snap and step on toes and do more than just hold and kiss. Hands grasping in the darkness finally brushing each other. Their conversations growing baby teeth again. Even if they were clumsy or crude or sometimes cruel, all was forgiven come morning, as easy as batting an eye. And in a very tangible way, that was even more addicting than the high itself.

With as often as they indulged in these episodes of harmonious un-sobriety, it was probably inevitable that they would stumble across something that refused to be packed away. It finally came one night when Martin felt Jon was being rude, not laughing at some joke Charlie had told, and decided to tickle him about it. Jon’s laughter was forced out of him, shrill and lively, his unwilling smile intoxicating. He tried to squirm away from him and the next thing Martin knew he had his lover pinned under him, his wrists caught in one hand while the other attacked his armpits. 

“HAHA Marti– HAHAHA!”

He looked so lovely. His face was full of joy. He tried to wriggle out of his grasp but Martin’s grip was too tight. 

“Stop! HAHAHA! Stop!”

And all at once it hit Martin what he was doing. He froze. So many apologies welled up in his throat at once none could escape and they choked him instead. Charlie politely looked away and took another hit. Jon stared up at him, panting, his face flushed from laughter and something darker. And Martin felt something shiver down his spine to simmer in his stomach.

Charlie cleared his throat and they scrambled almost violently to put some distance between them.

It had taken him weeks to work up the courage to bring up the idea to Martin. He must’ve practiced a hundred ways to pitch the idea in his head, trying to find the best one. Then they’d be eating dinner and he’d spend the whole meal trying to find a way to say the lines he’d rehearsed and not quite manage it. He’d worried the paint right off his bracelet beads again. In hindsight, he’s not sure why he got himself so worked up, since he could tell the whole time Martin had been thinking the same thing.

“You’re sure this is alright?” Martin asked for perhaps the tenth time, slipping two fingers underneath the bonds that tied him to the headboard. They were his own design, made of the same extra-heavy yarn he’d spun himself for their weighted blanket and knitted into a coiling loop that functioned like softer handcuffs. He’d wanted his ankles bound too, one to each bedpost, his legs unable to close, but Martin insisted they only use one for their first time.

“Martin, if you ask me that again I’m going to cry.” Jon threatened. They were both naked.

His boyfriend flushed and Jon felt ashamed of himself. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t appreciate what an odd request this was, coming from him of all people. The last time he’d been tied up was when he’d been kidnapped by a monster who had every intention of skinning him alive. 

“Johnathan.” His partner said lowly, grabbing his chin. His fingers were cold as he forced him to look in his watery eyes. “As much as I am honored that you feel safe enough with me to try this, if you want me to feel safe enough to continue then I need to know you know your safeword.”

Jon swallowed “Leitner.”

“Good boy.” 

Big cold hands settle on his chest, his thumbs rub around the little divot where he’s missing ribs. Martin examined the man trapped under his hips with a lazy kind of curiosity. Like he was visiting his favorite art exhibit. Hands and eyes roaming over every inch of dry, scarred skin. There was nothing new to discover at this point. He knew every dip and curve of Jon’s body expertly by now. But this was Martin after all. Of course he’d use this opportunity for a bit of unopposed body worship. He showered him with kisses, murmured meaningless praises into the nooks and crannies of his body, pet admiringly at the salt and pepper fur on his chest and legs. He did that thing where he’d drag an icy thumb along his nipple to watch how quickly it pebbled. He blew a raspberry against his concave stomach and a laugh bubbled up from Jon unbidden. His boyfriend smiled like he’d won something and kissed him soundly, toying with his nipples so he could capture all the little sounds he made.

“When’s the last time Amelia weighed you? I think some meat’s finally sticking to your bones, love.” he told him in a voice so kind Jon couldn’t even find it in him to feign offense.

It was ridiculous. By all rights, this situation should be making him twitchy and paranoid, clawing at his bonds, frightened his partner was about to whisper something cruel in his ear and do something terrible to him. He knew as a matter of fact that was exactly what would have been going through his mind with anyone other than Martin in control. The same way he knew he’d hate it if anyone other than Martin brushed his hair or washed his back or helped him with the chamberpot. But that was just it. This was Martin and he had decided a long time ago Martin could do anything to him–mock him, burn him, starve him, beat him, rape him, kill him–and it wouldn’t change a thing. He loved him and whatsmore he trusted him and those were facts as immutable as gravity. So instead of frightening him the bonds did the last thing they should have–they relaxed him. It was so easy to let himself be at Martin’s mercy.

Fingers brushed along his clavicle “I think you’d look nice with a necklace, love, don’t you?”

“That’s not my decision to make.” Jon reminded him

Martin hummed and considered that, then leaned down and bit into his flesh. His teeth were firm and cool and tucked away too soon. The marks he left would fade quickly and Jon thought that was a shame. He had told Martin not to be afraid of being rough with him during this. He should have known this was how he’d respond. No matter how available Jon made his body to him he’d held him at arm’s length all last year. It was so frustrating seeing this man– who Jon knew for a fact, albeit entirely without his permission, used to have wet dreams about Jon bending him over his desk–barely be willing to pull his hair when they kissed. As though his sexual desires were just another part of him to tuck away inside himself like teeth inside his mouth. 

At some point Martin had stopped in his kissing and sucking, and was staring intently at a spot on his left breast, hidden by hair. 

“Martin…” he wanted to take his face in his hands but they were held securely by the soft coil he’d made.

After a moment Martin just kissed the scar, his lips lingering a bit, and carried on in his task.

Jon tried again “Martin–Ah!” but this time his boyfriend pinched a nipple and tugged it hard enough to shut him up, his mouth sucking as sweetly as ever. Part of Jon was tempted to push again just to see if he could get that reaction again but he held back. In some ways this was more Martin’s scar than Jon’s. 

He lifted his sandy head and smiled down at him for a moment—then he went for the armpits. Jon thrashed and kicked. He told him “no” and “stop” but Martin ignored his pleas and he felt relieved. His fingers kept jumping from place to place, finding the spots that made him squeal the loudest. He twisted and squirmed but his bonds did their job even better than he’d hoped. Pinned under Martin’s bulk he was helpless as their tiny bedroom filled with laughter. He felt his chest bouncing and his stomach clenching and soon enough tears pricked his eyes.

And a voice growled in his ear “You’re all mine like this, Johnathan Sims.” 

A smile fitted across his face without him willing it. As though he was anything less the rest of the time. He felt as though something inside himself unknott.

By the time he finally relents Jon’s cheeks aren’t the only thing that’s wet. He’s grateful he had the foresight to use the chamberpot before they started. Martin’s smile is cooly contented as his thick fingers gently trace his entrance. In response Jon only nods to his cock standing at attention.

“I’d offer you a hand but ah…” he spread his fingers wide, wincing already at the line “Still I think we can find some arrangement.”

“There’s no need to rush, dear. It’s not like it’s going anywhere, not with you looking like that. Now there’s no need to pout.” He pinched Jon’s cheek like he was being a bratty child. He hadn’t expected something like that. He… he wasn’t sure he liked it. “Do you want me to fuck you, Jon?”

“Always.”

There was a flash of surprise in Martin’s eyes, but he kept his cool “Beg me for it then.”

It took everything in Jon not to smile. They hadn’t discussed this beforehand. 

“Please.” He starts softly “Please Martin I want to feel you inside me. It's the greatest accomplishment of my life to be able to take your fat cock into me. Please use me. Fuck me, pinch me, bite me. Make me your cocksleeve. Leave me pathetic and wanting and covered in your cum. Make a trophy of me for all the world to see. Please , Martin.”

There was something so sweet and powerful in being able to make Martin make that expression without needing to lift a finger. He was the one tied up and begging yet he felt in complete control. Especially when Martin  slipped a finger into Jon’s wet and waiting cunt “Well, alright, sweet boy, if you insist. But you know the rules.” 

‘The rules’ meant that Martin wouldn’t fuck him until he’d made him cum on his fingers at least once to stretch him out. Martin was, as a matter of fact, quite girthy and he insisted up and down it was meant to keep him from hurting him. Of course, they both knew it was really a thin excuse for Martin to wring as many orgasms out of Jon as he could but, eh, semantics. He pulled four out of him this time. Once each on fingers, mouth, and cock. The bare minimum he’d leave Jon with, plus one more. (Jon’s birthday present this year had been no less than thirty three.) Needless to say, it was more than enough to leave him boneless and feeling deliciously used. 

Martin put off cleaning them up for now and simply undid his bonds and pulled him in for a cuddle. He’d lost a lot of weight the first year they’d been in this world, and it upset Jon to no end, but there was still enough fat on him for Jon to bury his face in his chest. And when Martin wrapped his arms around him he felt warm and, hilariously, safe. 

“Well?”

“What? You want me to give you your performance review now ?”

He always felt a little thrill of pride whenever he made Martin laugh “Do your shoulders hurt?”

“Well yes, but every part of me hurts all the time so I’m not sure that matters.”

His boyfriend made a disapproving humming noise and repositioned them so he could rub at Jon’s shoulders anyway. Jon remembered that bit with the cheek pinching he hadn’t quite liked, but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. After all the whole point of this was for him Martin to do as he liked with him, right?

“Martin, you know if there’s ever anything you want to try—“

“I know. You keep telling me.” Typical.

But then he added “I do miss your strap.”

A laugh startled out of Jon “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“She should mind her own damn business.” Jon grumbled as the barmaid carried back the bowl of roasted grapes someone had sent over.

“Sure you didn’t want to keep them, honey? Free food is free food after all.”

“Yeah, right, they’re definitely sour coming from that bitch.” He grumbled, conspicuously pressing himself deeper into Martin’s side. There was a new musical act in town tonight and no one bothered to notice, which only made him angrier. It’d been quite a surprise last year to realize the locals found Martin attractive. The men stared at the hugeness of him with envy and resentment while the women did the same with varying degrees of lust and shamelessness. It was all still very disorienting. Jon looked ready to bite someone and all Martin could do was sigh fondly and kiss head. And this man really expected him to believe he’d have been fine letting Martin marry someone else. God, he was so transparent. But Martin did love when this side of him reared its head so he wasn’t in a rush to complain.

They’d been going out for dates more often this summer. Jon still needed his wheelchair most of the time but his walker made a world of difference when it came to those grassy hills. The Crescent Cat’s Cradle was the only tavern in town and had handily become their go-to spot. The place was always full and deep enough in the night someone or other would start crooning for coin in the corner. Rowan’s husband owned the place, and they ran it together with their three sons, but she wasn’t there tonight and frankly the less he saw of that woman the better for everyone. 

“Your hair is starting to grow out again.”

“I know, my roots are showing. I’ll need to touch up soon.” Jon sighed

“Will you keep it short?”

“Mmm I don’t know. Probably? ” He finished his glass and Martin refilled it again automatically “Do you think I should keep it short?”

“I don’t know why you ask. You should know by now I’ll think you’re lovely regardless.”

“You’re no help.”

“Sorry about that, my love.”

“Wh–No, I didn’t mean— Look, yours is the only opinion I care about anyway.” 

“If that was true you wouldn’t have dyed it in the first place.” Came tumbling out of his mouth without his permission. He didn’t have to see the way Jon’s mouth twitched to know he’d struck a nerve. 

When he failed to fill the silence, Jon did it for him. Drunk Jon loved the sound of his own voice even more than a sober Jon. “It’s all a crapshoot with the rest of them. I try to stay ahead of the curve, lean into what I know they’ll see anyway. But that’s no good. I try and lean back, grow my beard out. But it’s too late. Now I’m a bearded woman. I try to step back but it dosen’t fit anymore and I knew it wouldn’t and…” his voice trailed off, his eyes were hazy and exhausted. 

‘Why did you go in the baaths without me?’ he wondered but he wasn’t far gone enough for that one yet. Instead he said “Maybe you should shave your head. Just a little though, like this area here.” He dragged his thumb along his hairline.

“What? Like a samurai?”

“Like a balding man.” Jon always laughed louder when he was drunk. 

“I’m going to do that now. Call your bluff.”

“Oh, I dare you to, darling.” Replied Martin smugly and held his partner’s challenging gaze until Jon blushed and turned away. He kissed his ear “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Jon answered immediately  

He could taste the wine on his tongue when they kissed. Martin fed him his last potato dumpling and Jon in turn gave him his last pickled radish. The band had wrapped up their set and it seemed they’d move onto a freestyle session. Members of the audience were invited to provide lyrics that the band would provide music for on the spot.

“You should give that a try.” Jon suggested “It’s been ages since I’ve read any of your poetry.”

The back of Martin’s neck was warm suddenly. “Oh, I don’t know. In front of all these people?”

“Stagefright?” Said Jon, amused “Well, fair enough.”

“You have a lovely voice though. You should give it a go.”

“Hmm, you know what? I think I’m drunk enough to try.” He said and wheeled himself over 

The face man for this band had a shaved head and lips painted purple, the sign of a follower of Cersei, goddess of the arts. He tried to look past Jon at first but Jon simply rolled past him into the space their volunteers stood, and looked at him expectantly. The man with purple lips cleared his throat and gestured for him to begin.

“On a dark desert highway

Cool wind in my hair

Warm smell of colitas

Rising up through the air

Up ahead in the distance 

I saw a shimmering light

Head grew heavy and my sight grew dim

I had to stop for the night”

Martin laughed so hard he chocked on his ale. The band had the professionalism not to pay him any mind but Jon caught his eye and they shared a sharp toothy smile across the pub. The music the band improvised didn’t fit at all. It was all flute with a steady drum rhythm that made the lyrics sound too ominous too soon. But Jon didn’t just provide the lyrics, he actually sang them, and his vocals were more than enough to carry the song. Every eye in the place steadily turned towards him and Martin could see how he preened. Always did like to be the center of attention. Something bitter, though decidedly not envious, seemed to rise in the back of Martin’s throat as he felt himself dwindle to one in a crowd and he drained his glass to drown it out. The applause when his boyfriend ended his bastardized rendition of an 80’s classic was gracious but confused. 

Jon was grinning ear to ear when he returned to the table, two coins resting in his skirts. “I guess dessert’s on me tonight. I bet there’s still some pie left.” 

 “You’re such a gentleman to treat me. Anything is fine.” 

Almost everything on the menu here was first come first serve. This world was so odd sometimes. 

“Quite the woman you’ve got there.” A new voice appeared when Jon had left. Martin looked up to see the same face man with the shaved head and purple lips standing over him. Seemed his band was taking a break between sets

“He’s a man, you ass.” He snarled 

To the man’s credit, he did look sincerely surprised and embarrassed “Oh, is he? I admit I wasn’t quite sure. My apologies. I did not mean to offend.” He said, putting a hand to his heart.

It was as quick and gracious a response as anyone had made since they arrived in this world. They had sold the locals on the idea that transness was something revered and honored in the mysterious British Isles, but there were always those that simply forgot or didn’t bother and new people to convince all over again. Jon largely resigned himself to the misgendering, which was all the more reason for Martin to make such a fuss every time. “Ugh, it’s… I forgive you, just don’t do it again.”

“You have my word.” the bard promised “But then… am I to understand the two of you are not…?”

Martin did not like this man.

“We are engaged.” Jon’s voice responded. He had returned with a piece of cherry pie in his lap and a contemptuous look in his eye. Neither of them had ever properly proposed and it was getting to be a sore point between them. “And you are…?”

“Just a humble traveling bard tongue-tied to behold such a gorgeous creature.” the bard said, bending to kiss Jon’s hand. His boyfriend blinked, clearly taken aback. 

“‘My name is Tadhg. May I sit?”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Why not?” For all his cynicism, skepticism, and paranoia, Jon Sims was incredibly susceptible to flattery.

“So I’ve got to know.” the bard said with a lilting grin “What were you two up to with that little number? Playing a joke on us, hm?”

But Jon just shrugged “Something like that, I suppose. It’s a well-known song where we come from. I was curious how people unfamiliar with the instrumentals would play it. ”

“Hmm, interesting. And how should it be played then?”

He and Jon started talking musical theory, what Jon remembered from his olds college band days, and soon enough the bard was buying them another round. His name was Tadhg and his band was also something of a traveling theater group, who would be in town a couple months as they put on a play. He was deeply puzzled by how Jon described the guitar because Jon, who was a terrible liar sober, was having a hell of a time explaining why one song would need so many of them without getting electricity involved. In fact, Martin was so busy having to redirect his careless honesty, he couldn’t let himself float off like he’d like to. He sipped his tea to find it had gone cold and tasted like grass.

“Ah. I recognize that Earl Green color.” Tadhg noted “If that’s your, heh, cup of tea, might I interest you in something for the entree? For a reasonable price, of course.” From a breast pocket he pulled a small leather pouch, which he showed them was full of small, dried mushrooms.

“How much?” Jon said entirely too eagerly

“Jon!”

“What?  I thought you’d want to try something new. You’re always in such a good mood when you're high, after all.”

“I…” a sickly sort of feeling settled over him with the weight of those words “Jon do you… prefer me like this?”

He had to search a bit too long to find an answer “Oh, darling, how do I put it? When you’re high… it’s like you finally come back to me a little. I’d buy you crack cocaine if it kept you here with me.”

Oh. Well, fuck. Okay then.

“Just an offer.” The bard reminded them cheerily. And Martin was deeply grateful for the distraction.

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” he whispered “I mean, no offense Jon, but you’re a terrible negotiator.”

“Well, I don’t know if—”

“ Two ribs to Jared, love.” 

Jon slumped in his seat and sipped his wine sulkily.

“Let me sample them first. I’m not about to shill out for some dried cremini.”

“Out here in the dining room, are you crazy? That Rowan lady has eyes and ears everywhere in here. There’s a lot of things I’m willing to risk in life but not the roof over my head.”

“Alright, fair enough. Here’s what I suggest then, we bet the mushrooms on a round of Reverie.”

Tadhg rubbed his chin considering “You offer a sound solution, but is there anything else you might offer?”

Martin rolled his eyes and fished the whole two coins they had out of his pocket “Fine. Winner takes all.” 

“You, my good sir, have a deal.” The bard said, producing an old, travel-worn deck from his vest.

Reverie was a game unique to this world, Charlie had taught them the rules. It was something of an ancestor to poker but a bit quicker, played in three rounds, and with the option to enter sudden death by calling another player's bluff. Jon shuffled even closer to Martin, ostensibly so he couldn’t be accused of cheating. The first hand was Martin’s, for which Tadhg congratulated him warmly. The second hand went to the bard. Jon shuffled in his seat and blinked rapidly, like he was trying to focus through his drunkenness.

“He’s cheating.”Jon whispered in his ear.

“I know.” Martin whispered back.

When it came time to rise or fold, the bard proudly declared “Full house.”

“Bullshit.” He said “You only have one face card.”

The bard’s purple lips twitched. “How—“

“You marked them, dummy. You’re not the only one that can see the crease in the top right corner. Top left for aces, right?” Jon drawled from Martin’s shoulder.

Tadhg’s mouth worked a moment, but when he couldn’t find an excuse quick enough and sighed with grace and threw down his garbage cards. “Ah, well. Win some, you lose some.” He said with an amicable shrug.

“Get some new cards, or you’ll lose more. Ready to call it a night?” Martin told him. Jon practically cackled as he plucked their spoils off the table as he was whisked away.

Outside was a warm summer night, as close to balmy as this region ever got, with a glittering tapestry of stars shining overhead. More than he had ever seen at once back home. A wonderful night to be high on. On a whim, Martin wheeled Jon into the alley behind the pub and dropped to his knees so he could kiss him. Sloppy and demanding and very drunk. Jon sighs into him like a man returning to life, fingers gripping at his sandy locks.

“You come back to me when you’re high.” 

That wasn’t how it felt at all. Maybe it was like when he drifted off someone else filled that hole. He bit Jon’s neck. His boyfriend moaned as he sucked a mark of his own into him. Was that person here now? Would he have done this sober? 

By the time they pull themselves apart, Martin can already feel the whisker burn spreading across his face. It makes him excited to think of it lasting for everyone to see. Jon’s drunk enough by now to have been stumbling over his own feet if he’d tried to walk back to the temple, so he just tilts his head back as Martin pushes him through the village.

“That one’s what they call Oahsa’s Eye. You can tell because it’s just a little bluer than all the rest.” He told him, pointing at some point in the night sky. Stargazing had become something of a hobby of his over the last year as he lay bedridden and sometimes immobilized by pain.

“Do you ever wonder about—“

“Of course I wonder about them.”

Jon wasn’t prepared for the way Martin’s face sunk so deep in on itself you could have swam in it when he asked him about the paint.

“Yeah. I bought those last summer.” He mumbled “Jon, I’m sorry.”

“What on earth for? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

But the love of his life wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Paints aren’t free. I wasted money we don’t have, and then I hid it from you. I know you worry about paying off our loan and the interest and keeping us out of debt and I went and screwed up our budget. It’s like I was stealing from you and then I hid it because I was too ashamed to fess up. And to make it worse I didn’t even use them! The one time I tried it was so ugly—“

“Martin!” He snapped suddenly “Please. Stop. You’re allowed to have secrets, sweetheart. Even from me. Especially from me.”

“Jon—“

“And you’re allowed to buy something that’s just for you. God knows you’ve given me enough gifts to make up the difference…” even as he spoke, their room smelled of peppermint and oranges, a perfume sweet enough to choke a man—and keep the spiders at bay “Did you really think I would be mad?” It sounded like a whimper leaving his mouth.

“I… No. I guess not. I was just… fuck, embarrassed? I didn’t want to… to let you down o-or hurt you at all.”

But it did hurt. To know Martin would rather squirrel away an impulse purchase than even look Jon in the face about it. Like he was still that asshole boss who’s wrath needed to be avoided at all costs. He didn’t know what had he done to make Martin think he wouldn’t understand. That he would care that he spent some money on something for himself. That he’d do anything less than clean the warm blood off his hands. 

“Why don’t you write your poetry anymore, darling?” He wanted to ask but couldn’t.

He couldn’t let Martin see that he was hurt. Couldn’t raise his voice. Couldn’t overreact. Martin was the best thing in this whole damned universe and nothing—nothing!— was worth lashing out at him and watching him shrink away.

“Well,” he said, firmly pressing the paints into his hain “You already bought the damn things. You might as well use them.” 

Then he got drunk.

“Hold still. I’m almost done.” Amelia scolded, dabbing at his wound with boiled wine. Wine was one thing that was never in short supply around here.

“I can’t believe you got beat up for bringing a stuffed bunny to the Commfields with you.” Charlie commented, tuning his instrument at the table. 

“I can’t believe someone as big as you keeps getting pushed around!” the nun agreed. 

“Don’t tell Jon.” he mumbled as she bandaged his head.

“You keep saying that. I’m starting to think your brain was hurt too.” Amelia mumbled. If he was less concussed he would have wondered if she understood what a concussion was.

“Just please don’t.”

The lovers exchanged a glance “I won’t tell him if he doesn’t ask, but don’t expect me to lie to your betrothed. I have no interest in getting drawn into your lovers' quarrels.” she said eventually.

“I do,” said Charlie, who loved to be a pain “But I don’t think it will matter either way. It's not like he wouldn’t notice on his own.” 

“I’ll think of something to tell him.”

“You always do, don’t you? With that silver tongue of yours?” the nun muttered and they glared at each other for a moment. 

“If he’s the silver tongue does that make me the gold?” Charlie asked

“In your dreams. Oh get that away from me!”

He was wagging his tongue an inch in front of his face, creeping closer and closer to Amelia “Come on, I thought you liked examining me.”

“Charlie, that’s so gross! I swear to—“

Martin had no interest in being drawn into their lover’s quarrels either and took his leave silently. He’d thought Jon was napping when he entered their room but when he went to kiss his forehead he saw he was just huddled under the covers, tears in his eyes.

“You too, huh?” he sighed. “I know Amelia already gave you your meds so there’s nothing I can really do to help, but… can I hold your hand anyway?”

Tears flowed down his boyfriends cheeks as he nodded, reaching for him with grasping fingers. He lay on his back, whimpered into the cloth, squeezing Martin’s hand so tight he would’ve broken something if he would’ve sworn he was trying to break something. And Martin sat beside him in bed, useless to do anything more than hide his own pain to spare his partner any more.

Charlie always made sure they were well fed but when he was away performing Jon had been taking up more and more of the cooking. There weren’t many other chores he could do consistently but there were always vegetables to chop or dough to knead. He’d been helping Charlie since almost the beginning. And he’d taken careful notes on how he did what he did in the kitchen. He took notes on all sorts of things, cleaning tricks, Amelia’s medicine’s, local manners and taboos. (Pretty much anything that wasn’t his own thoughts and feelings. No one needed another record of those lying around) Soon enough he had something of a recipe book. From there he’d gotten a bit bored and started experimenting. 

His latest project was bean burgers (beef was too expensive to be prepared recklessly). Personally, he thought they’d turned out alright though he wished Amelia would stop calling them “cakes”. Burgers, and sandwiches in general, hadn’t quite caught on here yet. The more things stay the same. They were in the middle of lunch, chewing the fat about one of Amelia’s more irritating patients, when the courier came with the mail for that month. Mostly it was her church higherups, hemming and hawing about reports and supplies and whatever else, though she had a few friends who wrote to her as well.  He knew Amelia was not on good terms with her superiors and was desperate to prove herself and earn back their good graces, but he still didn’t know why and had been making a ver conscious effort not to ask.

“Oh this reminds me, Merida was asking for you earlier. You were asleep though and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Hm?” Jon voiced around his burger. It could’ve done with some ketchup but as far as he could tell tomatoes simply didn’t exist here. “Did she say what it was about?”

Their host shrugged “No, but it’s not hard to guess. You’ll hear soon enough anyway. She’s decided to go through with the marriage to Glenn. I heard her brother’s back in town and I think it spooked her into action.”

“Oh…” He didn’t see why she’d want to talk to him about that “Well, that’s her decision to make, at the end of the day. I just hope she doesn’t come to regret it.”

“Oh she’s not the one I’m worried about. It’s too soon for Glenn to re-marry. Especially when he was so close with Kara. An unfulfilled husband is a dangerous thing. Prone to wandering and getting everyone in trouble.” She said with a particular scorn in her voice.

“Does Charlie have some explaining to do?” He asked before he could stop himself.

“Oh gods no.” She scoffed “What he gets up to when he’s out of my sight is his own business. He never has to explain anything. That was the deal.”

Well obviously there was more to unpack there but Jon had been trying so hard not to pry lately. So he focused on filling his mouth with beans and looking pointedly out the window until the urge passed. It looked like it might rain later. 

“Hm Astrid’s asking about you again.” their host asked suddenly

“Who–Again?”

She seemed a bit surprised “Have I not told you about her? Must’ve slipped my mind. Anyway she’s an old friend of mine and she’s made a point of asking after those oddball foreigners I’ve taken in. Since it’s taken so long for us just to be able to talk to each other, there wasn’t much I could tell her before.”

Jon felt his brown furrow. Somehow it was deeply perplexing to think that this nun who fed and housed them out of charity would talk about them to her friend. “Oh? Wh-What sort of things do you tell her about us?”

Amelia shrugged “She’s mostly interested in your homeland. She’s always been very curious about the world. Anthi incarnate, that one. An undiscovered island nation somewhere in the sea must be very exciting for her.”

“Ah. Yes, I imagine it might be if you’d never lived there.” 

The nun smiled, “Yes, well, that’s Astrid for you. Everything in the world is a new mystery for her to unravel.” 

Jon had a lot to say about the dangers of that particular mindset but he kept it to himself with only a sigh. This world was young enough that entire countries could still lie out there, undiscovered and uncharted. But if anyone were to look too closely, they’d probably realize what a thin cover story it was. Curiosity could be a terrible thing, and not just for the curious.

“If she’s looking to study an entire country from just two refugees I think she’ll find us disappointing. The truth is we were pampered city folk who didn’t have to think about much outside our little bubble, which would bore anyone to tears to tell it now. I wasn’t a farmer or a merchant or a politician. I was an archivist. And a terrible one at that.” Jon was a shit liar, especially on the spot. So instead of concocting some convoluted explanation everytime someone asked about their home country, they’d learned to just be as vague as possible and claim obliviousness where details were concerned.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, it is. I wasn’t qualified at all but the director had, let’s say, a personal interest in me.”

Amelia went stiff suddenly. When she peered over her shoulder at him there was an intense, somewhat manic energy in her eye that sent a bolt down his spine. It was a look he had seen on her before. The day he begged her for an abortion.

“You’ve mentioned this director before.” She said in a carefully calm tone. “You said he was invasive, creepy, and cruel.”

He’s pretty sure he used stronger language than that. He probably shouldn’t get day-drunk around Amelia anymore. “Ah…”

“Did he ever… touch you?”

Oh fuck.

“Ah, what was that you saying about Liam’s back mole again?”

She let the topic drop. But there remained that vigilant look in her eye and Jon couldn’t help feeling guilty about it. It was ultimately a harmless lie, he supposed. She would have never guessed the true dark purpose he was selected for. Still, he knew he didn’t deserve that sharp protectiveness she felt towards him.

“Jon, would you please say something?”

He considered this “What would you like me to say?”

Not this again! Despaired the man who had asked for it in the first place.

“Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to hurt you and I know I shouldn’t have–” But words failed him as Jon looked at him in a way he hadn’t looked at him in years.

“Yes, Martin. I understand.” he said pointedly “I might not like that you did it but I can understand why. ”

“That’s not–”

“Now I’m actually a bit tired so if you don’t mind I’d like to get some rest…Unless there’s anything else you’ve been keeping from me?”

He was going to kill Charlie. Amelia would be spared only because he still needed her to oversee Jon’s recovery (also food and shelter and stuff) but her boyfriend? Choked out in his sleep. Christ whose stupid idea was it to use “surprise Martin at work” as a milestone reward? There’d been nowhere to hide, no smokescreen he could throw up, no words he could twist as Jon took in the draconian nature of the Commfields with his own eyes. And they had terrible timing to boot, turning up just when Martin was getting smacked around for standing around doodling. Bastards, the both of them.

“Yes, actually.” he decided, reaching for his bag “You remember three weeks ago when I came home with that concussion? Well I didn’t tell you about it, but that was because I brought Harold out for lunch with me.”

“Who the hell is Har–” Martin dropped the little bunny blanket into his lap “...You kept this?”

“Of course I did. He helps me when I have my bad days.”

Jon looked at him with something too cautious to be trust “The guards beat you up over this?”

“No. My co-workers as it were. Hardly the most masculine accessory and they are–”

“Martin!” Jon cried “I–I appreciate what you’re trying to say, darling. I promise I do. But if Harold gets you hurt then you shouldn’t hold onto him like this. I–I can make you something else or–”

“I don’t want something else. Harold helps me.” Martin promised.

Jon was quite for a long minute after that, studying Harold like he was a particularly tasty statement, and eventually he said “Well, I do hope everyone who ever puts a hand on you is eaten by crows. But it’s not like this trip was a complete disappointment. After all, I did get this neat souvenir.”

And in his hand was the rag he’d been doodling on. Globs of white smearing, building, and combatting together until they formed an unpleasant texture that sort of resembled a shape. Empty in all the worst ways. It was no less ugly than his previous works, but its lack of substance did lend it a certain cohesion. Where did he get that? Rory must’ve slipped it to him, he was the only one that knew. But why?

“I love this.”

Martin couldn’t help but laugh “You liar. If anyone else had made that you’d say it was stupid and pretentious and go on a rant about modern art.”

He just shrugged “Yeah, probably. But you did make it.” Then he added “Why don’t you write your poetry anymore, love?” 

Harold jumped in Martin’s grip as his fingers twitched. The question seemed to hang heavy in the air between them. Demanding to be answered as surely as a Compulsion. 

Martin's throat worked for a long time before he tried to answer “I… can’t. The words don’t… I try, I really do but everytime I try… nothing seems enough anymore. There aren’t words for the things we’ve seen.” His eyes were full of tears.

“...No. There certainly aren’t.” he agreed “Come here.” Martin let himself be guided down and pulled into a hug. The fabrics of their clothes rustling with the closeness. 

As they continued their adventures in the bedroom, they quickly found one of their biggest obstacles was just how expensive kinks could be. Jon had once been quite fond of lingerie, for example. But now if he ever got his hands on lace again only for Martin to jizz on it he would actually cry. 

Having said that, Lord Almighty did Martin look good in a collar. The thick, sturdy leather contrasted sharply with the pale softness of his naked body in an elegant but proud display of ownership. Jon’s already practically salivating at the thought of seeing him in something more proper than the repurposed belt they were using for this trial run. Perhaps red this time. Or with a little tag or bell. Then Martin looks in his direction expectantly and even though it’s hard to feel especially sexy Martin looked at him like he was beauty incarnate. Why did he do that, Jon often wondered.

“Now what do you think you’re doing, you naughty pup?” he asked teasingly, sitting on bed in nothing but a loose, yawning robe. No need for modesty with only a puppy around, after all.

The scene was a simple one. A pet owner is trying to get dressed up for a fancy dinner but their new puppy won’t stop being naughty to get their attention. Not that that had stopped Martin from planning things so meticulously he’d practically written a script, complete with pauses for orgasm. At least he was as cautious with experimenting with his own fantasies as he was with Jon’s. 

There was no way of knowing right now if this was something they’d be coming back to. Neither of them had been especially enthusiastic when planning tonight. It was just something Martin wanted to try, get a feel for. And, of course, Jon allowed Martin anything he wanted in the bedroom, giving or receiving. Maybe it wouldn’t stick but would give him some ideas for down the road. That was the giant pitfall with trying to experiment in the bedroom in this new world. Neither of them had much experience with kink and without the internet to guide them they had to fumble along, depending on what they’d heard of and knew vaguely existed.

“You know the rules. The bed isn’t for puppies, you belong on the floor.” It was, of course, an utter farce that he could ever move Martin against his will but he moved so easily where his hands guided it hardly mattered. And Jon couldn’t deny how deeply satisfying it was to plop Martin in a little pile at his feet. 

He scurried around so quickly and placed his head in his lap, eyes big and pleading. He also whined like an actual dog, which Jon hadn’t been expecting. His breath caught in his throat as he realized how, ah, literally Martin would be taking this.

He ruffled his sandy hair and told him “You are terribly cute. But I’m afraid I don’t have time to play with you tonight.” and pushed him back onto his hands and knees.

Jon had alway believed he was in a very small dating pool, having only had four sexual partners. But that was still heaps more experience in this regard than Martin’s string of one-night stands and Grinder misadventures had left him with. His flings tended to die before he could even consider if this was a person he wanted to experiment in the bedroom with. Discovering their own kinks, fantasies, and boundaries, not to mention working to meet their partners, was new territory for both of them. And, at least for Jon, it proved to be sticky business, pardon the pun.

They’d tried multiple times to write a BDSM contract, which Martin had heard about from Tim’s rants about 50 Shades of Gray. But they always fell apart because Jon had no idea what would trigger a reaction in him anymore. Sometimes things he thought would make him melt ended up setting his teeth on edge, and vice versa. It was a constant cycle of uncertainty and unpredictability, making it feel like he had to start from square one every time. Every piece of knowledge about his own sexuality had to be tested and re-evaluated all over again. The process was tedious and frustrating and the results bafflingly arbitrary. He reveled in the sharp sting of claws and teeth but flinched from a slap, what kind of sense did that make?

Martin, by contrast, was easier to decipher. He liked to be humiliated and degraded, no surprise there, but he wanted to be praised almost as much. So the trick was finding scenarios where Jon could do both in the same breath. Which had led them to this little trial.

He could feel Martin’s eyes on him as he focused on combing his hair. He watched out of the corner of his eye as this much larger man crawled–honest to God crawled–across the floor to him. And God the sight of that… he felt lidless again.

He’d expected meaty hands so the wet touch of tongue on his ankle sent shivers down his spine. “You stop that!” He cried a bit too sincerely.

Martin pulled back and whined again. Jon sighed “I’m sorry, puppy. You just surprised me is all. Don’t worry, I promise I’m not cross.” He reached out and tickled under his chin apologetically. Then, on a whim, squished his cheeks together. His mouth was forced into a kissy pucker and his eyes into pleasing little crescent moons. It felt like something a bully would do.

“Aww, you’re just too cute to be mad at aren’t you? Yes you are! Just look at that widdle face.” He kissed his nose. 

His beloved gave a contented little sigh and laid back against the cold floor, exposing his lovely, soft, ample stomach for Jon’s enjoyment. He wondered if from this angle he could peek up Jon’s robe and see how wet he was but frankly that enticing, smug little grin on his face kind of gave the game away.

Most of the kinks they had been able to find with Jon involved being restrained and controlled in some way. (And, yes, he did see the irony in that, just as he did with how spinning and weaving of all things had become his new favorite hobbies.) Naturally this meant Martin was usually the one in the “dom” role. Jon fully believed the only reason he was comfortable during his scenes was because it was Martin he was answering to. He was always so cautious with him. So tender and caring. Even when Jon had asked him so explicitly not to be, there was always that underlying gentleness. He’d mock him cruelly with such a relishing smile, then kiss his cheek. Pinch his nipples until tears rolled down his face, then soothe them with his tongue. Throw him bodily onto the bed but never hold his wrists tight enough to bruise. Sometimes Jon wished he’d just rip into him, other times he was deeply grateful he didn’t. 

“You want a belly rub?” Jon smiled sweetly, graciously complying with the request by going back to his hairbrushing and dragging his bare foot up and down that lovely soft belly. Carefully never getting too close to that proud thick cock, standing fully at attention by now. Of course Martin dosen’t let him get away with that for long and next thing he knows his boyfriend is nuzzling his cold nose right into his crotch. 

“Puppy!”Jon gasped, pushing his boyfriend away with his feet “If I am late for the party because I had to drop what I was doing to stroke my kitten I will never live it down. So if you don’t stop that, I’m going to tie your lead to the wall. Then you’ll have to sit there and watch as I take care of the mess you’ve made. And I won’t let you touch me no matter how much you beg. And if it gets to be too much you’ll simply have to rub it out right there on the floor like the filthy animal you are. Now, are you going to behave for me?”

He thought Martin would knock him flat on his back. Remind him how helpless he always truly was, even to a misbehaving puppy who loved him so, so much. Steal the power from all of Jon’s threats and pleadings and sniveling words as he mounted him like the animal he was. So when  he only presented him with the same pleading submission he had the whole scene, lapping at his ankle apologetically. And Jon can feel something syrupy and acidic rise in the back of his throat.

He sighed dramatically, and maneuvered Martin up into his lap. “Goodness, pup, you know it’s not fair when you look at me like that. I don’t know how I get anything done anymore with you–”

And just like that Martin’s on the bed again, plopping down in seductive victory.

“Oh honestly! I give you an inch and you take a mile. I’m starting to think I haven’t trained you very well, pup.” he says, opening the nightstand and pulling out Martin’s washpaddle. 

One thing did become quickly apparent about Martin’s tastes was that he loved a good spanking. Jon had to use the paddle most of the time because he simply didn’t have the strength to hit him hard enough for long enough to satisfy him. He liked it when Jon hit him hard enough to make his whole body twitch and sob. He liked it when Jon made him say “thank you” between strikes. He even liked when Jon would be a bit mean and give his arse an otherwise teasing squeeze when he knew he was still sore the next day. 

Why does it feel so different this time? When Martin obediently bends himself across Jon’s lap, presenting his arse with a spirited little wag? When he cries out as Jon strikes him? When he feels his partner's arousal poke into his thigh and dribble down his leg.

“Jon?” He hadn’t even realized he’d frozen until he heard it. It’s the first time Martin’s spoken since the collar went around his neck. 

And all at once Jon’s burst into tears.

Martin reacts as he always does. First the scramble away, then the rush to smother. Jon feels his nose pressed into the soft flesh of his partner’s shoulder. There are questions. Too many too quick for him to take notice of any one. But he knows they’re there and he knows he dosen’t know the answers. 

“I…I….I don’t–I shouldn’t–” He dosen’t know what he’s trying to say. Martin shushes him and he dosen’t resist. Strong doughy arms hold him while he cries his choking meaningless tears, thoughts racing like a cassette that’s been fast-forwarded until all the words stream together.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I’m so sorry.” Martin whispers in his ear “I should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner. You looked so– God I’m so stupid! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t make you–” Jon kisses him in a heated snap those horrid words stop. It dosen’t stop him from crying, though. And the kiss is clumsy and empty and wet and, really, just a terrible, terrible kiss. Neither of them get any comfort out of it.

“You’re wrong.” Jon whispers, voice hoarse. “I was enjoying myself.” Too much. Far, far , too much.

Blistered hands tuck his hair behind his ears “Then what was it, love?”

What could he say? That he loved seeing Martin dehumanize himself? That the raw possessiveness he’d felt had gotten a bit overwhelming? That he was still a monster at the end of the day and he’d rather not tempt the beast like that? That he was terrified if they’d stayed in that place where he had so much power there was no telling what he might’ve done to him?

“I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t have the words.” He eventually managed. Because amongst many other things, Jon Sims was very much a coward.

And Martin, that beautiful fool he loved so much, took his face in his hands and told him “That’s alright, love. I don’t need to know. You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to tell me why. All I ask is that you don’t let me hurt you.” 

Jon wasn’t sure what to call the feeling that racked his chest at that, but it felt something like heartbreak. He tried again to speak. To tell Martin he did deserve an explanation. That it wasn’t anything to do with him or his desires. But his voice failed him. 

And then suddenly Martin did something so arresting and personal it brought a fresh wave of tears down his cheeks. He tucked himself under Jon’s chin, nuzzling into his throat, just as he must’ve done this a thousand times before. But those were when they were in bed, laying down. Positioned like this, with Martin has to curl so far into himself to make his head lower than Jon’s. And it’s suddenly so painfully obvious what he was doing all this time. He was trying to make himself feel small. To feel protected. To take the kind of comfort in Jon’s body that Jon so freely took and took for granted from him. It was the first time it occurred to him that Martin might need Jon the same way Jon needed Martin. 

But the thing was, it wasn’t working. It just wasn’t possible for him to hide in the bulk of Jon and feel protected and comforted. He simply wasn’t enough. And he knew his boyfriend would blame himself. He knew that he was hurting and it was Jon’s fault. But somehow he was helpless to do anything for the man he loved except hold him in his arms as he wept like a child. 

A black sheet had been hung on the tavern’s clothes line. All the chairs have been moved outdoors, arranged in neat rows on the lawn out back. The last gasp of summer was on the air and the set for Tadhg’s play would’ve looked at home at any barbecue.

Admission was free to the public as Rowan regularly housed and fed freelancing entertainers in exchange for them performing at the community events like this. She was there that day, greeting everyone warmly as they entered her tavern. It was as much a temple to her goddess as the baathhouse was to Amelia’s god. As it happened, Charlie and Tadhg ran in similar circles so he made it a professional courtesy to bring as many people as were willing to his performance. Martin and Jon were happy enough for the excuse for a double-date with him and Amelia, though they hadn’t mentioned their previous encounter with the thespian. It was a good thing Jon was using his walker today because the one spot they left open for a wheelchair was already occupied by a frail, sour-faced old man.

The play told the story of how Anthi, the brave explorer god who ruled the horizon, met his wife Jessah on one of his many adventurous voyages. It took him a moment to realize Tadhg himself was playing Jessah and a woman played Anthi. This was clearly a story well-known to the audience, so it felt a bit like watching a Shakespeare play but without learning the plot in school. So it probably spoke volumes about the skill of the performers that he thoroughly enjoyed the show regardless. Even if he didn’t get all the jokes and missed some of the exposition, the actors had wonderful chemistry together. Their performances were so raw and authentic that it completely immersed Martin in the heart-wrenching drama of these star-crossed lovers. 

Even after a year, Martin still often found himself itching for tele. Sure, they had plenty of ways of telling stories in this world but they all required actual people to be present and performing. Television gave you the illusion of company while asking nothing in return, nothing in this world came close to that. But damn if he couldn’t appreciate the sensualism in the scene where Jessah paints the map to her island on a sleeping Anthi’s naked back. Or the raw despair when the unfeeling tides striped it away from him. Next to him, Jon was completely enraptured. When the actors took their final bow, he tried to stand for the ovation and almost toppled over for his trouble.

That night Jon got drunk and announced he was going to write his own play. Martin was the only person to recognize that the plot was basically a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfiction.

The wedding was a deeply alien thing to witness. Jon found himself itching to pull out his journal and take notes. He had come to appreciate the things about this world that he did not understand. After all, the stranger this world seemed to him, the longer it would take for the Fears to rise again. It wouldn’t mean much if anything in the grand scheme of things, he knew, but there was a certain spiteful comfort in any amount of struggle on that wicked bitch. He decided to make a hobby out of attending as many of them as possible. (Weddings were considered public events in this world, after all.)

There were three main rituals the couples had to compete before they were considered wed. The first involved the couple ritualistically stripping and then dressing one another in new garments. (For the lower classes, these would often count towards the dowry because good lord clothes were expensive here.) The second was a trial where the couple lit a caged candle from Rowan’s alter and led a procession through the village to their new home, where they would use it to light their own hearth. If the flame went out, the marriage was annulled before it had properly begun, but given how bored the guests around him looked the whole while, he could only imagine Rowan’s order had found some way to rig it and a successful trial was nearly certain. The third was easily the most indane: upon completing their trial, the couple got matching tattoos. The pattern must’ve been filled with religious iconography and importance but Jon couldn’t follow any of it. All he got was that Glenn’s tattoo was on his left wrist instead of his right, as this was his second marriage. Amelia had told him in ages past they practiced ritual scarification but that had been replaced with tattoos about three centuries ago. Jon wasn’t sorry to have missed that, Martin was hung up enough about the one.

Neither bride nor groom bothered feigning enthusiasm during the ceremony. It was only a week before the rush of the harvest and just barely six months after the death of Glenn’s first wife. Few people bothered with any formal attire for the occasion though Jon had taken the event as an excuse to get around to touching up his hair dye and Martin sported a new straw hat he had made for him. Rowan was the only one who seemed to have missed the memo about this being a marriage of convenience. Glenn was clearly still mourning for his first wife, but single parenthood was a hell of a thing for people with far more resources and experience than him. He placed his son, Craig, in his new step-mother’s arms as they moved to the banquet. She winced when he yanked a flower out of her hair. 

The tavern hosted the banquet, but there wasn’t really enough room inside for everyone. So really most people just came in to grab their food and then ate outside. It was warm enough that night to not be an issue but those deemed important enough to have a seat indoors were treated to all the true fineries and festivities of a wedding. Their food was the best, Charlie was on deck to keep them entertained, and of course the hall was lavishly decorated. Jon took a moment to admire the tapestries they’d chosen and spied Merida speaking in forceful but hushed tones with Tadhg of all people in one of the corners. She seemed stressed, all raised shoulders and furrowed brows but the bard just leaned casually against a wall and nibbled on a stuffed mushroom. He wondered if perhaps they’d hired his troupe to entertain the crowds and now there was some issue. Then Merida noticed him noticing them and rushed out of the corner with the forced grin of someone caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“Jon! So glad you decided to come!” She greeted warmly. “Martin, lovely to see you.”

“Merida.” He muttered awkwardly. Jon wished he’d take the hint they weren’t exes in literally any sense but that would be wasting his breath. They made pleasantries for a while, chatting about the ceremony and her new clothes until Glenn pulled her away to the dias for the toast. Next to Merida sat a sour-faced old man who must’ve been her father. At some point, Tadhg had wandered off.

Since the couple couldn’t be sure how many people would attend the banquet, and couldn’t possibly be expected to provide fine dining to the entire village, there was a strict hierarchy when it came to food at a wedding here. The newly weds and their family members ate like kings. Respected community members like Rowan and Amelia were provided a fine meal. All the rest got in line to buy their meal of a somewhat hearty stew. Proceeds went to the newlyweds, as they hadn’t thought of a bridal shower yet. But even then there were things like goat cheese on the salad and a plate of oil and herbs to dip your bread into, and the wine was a good vintage.

As is usually the case with any formal community meal, like what they have on festival days, they were seated at the outskirts of the event and quietly excluded by the people around them. So nobody noticed when Martin slipped a single dried mushroom into both of their bowls. After the plates are cleared there was a lot of dancing and drinking as the event became little more than a bloc party with two adults awkwardly holding hands in the middle. The perfect environment to blend in the background as they microdosed on shrooms for the first time.

In hindsight, that was incredibly stupid of them.

The next thing Jon knows he’s waking up the next morning to a ray of sunlight in his eye he wishes he could bite out of the sky. 

“Martin?” He croaks. He can feel him there but was didn’t have the strength to as much as lift his head from the pillow of his chest. 

“Mmmm I’m alive. Barely.” Came the rumbling response 

“I think we may have botched the dosage.” 

“You think?” At least Martin has the grace not to bullshit him about it “Fuck, I have work today.”

“Get Amelia to write you a note. Even Elias allowed sick days.” He was going to rip that sunbeam out of the sky with his bare hands. Just as soon as he had the strength to lift them. Oh, fuck, he said Elias didn’t he? 

But Martin just ignored it. “Remember last time I was hungover and running late?”

“Ugh. Don’t—“

“They sent an armed guard, Jon.”

“I am going to salt those fucking fields.”

“Mhmm. Sure, love.” Martin forced himself to sit up with a grunt of considerable effort, rolling Jon off of him. He squirmed like a worm just to prop himself up on the pillows. Determined to at least suffer through breakfast with his boyfriend if he was already resigned to a day of hard labor. It was the first time he noticed he was naked. Not Martin, just him. The sheets weren’t sticky and he wasn’t sore between his legs, so he didn’t think they’d had sex, but maybe he should see if—

“Jon.” There was something urgent in Martin’s voice. More present somehow than it had been before “What the fuck is that?”

“Hmm?” He followed his eye to his own stomach and noticed a strange brown discoloration in the lower right corner of his stomach. The place where Michael had stabbed him all those years ago, careful to avoid anything too important. It took him at least a solid two minutes of staring to sort out what he was seeing. “Is that a fucking…?”

“That’s a cow.” Martin confirmed “That is a good cow.”

“Did I get a tattoo last night!?”

“It’s not coming off!”

“How did that happen!?”

“I don’t bloody know!”

The Commfields were a nightmare that day, no surprise. Work was already piling up with the harvest just around the bend and it didn’t help that Martin’s head felt like it was splitting open and his mouth was constantly too dry. When Cromac appeared out of nowhere like a harbinger of ill fortune in his official-looking yellow cloak, he almost welcomed the distraction. He wasn’t surprised when the gray old man pulled him aside, but his sweat ran cold in the autumn sun just the same. 

He knew before he even opened his mouth what the news would be.

It could hardly be surprising, after whatever horseshit they’d gotten up to at the wedding, that Amelia finally got suspicious enough to check her reserves. He hadn’t expected her to take kindly to them stealing from her but the force of her furry was still something to behold. He didn’t bother defending himself, but it never did seem to matter whether he did or not.

It was probably pretty stupid of them to go out in public so soon after blacking out and almost certainly ruining Merida’s wedding. It was surely very stupid of them to react to the news Martin would be forced into another year of manual labor because they’d spent too much on dates to pay off their debts with yet another date. It was definitely extremely stupid of them to go out drinking the same day his drug use finally blew up in their faces. But, really, what else could they do? Not stay in the temple, that was for damn sure.

“I can’t believe it.” Jon started, staring forlornly into his cup “After everything we did to save money. Every load of laundry, every errand, all our scraping and saving. We lived on charity for two years! How much more frugal could they expect us to be?”

“Come on Jon, we both know that’s not quite true.” Martin sighed “The dates, the impulse purchases–”

“Condoms are not an impulse purchase.”

“Agree to disagree on that. But the simple truth is we haven’t been as careful this year. As bitter a pill to swallow as that is.”

Jon’s mouth went to say something, then aborted the idea as he deliberately decided against mentioning that Amelia wouldn’t be as charitable next year after finding out they’d stolen from her. And instead he said “I’m just going to have to find a way to make money. Now the Weaver’s Guild has been very clear, and I would need a license to open anything official, but I could still run an alehouse out of–”

“Hang on. I have an idea.” Martin interrupted, as something caught his eye “What if we just replace what we took? Amelia’s crummy church elders would never need to know the difference.”

Jon was still staring at his swirling wine like it was tea leaves he could read the future in “Well, obviously it’d be just swell if Amelia wouldn’t be mad at us anymore. But where would we get–” Martin gently turned his head to where Tadhg was lounging in the corner. Jon looked at him like he was a genius and he was so happy he could burst.

They bided their time. Allowed their target to get deeper into his cups while Martin crawled out of his. This had to go cleanly and he’d need a clear head to do it. Honestly, it was a bit odd that Tadhg was still hanging around. Cersei’s followers were by far the least organized of the six main religions in this country but one of the few constants was living a nomadic lifestyle. When he thought he saw enough of a flush on the bard’s cheeks he moved, Jon rolling awkwardly behind him. He smiled as they approached, looking delighted to see them.

He welcomed them to his table easily, saying with his toothy, boyish grin “Anyone who can wrangle a fun night out of my sister’s wedding is welcome company of mine anyday.” And Martin couldn’t help but flush.

“Merida is… You’re Merida’s little brother?” Jon said with entirely too much surprise.

“Did she not mention that? Funny, she had plenty to say about you two.”

Jon fiddled with his beads “Oh, erm, no… mostly she just talked about taking care of her father–”

“Her father.” The thespian rolled his eyes dramatically “Oh that’s just like her. As if just because I left home I’m not part of—“

“Stop. Please.” Jon interrupted, holding up his hand. “We’re getting off-topic. I really don’t need to know about your family drama.”

Tadhg’s purple mouth curled down “I… ugh, fine. “

Negotiations mostly went smoothly after that. Yes, Tadhg had what they were looking for but it was a bit more than he wanted to part with at once. Even drunk as he was it took a lot of wordsmithing, clever misdirect, and especially the overly-bumbling body language to get him to think it was his idea to bet it all on cards again. 

Except their luck wasn’t so good this time. To his utter despair, Tadhg had actually taken their advice and got a new deck.

“Well that’s just bad luck that is.” tutted the bard, who had also updated his cheats “Still, I think I’d be willing to part with this much for, oh, thirty stone?”

Martin’s stomach was ready to upturn. If they went that far into debt he’d be working the Commfields for years to come. And the damn insulting thing was it wasn’t even that much. 

“Make that half.” came a new voice, suddenly. Above them appeared Charlie, face unmade, uncharacteristically sober even with a whiskey clutched in his fist “I’ll cover the other half. Now scram, kiddie.”

Tadhg just shrugged “Fine by me. Don’t worry, I know where to find you. I’ll give my sister your regards. Oh, but that’s family business. Nevermind.” and off he slunk into the night

Charlie took his place at the table with a graceful plop. “Appreciate the effort, but don’t go wasting your coin for it. I'm afraid with Amelia once is already too much. My Muyla knows how to nurse a grudge.”

“Can’t fault her for that.” Jon muttered darkly

“Why would you pay for half of it if you don’t think it will work it?” asked Martin 

He shrugged “Suppose I felt guilty. I know it’s not as though I’m responsible for all of your poor decisions the past few months, but I was the one who put you on that path and covered your ass when you were stumbling upon it. It’s one thing for Muyla and I to play those games with each other, but pulling her wards into it was going a bit far.”

Martin chewed his lip, seeing a chance to weasel their way out of this mess “Well then, since you’re such an expert tell us. How do we make this right?”

“Oh you can’t.” Charlie informed them pleasantly “What’s done is done. If you want her to move on, I suggest fucking up in some new and exciting way next time. Works wonders for me. She won’t forget, and she’s not too big on forgiveness either. But her bark is a lot worse than her bite. Especially when it comes to a couple of poor, tormented refugees”

Martin noticed how Jon’s mouth twitched at the idea that they would be spared the consequences of their actions due to simple pity. And he knew it was ironic, since he had built an entire career out of pity and false incompetency, but somehow it didn’t sit well with him either.

Charlie stayed with them awhile, doing his damndest to lighten the mood with his jokes and juggling. He invited them to drink on his tab for the evening, which the two gladly accepted. Together, the three of them commiserated their collective fuck-up over a drink, a bit of company, and a even a few laughs once Jon was drunk enough. In the end, though, Charlie had to excuse himself to speak with the barmaid. Amelia was not more pleased with him at the moment and if he couldn’t count on sharing her bed for the night he would have to make other arrangements. (Though they couldn’t decide if he meant for a hook-up or only to rent a room.) 

And so they were left very drunk and not quite alone in that corner of the pub.Both Jon and Martin actively refused to bother remembering what the rules were about where it was considered polite to touch your significant other in public–which was to say, of course, that they were being rather trashy. Once or twice even Charlie had looked uncomfortable, which Martin had counted as some kind of victory. They couldn’t kid themselves that they would ever truly be a part of this world. At the end of the day they Martin only truly had Jon and Jon only truly had Martin. So why shouldn’t they show affection in the way most natural to them? 

Maybe it was that thought that made him say “Hey Jon, let’s get married.” the words flowing from him so freely he hardly realized he’d said them aloud until he saw how Jon was staring at him.

He stared at him for a long minute, eyes wide and very green “Oh Martin the gall of you! I’ve been waiting for you to say that for months and you ask me now?!”

“Well why didn’t you just pop the bloody question then?” He demanded

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want to get married yet.”

“I said no such thing!”

“Liar.”

Martin heaved a sigh so dramatic it could made broadway “All I said was I wanted to wait until we could do it on our terms. In our own time. But you know what? We never get to do anything on our own terms and waiting around for it won’t help. I waited for the right moment to tell you I love you and I ended up screaming it at your comatose body until my throat went raw.”

“I’m sor—”

“Shut up! Oh, Jon, please don’t ruin this by thinking like you always do. I love you so much. You’re the love of my life and I think you already know I want to spend that life taking care of you. I want to dedicate myself to you. Please, sweetheart. ”

Jon considered this, and then said “I don’t buy it. Ask me another way.”

And I love that about you too. Martin thought but stopped himself from saying.

“Jon. The truth is I have no idea who I am. On my own, I’m nothing but a fool-hearty coward. I don’t know how to exist outside of taking care of someone. But you’re the only person, the only one, who’s really tried to take care of me . So when I say I want to dedicate myself to you… it’s really kind of selfish. I want you to be my life’s work, and vice-versa.

And this time Jon smiled and said “Now I can work with that.”

They didn’t have to look far to find Rowan so they could ask for her blessing. He expected her to be smug about the whole thing. Instead she looked at them with such shock it bled into fear “Oh, heavens no!”

“Wh-Why?” Jon demanded, his voice cracking “If it’s about our fertility issues, we told you, we are physically capable—“

“It is not that at all.” Rowan interrupted “Nor is it because you have proven yourselves fiscally irresponsible and morally dubious. Nor is it because you show no consideration for my goddess or even common decency in your brazen displays of affection. It is not even because I just saw you try to swindle one of my patrons.”

Martin tried to step in, smooth things over “Rowan, if I could—“

“It is because I simply don’t think you are good for each other. As you are now I could never allow the marriage to go forth.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut so painful he nearly choked up blood.

“Not good for…”

“You openly encourage each other’s bad habits, refuse to address the other’s mistakes and shortcomings, and can barely stand to communicate unless intoxicated. And that is just what have observed in my own temple. Do these sound like the behaviors of people trying to spend the rest of their lives together? Or two people trying to die together?”

He found he had no rebuttal for that. 

Jon, less so. “Oh, I see. So you’ve heard our lives stories through the grapevine and think you’ve got us all figured out do you? But you’ve said it yourself, we meet all your criteria. We are two adults, able to have children, who want to get married to each other, which is a hell of a lot more than most matches you arrange. So the only thing that would stop us is you saying so because of your own ignorant, petty, judgment.”

“Oh, don’t play the scolded child, it is unbecoming of a child-bearing… adult.” She settled on awkwardly “I said you are unfit to be wed, as you are now. You must be younger than I believed if you do not understand the difference. Even I could not question your devotion to each other. And while that is a precious commodity, it is like a flame without wood.”

“So what then? We just sit and wait until you change your mind or decide to marry us off to people you approve of? I remind you, my biological clock is ticking.” Jon added with a rueful smirk.

Rowan studied them like a puzzle with half the pieces missing “Amelia didn’t explain my religion well, I see. Typical of a red priest, more concerned with what flows through the heart than what moves it.” She sighed “Understand this, foreigner. Relationships are my religion. It is my sacred duty to understand how loving and healthy relationships are created and, more importantly, how they are maintained. You two are far from hopeless. Come to me in the new year, when you’ve had time to reflect and, ah, sober up, and I will guide you and teach you on the art of marriage.”

No one said anything for a long moment. Then there was this horrible, sobering, sinking feeling as it dawned on Martin what she was saying. He saw a tiny bit of color fade from Jon’s face as he reached the same conclusion. 

“Wait, so you're saying we have to go to couples counseling ??” 

“At least drink the milk, Martin. It’s important to stay hydrated right now.” Jon pleaded, speaking from experience.

Martin groaned like a man dying “It won’t matter if I can’t keep it down.” He’s sweating fiercely on the bed, blankets thrown every which way as he can’t decide if it was better to huddle under them or bare himself to the nipping chill. Cold sweats always were such a conundrum.

“Then try the toast to settle your stomach.” Jon said patiently 

No dice. Martin groaned again and rolled to face away from him, muttering about peaches. Jon’s fingers worried at the beaded bracelet Martin had given him in the hopes of sparring his poor fingernails so long ago now. Amelia had been more relentless than ever with making him stick to a rigid physical therapy routine. She’d been happy enough to accept their bundle of drugs but was still deeply displeased with them, and seemed eager to have him well enough she wasn’t obliged to look after him. She couldn’t legally kick them out since she had agreed to sponsor them back when they’d first arrived but it was clear their days in this temple were numbered.

“I find it helps to keep your hands busy while you’re getting over the hump. Do you want your paints? Or maybe you could help me with that big project I’ve been working on. The yarn is very heavy and—“ an arm grabbed around his hips and pulled him down onto the bed. And his boyfriend (fiance? He still wasn’t sure.) wasted no time making his lap a pillow, curling himself around his tiny frame “This is also fine.” He agreed, petting his fingers through Martin’s hair. It had grown some over the months until it dangled past his ears in a rather shaggy way. The color neither blond nor brown but still as sandy as the day they’d arrived. He still wasn’t used to it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered 

Martin groaned again, but softer this time “Not this again.” 

“Rowan was right about some things, love. I know better than anyone how hard an addiction is to break. And the damage it can do. And I just sat there and encouraged you to keep at it. This is my—“

“If you finish that sentence I am going to scream.” Threatened Martin, forcing himself to sit up somewhat “We’ve been over this, sweetheart. It was my choice to start, not yours. I saw how you drank more after your cigarettes were cut off. I didn’t stop you for the same reason you didn’t stop me.”

“I could still—“

“No, Jon.”

“It’s not as though—“

“Not a chance.” Martin repeated, with hard, irritated eyes “You are not going off your damn pain meds just to martyr yourself by joining me in withdrawal.”

“Sweetheart you look like shit right now. I can’t stand just watching you suffer like this.”

Martin body started to shake and it took Jon a panicked moment to realize he was laughing “Yeah. No two ways about it, this sucks. But in a way that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? This is reality. This is what this world really looks like, what it feels like. I’ve spent too long avoiding it and  lost myself a bit along the way. Now the only way back is through.”

Obviously there wasn’t anything he could say to that. And they sat in silence for a long time, as Jon dutifully petted Martin’s sweaty scalp.

“I love you.” Jon said after a while “Please eat something.”

And Martin sighed and said “I love you too.” And nibbled a crust, despite grimacing.

Merida’s father ended up kicking the bucket as soon as winter hit. It was not unexpected by any stretch but still sooner than they’d anticipated. Amelia had been treating him for years. They decided to go to the funeral. It was their second that year, which, somehow, was a personal record for Jon.

He’d been worried Merida wouldn’t want them there, still upset with them for whatever horseshit they’d caused at her wedding. But one look at her face as she numbly thanked them for coming made clear she had other things on her mind, and that Jon was being a self-absorbed ass again to think himself among them. Glenn kept an arm around her, his nose red with the cold. He found himself wanting to take her hand and offer some meaningless word of comfort, like all those obnoxious strangers at his mother’s funeral so very, very long ago. And Martin made the classic apologies for the setting. But he just couldn’t bring himself to that kind of shallow display of sympathy.

They’d built a pyre. Merida and Tadhg lit it together. But it was Tadhg who wept and Merida who held him.

Jon didn’t know the first fucking thing about this man. Not even his name. But he knew his children grieved him, and that seemed like something enough

That winter was by no means an easy one but it was definitely lighter than the one that came before it. Once again they wake up regularly to frost-covered windows and nippy toes. Once again the Baathhouse is flooded with people looking to take advantage of the hot water. And once again Martin is hauled out to shovel snow and salt roads and do other miserable winter chores, his nose and ears and fingers going numb no matter how carefully Jon crafts protection for him. It’s kinda funny how quickly it had become routine to him, after only living through the cycle once before.

For the rest of the village, winter was largely a period of rest, living off the fruits of their labor all year. Martin and his co-workers didn’t really get that. They were the ones who did the maintenance and work necessary to keep the village functioning as everyone else hunkered down. But even for them there simply wasn’t as much to do with the fields covered in frost, and their ever elusive days off became more frequent.

It was on one of those days that Martin woke up to the first heavy snowfall the season outside their window. He found himself wandering out into the fluffy white flurry like a kid on a snow day. The snow was halfway to his knees, with fat flakes still fluttering down. It was so quiet. All the villagers in their houses, all the animals hibernating. His crunching footsteps seemed deafening. The whole world was white and cold and quiet. Jon couldn’t come with him in his wheelchair, but he could see him through the window. He was bundled under his shawl and blankets, watching him as he worked on a new knitting project—something that looked suspiciously like a teddy bear. 

Martin stared around the cold whiteness, wondering what he should do with himself. 

The first thing that came to mind was to simply tilt his head back and stick out his tongue. Snowflakes flittered over his face and settled on his cheeks and nose and sometimes on his tongue. They tickled as they danced around his skin, and made him laugh. He held out his arms and let himself fall straight backwards, trying to stand up as perfectly as possible, so not to disturb anything. The butt got scraped up a bit and of course the legs were deeper than they should be but overall it was an impressively intact silhouette. God I haven’t done this in ages he thought. And from there it was all just playing. 

He made more snow-prints. He traced doodles in the snow with his finger, knowing they would be gone in an hour. He tried copying the patterns he’d seen on Rory’s cards. He spent probably half an hour molding snow cups and bowls and perfectly cubular snowballs. He found an icicle slithering the roof and snacked on it, crunching it between his teeth. He was halfway through making a snowman when he noticed a tapping sound coming from the window. Jon opened the window, letting the cold blow in.

“You’ve been at it awhile. I thought you might be cold.” He said, producing a little steaming cup of tea and passing it through the window.

It was horribly over-steeped. Martin kissed the man fervently “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He replied “You look like you’re having fun out there.”

“I… Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.” He said, genuinely surprised with himself.