Jon sat at the kitchen table resting on his folded arms and watched Martin cook. He’d mentioned during his statement that he mostly ate prepackaged meals, but he’d admitted later that it had largely been because both money and time were in short supply. He was less stressed now, at least in some respects, so he had been cooking more often. Or so he’d said when they were on their way from the Institute to his flat. The ancient yellowing statement Elias had given Jon sat on the table a few feet away, but Jon didn’t even glance at it. His thoughts didn’t even trend in that direction. His attention was solely and completely captivated by Martin.
Martin hummed quietly under his breath as he reached for something in a cupboard. Jon didn’t recognize the song, but it had the cadence of a sea shanty, so he guessed that was what it was. He found himself swaying back and forth slightly with the rhythm of the song. This, too, had become familiar in the last year, and was something he’d sorely missed in those horrible weeks he’d had to be away from the Institute. From Martin. As he’d said that night in the Archives before Prentiss had attacked, hearing Martin singing—or humming—was a sign that everything was all right, as long as it wasn’t in conjunction with a lighter and a book. It made him feel safe, like anything was possible and nothing bad could happen.
In fact, it made him feel safe enough that his mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had with Melanie…had it only been a week ago? Not even that. It felt like it had been ages, especially as it had been the beginning of a spectacularly shitty couple of days. Or sort of in the middle of it, really. Not that Martin’s day had been particularly good then either, and Jon still felt a bit guilty about that, but he knew if he tried to apologize Martin would either brush him off or apologize for making him feel like he needed to apologize and it would just be a huge thing. Still, the conversation itself kept going around and around in his head.
Without thinking—another side effect of the general feeling of comfort and safety he felt from both the humming and the general proximity of Martin, really—he blurted, “How did you know?”
“Hmm?” Martin glanced over at Jon, an expression of honest puzzlement on his face. “How did I know what?”
“How did you…” Jon’s brain pulled his tongue up short as he remembered what Melanie had said: I don’t think he’s ever put a label on it. Damn. Martin wasn’t…or he was, but he didn’t…he shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have said anything. Stupid. Stupid. He’d just ruined everything and…
Martin was still waiting patiently for Jon to finish his sentence. His green eyes were warm, gentle, just a little bit amused, but mostly kind and encouraging. Whatever happened, Jon knew, looking into those eyes, that he would be okay. That asking wasn’t a crime and that he wouldn’t ruin anything by finishing the sentence.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “How did you know you were…asexual?”
Martin’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know I was asexual?”
“Ah…Melanie told me,” Jon admitted. He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks and was grateful that they didn’t tend to show much. “When I was…i-it was just, we were having a conversation and…she said she thought you were on the spectrum, but, ah, that you’d never put a label on it.”
“Oh.” Martin smiled, but—to Jon’s mild surprise—something sad flashed across his face, just for a moment. He shrugged and went back to cooking. “Yeah, I…just never really thought about it, I guess. A label, I mean. Melanie was always more up on the latest terms or whatever—I don’t hang out in those kinds of online spaces, you know? But I don’t…enjoy sex. I don’t hate it or anything. I’ve done it once or twice, and it’s…fine, I guess. It’s just a thing bodies are capable of doing. But I don’t—I never saw what the big deal with it was.”
Jon bit his lip and twisted his fingers slightly. “You…nobody made you, did they?”
“No, no,” Martin said quickly. “Hey, no. I was…curious, I’d read about it, so I was willing to try when E—when my boyfriend at the time asked. But, actually, neither one of us got anything out of it.” He blushed and wouldn’t meet Jon’s eyes as he continued, “We tried again later. Thought maybe if we…switched it up it would be different. Wasn’t. After that it just—it’s, it’s a hard line for me, I’m afraid.”
“Why?” Jon asked, puzzled.
“Well, the next guy I went out with didn’t—I told him I hadn’t enjoyed it, but that I wasn’t opposed to it, and he spent the rest of the time we dated—which wasn’t long, by the way—pressuring me to ‘give it another go’. I almost gave in, then decided I had more self respect than that and I’d rather just walk away.” Martin flattened something with the side of his knife, and the odor of garlic curled into Jon’s nostrils. “So yeah, now it’s just a firm boundary. Maybe, maybe if I got in a relationship with someone and it went on for a long enough time that I knew I could trust the other person, I’d be willing to try again, but…you know, the kind of people that will keep pressing you to ‘just try’ are the kind of people who won’t stop if you ask them to.”
Jon shivered slightly, recognizing something of his own panic about Georgie’s assertion that he’d do better next time in Martin’s words, but refocused on his original question. “No, I mean—why are you afraid? I—I mean, why apologize for a boundary?”
Martin did look up at that, and the surprise on his face was obvious. “I just—” he began, then stopped. “What were you and Melanie even talking about that me being asexual came up?”
“Oh. Ah…” Jon had kind of hoped Martin wouldn’t ask, but…he looked at Martin’s face and remembered, again, that he was safe and anything he said would be all right. Still, he had to clasp his hands together tightly to keep from picking anxiously at his arms. “She’d…actually just asked me why I hadn’t told her I was asexual. I’d…I’d never heard the term before.”
Martin blinked, several times, and then turned off the burner and carefully took a step away from the stove. “And…how did Melanie know you were asexual?”
Jon swallowed hard. “She worked it out, apparently. I—Georgie Barker, you know, who does What the Ghost? We dated in university. Briefly. She…I was curious, too, so I said yes, but it was—I-I didn’t enjoy it. At all. It wasn’t—I-I don’t know how to explain it. Just…my skin was crawling.”
Now that he had begun talking about it, actually talking about it, he found the words wouldn’t stop coming. “It wasn’t—she didn’t hurt me, and I d-don’t think I hurt her, but it just, it was so unpleasant and—the, the contact and the fluids and the…feelings…it wasn’t that it hurt, it was just, I felt so uncomfortable. It was like I wanted to claw my skin off, or get in a shower and scrub the very memory of it off my body, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy this. And Georgie didn’t seem to enjoy it either, so I thought it would be all right, but then she said it was just that I had done bad and I would do better next time, and…I panicked. I don’t even remember what I said, I just…knew it was a mistake. It…ended the relationship. Badly.” His hands tightened, and he forced himself to relax, trying to remember the self-soothing techniques he’d been taught once long ago before he did himself an injury again. In as normal a voice as he could manage, he continued, “Anyway, Melanie and Georgie met for drinks a few days ago—the same day you, ah, spoke to Jude Perry—and—” He paused, momentarily distracted by that. “How’s—how’s your hand?”
“It’s fine,” Martin said, but not in the instant way he often used to brush off concerns before he thought it would prove an inconvenience. It was a gentle, reassuring, soothing response, a genuine one. “I’ll need to rewrap it in a bit, but—”
“I can—do you need me to get the—”
“Jon, forget my hand for a moment,” Martin said patiently. “You were saying about Melanie and Georgie?”
“Oh.” Jon rewound the conversation in his mind. “Ah, she—apparently Melanie told her she was working for the Institute, and Georgie told her why we broke up, and…she got rather angry about it, actually. Not at me. She said she’d been steamed about it the whole way back from the pub. I—I’m still not sure why.”
A smile quirked the corner of Martin’s mouth, and Jon momentarily got distracted—again—by the unfair attractiveness of that crooked smile. “Melanie’s ace, too—grey ace, I think she said—she sometimes gets attracted, but it’s rare. Anyway, she doesn’t take it well when people push past boundaries. Or hold grudges because of them.”
Martin returned to his cooking, and as he did so, he asked casually, “So, you’re asexual too, then?”
“Yes. It’s…nice to have a word for it,” Jon admitted. “Knowing I’m not alone. That I’m not…broken.”
“Jon, of course not.” Martin stepped away from the stove again, came over, and touched Jon’s cheek gently. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There never was.”
For a wild, fantasy-riddled moment, Jon almost hoped Martin would close the gap and kiss him. It was a hope that surprised him, especially since he’d only just admitted to himself that he even was in love with Martin, and Martin certainly hadn’t said a word. Without conscious thought, he found himself reaching up for Martin.
Martin, completely misunderstanding—or maybe understanding perfectly—knelt down and pulled Jon off the kitchen chair into a hug. Jon sank into it once again, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder, and let himself relax, fully and totally.
It was fine. Everything was fine. This was…this was right, this was safe. Jon was safe. He was in the safest place in the world, right here with Martin. Right here with Martin would always be safe. There would be no pressure, no coercion, no fear. Neither of them would ever ask for more than the other was willing to give, because neither of them wanted that either. In that moment, Jon didn’t even care that he was letting himself imagine a relationship that didn’t exist and possibly never would.
Here, in this moment, with Martin, it was safe to dream.