Chapter Text
Martin was sitting on Jon’s bed, nursing a miserable headache from having quietly but continuously cried for about three quarters of an hour. Since the raised voices from the kitchen had petered out a while ago, Jon had been knocking on his own bedroom door at regular intervals, timidly asking to be let in. Martin had croaked "Give me a minute!" three times now.
When the knocking came for the fourth time, the rhythm was different, and the voice calling "Martin?" wasn’t Jon’s.
Martin cringed and rubbed his hot, puffy face. "Yes…?" he answered, voice high and brittle, whereupon Gerard Keay—or rather Delano—opened the door and poked his head in.
"Can I come in?" he asked. Martin noticed that he was a little red-eyed himself.
"Okay," Martin said, folding his hands in his lap and staring at the bedside table and the impressive array of prescription drugs with Jon’s name on them. Gerard stalked over to the bed and dropped down next to him. Martin hid his face in his hands.
"I can’t imagine what you must think of me," he mumbled.
Gerard sniffed, then said, low and grim: "No, you probably can’t. So I’m telling you now. I think you are a man who has lived through unspeakable horrors, and had to make impossible decisions no human being should be forced to make. And I think that you love Jon, have loved him through all of this, and he loves you, and you both should cut yourself some fucking slack and take comfort in each other."
"But—"
"No buts. I know there’s a lot you guys need to work through. But you just got here, he just got you back, and he needs you. Now."
Martin stared down at Gerard’s right arm; a black-scaled snake wound it’s way from his wrist to his elbow on a background of delicate foxglove and belladonna. The fingers of his bandaged hand were tapping a nervous beat on his knee.
"Did you touch it?" Martin asked.
"I did," Gerard said, unfazed, following Martin’s gaze. "Tried to push the fire poker back in. That one was the worst."
"I— I’m very sorry." Martin’s voice was small. He really would have liked to scream a bit, though. And also crawl underneath the bed and hide. He dug his fingernails into his palms instead.
"I know." Gerard sounded a lot more gentle. "Will you let Jon come in now?"
Martin whimpered. "Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m…" A fresh surge of tears smothered his words.
"Okay." Gerard got up, briefly touched his shoulder. Then he went to the door and opened it. Jon was sitting in his wheelchair in the hallway, wide-eyed and breathing shakily. Martin felt torn between the urge to immediately run to him, and to dissolve into a wisp of fog. That last one wasn’t an option though, not anymore. And not feeling everything wasn’t an option either. So he made himself look at Jon through streaming eyes as Gerard pushed him across the room.
Having arrived at the bedside, Gerard helped Jon onto the bed to sit next to Martin. He was trembling badly, digging his hands into the duvet as if needing it to hold on to.
Martin hovered, feeling incredibly awkward all of a sudden.
"I need to lie down," Jon rasped, sounding very congested and utterly exhausted. Martin’s breath hitched. Gerard made a little shooing motion at him, and he scrambled to the other side of the bed and squeezed himself against the headboard.
"Back or side?" Gerard asked, and Jon groaned: "Side."
Gerard got Jon situated, fluffing his pillows and propping his right leg up and tucking the duvet around him, skilfully avoiding to overuse his injured hand. Both their movements looked well-established, comfortable. Martin watched, biting at his thumbnail.
"Alright?" Gerard asked, and Jon sighed with relief.
"Sasha and I are not done with you, by the way." Gerard brushed a wayward strand of hair out of Jon’s face. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Okay. Call if you need anything."
Jon nodded again. Gerard shot Martin another look, jerking his head to the side. So Martin scooted carefully down to lie on his side, facing Jon.
When the door had closed behind Gerard, Jon took a deep breath and whispered: "Martin…?", haltingly stretching out his hands towards the middle of the bed. Martin swallowed down several large rocks lodged in his throat and carefully took Jon’s freezing fingers to squeeze them between his large, warm palms.
"Your hands are cold."
"Hmm." Jon let out a long, shaky exhale. Martin shuffled closer and kissed his knuckles, and a wobbly smile appeared on Jon’s thin, bleary face.
"Jon, I’m so, so sorry," Martin blurted, voice breaking. Jon just softly shook his head, took Martin’s left hand and pressed it over his heart with his own. Martin felt the beat underneath his fingers, fast and strong. "I d-did quite a number on you, didn’t I," he choked.
"That wasn’t just you, you know," Jon said quietly, "and also it wasn’t your fault." Jon’s eyes opened, gazing up at him with such boundless tenderness that Martin couldn’t suppress the overwhelmed sobs shaking out of him. Jon immediately started thumbing his tears away, eyebrows scrunching. "Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re okay," he muttered.
"’S not fair," Martin keened, "you shouldn’t have to comfort me! I’ve been torturing you for a month! After— after I stuck a knife into your chest! I, I, oh god— and, and then you tried to stab yourself— Jesus fuck…!"
Jon winced, but kept petting Martin’s face and hair. "Yeah, none of that was… ideal," he muttered, "but we’re here now, aren’t we? And anyway—" Jon’s breath shuddered out of him. "I made you stab me. After I… You— you must be so angry with me—"
Martin interrupted him with a slightly hysterical: "Ha! I wasn’t even able to process how mad I was at you, I was too focused on just getting you back. And now I… there’s— I f—feel very different about it, I guess?"
"Fair. S—still. I am very s’rry. I…" Jon’s words were starting to slur, his eyelids drooping. Martin scooted closer, so Jon’s knees were resting against his lower belly and he could press a tear-damp kiss to Jon’s forehead, whispering: "Christ, h—how can I m—make this right?" against his skin.
"M’tin, there’s nothing to… Love you." Jon’s eyes fluttered shut.
Martin squeezed Jon’s fingers while Jon’s pillowcase was soaking up his tears. "I love you too."
He kept the reading lamp on all night, watching Jon’s chest rise and fall with sleep-even breaths, and cradled his small, limp hands, which were slowly growing warm with Martin’s body heat.
------
Martin woke with his face smushed into Jon’s thigh, to the sound of pages turning and Jon’s voice, soft and low.
"…the grand scheme of things, it might have been them who had the right idea. About saving our own world, I mean. What’s going on out there… is much more weird and complicated than we could have imagined."
"Apparently!" Gerard said, hushed. "God, I really want to tell my dad about the death-eating eldritch entity that guards our reality? He’d be well into that."
Jon chuckled. "Be my guest. I don’t think they’re worried about being found out."
Martin forced his gummed-up eyes open and yawned: "M’ning…?"
"Good morning," Jon said, smiling down at him and carding his fingers through Martin’s hair. "It’s 12:30."
"Is it?" Martin shifted onto his elbow. Jon was leaning against the headboard with what was undoubtedly Transcendental Companions lying open in his lap. Gerard sat next to him on the edge of the mattress and flashed Martin a warm grin, asking: "Coffee or tea?"
On a small stool next to the bed sat a tray with half-eaten breakfast; buttered toast, scrambled eggs, strawberries and orange juice.
"Oh," Martin croaked, "I’d literally kill for some Earl Grey, if you have it?"
"I’ll bring a pot," Gerard said, getting up and squeezing Jon’s shoulder before leaving the room.
Martin blinked after him.
"You… you’ve made friends very quickly," he said to Jon, realising how flat his voice sounded a little too late.
"Martin. Are you…" Jon cleared his throat.
"Jon. I mean, you know… I am pretty petty, but I’m not that petty." Martin sighed deeply. "I’m… glad that you weren’t alone." He strained his neck to press a kiss to Jon’s jaw, bracketing his ribcage with his hands, seeking forgiveness. Jon melted into him.
"And I’m so, so sorry you were."
"Well. It’s— at least I wasn’t grievously injured? And also I did need to turn into Lonely fog. Would not have been possible otherwise, I guess."
Jon laughed humourlessly. "I can’t believe the two of us accidentally opened magic doors into other dimensions simultaneously with magic powers we didn’t know we had and messed it up completely. I mean, how…?"
"Not two. Three of us actually. Annabelle kind of figured it out. Page 86."
Jon, eyebrows raised, leaved through the book until he found the right page. There was a small pencil drawing in the margin; spheres and little labelled doors and arrows and the letters A, J and M. Next to it, the text stated:
For a more durable gate, the combined efforts of two or three Favourites lead to optimal results. Careful coordination is essential to avoid dimensional displacement or death. Severe complications may also occur if opening more than one gate at the same time is attempted.
Jon hummed. "Makes… sense, I guess."
"Yeah, as much as it can…" Martin muttered. "I am still very wary of her intentions. And I will always be. But—we probably wouldn’t have made it without her? She held them back, you know? The Fears. I wouldn’t have found my way here without her. And that was her plan in the first place, apparently—for us to end up in this universe, together." He traced the arrows connecting the J and M to a little door labelled d2.
"It is… probably one of the kindest places she could have chosen." Jon’s wistful tone transformed into something a little impish. "Did you know? They manage to tax billionaires in a way they can’t evade."
"Blimey," Martin grinned, "it’s basically nirvana."
"It is!" Jon said, eyes sparkling, leaning over to grab something off the tray. "Try these strawberries!"
------
On Friday, Sasha went to get Jon’s glasses reframed, and do some clothes shopping for Martin (who obviously possessed nothing but his frumpy gothic pyjamas and was making due with one of Gerry’s old stretched out T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms) with Martin’s mystery debit card.
(There were, before her shopping spree, exactly 444.444 Pounds in his bank account she reported, highly pleased—the same amount that had also been on Jon’s card originally.)
On Saturday, the four of them went around on a little tour of the nearest park and had an unreasonably elaborate picnic by a duck-pond.
All the while Tim, who had of course been informed of Martin’s successful dimension hopping, was bombarding their group chat with messages. Jon, Gerry and Sasha had decided to allow him to visit Sunday evening, to give Martin a couple of days to acclimate himself. It had been bizarre enough for him to be introduced to Agnes, who’d been delighted by 'Jon’s boyfriend from Australia' and told him to his blushing, stuttering face that of course he could stay as long as he liked, while O’Hara growled at him grumpily and was only appeased by Jon scratching her head for ten full minutes.
On Sunday morning, Sasha helped Gerry dye his roots and managed to persuade Martin to let her give him an undercut and try out a peachy-pink colour rinse on his stark white curls.
"Apparently in this other universe I was breaking handsome guys’ hearts left and right. I’m really missing out on something here," Tim said to him good-naturedly—if a little overwhelmed—a couple of hours later, after Martin had started sobbing when Tim had given him a big salutatory hug.
On Monday morning, Martin was still very obviously shaken by last night’s encounter. He nevertheless insisted on accompanying Jon to his check-up at the hospital.
Jon worked very hard to suppress his urge to repeatedly wince when the third nurse in succession openly stared at them while they were sitting in the waiting room. They had all of them witnessed The Polaroid, and Jon’s rather dramatic relationship with it. Gerry just smiled at them aggressively.
When Dr. Siddiqui opened the door to the examination room and stepped out to wordlessly scrutinise Martin like an insect under a microscope for an uncomfortable amount of time, Jon just hobbled past her through the open doorway on his crutches, so she had no choice but to turn and close the door behind them, albeit slowly. Jon heard Martin whisper: "What is going on?" slightly panicky, but Gerry’s huffed response was cut off by the click of the latch.
"So. Martin Blackwood," Dr. Siddiqui stated, voice level, when he had sat down opposite her, his latest X-rays spread out on the table between them. Her glare was formidable. Good lord, at least the bruising on his nose was basically invisible by now. The woman looked ready to murder someone.
"Yes. We— we worked it out. He’s staying. With— with us."
"Since when?"
"Last Wednesday?"
"And how is that going?"
"Really well, thank you." Jon managed to sound surprisingly firm. They stared each other down for a bit. The doctor blinked first.
"Hm," she grumbled, moving her gaze to the X-rays.
"So. As I was suspecting—delayed union." She tapped on a lateral view of Jon’s ankle. "Your bones are not growing back together as they should. This can mean a few things. You may need to go in for another surgery. Also, it’s possible that some of your mobility issues will become more or less permanent, especially combined with your old knee injury."
"Okay. I…" Jon swallowed, rubbing his hand against the offending leg, "I am… aware of that."
Dr. Siddiqui nodded. "You have options though. And you’re young. Things can change, improve. What I’d like to try is remove your cast, get you fitted with a functional brace, and get you moving. Start with physio, thrice weekly. Which won’t be a lot of fun, I’m afraid."
"Well. Neither is lying around all day and wasting away," Jon muttered.
"No. Didn’t think so. So— you’re ready to try this?"
"Yes."
"Good. I will set you up with someone I work with regularly. They’re not fussy, and you won’t be able to scare them off, I can promise you that."
Jon gave her a lopsided grin. Then he dug into his trouser pocket and fished out a worn piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it out to her.
"Also— uhm. I’ve been doing research, looking into them and… I want that one." Jon pointed at a name on the rather creased list (it obviously hadn’t looked like that when the doctor had given it to him a couple of weeks ago), which he had circled with one of Sasha’s purple glitter pens.
Nadine Stafford, trauma therapist.
A rare, beaming smile split the doctor’s face as she looked down at the piece of paper, then back up at him and said warmly: "That’s brilliant, Jonathan."
------
On a Saturday morning in early July Jon, Martin, Gerry, Sasha and Tim squeezed into Gerry’s car and braved the one-and-a-half-hour drive down to Bournemouth.
Martin drove, because they’d figured out that he was the only one of them who actually enjoyed driving.
They took the Sandbanks Ferry over to Shell Bay, because Jon had assured them that this was the best beach (according to his fuzzy childhood memories). And it was a pretty good beach—different universe notwithstanding.
Jon was getting very adept at moving around on his crutches. His arms were, to his shock and joy, developing a layer of lean muscle. He had also gained about seven pounds since he’d started physio, since it worked to make him feel actual hunger from time to time.
He was, of course, not in the slightest equipped to traverse sand.
Martin was enjoying carrying him piggyback to the shore a bit too much, in his opinion. Especially since Jon had borrowed one of Sasha’s flowy, knee-length skirts for the occasion (lavender coloured, with a pattern of black bats) and Martin kept staring at the fabric, unreasonably pleased.
Gerry, Sasha and Tim immediately stripped down to their respective swimming trunks and bikini and left Martin to set out their large picnic blanket.
They sat there for a while, leaning against each other, watching the other three toss a ball in the shallow water and yell like schoolchildren.
When Jon looked up at Martin’s face, framed by tousled pink curls and sporting a billion freckles the sun had drawn out of his skin, his eyes started burning inconveniently. He took Martin’s hand and squeezed it a bit too hard. Martin looked down and bumped Jon’s shoulder with his own.
"You good?"
Jon gave him a wobbly smile. "Never better."
Martin smiled back, bent down and kissed him on the nose. Then he nodded at their friends splashing about in the no doubt freezing water. "That does look like a lot of fun."
Jon grinned. "Well, go play!"
"Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone."
"You can tell Gerry I said he ought to rest his hand a bit. It’s not even an excuse."
So Martin went down to the water and got immediately tackled by Tim while Sasha tried splashing water into his face until they were all laughing hysterically. Gerry strolled up to the edge of the grassy dunes—rolling his eyes dramatically—to were Jon sat, left foot buried in the sand. He flopped down on the blanket.
"Good call. Tim and Sasha are a health hazard. And I was getting a bit reckless I guess." Gerry flexed his hand and winced at the stretch; his ring finger refused to uncurl, as it so often did.
"Welcome to the messed-up-right-hand club." Jon’s voice was dry, but he couldn’t suppress a concerned undertone.
Gerry shrugged, gazing down at the two scars splitting his palm. "I think it’s rather cool, really. An unmistakable reminder of that one time I accidentally slammed my hand into an inter-dimensional portal. Extremely goth of me, don’t you think?"
"Yes." Jon smiled. "And, uh. Thank you. For that." He cleared his throat. "For wanting to save me."
"I did save you."
"Mm—jury’s out on that."
Gerry snorted and then threw his balled up T-shirt at Jon’s head.
Jon threw it back at him. "Put this on, you’re shivering."
"Yes sir."
Gerry slipped into his T-shirt, then dug for his cigarettes in the pocket of his discarded jeans and lit one.
Jon scooted closer to him, groaning wretchedly. "I would kill for a cigarette."
"Seeing as how Dr. Siddiqui will kill me if I let you smoke, you would get your wish. Have some wine instead. Sasha’s packed a dry Italian red."
"I’m not supposed to drink either."
"You can have one glass of wine per day, I asked."
"It’s not even noon yet."
Gerry sighed and dug into their lunch bag. "I got you that atrocious dark chocolate with raisins you love, you heathen."
"That’s nice, but…" Jon unceremoniously slumped against Gerry’s side and buried his nose in his T-shirt, blissfully inhaling second-hand smoke. Gerry’s chest twitched beneath his face.
"Don’t let your boyfriend see that."
Jon blinked one eye up at him. "Oh, he knows."
"Knows what?" Gerry’s voice was taking on a flustered edge.
"How much you mean to me," Jon said calmly.
"Oh. Okay." Gerry blushed a fetching shade of crimson, then he buried his hand in Jon’s hair to softly scratch at his scalp. "Good."
They stumbled back into the house in the early evening, all of them—except for Martin—in various stages of wine-drunk. Jon was clinging to Martin’s back once more, too exhausted for his crutches from a day of sun and sea and too much ice cream.
Martin stopped dead in the foyer, then stooped down a little.
"What’s…?"
His voice came out high and thin. Jon squinted over his shoulder. There was an odd looking postcard lying on the floor beneath the letter box.
Jon felt very sober all of a sudden.
Gerry picked the card up and narrowed his eyes at it. "Living room," he said, and marched away with it. The others scrambled after him, then huddled on the sofa, Jon squeezed between Martin and Gerry, and Tim and Sasha on either side of them. Gerry gingerly handed Jon the card.
The front was an old-fashioned watercolour illustration of a dark-skinned woman with short bleached hair and a wide, beaming smile, dressed in elaborate victorian clothing. She was sitting atop a stylised shooting star like a witch on a broom, waving. Behind her, on a field of dark purplish blue, blinked hundreds of tiny stars.
There was no address on the back. Just a spidery scrawl in black ink that simply read
You're welcome!