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The Boy Is Mine // for John
It's no small miracle, as far as Martin is concerned, that they were able to acquire a space for their would-be Archive so quick after the idea had come. While John secured what is still esoterically being called 'funding' (and Martin has every intention of following up on that despite John's constant evasions), Martin scouted locations. And now, not even a week since the inception of the idea, they have themselves a place. It's small, nothing on the scale of the Institute of course - this is just an Archive, after all - but it'll serve quite well. A former secondhand book shop, closed sometime ago and apparently so difficult to offload that the building agent had let them have it for next to nothing. As starts go, it's... almost auspicious.
John is still off doing god only knows what, so Martin is here alone, taking inventory of shelf space, working out vague layout ideas - all the boring stuff. It's comforting, really. Something concrete to work on, rather than wandering the streets in search of people with stories and willingness to tell them.
This is good, probably. It will be good. It has to be. He and John are both still barely scraping by, tired and worn. They need a - a place of power, he supposes with a little grimace. A base of operations. That sounds a little better. More like a spy novel or something.
It's quiet here. Peaceful. Martin loses track of time as he works, going over everything they'll need, making lists, drawing up budget plans... it feels like home. Working alone on mundane tasks with simple solutions. For a little while, he almost manages to forget where he really is.
It isn't until his breath fogs up his glasses that he realizes something is off. He shudders, sudden and violent, like he's being jolted back into his body and only now realizes how cold he's become. He reels back from the desk he'd been hunched over, the notes he'd been studiously scrawling. There it is, all around him, that... thick, cold fog.
"No," he blurts out, halfway between scared and angry. "No. Go away."
The Lonely has been making its presence aggressively known ever since he shared his Statement about the Spiral, and Tim - ever since he told John quite truthfully that it would be nice to work with him again. Martin's not an idiot; he's sensed that undercurrent of frustration, the entity grasping for him in this place it can't quite reach. It had never been enough to merit bringing it up to John, who'd only worry and likely find some way to do something rash. And he'd thought - well, the whole idea of building an Archive was, in part, to protect him, right? To protect others. Keep the Lonely at bay, unwelcome in the Eye's temporary domain.
Maybe it doesn't count without John here. Or maybe not until it's a proper Archive. Either way, it's seeped back in around him, and Martin didn't even notice.
He turns about sharply and finds the fog filling the area, hanging heavy and unnatural in the dry, climate-controlled space. He huffs in frustration and steps forward, making his way for the door. The fog grows thicker by the second, and he can barely see anything, but he remembers well enough where the door is. He moves through it, reaching out before him. He keeps walking and walking, until he's certain he's gone much, much too far. He's shaking now, whether from the cold or the horror of it - he doesn't know. But rising above the fear is bitter anger. He's tried to cling to the work he'd been doing; he's tried. Being punished for every perceived misstep is beginning to feel infuriatingly petty.
"Get out," he snaps. "You're - you're not welcome here. And I'm not leaving him, so you can just-"
The Lonely shivers around him, all the fog shifting at once, and it's enough to shut him up - not just the uncanny movement, but the way it changes, grows darker, heavier. He can feel it again, like in his dreams, dragging at his limbs. Pulling at him. He grits his teeth and tries to push through the haze, still reaching for the door, but it's so much harder than it was. He knows, then, deep in his chest, that there's no point looking. The door isn't there. Or he isn't. It doesn't matter.
"Let me go," he says, his voice trembling and sounding strangely muffled. "I - I'm not yours anymore, not here. You can't-"
The Lonely reacts as harshly as he's come to expect, lashing out like an impatient child. The mist wraps around him, so thick now that he can't see anything, can't hear anything but his own shallow, labored breaths. He tastes that same salt water taste when he breathes it in, straining for air that isn't seeking to drown him. He struggles, but it holds him; it's impossible, and yet he's stuck, pinned down in this empty, powerless building, utterly, overwhelmingly alone.
It could let him wander. It could let him loose in the emptiness, searching and finding nothing until the agony of isolation drove him mad. But it's never just about that with him, is it? It doesn't feed off his fear; after all, he's not particularly afraid of being alone. It just wants him, wants to keep him, and wants him to know that he's kept.
His hands fumble for purchase against the nothing that envelopes him, his fingers tracing down to one solid object he has on him, the one remaining connection to the outside. He's not sure how he manages to get the phone out of his pocket, his hands leaving slowly furling tracks in the murky air. He's certain that if he were home, where the Lonely could reach him unfettered, this would not be possible. As it is, he finds himself clutching onto the little device, bowing over it as if weighed down, fighting to get out any sort of contact. It feels exhausting, far more exhausting than it should; his fingers are starting to go numb, and in the end, he can't keep his hold on the phone any longer, and it slips out of his grasp. He doesn't even hear it hit the floor. He thinks he might have managed to send something, but he just can't be certain, and in a moment, it no longer matters. The fog pours in around him, and he can feel the satisfaction thrumming through it. Anger and fear seem far, far away now. There's no reason for any of that. He's where he belongs.
John is still off doing god only knows what, so Martin is here alone, taking inventory of shelf space, working out vague layout ideas - all the boring stuff. It's comforting, really. Something concrete to work on, rather than wandering the streets in search of people with stories and willingness to tell them.
This is good, probably. It will be good. It has to be. He and John are both still barely scraping by, tired and worn. They need a - a place of power, he supposes with a little grimace. A base of operations. That sounds a little better. More like a spy novel or something.
It's quiet here. Peaceful. Martin loses track of time as he works, going over everything they'll need, making lists, drawing up budget plans... it feels like home. Working alone on mundane tasks with simple solutions. For a little while, he almost manages to forget where he really is.
It isn't until his breath fogs up his glasses that he realizes something is off. He shudders, sudden and violent, like he's being jolted back into his body and only now realizes how cold he's become. He reels back from the desk he'd been hunched over, the notes he'd been studiously scrawling. There it is, all around him, that... thick, cold fog.
"No," he blurts out, halfway between scared and angry. "No. Go away."
The Lonely has been making its presence aggressively known ever since he shared his Statement about the Spiral, and Tim - ever since he told John quite truthfully that it would be nice to work with him again. Martin's not an idiot; he's sensed that undercurrent of frustration, the entity grasping for him in this place it can't quite reach. It had never been enough to merit bringing it up to John, who'd only worry and likely find some way to do something rash. And he'd thought - well, the whole idea of building an Archive was, in part, to protect him, right? To protect others. Keep the Lonely at bay, unwelcome in the Eye's temporary domain.
Maybe it doesn't count without John here. Or maybe not until it's a proper Archive. Either way, it's seeped back in around him, and Martin didn't even notice.
He turns about sharply and finds the fog filling the area, hanging heavy and unnatural in the dry, climate-controlled space. He huffs in frustration and steps forward, making his way for the door. The fog grows thicker by the second, and he can barely see anything, but he remembers well enough where the door is. He moves through it, reaching out before him. He keeps walking and walking, until he's certain he's gone much, much too far. He's shaking now, whether from the cold or the horror of it - he doesn't know. But rising above the fear is bitter anger. He's tried to cling to the work he'd been doing; he's tried. Being punished for every perceived misstep is beginning to feel infuriatingly petty.
"Get out," he snaps. "You're - you're not welcome here. And I'm not leaving him, so you can just-"
The Lonely shivers around him, all the fog shifting at once, and it's enough to shut him up - not just the uncanny movement, but the way it changes, grows darker, heavier. He can feel it again, like in his dreams, dragging at his limbs. Pulling at him. He grits his teeth and tries to push through the haze, still reaching for the door, but it's so much harder than it was. He knows, then, deep in his chest, that there's no point looking. The door isn't there. Or he isn't. It doesn't matter.
"Let me go," he says, his voice trembling and sounding strangely muffled. "I - I'm not yours anymore, not here. You can't-"
The Lonely reacts as harshly as he's come to expect, lashing out like an impatient child. The mist wraps around him, so thick now that he can't see anything, can't hear anything but his own shallow, labored breaths. He tastes that same salt water taste when he breathes it in, straining for air that isn't seeking to drown him. He struggles, but it holds him; it's impossible, and yet he's stuck, pinned down in this empty, powerless building, utterly, overwhelmingly alone.
It could let him wander. It could let him loose in the emptiness, searching and finding nothing until the agony of isolation drove him mad. But it's never just about that with him, is it? It doesn't feed off his fear; after all, he's not particularly afraid of being alone. It just wants him, wants to keep him, and wants him to know that he's kept.
His hands fumble for purchase against the nothing that envelopes him, his fingers tracing down to one solid object he has on him, the one remaining connection to the outside. He's not sure how he manages to get the phone out of his pocket, his hands leaving slowly furling tracks in the murky air. He's certain that if he were home, where the Lonely could reach him unfettered, this would not be possible. As it is, he finds himself clutching onto the little device, bowing over it as if weighed down, fighting to get out any sort of contact. It feels exhausting, far more exhausting than it should; his fingers are starting to go numb, and in the end, he can't keep his hold on the phone any longer, and it slips out of his grasp. He doesn't even hear it hit the floor. He thinks he might have managed to send something, but he just can't be certain, and in a moment, it no longer matters. The fog pours in around him, and he can feel the satisfaction thrumming through it. Anger and fear seem far, far away now. There's no reason for any of that. He's where he belongs.
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Even though John is the one who suggested both their names be part of it, it's still oddly charming to hear Martin actually throwing ideas out there. Emphasis on the odd, probably. Things have been moving at such a fast clip that the magnitude of what they're doing keeps striking him afresh, no less bizarre for its necessity. And naming it gives it a sort of conceptual solidity to go along with the physical location.
He smiles faintly when Martin starts going on about rhythm and meter. "Well, you are the poet," he acknowledges. "And it does sound..." he means to say 'better,' but what it also sounds is familiar. It takes him a few moments to work it out, and then he huffs quietly. "Might be a bit 'Breekon & Hope.'" God, this might be harder than he'd thought. A good name seems important, though, and he wants to make sure they get it right.
Not that his brain is offering anything particularly useful, and John shuts his eyes, trying to focus without much luck. "Maybe it's enough to tack something on in front of our names. 'The Repository of Blackwood and Sims,' or something."
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Of course, John is very drunk and saying a lot of very silly things, and Martin is very drunk, and feeling everything very much. It seems likelier that John used a word without thinking much of it, and that Martin gave it way too much importance, which is pretty pathetic, which is also earned.
Breekon & Hope is there to seize him out of this soppy existential mire, and Martin's nose wrinkles as he realizes that was exactly what it had reminded him of, too. It's a good sound-pairing, not like they've cornered that market with their big nondescript... bigness, and their stupid fake accents. But John's already moving ahead. Martin struggles to keep up.
"That sounds..." He squints, trying to arrive at something, but it's getting harder and harder to think. Why bother, honestly. He waves his hand as if swatting the idea away. "Too complicated," he says, nearly tripping over the word in three places. "Too many words." Things need to be easy to say. Right now especially.
"What if it's just. The Archive." He raises his hands and gestures like he's envisioning a marquee. Then he snorts and hunches back over the remains of his noodles. "That'd get their attention."
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It's as well he's swallowed by the time Martin suggests 'The Archive,' otherwise he might've choked. "In lights? Like a theatre?" he snorts out a laugh at that mental image, then gives the idea a little more consideration. "Simple," he says with burgeoning approval. "An' it--it has the advantage of annoying every other archivist in town. All of 'em going 'why didn't we think of that?'"
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John is making a good point, besides. "Ooh," Martin says approvingly. "We'll have that market well cornered."
He can't imagine what sort of archival market there is in this place, but who knows, honestly. "S'pose we'll need some sort of... output? I mean we aren't self-sustaining. We'd have to provide. Y'know, the. Goods n' services. Something." He's not built to think about this right now. He rests his head briefly on the table. "I'll work it all out. With... with spreadsheets."
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Output isn't really something he'd considered, but Martin's right. They need some non-fraudulent means of bringing in money. And it's a shopfront more than an institution. People will walk in off the street, expecting... something. "Besides the... the pleasure of our company?" he suggests with a wry grin and a flourish of his chopsticks. "We could sell concessions." He regrets that suggestion almost immediately, face scrunching at the thought of the messes that would inevitably result. "Ugh. No, not that. But something."
His smile softens as Martin's head gently comes to rest against the table, and he has to resist the absurd urge to reach over and poke him. "You should have some water," he says. Then, "Christ, I should have some water." But that would require sitting up, which feels far more difficult than it should.
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He is very tired. It turns out the resting of his head on the table wasn't brief at all. It's still happening. Time to head home, he thinks. 'Home.' Weird empty little flat, weird unfamiliar city, weird awful brand replacements. It's all so bloody weird and empty and unfamiliar and awful. Still thinks it's a bad dream sometimes. But it's not all that bad, is it? John is here. It's good that John is here. John is good.
Anxiety scratches at the back of his mind and he frowns rather petulantly about it. John is talking again, which provides a good distraction. He blinks blearily over the suggestion of water. "Yeah," he says in ostensible agreement, but he doesn't want to sit up. He heaves a sigh and gives himself a light tap on the head. "Christ, gonna be full of hornets tomorrow."
He braces his hands on the table and levers himself up with a soft groan, eyeing his water as though it has offended him. Mostly he just hasn't drunk much of it, like a bloody amateur. He sets about correcting that now. "Should probably stagger out of here soon, yeah? S'getting late an' all."
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It would be so much tidier to think that that Jonathan Sims had died in the wax museum. So much more comfortable to pretend not to recognize himself.
Well. No time like the present to... improve. So he nods in agreement, and says, "Keep me posted," and leaves it at that.
John shoves himself upright, give or take a few degrees, and takes a sip of his own water. It probably is about time they headed out, though he finds himself reluctant to actually part ways. It's not just that this has been surprisingly pleasant, though that's certainly part of it. It's that Martin's safe, and it's hard to squash the fear that it might change the moment John's back is turned.
He hesitates for a moment, fussing needlessly to himself about phrasing, before venturing, "You could... come to mine, if you want. Might be safer."
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"Oh-" he blurts, and busies himself drinking a great deal more water. "I- safer. Right."
From the Lonely, he means. Sweet of him to worry. Or... practical? Practical. That's a much more John-like term. And it's tempting. It really is. Far too tempting, dangerously tempting, when the memory of John's hands on his own and ghosting over his hair is still so sharp in the murk of his sake-addled brain, and when it was only this same night he'd been so close to doing something really, really stupid.
"I... I'll be all right," he says after some outwardly mild consideration. "Thanks. But I think... s'far as I can tell, I think you actually put the Lonely sort of... in its place." He manages a little smile. "Don't think it'll be back anytime soon."
The check comes, and he gives the server his card without hesitation, without even glancing at the price. Who cares. He keeps his eyes on John, as grateful for his help and for the offer as he is mired over the difficulty of denying it.
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But when it comes to the Lonely's behavioral patterns, Martin would know better than he would, really. John does give him a searching look at the refusal, wanting to make sure it's not coming from a place of pride or embarrassment or anything else he'd rank below Martin's safety. But it seems he's being honest, and John nods, mollified. "Well. Good." After a beat, he adds, "You'll er... call me if that changes...?" Not that he'd expect 'placing a phone call' to be an easy task under the circumstances, but Martin did manage to text earlier.
Some of his deliberate composure fades when Martin offers his card without even hardly looking at the receipt, and even though he's mid-sip, he hums in protest, brow furrowing. "Wh--hey," he adds for good measure once he can speak.
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"What?" Martin blinks out of his stewing thoughts at John's protest, confused for a moment, and then smiles faintly when he realizes, waving him off. "You can get it next time," he says.
Because there will be one. He can't decide if that feels good and warm and comforting or, or terrible. Like he might be sick from the stress and the stupid bloody guilt of it all. Or that might just be his faltering constitution.
Martin thinks he needs to get home quickly. That he actually needs, ironically, to be alone now. This is getting to be... unwieldy. The check returns, and he scribbles in a hastily calculated tip, aiming higher just in case, and he gets to his feet with a soft grunt. His back actually cracks.
"All right," he says decisively. He stands there for a moment, caught between impulse and instinct, before he figures fuck it and offers John his hand. Why not. Who said he couldn't. "Up we get."
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Now that he thinks about it, it's entirely possible that Martin doesn't even mean it. That it's just an excuse to get the check sorted with a minimal amount of fuss and end the evening as expeditiously as possible.
John's on the verge of sinking into a maudlin funk over the depressing likelihood of that premise when Martin decides to complicate matters by offering him a -- Christ -- a friendly hand up. John looks at him askance for half a second, trying and failing to make that detail fit the narrative.
It occurs to him, for the barest instant, that he could refuse it on some sort of petty principle. But he shakes off the impulse -- as if the few, often gentle rebuffs Martin has doled out aren't dwarfed by the pile of nastier brush-offs John has been responsible for over the years. As if he isn't rather pathetically touched by the gesture, by the casual, startling humanity of it. Like that's something people do: offer their hands to him, to be kind and not to burn.
So he takes Martin's hand, curls his fingers around his palm. The scar tissue is still a little more sensitive than the unmarred skin used to be, and the warmth of Martin's hand is heightened as a result. But it doesn't hurt, it's just... pleasant. And then he's tugged out of the booth and up onto his feet, and his head swims. "Ugh," he mutters, scrunching up his face in displeasure, his grip on Martin's hand tightening unthinkingly for a few moments until the room settles. At which point he makes himself let go, running his other hand over his face.
"Maybe Archivists don't get hangovers," he muses, without any real hope.
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As much as he's always aware of its existence, Martin was in no way prepared to actually feel the scar on John's hand. It's long since healed, little more now than a faint sheen the light catches at odd angles, and a smoother texture than what he's anticipating. It strikes him how much it covers, John's entire palm, his fingers; so little fuss was made over it, to his then-frustration. And on top of all this, he's never touched John's hand before, at all, has he? Christ, was John brushing all the fog away the first time? That can't be right. Maybe there was once, before Jude Perry happened, shaking hands on an introduction? Maybe? That doesn't sound right either. John would have been too distant, and he too awkward, too intimidated by this tall, striking, unattainable man with that arch sneer he always seemed to wear in those days. So no, no contact, not until this precise moment of casual drunken forgetfulness.
He'd thought about it, of course, in the hospital. Reaching out and taking John's hand while filling him in on all he'd missed. The nurses said even said it might help, probably making a few assumptions along the way, but he'd never done it. Wanted to. Hadn't.
John's grip tightens surprisingly as he recovers his balance, and then he lets go, and Martin stuffs both hands quickly into his pockets as though there'll be some mark on them, some obvious sign. He really needs to get home. Lie down, face first, and not think about anything for a while.
Fortunately John is there to offer him something else to focus on, and he smiles and huffs a laugh. "That'd be a neat trick," he says, turning and wandering back out into the warm night air. He was already overheated, and this doesn't help a bit.
"I miss London summer," he grumbles. "Not so... milky." That really isn't the word he was looking for, he thinks, but it's what happened. "Well, I... I guess I'll be off, then." He looks at John for a moment, wanting to say something else, or take him up on his offer. Wanting far too much.
"Thank you," he says instead, a bit too serious. "I- I'll see you tomorrow, probably."
The certainty and normalcy of it is so comforting. Maybe it can just be comforting. Not awful or scary or... fraught. He turns away to amble home. Could do with an amble. Sober himself up a bit. Get his head right. Exhaust himself so he just passes out when he hits his bed. Wake up a wreck and see John, probably. Plausibly.
"Christ," he mutters, and pulls his arms around himself despite the late summer heat.
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"Right," he says, dropping his gaze to Martin, who's looking up at him with a solemnity he isn't quite sure what to do with. Solemnity and... something else that he can't name, but that fills him with a sort of electric anticipation, like that nerve-jangling instant between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder that'll tell you just how close you were to being struck.
Not that there's any cause for it. Martin just thanks him. Again. "You're welcome," he replies, just as seriously. What else is there to say, really, or to do but nod his head in agreement at this oddly casual farewell. An 'I'll see you' might not be ideal coming from him, so he sticks with what he hopes is a blandly inoffensive, "Later, then."
He also knows he shouldn't just stand there and watch Martin leave, so he turns toward the Bramford, making it a few steps before he can't help but glance back over his shoulder, as if to make sure the fog hasn't rolled in already. But Martin looks fine, his outline perfectly clear as he passes beneath a streetlight.
No obvious outward reason for him to curl his arms around himself.
John's steps falter, and he waffles uncertainly for a few moments before shaking his head and continuing on. Martin will reach out if he needs him. He said he would, and John just has to trust him. Besides, what's the alternative: legging it down the sidewalk and insisting he come to the Bramford? Christ, just imagining the look on Martin's face is enough to dissuade him from that course of action. It's... it'll be fine.
They're fine.