Chapter Text
His mother’s bedroom door is tall and closed, cast lilac in the dark. But it is not, at this stage, more frightening than the nightmare. Martin reaches up for the handle and slips in as quietly as he can.
From the doorway, he blinks at the black room, rubs his eyes until he can make out the singular lump on the bed, slowly rising and falling with ragged breaths.
‘Mum.’ She doesn’t stir. ‘Mum?’
A grumble from the lump. A swooshing of bedding. A sniff. She is awake, unwell, confused. And, he will wonder later, perhaps ignoring him.
‘Mum,’ it comes out weak and timid. ‘Mum, I had a bad dream.’
A long sigh from the bed. Then mumbled platitudes. ‘It’s okay, Martin. It’s just a dream. You’ll be fine.’
It is unconvincing. Martin is not scared of monsters in the dark, not really. He doesn’t dream of boring, film screen things like that and think they’re real. But that isn’t the point, is it? ‘Can I sleep with you?’
They used to let him, sometimes. In a sandwich between them, toasty as a burrowed bear, snug as a bug in a rug. Alone, his mother groans, muffled by her weak throat and pillow.
‘Martin,’ she says. That resigned, exasperated, whining way she says it. ‘Not now. I’m tired. I’m not well.’
‘I’ll be quiet. I’ll be asleep.’
Again she sighs. ‘No, you won’t honey. You know I’m not well.’ When he doesn’t move she tuts and rolls over. He just about hears her mumbling. ‘Go back to bed, Martin. It’ll be fine.’
She doesn’t sound well. So he does, pulling the door behind him.
His bedroom in Stockwell is the same bruise blue dark when the phone wakes him up. There’s only two numbers he takes calls from when he’s on do not disturb, down from three that used to include Tim. Bleary eyed and groaning and feeling the stirrings of adrenaline, he fumbles on the bedside table for the buzzing block.
The too bright screen shows the number he’d hoping it wouldn’t be. Alright. So it’s happened then.
Martin sits up properly and takes the call.
The nurse is very nice about it. She tells him it was peaceful. That his mother had said it was time. At least, he thinks, at least that’s what he’d prayed for. Now she will be unburdened, free of it all. Free of him.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘When do you need me to come down and, um. Do, you know, everything.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it yet, love,’ the nurse consoles. She probably thinks he’s heartless for going straight to practicality. ‘There’s no rush at all.’
‘Right.’
‘Again, I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah.’
There’s no awkward way to end that call. The nurse does so with the gentlest, ‘bye,’ she can manage. And then the line is dead and Martin is alone. Really alone this time.
He leans against the wall and feels hollowed out. Empty. Numb. Unable to let him feel pure grief or pure misery, unwilling to let him remember pain, his head grapples between deadening, constricted silence, and offering him Lists, Tasks, and Fixes. Heavy and nothing, he becomes overwhelmed by the finality and the ‘what now’s.
Gradually, he starts to cry. First prickling tears. Then his breathing. Then his temples throbbing and finally it takes effort to be quiet. He guesses it’s well within his right to cry loudly on this occasion. And, after all, what’s he got to be afraid of now? He still holds it in as long as possible before he chokes like a dying buffalo and bites down on his fist to feel that pain instead.
It has to end. God knows how long he cries for, it feels like only minutes. Not enough. That doesn’t seem right, but at some point it has to end. He can’t cry forever, despite how he feels. Has felt. Over and over. His body simply cannot sustain it, and eventually, he has to stop crying. And then he’s just sitting up in bed. Snotty and tear streaked. So what now? Asks a sneering inner voice. What will you do now? What will be the first thing he does after his mother died? What will be the first decision he makes?
Cleaning his face, blowing his nose. Those are options. But they have such finality. He’s going to cry again, surely. So what’s the point unless he’s trying to forget her. Moving feels to overwhelming, where would he go? The bathroom feels crass. The kitchen? And do what? Make tea? He disgusts himself.
The phone is still in his hand. Martin can only think of one of person who might answer.
He dials.
It rings. Wet runs between his cheek and the plasma.
Thirty seconds. Thirty five. A voicemail made up of a female robot and Jon’s professional work tone tells him to leave a message, but he hangs up before the beep. He’s not even sure he can speak, let alone put this into words.
‘Hi Jon, sorry to call at four fifty-two AM. My mum just died and I don’t know what to do or how to feel. Call me back when you can! Love you, bye!’
Martin drops his phone and sits. And sits. If he’s going to sit he might as well cry but nothing more comes. Slow trickling tears that feel indulgent, ready for their close up. Not proper wailing. He drinks some of the musty water by the bed.
Then his phone lights up again, hitting the ceiling. It trembles in Martin’s trembling hand. ‘Hello?’
‘Martin, I’m sorry I missed your call, I thought you were an alarm.’
His voice, the sleepy croak, the concern and self deprecating dig, it makes Martin’s throat close up. He chokes, a hysterical laughing sobbing choke. ‘No, I’m not an alarm.’
‘I’m sorry. I-i-s everything okay? Are you alright?’
‘Um. Not really. And not really.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Jon asks. ‘What’s happened, what can I do?’
‘I, um. My mum’s hospice just called. She died.’ It’s horribly easier to say than he thought it would be.
‘Oh.’ A great shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, Martin, I’m... I’m so sorry.’
It’s okay. ‘Yeah.’ For a moment Jon says nothing, and really, what else is he meant to say? What is it Martin wanted from him anyway? ‘Sorry. I don’t know really why I- I don’t- um.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
The question makes him blanche. It’s completely foreign. It’s impractical. It’s... ‘You’re miles away. It’s five AM.’
‘I’ll come over if you want me to.’
‘I...’ Why? Why why why say why. ‘I don’t- I can’t ask you to.’
‘Okay,’ Jon decides. There’s a great swooshing of a duvet thrown back. A padding of feet. A light flicks on. ‘Okay, I’m coming over.’
‘Okay,’ says Martin.
The splashing of a running tap. Squishing soap-bubbled palms. Is he in Jon’s bathroom right now? Between his shoulder and chin? ‘Do you want me to stay on the line?’
There’s that word again: want. He’s never been one much for wanting aloud. Now, without her, is this how it will be? People will ask him and there’s no sick mother to hold him back or give him the perfect excuse. What an awful thought. Martin screws his eyes closed. ‘I guess. I- sorry. I don’t-'
‘It’s okay,’ Jon says, all in a rush but soft. More footsteps and the pulling open of a stiff drawer. ‘Don’t be sorry, I’m putting you on speaker.’
A pointlessly sweet thing to say. Martin sniffs and smiles as he listens to the rustling of Jon tugging on clothes, too quick to be properly intimate.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
‘Do, uh,’ Jon hesitates slightly, seems to pick up the phone again. ‘Do you want tea?’
Martin might laugh. He won’t ever own to laughing in this moment. ‘You gonna bring me tea?’
‘Oh, I could,’ Jon says, as if he’s just realised and this is a great idea. ‘I can, I just meant. Maybe, if you could make one, you might feel... well. I won’t say ‘feel better’ that’s stupid, but, uh-'
‘Yeah,’ Martin says, unwinding his legs. His stiff feet touch the cold carpet and he realises he can actually move. ‘I think I will.’
He makes tea on speakerphone while Jon clatters out of his flat and walks to the tube with Martin in his earphones, not saying much, not quite being alone. It’s nice. Too nice when he should still be crying. He should be packing to go to Devon but he’s listening to Jon’s slightly out of breath vague narration and smiling feebly.
‘Right, I’m about to go underground, so. I’m sorry, I’ll call you back when I get to Stockwell, alright?’
‘Yeah. Okay.’
‘Alright. Well, um, see you soon.’
'See you soon,’ Martin repeats. An out of place, adorable moment of deja vu. Remembering phone calls this time of night when Jon was sick or bored-sick or homesick in America. When coming over would have been impossible. ‘Thanks, Jon,’ he adds quietly.
‘It’s not a problem, Martin. It’s really not- I’m glad to. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Thanks. Um, I’ll see you in a bit then.’
‘Yes. Yes, right-' the beeping of Jon’s wallet and the opening gate. ‘Yes, in a bit. Alright. Bye.’
I love you. ‘Bye.’
When Jon gets there, he doesn’t say anything about the mess or the musty smell of depression and drying laundry that had been there long before tonight came along to vindicate it. He steps through the door and immediately pulls Martin into a hug, on his toes with his arms tight around Martin’s neck. He breathes there, heavily. Martin wraps one arm gently around Jon’s back, holds the door open from slamming with the other. He presses them close. There’s a bow in Jon’s back where his chest, stomach, hips are all pressed flush.
Jon insists on making them both tea while he apologises for the fact nowhere was open, for not even bringing a thermos. As if that was a reasonable thing for Martin to expect. He doesn’t even have a bag with him.
They sit at the kitchen table with their brewing mugs. For all that his often stilted, more often non existent communication can be frustrating, Jon’s silence now is merciful. He is very good at solemn, comfortable, meaningful silences. Sure, he’s repressed, but he’s kind, and he’s really very understanding.
He’s pulled his chair close, left his hand out on the table, right there, if it’s wanted. Hugs they’ve done before. They’re good friends, at this point. It feels childish, but Martin would say best friends. There are poems about it. But he’s never held Jon’s hand and he can’t, he can’t, sit here thinking about holding Jon’s hand instead of- everything else.
It wouldn’t be fair to anyone.
The sun begins to push lavender, then orange through the cheap blinds. Jon’s alarm goes off for real at seven and they both chuckle weakly.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Martin whispers, painfully aware he’s sounding like a broken record.
Jon touches his hand and stupidly, selfishly, it’s this that makes him cry. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’
‘Of course I do. There’s- I’ve got to go to Devon and sort everything out. Her stuff. The bills. Plan a funeral.’
‘Yes, but not tonight. Not right now. You don’t have to do anything right now. Just... take your time.’
Martin nods, even as he sniffs and mumbles that he’d rather get it all over with.
‘I understand.’
‘God, I don’t know how any of that stuff works.’
‘No one does,’ Jon says sagely. ‘Believe me.’
‘I don’t even know how much it all is and- who- who’d want to come.’
Jon listens silently. He curls his fingers around Martin’s palm and sighs. Not like he’s annoyed. Like he’s really thinking about it. ‘If you like,’ he gingerly proposes, ‘if you’d uh find it... Helpful? Maybe. I have sort of been through this process before when my grandmother died. Not, not identical, of course, um. But funerals and wills and things. I’ve been here. And it’s awful but, maybe I could help you figure it out, somehow?’
Martin wipes his eyes so he can look up blink at Jon slowly.
‘Not- not that you couldn’t figure it out on your own, I don’t mean-'
‘No that, that would be good. I’d appreciate even just... having someone to talk to about it.’
‘Of course. Whatever I can do.’
‘Thanks. Really, thanks.’
’It’s not a problem,’ Jon says. He squeezes Martin’s hand, properly, just once before he lets it go.
In a strange reversal, Martin follows Jon’s insistence and takes a few days off work. It’s a bit lonely and awful in his flat, as always. The shape-shifting spectre of grief looms across the ceiling and follows him round and around the three rooms, making him feel claustrophobic. Jon suggests fresh air. Arsehole. He’s right. The ink-black monster is still there as Martin bitterly kicks his way around the park, but it’s forced to hide inside his chest, small and neutered and cowering away from the sunshine.
The flat is so quiet. Martin is always quiet at home. He’s a good tenant in that respect. But somehow the habit feels urgent again, his awareness of it heightened. It makes no sense, and he snaps at the child, the prey animal in his brain that winces at every creak. It doesn’t matter. She never lived here. She’s gone. What’s the point of this now?
Of course, it has the opposite effect. His own berating sounds to the child like his mother’s voice and he shrinks, stupidly, from himself. Muscle memory telling him unhappiness and irritation means soft, soft, gentle steps.
Martin does his best to stay sane by leaving the TV on low, droning panel shows and cooking competitions all through the day to accompany his attempts at taking his time.
Jon emails and texts him all through it, from both his work phone and personal, meaning Martin has two threads of messages with overlapping, sometimes simultaneous conversations. Notifications alternating between Jon (work MI), and Jon 💌🖇️(emergency).
He also gets condolences messages from Tim 👻, Diana 📖, and Melanie (work MI). Plus an email from Peter Lukas, which he deletes but stews over anyway.
On Friday, he can no longer bare the endless sitting around, yo-yoing between crying and moping and feeling sort of okay but horrifically guilty about feeling okay. All he’s achieved is a bit of Googling for funeral homes in Taunton or Exeter, and despite what Jon tries to reassure, he can’t keep not doing anything about it. It’ll just hang above him waiting to fall. Once it’s all finished and over with, then he’ll have a bonefide reason to feel a bit relieved.
He explains this to Jon over dinner, cooked for him while he sits on the sofa and feels bad about enjoying the sensory experience of someone else in his kitchen. Not the part about feeling relieved, though. Because Martin would ideally like to stay friends and not be known as a terrible person.
Jon nods and says he understands, but he looks worried. ‘Don’t... don’t put too much pressure on yourself.’
Martin gives him a tired raised eyebrow. ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Thinking you know better than me.’
‘I’m not,’ Jon protests, his surprised face a promise that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Thing is, he does have a habit. Martin gives him another look. ‘I don’t, really, I’m just... honestly I’m concerned.’
‘Why?’
‘Because- really?’ Jon demands. As if he’s shocked at the hypocrisy of Martin being this emotionally dense. ‘Because you’re grieving. You’re upset and it’s a lot to deal with all at once.’
If only that were true. It is true that he’s grieving. That it’s a lot to deal with. Sometimes he’s been upset. But what Jon’s saying, what he means, it isn’t quite true. He doesn’t know the half of it. Knows only that it’s complicated and that this week isn’t the first time he’s seen Martin cry over her.
Martin dodges this by ignoring the validity or falseness of Jon’s worry altogether. ‘I’m capable of assessing how much I can deal with at once myself, Jon.’
‘You’d have never let me get away with that if our positions were reversed.’
‘Well, they aren’t. I’m the one with the dead mum and I’m the one who has to deal with all this upset. So I’ll decide myself. And I’ve decided to go to Devon.’
Jon nods. He pushes courgette around his plate miserably. ‘I’m worried you’re going to have an awful time.’
Martin scoffs. ‘Of course I’m going to have a bloody awful time. You can’t expect anything else from this scenario.’
‘Am I really not allowed to worry? If I can’t help?’
‘You are helping. You made me dinner. Worrying... doesn’t help either of us.’
Jon drops his fork. ‘You are such a hypocrite.’
‘Well-!’ Martin blurts. ‘Well. I don’t know, maybe!’
‘You, you are really going to tell me worrying doesn’t help? After all the worrying I’ve endured over the years?’
‘Yes, but this is about-'
‘About you?’ Jon interrupts pointedly. He seems to be waiting for a rebuttal, but Martin hesitates a second too long and his face falls. ‘Is it different if it’s you?’
Martin shakes his head, looks anywhere but Jon’s eyes because he does not have time to get into all that. ‘Look, you don’t have to worry. God knows I’ve been miserable in Devon before and I’ve made it out alive.’
‘I’m still going to. I’m sorry,’ Jon sighs, ‘I just- I know how badly I coped with it. Worse than I thought I would. I wish I could help. And I hate seeing you unhappy.’
It’s almost annoying. It should still be annoying. Obviously Martin’s unhappy. He’s been unhappy for a long time and then here came this, just as a treat, to make him a different sort of unhappy to contend with. The thing is, Jon’s soft, slightly defensive voice and his sad eyes are so kind and thoughtful and endearing. Which is harder to cope with, for sure. But not annoying. No matter how hard Martin tells himself they are.
‘You are helping,’ he says, sagging in his chair and dropping all his irritation, ‘you are, I’m sorry. You’re wonderful and I- I mean short of literally coming with me there’s nothing else you could do.’
‘I would, you know,’ Jon mumbles.
‘What?’
‘I’d go with you. If you asked me to.’
Martin stares at him. He’d only just gotten used to the occasional softness in Jon’s voice since they’ve been close; this is whole other onslaught of tenderness. He can’t believe it. ‘You’d come to Devon, stay in a Travelodge, and spend your weekend shifting boxes of my mum’s stuff out of a hospice and talking about the price of coffins?’
In that same, gently, genuinely honest voice, Jon says, ‘yes. I would.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘Of course,’ Jon smiles. ‘That was easy.’
Martin rolls his eyes. ‘Sorry I made you endure me, I guess.’
Jon winces. ‘You didn’t. I don’t. You’re a good friend Martin. I- I’ve appreciated it a lot. That you worried.’
Martin begins to smile. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m going to do that for you, now. B-be there for you. I promise.’
All the wind knocked out of him. Lose, flat sails. So that's settled then. He's going to be forced to accept the other side of what he's heaped on people and called love. Martin breathes a shuddery breath. ‘Okay, Jon.'