Chapter Text
Jon wakes up with a slow, syrupy confusion, not quite able to grasp right away why he’s lying fully clothed in his bed. Had he--? His head doesn’t hurt, and his mouth doesn’t taste like death. He hasn’t been drinking. Not that drinking until he blacks out is a thing that he does as a habit, he hasn’t done so since uni. And that was only because he felt as if he should be able to keep up with Georgie, who had a significantly more robust constitution than himself.
He becomes abruptly aware of the fact that it isn’t just a duvet that he’s covered by, but an arm and a leg slung over him. Blinking rapidly, he turns his head to find-- Martin. Not an altogether shocking presence to find in his bed in the morning, but not a frequent one either. It had taken Jon a moment to notice him, as his body doesn’t seem to continue the function of breathing while he’s asleep. It’s… rather disconcerting whenever he notices it. No heartbeat to hear if he presses his ear up against his chest, no breathing, his skin warm only in the same way that his duvet or pillow is, warmed by hours pressed against Jon’s own warmth.
Martin’s mostly fully dressed too. He looks even paler than usual. He didn’t eat yesterday, Jon thinks. One of those reflexive realizations that happens so quickly that you’re taken by surprise by it, your brain processing the clues before you’ve even fully parsed the meaning of them yourself. Martin hadn’t eaten yesterday-- not enough blood running through his vein to give him enough of a flush to make him at least look like a vaguely healthy, living human. Usually he at least doesn’t look sick. There’s no color in his lips. He really does look anemic like this. Concern throbs inside of Jon’s chest.
Why hadn’t Martin eaten yesterday?
Jon-- remembers. Lukas, Elias, the office, Martin bursting in, Martin and Elias bristling at each other while Lukas practically laughed at them, the pain in his head growing, everything going dark, waking back in his flat to a concerned and fretful Martin, and then--
You are allowed to worry about me.
Oh.
“Good lord,” Jon breathes quietly. Martin doesn’t so much as stir. When he’s asleep he is very, very hard to wake. More of a dark slumber than proper sleep, really. He doesn’t snore, or mumble, or toss and turn. His eyes aren’t even moving underneath his eyelids. He really does look remarkably like a fresh corpse like this, especially with the added pallor of his skin. Jon wishes there was a way for him to soothe his own irrational worries that it might be more than simple unconsciousness.
It must be day for Martin to be knocked out like this.
The windows-- the curtains are already drawn. Jon has been in the habit of leaving them that way, simply turning on the lights in the morning when he needs to dress for the day. Well-- good. It would have been deeply unfortunate for Martin to have been woken up by the cresting rays of sunrise simply because the two of them were both significantly distracted last night. The little light he can see by is coming from the open bedroom door. A light must have been left on in the living room.
What time is it? How long has it been? He feels profoundly well rested, the way he always does when he wakes up after falling asleep in the comforting clutch of Martin’s enthrallment, his arms. He wriggles out of Martin’s rigor mortis embrace--not really, his limbs aren’t stiff or cold, but he does hold onto Jon like he’s reluctant to let him leave--stumbling out of bed. He doesn’t have to worry about potentially waking Martin like this; it’s quite the opposite problem with him. After a moment of searching, he realizes that he still has his phone in his trouser pocket.
It’s noon. Jon blinks rapidly, feeling bewildered and lost out of time. He takes a moment to check the calendar function, but thankfully he isn’t that out of the loop. It’s only the next day. Good lord. He hasn’t slept until noon since uni, and that was only because he was sporadically flipping back and forth between diurnal and nocturnal and some sort of ungodly compromise between the two, his only North Star his class schedule. At the very least it’s a Saturday; he doesn’t have to worry about being late for work.
Wait. His boss is a vampire, and more pressingly wants his boyfriend dead. That’s a ridiculous thing to worry about. Is he ever even going to go back to work again? He can’t just go back, can he? Like nothing has happened? It would be preposterous. But-- his job at the Magnus Institute is the only serious, proper job he’s ever had in his life. What would he do without it? Find another? He tries to imagine a future employer calling Elias as his reference, and a mildly hysterical chuckle slips out of him.
Is this how Martin’s been feeling, with no certain future ahead of him? Nothing to rely and depend on? No wonder he’s been looking so tired and frayed at the edges. Jon-- Jon hadn’t actually registered that until now. It hadn’t happened all at once overnight, but over the last six weeks or so he’s lost some… some vitality to him that had been there before. Some assurance, or comfort. He walks around with hunched shoulders now. Jon hadn’t particularly cared, the last couple of weeks; it hadn’t been any of his business.
How could he have been so heartless? So selfish?
Martin literally mind controlled him into not being able to worry for him. It hadn’t exactly been a willing, deliberate choice on his part.
Still. Still, he feels terrible about it. What must Martin have thought of him these last weeks? Half a dozen moments flash before his mind's eye, times he was casually and unthinkingly cold, self centered. Not caring a whit whether Martin lived or died or suffered. Shame and horror throbs inside of him-- and anger too. Not at himself, that last one.
He wishes he could wake Martin up immediately, speak to him now that he’s entirely and fully back within his right mind, but he knows that wouldn’t lead to any sort of coherent conversation. Martin is still far too young of a vampire to think clearly while the sun is up. He will just have to wait until sunset has come again. It won’t be too long, at this time of year. Simply a matter of a handful of hours.
The idea of it still chafes and grates at him. Waiting, when there are so many urgent problems to take care of, so much to do.
And Peter and Elias, likely arguing over their fate right at this very moment. They are still arguing, Jon thinks; from what hazy memories he’s retained from those hours he spent inside of the office as the two of them bickered, he has the distinct impression that they very much enjoy being furious with each other. Elias had looked very much as if he wanted to rip his own desk apart in a display of sheer rage; Peter had looked like he’d sit back and watch it with spiteful relish.
Yes, they’re likely still arguing even now, if only for arguing’s sake. And they’re most likely doing it in the last place Jon saw them… after all, why should they move? They’re in Elias’ office. They have every right to be there.
It occurs to Jon that he could simply walk out of his flat, hail a cab, drive back to the Institute, and march right back in there with a list of arguments. He hadn’t been able to do that last time; he’d hardly been allowed to get a word in edgewise. That grates at him like sand caught underneath his clothes, whenever he thinks about it. If there is one thing Jon is good at, it’s arguing. Usually to his detriment, causing him to clash against his peers and leaving soured opinions of him in his wake. But he wouldn’t mind getting caught up in the heat of the moment and heavily implying derogatory things about Elias or Peter’s intelligence, actually.
… They would likely mind, however. They aren’t a coworker or a classmate or a friend of a friend with an incorrect opinion at a party; they’re vampires. Rather merciless and amoral ones, at that. In the very best case scenario, they’d entirely dismiss everything he might say and just force him to shut up again. They won’t take him seriously; he doesn’t have the ability or leverage to make them take him seriously.
… Perhaps he could write Elias a strongly worded email. That would show him.
Jon sets to the task of burning off his nervous energy until the day is over. To his initially bewildered dismay, he discovers that there aren’t many chores left to do inside of his flat. He realizes that Martin must have had the exact same idea as him when their positions were reversed, intently cleaning whatever he could get his hands on to keep himself occupied while Jon slept. Just about the only things left to do would be grocery shopping or laundry… both of which would require him to actually leave the flat.
Martin is fast and sound asleep in his bedroom, the blackout curtains are in place, and Jon’s door has a functioning lock. There is no reason for him to recoil from the idea of leaving him alone for an hour or two, but he does. He wouldn’t have felt the same way only yesterday--he would have had no issue at all--and that just makes his mind up for him. Groceries and laundry can wait.
That leaves him with-- not much.
Jon ends up spending most of those hours arguing with himself. Or, more accurately, he spends them having quite vivid and involved arguments with mental versions of other people. Elias and Peter feature heavily, but as does Martin. He showers, he eats, he tries to organize his bookshelf, he rearranges his wardrobe, he hopelessly tries to read, but that’s really what he does.
“I cannot believe you’d just abandon him to blunder along in the dark like that,” Jon mutters viciously underneath his breath to an imaginary Peter, while staring sightlessly at the same paragraph he’s been supposedly reading for the last five minutes now. “Is this all a joke to you? You have a responsibility, you’re the one that brought him into this life.”
“If you’re drinking from absolutely everyone in the Institute then it is utterly ridiculous of you to be so indignant at losing just me,” Jon spits at an imaginary Elias, so emotionally invested and involved in his daydream that he’s mouthing his own lines, stray words being verbalized as emotion peaks. He stands on his tip toes, straining to reach the top of his bookshelf, trying to shove a Jane Austen into place. “You already have plenty of potential sources of blood, there is no need for you to behave so possesively. It’s greedy.”
Whenever he actually tries to argue with Martin in his mind, his arguments lose all coherence. Sentences stop and start halfway through, wildly swerving before ever getting to the point. It’s like there’s a ten car pile up of emotions inside of his brain, clogging up his throat with too many words to possibly come out in an orderly line. He isn’t speechless; he has too much speech. It all churns silently inside of his skull like a tangle of yarn, formless and abstract, before sporadically bursting out of him in abrupt and yet vehement outbursts at random moments throughout the day.
Such as when he’s brushing his teeth:
“I cannot believe you--”
And when he’s pacing restlessly in his living room:
“You should have just--!”
Or while he’s standing in the doorway of his own bedroom, staring intently at Martin’s sleeping expression:
“How could you--?”
By the time the sky is beginning to darken, the sun descending towards the horizon, Jon has thoroughly exhausted every possible activity he can think of and can currently stand the idea of performing. He ends up spending the last ten or so minutes just sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for Martin to wake up. At the first flicker of eyelids, the first muffled groan, Jon pounces before he’s even opened his eyes.
“What exactly do you think I’m for?” he demands.
“Wha?” Martin asks, the half finished syllable falling out of his mouth, bewilderedly blinking his eyes open. With his sleep tousled hair, and the startled incomprehension clear to see on his face, he looks utterly taken off guard. Jon can’t bring himself to wait for him to catch up, too wound up from hours of waiting to start this conversation.
“I’m your boyfriend, I’m your thrall, but I’m not allowed to worry about you? What is the point of being with me if I am incapable of caring for you?” Each question comes out rapid fire, stoked with the indignation of dozens of imagined arguments.
“I--” Martin says, sitting up. He’s still wide eyed and startled, but there’s a scrambling desperation to him now, like he’s trying to catch hold of the conversation that’s been started without him. “I-- I didn’t mean to do that, Jon, I had no idea. I’m so sor--”
“You didn’t mean to, but you still wanted to!” Jon snaps before he can even finish speaking. This argument is basic enough that he’s already mentally formed a rebuttal. “You avoided telling me you were in trouble at every turn, you refused to speak of it once I guessed, and you insisted that I leave the matter alone when I pushed it. Even if you hadn’t accidentally made it an order--”
There’s a knock on the door. Jon stops, startled out of his rehearsed rant. He hadn’t heard the intercom buzz-- who could it possibly be? A neighbor, come to complain about the noise? That’s never happened before. Or possibly--
“Martin,” Peter Lukas’ voice calls out. “Come let me in.”
They both freeze, giving each other uncertain, wide eyed looks.
“Are you here to kill Martin?” Jon calls out after a beat. Martin gives Jon an incredulous, horrified look. Jon shrugs helplessly in response. It’s not as if they could pretend not to be present, could they? Vampires have a very keen sense of hearing, and Jon hadn’t exactly been trying to be quiet. He’d doubtlessly heard them.
“No,” Peter says. “Elias would insist on-- would you just let me in? Or I could break your door down.”
That last sentence is spoken musingly, as if the possibility only just occurred to him and he finds it rather tempting.
“I’m coming,” Jon calls back hurriedly. He stands up from the bed, and faster than his eyes can follow, Martin’s hand snaps out and grabs at his arm.
“What are you doing?” Martin hisses, high pitched.
“I’m going to let him in before he breaks my door down,” Jon says, and tries to knock Martin’s hand away. It’s like trying to break the grip of a statue. “Martin. You’re being ridiculous.”
“He could be lying, you know!”
“And what will we do if he is?”
“Not open the bleeding door for him!”
“If you were going to die, Elias would want to do the honors himself,” Peter calls out. “You have ten seconds to open the door, and then I’m breaking it.”
“Let go of me,” Jon snaps, shaking his arm. This time, Martin lets him go-- but he gets up out of the bed as well, following Jon as he runs for his front door. He twists and undoes the locks, throwing it open to reveal the man from earlier, looking just as gray and looming as before. He’s missing the umbrella now.
“Oh, good,” Peter Lukas says mildly, and then walks through the door. Jon has to scramble to get out of his way; he moves like an iceberg, as if he expects for everything and everyone else to get out of his path or be smashed for their failure to do so. He glances quickly and dismissively across Jon’s flat, and then looks at Jon, his eyes appraising him in the same way someone might appraise a horse. “I see your thrall is still alive. That’s good. It would be annoying to do all of that arguing only to find that you’d killed him during.”
He’s looking right at Jon, but talking to Martin.
“Why would he kill me?” Jon asks, bewildered enough by the idle observation to be thrown off track.
“He was looking fairly territorial, last I saw him. It wouldn’t be the first time something like it happened, if he’d gotten overenthusiastic and gone a bit too far in trying to make his claim on you more obvious so no one might question it again.”
“I wouldn’t,” Martin says fiercely.
“Best not,” Peter lightly agrees. His eyes drift away from Jon like a cloud passing across the sky, uninterested. “It would probably ruin the deal I just spent a whole day brokering for you.”
“What sort of deal?” Jon immediately demands, unable to wait another moment. If the ultimate decision was to kill Martin, then Peter wouldn’t be here to tell them, would he? That has to be promising.
Peter waves this question away like it’s an errant fly. “Elias is the one fussing with the details. Ask him. I made sure that Martin wouldn’t die.”
That is an entirely unsatisfactory answer, and at the same time all he desperately needed to know. Jon actually sways for a moment with sheer relief, almost having to catch himself.
“And what about Jon?” Martin asks anxiously.
“Ask Elias,” Peter repeats himself, unbothered. “I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t try and run away or something ridiculous like that. And Martin-- I’ve transferred some money into your account. Same amount as last time.”
Peter turns to leave like he’s said nothing of any particular importance, and he actually manages to take three steps before Martin fully comprehends the casual statement first, unfreezing.
“You what?” Martin demands. “Why-- why would you do that?”
Peter turns around to look at him, and then-- he smiles. It’s the exact same cheerful smile as the one before, but there’s something different about it now. It takes Jon a beat to realize what it is; it reaches his eyes now. It has a gleeful, malicious edge to it, but it’s a real smile. Looking at Martin, he seems utterly shocked by it.
“This is by far the funniest thing that’s happened to me in over half a century,” he says. “You should have seen the look on Elias’ face when he first spoke to me. I didn’t even tell you to do this! Of course I’d give you a reward for it. If you do it again then I can’t guarantee that he won’t lose his temper and just kill you, but this has been hilarious. Great work, Martin.”
And with that, Peter leaves without another word, not bothering to close the door behind him as he goes.
“Martin?” Jon asks. He’s still staring at the open doorway, looking aghast now.
“Oh, Christ,” Martin says, in the soft tones of horrified realization. “They’re fucking.”
Jon blinks.
“They’re what?”
“They’re-- I think so?”
“What-- what could possibly make you think something like that? They clearly loathe each other.”
“I just-- I got the feeling. I-- nevermind. We… we have to…”
Martin trails off into silence, looking for a moment very lost. Directionless.
“Check your bank account,” Jon says.
Martin blinks, looking like he’s coming back to the present moment, his surroundings. “What?”
“Verify it. That he sent you money. He might have been lying, or maybe he did it wrong. Check.”
“I-- yeah. Yeah, okay, you’re right, I should--”
Martin gets his phone out of his pocket, almost dropping it twice in the process. Jon closes his front door and then goes to his side, peering intently at the phone screen as Martin logs into his banking app. It loads, the circle moving in stops and starts--
Martin’s bank balance appears on the screen. A ragged noise punches out of him as it does, and Jon automatically moves to support him as his knees buckle.
“Oh my god,” Martin says faintly. He blinks rapidly, staring disbelievingly at the numbers on the screen.
“That’s-- that’s good,” Jon says. “That’s fantastic, Martin.”
Martin scrolls down the screen with one swipe of his thumb, to see recent activity. A huge deposit, followed by two sizable but much smaller in comparison withdrawals.
“What’s that?” Jon asks.
“The payments,” Martin says raggedly. He sounds short of breath. “It-- it’s the first of the month. Mum’s care home, and my rent and bills. The money came just in time for the automatic payments.”
“... You didn’t have enough money for any of that?” Jon asks.
Like he almost doesn’t realize that he’s doing it, Martin shakes his head as he continues to stare at the screen. As if he needs to burn the numbers into his retinas to actually be able to process them.
Martin didn’t have enough money to pay for his mother’s care home. Or his rent, or his utilities. Jon had known that he was badly off, but he’d had no idea it was that bad. It was that bad, and Martin hadn’t breathed a word of it to him. Hurt steals his breath away-- before all of the air in his lungs is replaced by a wild, bright anger, like what he’d been breathing before Peter had knocked on his door. He wants to grab onto it immediately, show it to Martin, shake him--
But Martin’s staring at his phone with wide, shocked eyes, looking like he’d cry if he were capable of it. He’d mentioned that to Jon once. Jon had been fascinated at the time, because clearly Martin could produce spit, so why not tears, or sweat, or--? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Martin looks very, very… fragile, right now.
Jon swallows all of his anger down. He’ll-- soon. Later. Once Martin’s looking more steady. But first--
“This isn’t a permanent solution,” he says, because it needs to be said. “This isn’t a steady income. This fixes all of your current financial concerns, but this money is going to run out again eventually. What are you going to do then? You clearly can’t rely on your sire.”
That seems to snap Martin back into reality, out of his disbelieving trance.
“I-- yeah,” he says, his voice a little ragged at the edges. He puts his phone down, slipping it into his pocket with a faintly trembling hand. “You’re right. I need to-- I’ll figure something out.”
I’ll figure something out. Not we’ll figure something out. The anger shoved down in Jon’s chest sparks, flares. He holds his breath and rides it out.
“We have to find out what the agreement Peter and Elias came to entails first. We should go see him.”
“Is he-- do you even know where he is? It's like nine PM, he probably isn’t even at the Institute any longer. Do you have his address?”
“Well, no, but-- I have his number!”
Before Martin can protest at the idea of Jon speaking with his own boss, he retrieves his own phone and finds the number in his list of contacts. Elias had given him his personal number upon his hiring, ‘just in case.’ He’s got his phone ringing and on speaker before the call is even picked up.
“Elias?” Jon asks.
“Jon,” Elias says. “It’s good to hear that you’re still alive.”
“Oh, for-- no, Martin has not killed me. Peter came by and told us that you’d come to some sort of compromise?”
“Of a sort,” Elias says glibly.
“What is it?” Martin asks tersely.
“Ah, you’re awake. Yes, you might as well hear it now,” Elias says. Jon notices that there’s no seething, dripping venom or tension in his voice any longer, even as he talks to Martin. Very much the opposite; his voice is smooth and unhurried, smug and satisfied as melting chocolate. He sounds like he’s received a full body luxury massage.
Compulsively, he remembers Martin’s earlier words. They’re fucking. Reflexively, he makes eye contact with Martin, who is already also looking at him with an expression that is likely very similar to what Jon himself is wearing at the moment.
Ignorant of what their faces are doing, Elias goes on.
“Jon is my employee, my property. It’s a transgression for you to have stolen him from me, an insult. The only way for this to be repaired--besides execution, or separating the two of you, both options that I gather neither of you are interested in--is to find a way to make the situation not an insult or transgression. So Peter and I have agreed that you are to act as my vassal from now on.”
“... what?” Martin asks.
“My vassal. You’ll follow my orders, do my general bidding. If you’re mine as well, then it won’t really matter if you’re getting your mouth all over one of my employees. You won’t be an outsider taking what isn’t yours. I’ll be… providing for you, as a responsible sire does.”
“But you’re not my sire,” Martin says blankly. “Peter is.”
“Well, he’s agreed to let me have you. That effectively makes me your sire. Or the both of us, I suppose. I’ll expect to see you at the Institute first thing Monday night.”
“I-- what? What does that even-- what would I be doing for you?”
“Well, it would be convenient to have someone to pass messages along to other vampires for me, for example. I can’t exactly send any of my employees to do that; they’d just be ignored and then slaughtered. It can be dangerous work, of course. Some vampires can be rather… temperamental. But it’s either this, or a beheading. Your choice.”
“Does this effectively make Martin one of your employees?” Jon cuts in for the first time.
“I suppose so,” Elias muses. “Our very first night shift worker. I’ll come up with some vague title for him later.”
“Then that means that he’ll be paid,” Jon presses urgently. “Correct? You can’t have an employee without paying them.”
“I’m paying him with you, Jon,” Elias says. “Remember?”
“I think he should receive some money as well. To make it official.”
There’s a sigh across the line, the speakers crackling with it. Jon’s gaze is raptly fastened on the phone, as if he could possibly read it for tells. After a long, unbearable moment, Elias speaks up.
“Oh, fine,” he says. “But he’s receiving minimum wage.”
He’s much more easily persuaded than he’d been before, more willing to compromise; Jon tries not to think about what Martin had suggested about his relationship with Peter, and why he might be in a better mood now than before.
“Agreed,” Jon says without hesitation, like the offer might be retracted if he leaves it be for long enough. He can find ways to convince Elias to give Martin a raise later.
“Well, then, I’m glad we’ve settled this. And Martin,” Elias says, his voice dropping, going darker and more intent, “if you so much as breathe on any more of my employees we’ll have words. Do you understand me?”
“Crystal,” Martin says quickly.
“Good. I’ll see you both on Monday, if that’s all.”
And with that, the call unceremoniously ends. The two of them look down at Jon’s phone as if it might have anything more to say, and then each other.
“What… just happened?” Martin asks, looking utterly deeply bewildered.
“I think,” Jon says, “that we just became coworkers?”
“Holy shit,” Martin says, and then he sits down on Jon’s floor abruptly enough that it’s like he’s a puppet who got its strings cut. Jon jumps, startled, before quickly crouching down in front of Martin, his hands hovering over him panickedly.
“Martin?” he asks with a sharp stab of concern. “Are you-- are you well?”
“I just,” Martin says. “You just. He… oh my god. I’ve got money. I’ve got a job?”
“You do,” Jon confirms, carefully settling his hands down on Martin’s shoulders. Perhaps the touch will ground him somehow. “It seems that… that whole situation has been handled.”
“I’m not going to be homeless,” Martin says blankly. “Mum’s going to-- she’ll be alright.”
Jon kneels in front of Martin for a long moment, holding his breath, trying to bite all of the things churning inside of him back-- and then his self restraint finally snaps.
“It wouldn’t have had to come to that,” bursts out of him.
Martin blinks. “Sorry?”
He should regain his self control, but it seems that it’s rather like a cat let loose from a bag. Now that he’s lost it, it refuses to be recaptured. The words flow from him, raw and earnest and upset.
“I could have helped you,” Jon says fiercely. “If-- if you’d lost your home then you could have come here. There’s enough space for the both of us. And your mother-- I could have paid for her care home bills. I have the money, I can afford it. If the worst had happened you wouldn’t have had to be homeless, and your mother wouldn’t have had to lose her place at her care home-- you wouldn’t have had to be so scared for these past months. You could have asked me for help, you could have let me help. Why didn’t you?”
Why didn’t you think I could help you? That I couldn’t manage it?
Martin looks at him like he’s saying something terrifying, wide eyed and frozen. He opens his mouth, closes it without saying anything.
“I’m your partner, aren’t I?” Jon presses, a desperate edge to his words. “I can support you. I can help. I don’t have to just be a burden on you.”
“You’re not a burden,” Martin says immediately, like the words were so startling that he had to respond to them instantly, reflexively. “What-- why would you think that?”
“Because you don’t let me help! You help me-- you make me unwind at least once a week, something I couldn’t possibly manage on my own. I can be helpful too. But instead you just-- it’s like you want me to be selfish, to only care about myself. But I care about you as well. I care so much, Martin.”
Martin stares at him as if he’s said something bewildering.
“You-- that’s not a favor I’m doing to you. You-- you’re giving me your own blood! That is you helping me!”
“I-- but you only ever do it when I ask for it. You don’t ask for it yourself--”
“Because it’s an awful thing to ask of your own boyfriend! You shouldn’t have to feel like you have to--”
“Feel like I have to? I like it, Martin, why do you think I ask for it? It feels--”
“Good. Because I make it feel that way. But it’s not good. It-- it’s bad for you. It’s literally taking your blood from you.”
“And so? Plenty of people regularly donate blood. In a way, this is no different. You need blood transfusions to live; I supply a good portion of them. You’re always careful not to take too much from me.”
“I know about the pills.”
“You-- what?”
“The-- the iron supplements you’ve been taking. I saw them when I was looking for aspirin for you. You’ve had to start taking them because I’ve been drinking from you, haven’t you?”
“I… I haven’t had to take them. It just makes things easier. I--”
“I’ll stop drinking from you,” Martin says. “I’m sorry. I don’t--”
“No,” Jon says forcefully.
Martin gives him a pained, guilty look. “You don’t have to make yourself--”
“Make myself? Martin, I enjoy it! I enjoy being able to relax completely! I am very bad at such things, so I appreciate the assistance! The entire reason I take those supplements is so that I don’t have to stop letting you bite me. It-- it’s important to me. I didn’t want to give it up.”
This seems to have briefly pushed a stick through Martin's spokes, halting him. Jon barrels ahead, taking advantage of the breathing space in the rapid back and forth.
“And yes-- I do partly do it simply because it helps you. And so what? I can’t want to help my boyfriend? To do something nice for you, make you feel a little less hungry? It feels good for me to help you. I greatly enjoy it. And you want me to stop entirely? To stop worrying about you, helping you? That’s not how a relationship works.”
That’s not how he wants this relationship to work. He’s despised being a burden for as long as he can remember; if Martin’s going to help him, be sweet with him, then he wants to be able to return the favor. To help him when he needs help. To be on his side, support him. Contribute.
Martin swallows thickly. His expression looks like he’s trying very, very hard not to let it crumple in on itself.
“Are you--” Martin’s voice breaks, and he has to stop, try again. “Do you not want-- want to be with--?”
Jon doesn’t understand what Martin’s trying to ask him for a long moment, and then realization clicks into place.
“Martin,” he says. All of the vigor and outrage has suddenly stranded his voice, leaving only a softer distress and dismay. “I’m not going to-- I’m not trying to break up with you.”
Martin’s breath hitches, almost like a hiccup.
“But I-- I ordered you around,” he says, his voice strained like he’s struggling to keep it under control. “In a really bad way. I--”
“Not on purpose,” Jon says, his voice going even softer. He edges closer towards Martin on his knees, one of his hands sliding from his shoulder to rub comfortingly at his arm.
“That doesn’t-- doesn’t matter. It still happened--”
“Your intentions matter to me. It was unfortunate--very unfortunate--but in the end no permanent harm was done, it was an understandable mistake for you to make, it’s fixed now… I hold no grudge over it. I know you won’t let it happen again.”
“I mind controlled you,” Martin says. His gaze has been shamefully fastened to the floor for the last minute like he hasn’t been able to bear looking Jon in the eye, but now his gaze lifts and meets his face. “For weeks. Against your will. You want to-- you want to be with someone like me?”
Jon pauses, thinking his words over. It’s important that he conveys this sentiment clearly.
“In the span of multiple months of unknowingly being able to mind control me,” Jon says carefully, “you told me that I wouldn’t feel pain when you bit me, that I should eat well and consistently, and that I shouldn’t worry about you. As far as we can tell, that’s all. That’s… quite remarkable, honestly. I can so easily picture something far worse happening, with the same scenario but a different person. But it was you, and so this was the worst that happened, and-- and I think that says quite a lot about you. Of course I want to keep dating you.”
A wounded noise leaves Martin, and he ends up hiding his face in his hands, his shoulders hunching. Jon closes the rest of the distance between them immediately. Sitting up on his knees so he can reach up and throw his arms around Martin, squeeze him against his collar bone. Martin grasps at him desperately, hiding his face against his shirt instead.
“There’s nothing I want more than to be your boyfriend,” Jon murmurs tenderly into his hair. “Would you finally please let me?”
“I-- I don’t--” Martin gasps out. He sounds like he’s having trouble controlling his breathing enough to actually get words out. Jon squeezes him tighter.
“Let me worry about you when you need it,” he goes on. “And help you, support you, care for you. If I can’t do any of those things then I’m not your boyfriend, not really.”
“I’m not--” Martin chokes out. “I just-- I didn’t want you to see-- to have to put up with--”
Jon cards fingers through Martin’s hair, thick and curly.
“You can’t hide all of the parts of yourself that you don’t like from me,” he says quietly. “We have to-- I want to be equal partners, so we can solve problems together. I want to date all of you, not just the most palatable pieces of yourself. I want to know everything about you.”
Martin clutches at him so tightly that he wouldn’t be able to escape even if he wanted to, and muffles noises into his chest that sound very much like sobbing. Jon holds him through it. Eventually, Martin manages to form coherent sentences, although he doesn’t retreat from the safety of Jon’s collar bone as he does so. Slowly and haltingly he gets everything out from him in bits and pieces, like finally managing to squeeze the blood from a rock. He confesses everything.
Such as,
“I’ve been terrified for months. I was going to have to choose between her or me-- and I know I’d choose her. I have to. She doesn’t have anyone else, she can’t take care of herself. And then-- and then what would I do? I don’t know. I don’t--”
As well as,
“I hate feeding. I hate it. I feel like such a monster when I do it. All of those people would be disgusted and horrified if they really realized what was happening. I-- I avoid it as much as I can. I’m so hungry all of the time. It’s exhausting. I can’t--”
And then,
“Drinking from you feels so good. I love it, I love it too much. It’s like-- I lose all of my filters when I’m drinking from you. I stop feeling ashamed, or scared, or guilty. I just love it. What if-- what if I just don’t stop drinking from you one day? I think about it all the time. I’ve seen vampires do that. Just not stopping. What if I did that to you?”
And finally,
“I hate being a vampire. I hate-- I hate being like this. I’m a walking parasite. A predator. All I do is take from people. I can’t-- no matter how hard I try to be careful, I still have to attack someone just to get through the day. It’s impossible for me to live without hurting someone. I shouldn’t--”
Jon has been holding his tongue through all of this, not interjecting with arguments or reassurances for fear that if he stops Martin for even a moment then he won’t start again. He has simply held him and listened. Some of the things he’s confessed are things that he’s already seen the very edges of in Martin’s words and behavior. He hadn’t known that those veins of fear or loathing had run so deeply, however. Some others, he’s completely taken by surprise by. He holds his tongue, and he listens in silence-- until he can’t any longer. That last one is simply too much for him to bear.
“I’m a predator too,” Jon says, interrupting the flow of words.
Martin comes to halt, sniffling. There is no wet patch on Jon’s shirt or skin. The absence feels strange.
“What?” Martin asks. It’s incredible how watery his voice can sound without any actual tears to go with it.
“I live off of death every day,” Jon goes on. “I greatly enjoy the taste of meat, despite the fact that a creature had to die to supply it to me.”
“That-- that’s not the same, Jon. People aren’t cows.”
“But none of your food has had to die to feed you,” Jon argues, unwavering. He has a point to make, and he’s focused on reaching it. “The person you drank from three days ago-- they’re still out there, aren’t they? They’re likely off drinking with friends at some pub, or at home with a pet or a loved one or a favorite show. They’re fine. Not even any permanent harm done to them. All of the people you’ve ever fed from are fine now. Aren’t they?”
Jon belatedly thinks to hope that there isn’t some incident in Martin’s past that he hasn’t told him about, or else this argument won’t land in the slightest.
“I guess,” Martin says reluctantly. “Maybe. I-- it’s not like I’m keeping track of them.”
“But if they’re not fine, then that’s nothing to do with you. You’re a blip in their lives, and a brief and forgotten one at that. You haven’t killed them, you haven’t permanently harmed them. From the perspective of a not insignificant portion of the population, you’re more ethical than most people because you’re eating without killing. Period. Not even plants.”
“That’s-- you’re being pedantic, Jon.”
“I’m being factual. I realize that you’re… closer to the whole process than I am. I don’t personally slaughter a pig every time I want bacon. Someone else does it for me, where I don’t have to see it. I can see how that might make it all more-- more challenging for you. But-- it’s not like you’re doing it this way because you’re violent. You need fresh blood, straight from the source. You can’t live off of plastic bags stolen from some blood bank-- which, frankly, you shouldn’t even if you could! That blood was donated to sick and hurt people who dearly need it. It would be worse to steal donated blood, instead of taking it from some healthy person on the street who honestly can afford to lose a pint.”
“You couldn’t afford to lose a pint,” Martin says softly. “Back when I first met you. You collapsed.”
“And then you took care of me,” Jon says firmly. “I’m perfectly fine now, aren’t I? No harm done.”
There’s silence instead of a further response, another argument. Jon doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, if Martin’s processing what Jon’s said or just giving up on persuading him. Searching for words, Jon braces himself to go on, to confess something he… isn’t quite as certain about.
“I realize,” he says cautiously, “that this might be-- insensitive of me to say. Or selfish. If-- if your condition is bringing you so much hardship. But if I am being quite honest with you, Martin… I am fascinated by your vampirism.”
Martin had been curled up and limp in Jon’s arms, but at that he jolts after a belated moment, startled. He finally retreats from the hollow between Jon’s neck and shoulder, his expression surprised and disbelieving. There are no tear tacks on his face, no redness in his eyes. It feels like there should be.
“You--? Seriously?”
“Is that such a surprise? I’ve asked you plenty of questions about it, haven’t I? That’s because I want to know all about it, because I’m interested. Why do you think I took a job researching the supernatural in the first place?”
“But-- but I’m-- I’d be better if I was human.”
“You’d be Martin if you were human, and you’re Martin now. That’s all I care about. But the vampirism is… it’s not a downside for me, if that’s a fear you’ve had. It’s not exactly something I tolerate. I quite-- it’s--”
His face grows hot, and he stammers into a flushed silence, unable to find words that feel both correct and appropriate. There’s a growing comprehension on Martin’s face, directly proportional to how wide his eyes are getting.
“You think it’s--? But you’re ace!”
“I am!” Jon snaps. “I didn’t say I wanted to-- I just find it to be very interesting! And-- and compelling! And-- the biting, it’s, we’ve been over this, you make it feel quite-- it’s good. Accidental mind control which won’t be happening again aside, I don’t mind it in the slightest.”
“But it’s-- we’re on different schedules. I have to sleep during the day, you have to sleep during the night. We only get a few hours of overlap every day, and you have to stay up all of the time. I can’t go anywhere with you that’s only open during the day. We can’t share meals together. You’ll age and I-- I won’t. I can’t--”
“There are plenty of things I can’t do either,” Jon says. “Such as the aforementioned asexuality, in fact.”
“That’s not the same thing at all--”
“Isn’t it? I know you enjoy sex, but you go without because I don’t do that sort of thing. It’s a boundary I have, a limit I’m putting on our relationship. And you accept it without any resentment or grief because it’s an inherent and inseparable condition of dating me, and you want that more than you want sex. Am I correct?”
“I-- yes, of course--”
“So why is it fine when I put limits on our relationship, but some sort of grave sin when you do it? I want to be with you more than I want to be with someone who can be with me in the sunlight. I want to be with you badly enough to disregard, compromise, and work with the inconveniences. I’m happy to spend whatever time I can get with you. We can share meals with each other, even if we aren’t eating the same thing. And I could stop aging sometime in the future.”
“You--?” Martin says, shocked. Jon swiftly moves on, as if he hadn’t just casually implied that he expects (hopes) to be bitten some day in the future, to share an afterlife as well as a life with Martin. They’ve only been together for a few months; he fears that might be a touch too intense of a confession from him. When he falls in love with someone, he falls hard. He’s never had a casual relationship in his life. He doesn’t know the trick to it.
“And for the record, I don’t believe that you’d ever overindulge to the point of harming me. Not now that you know my limits.”
A pained look flits through Martin’s eyes, as if he’s remembering something.
“You can’t know that,” he says. “I’ve seen--”
“You’ve seen other vampires do so,” Jon says. “Not you. And what were these other vampires like, exactly? What do you know of their character? Because what I’ve seen of Peter and Elias does not impress me. If the vampires you’re thinking of were anything like them…”
“They-- yeah. He was a friend of Peter’s. He was…”
“A bastard?” Jon suggests.
That actually manages to get a flicker of a smile out of Martin, as wry and fleeting as it may be. Jon takes a moment to meet it with one of his own. “Yeah.”
“Well then, why exactly do you think that that was something that happened accidentally? That he lost control? From what I know of this person, it doesn’t sound like he’d put any particular effort into being careful for someone else’s sake in the slightest.”
“That’s… okay, yeah, you’ve got a point, but-- but it’s like I’m a different person when I’m drinking from you. You should hear some of the things I think when I’m-- it’s awful.”
“Thoughts don’t equal action.”
“They could, though.”
“But they don’t have to! And I-- I trust you, Martin. I feel completely safe in your hands. Would you respect the merit of my character judgment? We can reevaluate if you ever prove me wrong.”
“But I don’t want things to ever get to that point! I want to-- I can’t--”
Jon kisses him. It’s the last argument he has left that he can think of at the moment. Curling his fingers into the hair at the back of his head, Jon presses his lips to Martin’s with as much intent as he can manage. Martin makes a small, muffled noise into the kiss, and then surrenders to it like he’s too tired to deny himself this. They remain like that for a long moment, and by the time Jon parts from him, he’s half breathless.
“You won’t,” Jon says, as if he can speak it into law.
“I…” Martin says, looking dazed and lost. And so terribly pale, no color in his lips, no flush to his face. He looks like he should be resting in bed, but Jon knows that isn’t what he needs.
“You didn’t feed last night,” Jon says. “You must be starving. Let me help.”
“That’s-- Jon, I can’t-- I can’t drink from you when I’m this hungry, I’ll--”
“Martin,” Jon says. “Please?”
Martin is utterly still as he looks at Jon for one breathless moment, in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and a thrill run up his spine. And then, with a groan of sweet surrender, he dives for Jon’s throat.
His fangs pierce his skin and sink into him with a bright, hot little flash of pain that makes him gasp, before almost immediately transforming into something sweet and intense. Jon hears a moan slipping out of his own mouth, feels every tense muscle in his back go loose and pliant, his hands clutching desperately at Martin.
Martin drags Jon into his lap, a short distance to go. Pulling his fangs out of his throat, he instead sets his mouth into a tight seal over the fresh wound and drinks. Jon shivers with each draught, helpless panting noises slipping out of him, unrestrained. It feels-- it’s like there’s ecstasy flowing through his veins instead of blood, and there’s too much of it, more pleasure than his body was ever meant to withstand, an overwhelming wave of good crashing over him, submerging him.
“Martin,” Jon gasps out, the only word his mind can latch onto. “Martin, Martin, Martin--!”
Martin hums into Jon’s skin, not pausing in his drinking for a moment. The sound feels like a hand running comfortingly down his spine, firm restraints pinning him to a bed when all he needs is pressure to hold him down as he wants to thrash and squirm. Jon melts into Martin’s lap even further, like ice cream left in the sun. The only thing keeping him from falling to the floor is Martin’s arms, solid and reliable.
At some point he must have pulled Jon’s shirt open, because he has one hand pressed against his chest now, right over his racing heart.
Martin drinks from him for a long time, each pull on his blood another pang of pleasure, wave after relentless wave leaving him unable to form a single coherent thought. All he knows is that he is exactly where he is meant to be, doing exactly what he’s supposed to do.
Jon drifts in that space for so long that it becomes like a haze, like this entire moment in time is stuck in honey. When Martin’s mouth finally leaves his throat, it takes him a long moment to realize it’s absence, a faint noise of shameless complaining protest leaving him.
“Shh,” Martin says. He pulls his hand away from Jon’s chest, smoothing his hair back instead. “Don’t be silly, thrall. You can’t give any more than that.”
“I wanna,” Jon says, petulant.
A kiss gets pressed to his brow, sweet and fond. There’s no blood trickling from his throat, not that he can feel; Martin must have already closed the wound.
“Later,” Martin promises him. A hand cradles the corner of his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. Jon lets that hand support the weight of his head, his eyelids drifting closed with wrung out contentment. “You did so well. Rest now, okay? And then I’ll make some food for you when you wake up from your nap. Get your blood sugar back up.”
All of those sound like fantastic ideas, ideas so brilliant and obvious that there’s no need to even consider doing anything else. Jon hums, pleasure still glowing underneath his skin, but lesser now, more manageable. It doesn’t feel like it might burst through out of him at any moment, his body a too small container for a too mighty force. It feels like banked coals, like a sun heated rock, and Jon wants to sprawl across it and linger like a contented cat.
Pressing another kiss to his temple, Martin murmurs something like it’s a secret, his lips brushing his skin with the words.
“I love you too.”
Jon drifts to sleep in Martin’s lap.