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It's polite to knock.
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."
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."