It's polite to knock.

[loficharm]

Martin has no idea what, exactly, they're hoping to find at the Oddities and Antiques Show, but whatever it is, it had better be good. John's dwindling supply of Statements has been a building source of unease for him even before it ever came up in conversation. The box he so blessedly received ages ago is kept in John's office, not something he ever really roots through, but he has kept a sort of automatic mental tally of the number of times he's been aware of John rationing from it. They both knew it would run out eventually, with no guarantee of a replacement. It's not like this is a nice three year subscription Darrow will just replenish for them. In his darkest moments, he's found ways to blame himself for it. The gift had appeared in his flat at the time; a gift he wanted, needed, to help John. He'd let himself believe, wishfully or no, that it was his own desire to keep John safe and well that prompted its arrival. Has he become too complacent? If he just needed it more, would another come?

It's ridiculous to think that way, and he knows it. He hasn't let John in on those thoughts, chasing them away as best he can. This is a problem they will both find a way to resolve, somehow or other. And in the meantime, they can still hope some solution presents itself.

John's split off from him now, now that he seems a little less likely to just go after the first Statement he can feel. Martin wishes he'd stuck close, would have liked to keep John's hand in his, for his own comfort if nothing else. He trusts John to maintain his own discipline. But searching alone through all the wares, more efficient though it might be, is not very relaxing or very fun. And he really doesn't know what he's looking for.

He's gravitated toward the books; there are a lot of them, and there's a non-zero chance of finding some sort of personal account among the published works. And it might be nice to pick up something for himself, if he finds something. If he can allow himself to even think of recreation at a time like this.

It's very sudden and very subtle when it happens. He's brushing his fingers over the disorganized heap on this particular table, feeling the spines, both because he likes the tactile experience of it and because he's hoping to feel out anything unusual or unique. Not expecting 'unusual or unique' to find him first.

It starts with an itch, though he doesn't even notice that at first. No, first he notices the book itself. Thin, simple cardboard, bright, stark white. A children's book, here among all the dusty old novels and dry non-fiction.

He fishes it out and his heart drops into his stomach. Lunch was a while ago but he feels for a perilous moment like he's about to throw up. Staring back at him is a friendly smile drawn onto a bulbous black body. Eight legs extending at sharp, nauseating angles. He knows the title before he even flips to the front cover to see it, drawn as if with a knife: A Guest for Mr Spider.

Open it, he thinks immediately. He ought to be sure. There's every possibility this is a real and ordinary picture book in some universe, or just one of Darrow's many copycats. Just the inside cover. Just to check for the label. To be absolutely certain it's a Leitner before he panics.

It's only then he notices the itch, as of something crawling across the back of his hand. His free hand twitches out to scratch or to shoo away whatever's on him, but there is nothing there. He stays like that, frozen, one hand clasped around the other clutching the book. Mr Spider smiles at him, broad and inviting. Open up, he seems to say. A quick peek won't hurt you. You know the danger. And you know better than anyone: spiders aren't really so scary, are they?

He almost throws the book back down on the table, but he can't quite — doesn't want to. Shouldn't. No one else should find this.

Well, of course no one should. This is for him.

It's for him.

Jesus, that was the very day he learned, wasn't it? It hits him like a sudden breath of cold air on the back of his neck. The box of tapes, Darrow's first and only gift to him. John hugging him like it was normal and not an act of desperation. Shared breakfast. Shared stories. The first real story he heard about John's childhood.

Is this Darrow's idea of a fucking joke?

"How much?" he blurts out at the woman behind the table. She glances at the book in his hand, barely seeming to notice it, and tells him Two dollars as if she just decided on the spot. He pays her. He steps away, hurried and unsteady, knocking into a few people and drawing a few annoyed looks as he tries to make himself small within the crowd.

Of all the days to not have his bag on him. Too hot for a coat or even a jumper. Nowhere to hide the bloody thing. But he has to — he has to keep it hidden. John can't see it. John must not be allowed to see it. This is his problem. His.

He crams it under his arm, hugging himself like he's fevered, and scans the warehouse for any sign of John. Easy enough to spot, tall as he is, isolated among the crowd. As if his hunger is a visible thing, or an odor: no one wants to be near him. Thoughts flicker through Martin's head like flashes of lightning against a dark sky: leave. Leave without him. He doesn't have to know. He doesn't have to see. He won't miss you. No one ever misses you.

"Christ," he hisses under his breath. The itch is worse now, crawling up both his arms, seeming to wind paths around him. There is something else too, a faint tickling sensation round the back of his neck and fluttering against his cheek, like he's just walked through cobwebs. He rubs at his face hard enough to redden it but there is nothing there. Imagining it. Can't trust himself right now. He has to get out of here — no, they both have to get out of here.

"John," he whispers, much too far away to be heard, but it doesn't matter. It requires astounding effort to force himself to walk, and he keeps himself moving by muttering John's name under his breath, scarcely aware he's doing it, as if the moment he lets his destination slip he'll lose focus. Can't let John see it but can't leave alone, either. They'll get to the Archive. He'll be able to think more clearly, get this scratchy thing out of his head. If he can just—

"John," he finally says, breathless with relief that he made it. He grabs loosely at John's arm, his palm sweaty, barely making contact before instantly returning it to wrap round himself again. "John, I found — We have to leave. We have to leave now."

Comments

[loficharm]

Martin manages not to let an audibly exasperated sigh slip through over that. He shuts his eyes and tsks softly, continuing to stroke John's hair. "Hush," he says, quietly stern. "I'm the one who found the bloody thing. And the whole point of it is that it gets into your head. You know that, John." He grips tighter, as though he might compress all of that guilt and needless self-blame right out of him. That would be nice. He's so tired. Things still feel frighteningly unresolved, but they can't deal with it until they're at least somewhat restored.

"What it did to you, what it convinced you to do and what it tried to do, is not your fault," he says, his voice trembling a little, distantly furious at the mere implication. "Now let's get you up. It's time for a lie down." No arguments. He starts to shift around, trying to coax John up, to get them both on their feet.

[statement_ends]

John immediately falls quiet, shocked to an absurd degree by the stern talking-to Martin gives him. He'd been feeling wretched enough to believe he deserved just about anything, but he still wasn't braced for Martin to actually tell him to pull his head out (albeit gently). And he can't even argue with it, because if he really deserved worse, then this is him getting off lightly — and more to the point, he knows Martin's right. Self-recrimination is an old habit, but not a helpful one. Especially if it just means asking Martin to scrape him up off the floor when they've both just had a miserable fucking time.

The floor that his backside and knees are both suggesting was a stupid place to collapse to begin with. "Okay," he says, damp and abashed. He draws back a little, avoiding Martin's gaze and grabbing the counter with one hand to pull himself upright. Whether he wants to prioritize a lie-down over the rest of his dully clamoring needs feels like a moot point once he's on his feet; he doesn't have the energy for anything else. Nor, for that matter, does he like the idea of either of them being left unsupervised in the flat while the other has a shower. And while the thought of bathing together isn't as conceptually mortifying as it might have been early in their relationship, it's a level of novel intimacy he's far too embarrassed to suggest at the moment. Lie-down it is.

They make their way into the bedroom, where John's gaze immediately alights on the bin he'd dragged out of place. A small detail, perhaps, but indicative enough to make the place feel like a bloody crime scene. He shuffles over to put it back, a small, tight frown on his face, before allowing himself to sit down on the mattress.

[loficharm]

Martin feels immediately guilty, even though he's right and he wouldn't take any of it back — it still feels like maybe he could've found a gentler way to say it. But he tries to brush that aside. It's been a hellish afternoon, and it's a little absurd to hope either of them can handle anything with any particular delicacy just now. Whatever gets it done; and John's not going to pieces anymore, he's getting up and allowing Martin to guide him. It doesn't feel great, but it's what needs doing.

Returning to the bedroom feels heavier than it ought to. It feels a bit like their private space has been violated by it all. Martin tries to turn that aside as well, but he can tell John feels it too, his focus locked on the displaced bin. Martin watches helplessly as he goes to fix it, then finally sits, looking rather numb.

He lets out a slow breath, then eases out of his jeans, leaving them in an unceremonious heap on the floor before joining John on the bed, sitting close without touching.

"Hey," he says softly, reaching out. "Come here."

[statement_ends]

His shoes are still on. He looks down at his own feet, unable to summon either surprise or consternation that he didn't... what, think to take them off when he first passed through the entryway? He doesn't even remember that moment; the last leg of the journey home was measured in pages, not places. But they shouldn't have made it into the bedroom, and he certainly can't have them on the bed. He leans over with a faint, weary huff to untie the laces, and manages to kick them off by the time Martin joins him on the bed.

The soft coaxing feels like an olive branch — one that shouldn't be warranted for a whole host of reasons. None of this is Martin's fault. At this point, he suspects the most immediate problem is just that he's so miserable and exhausted that any kind of graceful recovery feels impossible: there's nothing he can do that won't land wrong, or make him feel like a bigger prick than he does already. His eyes burn with the threat of fresh tears — frustration, this time — as he pulls his legs up onto the bed and lies back, his blurring gaze fixed on the ceiling and his lips pressed together tightly.

Christ, he wishes he could just disappear.

[loficharm]

John doesn't quite accept his invitation, lying down rather stiffly as if in deference to the idea of resting together while still trying to isolate himself. Martin frowns, pulling his hand back. He doesn't take it personally. John's in survival mode — too tired, too miserable, and too accustomed to self-blame for anything else. He's only functioning moderately better by dint of having freed himself of the book's bloody influence a little earlier on. Honestly, he feels like he has John's compulsion to thank for that, but he can't imagine trying to bring that up as a positive.

So he just sits there for a moment. Then he gets up again. "You stay put," he murmurs, walking around to John's side of the bed and bending over to remove his socks. John doesn't object, and Martin throws his socks in the hamper and then starts unbuttoning John's shirt, helping him out of it as gently as possible. Maybe this feels infantilizing. He can't bring himself to care.

Once this is done, and John's a little more acceptably dressed for a dire, exhausted nap, Martin climbs back into bed and lays himself close along John's body, curling an arm around him and tentatively nuzzling his forehead against John's cheek. "It's okay," he says softly, not sure what else he has to offer. "We'll be okay."

[statement_ends]

He absolutely deserves to be told to pull his head out (again, and less gently, even). Instead, Martin manages to access the grace that John can't imagine grasping himself, and it's both a relief and sort of awful. He couldn't bear it if things actually spiraled into a row; he's pretty sure one firm word would send him straight into the bloody ocean at this point. But it's hard to feel less miserable when his own persistent wretchedness has to compete with all this heroically tender care. Why the fuck can't he just pull himself together? Why should Martin have to undress him like a child? Jesus Christ.

It's all he can do to just silently cooperate as Martin helps him out of his shirt, too pathetic to enjoy the attention but unwilling to throw Martin's kindness back in his face. A growing portion of his meager reserves are going towards not simply bursting into tears again, but when Martin curls up along side him and nestles close, it dislodges a shuddering gasp out of him. Before he quite realizes what he's doing, he lifts a hand to clutch at Martin's arm, as if terrified he might (sensibly) pull away.

"Sorry," he says, his voice a pitiful croak he hardly recognizes as his own, tears flowing once more. "I just..." he abandons that line almost immediately; he can't account for himself. He's just so fucking tired.

[loficharm]

"I know," Martin says softly, and holds him a little tighter in answer to John's clear desperation. "I know, love. Me too."

Sorry for finding the damn thing; sorry it all happened. It doesn't matter. All that matters is holding John close to him, keeping him safe and comfortable until he can just rest. Martin adjusts his position a little, arranging it so he can better stroke John's hair, which he intends to keep doing as long as he remains conscious. "Just rest now," he murmurs. "It's okay."

[statement_ends]

John finally allows himself to turn into Martin's embrace, hunching enough to bury his face against Martin's chest. A small part of him balks at the idea that there is anything okay about the situation — even the imperative of a nap feels like tempting fate with the book still in their flat — but he's too exhausted to nitpick, let alone strive for any alternative to what they're doing now. He doesn't even have the energy to sob outright, the tears flowing but his breathing only a little uneven.

And despite everything, the gentle passage of Martin's hand through his hair is having its usual effect. Opening his eyes would take titanic effort.

But there's still enough lingering paranoia shivering through his system for him to tighten his grip on Martin's sleeve, the fabric bunching between his fingers. "Don't leave," he pleads, urgent despite his exhaustion.

[loficharm]

John shudders in his arms, his grip tightening as if from out of a bad dream, and he utters a soft plea that could just break Martin's heart.

"Not going anywhere," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to John's forehead. "I'm here with you."

[statement_ends]

"Okay," John replies with an unsteady exhalation, willing himself to believe it. It ought to be reflexive by now, but the book has thrown him badly enough that the muscle memory eludes him, and he maintains his grip on Martin's sleeve as if it constitutes a form of insurance: even if he must sleep, he doesn't have to let Martin go.

He takes one slow breath, and then another, his body finally relaxing in spite of himself. But even as his arm loses its tension, his fingers remain curled around that patch of fabric as if both their lives depend on it. "Okay," he says again, more sigh than word.