Chapter Text
Martin takes his lunch at twelve thirty sharp every day. Having a routine is important and he usually brings a sandwich made the night before, or occasionally left-over pasta for a bit of a variety. He has a regular spot in the break room fridge, which is why it’s confusing when he opens the fridge door to find his normal spot occupied by a brown paper bag and not his curry-stained Tupperware. A quick search of the items inside the fridge doesn’t reveal anything that appears to have come from his kitchen.
It’s not the first time he’s forgotten to put his lunch in the fridge. There was a whole week once where he didn’t put his lunch in the fridge, when the power at home went out because he couldn’t afford the bill and all his perishables went bad. Nothing to go in the fridge when all you’ve got to eat is instant noodles and crisps.
A quick search of his bag reveals a single squashed starburst, which doesn't look appetising enough to eat. His spare water bottle is there, but no lunch. Then, with stark clarity, he remembers placing his tin-foil-wrapped sandwich on the counter-top, then panicking to find his keys. He left straight after that - finding them made him late. He never picked up the sandwich.
His stomach will complain, but it’s not like this is the first meal Martin has missed.
When he walks back into Peter’s office, Peter seems surprised to see him.
“Martin! You’ve not been gone ten minutes. You are allowed, if not actively expected, to take longer lunch breaks.” Peter says.
“I - uh, forgot to pack my lunch this morning.” It’s a little awkward to admit how forgetful you are to your boss. Like forgetfulness in your personal life might rub off onto the quality of your work.
“Well that simply won’t do. A strapping lad like you needs to eat.” Peter stands from behind his desk, which is frankly intimidating in size. It was Elias’ before it was Peter’s though, so Martin can’t say that the size of the desk is compensating for anything. “I was about to order a delivery from my favourite cafe, I could order something for you? Any allergies?”
“No, but that’s really not necessary.” Martin mutters.
“It’s really no trouble. They do nice quiches. And a good casserole with these little artisanal sausages. Do you like a good sausage, Martin?” Peter smiles in a way that doesn’t look entirely sincere.
“I guess?” He says. Does tesco’s finest Cumberland sausages count as good? He normally only goes for the pricey shit when it’s been marked down for clearance.
“I thought you might. I’ll send an email to Rosie and get her to order some. You should try them.” Peter’s types for a moment or two, then there are a few clicks of his mouse, and he sits back, apparently satisfied. “Sit tight, the food will be here soon.”
“How much do I owe you?” Martin asks, hoping for a small total because he’d really like to be able to afford to eat for the rest of the month after this.
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter tells him, “you deserve to be spoiled sometimes.”
Martin remembers his lunch the next day - Wednesday - a sandwich filled with iceberg lettuce and the bacon he didn’t eat last night. It goes in the fridge, in the same spot as usual.
At twelve twenty-five, Rosie knocks on the office door and walks in precariously balancing two pizza boxes in one hand. The branding on them is vaguely familiar - Martin thinks it’s from one of the trendy new places that sprung up a few months ago a couple of roads over from the Institute. The sort of place that advertises a wood-burning oven and includes toppings more adventurous than double pepperoni.
“These arrived for you, Mr. Lukas.” Rosie says, and she sets them down on a patch of desk that Peter indicates to.
“Thank you, Rosie.” Peter says, and she turns and leaves.
The food in the boxes smells good, the pizza clearly freshly baked and hot. Peter opens the top box and the aroma only intensifies. It’s topped with mixed peppers, chicken, and mushrooms - exactly the answer Martin gave around an hour ago when Peter asked him his favourite pizza toppings.
“This one’s yours.” Peter says to him.
“You didn’t have to get me a pizza!” But he wants to say he didn’t ask for a pizza. He didn’t ask Peter to do this for him.
“Are you going to turn down my generosity?” Peter asks. He walks over Martin’s desk, so much smaller than his own, like it was an afterthought to add when he decided he would be sharing an office with an assistant. An assistant who’s in the office far more than the Head of the Institute ever is.
The pie goes down in front of Martin. The aroma is mouthwatering, the cheeze oozing and the peppers charred in a perfect way. It’s already sliced. Just one couldn’t hurt.
Across the room, Peter is eating his own pizza. Olive and anchovy. Those toppings never appealed to Martin, but it doesn’t stop the dish from smelling amazing, even if the aroma is a little strong. Martin picks up a slice, resigned to the fact he’s not going to be able to resist eating his fill.
“I do like to see you eating properly, Martin, and I really enjoy helping you with that.”
Martin ends up eating his bacon sandwich for dinner instead.
On Thursday, Martin is half-waiting for lunch to be delivered. Rosie brings it in at 12:20. It’s sushi, and Martin can’t work out where it’s from, or how much it costs. He eats his ham sandwich for dinner.
Friday, and Rosie brings in the most tender meat pies Martin has ever tasted. It’s wonderfully spiced and Peter smiles at the way Martin moans when he bites into it. The ham sandwich goes home with him.
On Monday, Martin brings in pasta in tomato sauce. Rosie arrives bearing fish and chips before he has the chance to get it out of the fridge for lunch. He leaves the pasta overnight, as if there’s a chance Peter won’t buy him lunch tomorrow.
Tuesday is deliciously creamy soup served with a soft bread roll. Martin makes a mental note to slip his favourite foods into conversation with Peter. The pasta goes home with him.
On Wednesday, Martin doesn’t bother bringing in lunch.
There’s a plant on Martin’s desk when he arrives in the morning. More specifically, another plant, because Milly and Florence the cacti are on one side of the desk (while Jenny the cactus, along with an as-of-yet unnamed hoya live on the windowsill, because apparently the girls can’t stand each other). More specifically than even that, there’s a tree on his desk.
A bonsai in a rectangular pot. The trunk is gnarled and twisted in a way that speaks of age, but the leaves are wilted and yellowed in places. Martin’s unsure of the exact species, but it doesn’t look healthy. He puts it on the opposite side of his desk to Milly and Florence, just in case it won’t get along with the direct sunlight from the window. Or Milly and Florence.
Peter arrives mid-morning from God-knows what and God-knows where, because he certainly didn’t walk in through the door. That happens, sometimes. He’s often just gone when Martin turns around too, vanishing without a trace instead of actually leaving the room. It’s often unnaturally cold in the office too, although none of the windows are drafty as far as Martin can tell.
“I was thinking of ordering some of those pies again for lunch.” Peter says. “You made the most delectable noise when you tasted them the last time.”
“Sounds good.” Martin nods over at the new bonsai. “Do you know where that came from?”
“My great-aunt, originally.” Peter answers. “I’ve had it for a while, but I’ve been struggling to get it to thrive.”
Peter walks over to Martin’s desk and picks up the tree. His hands are large and the tree looks comically small in them, like he’s contemplating a head of broccoli.
“You seem to have a bit of a green thumb,” Peter says, “so I thought you might be able to breathe a little bit of life back into it. The other houseplants in here are as lovely as their tender. You wouldn’t mind looking after it?”
“Do you know what species it is?” Martin asks. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about bonsai care, so I’ll need to look a few things up.” Bonsais are very particular about their care if Martin remembers correctly. It’s why they’re so difficult to look after. And why ones as clearly old as the tree Peter is holding often run into the thousands if you want to buy them.
“It’s a ficus, I believe. I can’t say I know much more than that.”
“Does it have a name?” Martin asks.
“A name?”
“I give most of my plants names.” Martin can feel himself get flustered. “That is - in my head they all have names. Y-you know, ones that I think suit them, because plants can have personalities and…”
“Oh aren’t you adorable.” Peter says softly. “What do you think for this one then?”
“Henry.” Martin decides on. “He looks like a Henry.”
“Pack your things up Martin, I’ve booked us a table for lunch.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Eating in a restaurant surrounded by other people sounds entirely out of character for Peter. The idea blindsides Martin so much that he even forgets to modulate his shock into a polite ‘pardon me?’
“I thought we’d have a change from ordering food in and pop by to a favourite seafood place of mine.” Peter says. “You should probably pack up for the day, I can’t guarantee we’ll be back in time to make it worth doing any work.”
“Are you sure about this?” Martin asks. He supposes if it’s Peter’s idea they’re not going to get in trouble for it. After all, he’s the head of the Magnus Institute. There’s no one higher up the food chain who’s going to breathe down Peter’s neck about taking an unsanctioned afternoon off.
“It’s a Friday afternoon at the end of the month, it’s not like we’d do any substantial work.” Which, to be honest, is pretty accurate.
So Martin shuts down his computer and piles the files and papers on his desk into something that has a semblance of tidiness even if it cannot be called organised. His phone and keys go in his pocket.
Peter is halfway out of the door by the time Martin is done, so he assumes Peter has everything he needs. Martin picks up his bag from under the desk and follows Peter. The bag doesn’t contain much that’s strictly essential - a thin jumper, a charging cable and battery pack because after about seven years his phone battery is finally dying - but it does have his wallet in it. Not that it’s at all likely Peter will let him pay for his meal. He’s paid for enough of Martin’s meals for Martin to realise that by now. And anyway, if it’s a restaurant picked out by Peter, there’s a good chance Martin can’t afford even a sniff of their food.
He’s seen the car Peter takes him out to in the car park before. Martin wasn’t sure who it belonged to before this, but he’s not surprised that it’s Peter’s. It’s a mercedes, an expensive looking thing in black with sleek lines. It looks entirely impractical for the traffic of London, although it’s definitely built for the road, not the race track.
The seats are leather - the real kind - and the engine is smooth, its power hinting at the sort of speeds that aren’t legal on any public road in the country. They peel out of the car park and quickly hit London traffic. Peter fumbles for the gear stick and ends up with a handful of Martin’s thigh instead.
He doesn’t apologise.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered ahead.” Peter says. “I’d prefer to limit my interaction with the waitstaff.”
That, Martin finds, is annoying, but also in line with Peter’s character. It’s also in line with the way Peter orders most of their lunches. The food just shows up and invariably it’s delicious. And if Martin mentions he likes it, Peter tends to order it again.
“Either way, I did order more than we can reasonably eat, so you will have at least a limited choice.” Peter says. “I like to think I’ve figured out your tastes pretty well. And if not, I have found you to be plenty adventurous.”
“I’m sure any of your choices will be wonderful.” Martin says, because it never hurts to be polite and Peter really doesn’t have to do this for him.
The restaurant is discrete, a story above the street with a high street shop beneath it. He doesn’t spot the name advertised outside before they’re climbing up a narrow flight of steps to the entrance. Inside, the host appears to recognise Peter. He nods, and leads them to the back of the restaurant without a word.
Martin catches a glance at one of the menus as they go. There are no prices on it.
They are led to a private room, which Martin guesses was inevitable. Peter isn’t the sort to eat amongst the public, although from the diners he saw in the main room, this place only serves a particular echelon of the public. The room itself could host a small but intimate dinner party. The tablecloth is brilliant white, and the walls and chairs a matching baby blue. Four elegant candles are lit along the length of the table, with a single red rose in a slender vase right in the centre.
It is set out to be a little more romantic than most lunches with a coworker are intended to be.
“They’ll give a few minutes to settle before the food starts arriving.” Peter tells him.
Peter pulls out a chair and gestures for Martin to sit. He then takes his own seat at the place setting opposite Martin.
“Do you eat oysters?” Peter asks. “What about snails?”
“I don’t think I’ve eaten either.” Martin wonders just how far this meal is going to stretch his palate.
“My taste includes both oysters and snails, although this restaurant does not serve the latter.” Peter smiles, but not in a way that sets Martin at ease. “However, there should be a dish of oysters arriving at any minute.”
Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door, and Peter calls the waiter into the room. He comes in with a small serving trolley and begins to lay out the first course. A plate for each of them and cutlery to match, and between the plates a dish filled with ice and lemon slices. Atop the ice are six ruggard shell fish that Martin vaguely recognizes as oysters. A small, strangely shaped knife lies beside them.
There’s a bottle of wine in an ice bath, which Martin wasn’t expecting, and a jug of ice water with more lemon slices floating in it. The waiter produces glasses for both beverages seemingly from nowhere. He pours a splash out into one of the wine glasses and hands it to Peter, who swirls it once and takes a small sip before nodding and holding the glass up to be filled.
“Just a small glass for me.” Peter says, and the waiter obliges. He holds the second glass up for the waiter to fill without asking Martin if he wants some. The bottle goes back in the cooler and the waiter leaves.
Martin doesn’t usually drink wine, but he’s not going to spit in the face of Peter’s hospitality, so he takes a sip. It’s white, dry, and a better vintage than anything he’s had before - even that time at his cousin’s wedding. Then again, it’s not like he’s a regular wine drinker. He didn’t recognise the label or branding on the bottle, the brief flash of it that he saw anyway, but that just means it can’t be bought from Tesco for seven pounds or less.
“I take it you’ve never shucked an oyster before?” Martin shakes his head in response to Peter’s question.
“I’ve always preferred to do it myself. It ensures the oyster is fresh. Let me show you how to do it.”
Peter walks around the table and takes the seat on the right of Martin. He crowds in close. Neither of them are small men. Peter selects one of the oysters and picks up the knife. He places the oyster in his palm, with a napkin beneath it.
“The oyster goes in your hand, cup down, with the hinge at the back.” He points at the pointed end. “The oyster knife goes in at the hinge,” Peter twists the blade from side to side, “and it pops open like so. Then you slide the blade along the top shell to sever the muscle.” There’s a soft scraping noise from within the shell as the knife slides along it.
The top shell comes off and Martin peers over at the creature inside the shell. It’s wet, pink-grey, and shiny. It doesn’t look that appetizing, but then again a lot of seafood tastes better than it looks.
“Then you slide the blade along the bottom shell to free it on the other side. Now, if you’d be so kind to squeeze a bit of lemon juice on it?”
Martin picks up a lemon slice and squeezes it on the creature in the shell. It flinches as the acidic drops hit it.
“That’s how you know it’s alive. Oysters should only ever be consumed fresh. Open wide.”
Peter lifts the oyster to Martin’s lips and tilts the shell. The creature slides into his mouth. The main flavour is salt, with a hint of lemon. The texture is not what he expected, neither slimy nor rubbery. It is surprisingly good.
“The Romans considered oysters to be aphrodisiacs.” Peter says, staring deep into Martin’s eyes. “Sometimes I’m inclined to believe them.”
He hasn’t had enough alcohol for this. Martin fumbles for his wine glass while he stammers. He takes what would more aptly be called a gulp than a sip. He needs to be drunk to hear Peter say things like that.
Peter hands him the knife. It isn’t as sharp as he thought it was. Martin takes an oyster from the tray and places it in his hand the same way Peter did.
“Napkin first.” Peter tells him. “Most injuries when oyster shucking come from the shell, not the knife.”
Peter plucks the oyster from Martin’s palm and presses a cloth napkin into it before replacing the shellfish.
“I’ll guide you through this one.” Peter closes his hand over the one Martin is using the knife with. He has to lean right into his space to do so.
“Knife in here.” Martin nods as the knife pushes in with gentle steady pressure. “Then wiggle.” He feels the moment the joint pops and smiles at Peter’s far-too-close face. The blade grinds along the top shell and Peter reaches over to remove it.
“It’s clean.” Martin says, looking at the shell in Peter’s hand.
“That means you’re doing it right. Think you can do the next bit on your own?”
Martin nods, and frees the oyster from the bottom shell as well. He squeezes a lemon slice over it. It’s alive.
Martin doesn’t think before he does the action he takes next. He lifts the oyster to Peter’s mouth and feeds it to him in the same way Peter fed the first to him. The older man looks surprised, but not displeased.
He chews and swallows. “I always find great satisfaction in eating something that was still alive when I put it into my mouth.”
Peter laughs at the expression that causes on Martin’s face. He found it off-putting, yes, but that doesn’t stop him from eating another two oysters.
Peter doesn’t return to the other side of the table after the oysters are finished. His chair is pulled close enough that their knees keep brushing. It makes Martin take several large sips of his wine. A pity to get through the whole glass before the main course arrives though.
The wine bottle descends on Martin’s glass as Peter refills it. He places it back in the cooler without topping up his own mostly empty glass.
“Is it not to your taste?” Martin asks. It would be strange, as Peter picked out the wine in the same way he picked out the food.
“It’s actually one of my favourites. For wine at least. But I drove us here, remember? I need to still be sober when we leave.”
Vaguely, Martin is aware of someone clearing the debris of their first course from the table. It is surprisingly easy to put the service people out of his mind. Like he’s just alone with Peter.
“Isn’t it a two glass maximum for driving though?” Martin remembers that vaguely from school, from those classes that taught that drugs and alcohol were Bad with a capital B.
“I like to finish a good meal like this with liquor,” Peter replies, “so I’m afraid it’s up to you to finish most of that bottle.”
“I think you overestimate my ability to hold my alcohol if you think I can drink most of a bottle of wine and still be in a state to work afterwards.” Wine also isn’t his drink, but Martin also realises he’ll probably never drink a bottle that expensive again, so why waste it?
It won’t be enough to get him sloppy-drunk, but he certainly won’t be sober after most of a bottle of wine. And certainly not if there’s liquor to follow that. He’s also not sure if Peter is ready to be introduced to drunk Martin yet. If ever.
“We’re not going back to work this afternoon, remember?” Peter reminds him. “I can even drop you off at home unless there’s something you left at the Institute.”
There isn’t though. There’s no reason for Martin to go back to the Institute after this. He might even have to avoid returning to the Institute ever again if drunk Martin decides to make an arse out of himself.
There’s another knock on the door. The main course is here. Same waiter as before, same little trolley. This time it’s holding a lot more dishes.
A frankly absurd amount of food is piled onto the table until it looks like a banquet for ten instead of a meal for two. Some of the dishes he knows - a paella, a roasted fish that might be sea bass - but others are unfamiliar. One of them is either squid or octopus. Still, there’s hundreds of pounds of food on the table.
“This is too much.” He says flatly.
“I wasn’t sure what your favourite would be,” Peter at least sounds a little sheepish, “so I ordered a range for you to try.”
“That’s. That’s thoughtful of you. I just hate to see most of it go to waste.”
It smells good. Fishy and salty. Steam is rising from a dozen different dishes and Martin has no idea what he would have ordered if he’d been given a menu. There’s a shrimp stew that looks delectable, but so does the sea bass and the flaky salmon. Plus there’s at least a couple of things here he’s never tried before.
“I can ask them to bag up some of the leftovers so you can take your favourite dishes home. Most of it won’t keep well, but it should freeze alright.” Peter would probably be ashamed if he knew how much of this Martin is already planning on slotting into the 3D jigsaw puzzle that is his freezer.
“Meanwhile,” Peter says while standing, “you should try some of this.”
Peter serves small portions of several of the dishes to both of them, until Martin’s plate looks like a mismatched mosaic of food. Peter looks at him expectantly until he takes the first bite.
As he’s come to expect from Peter’s food choices, it’s all expertly cooked and seasoned. The fish is tender, the vegetables pair perfectly, as does the wine he’s already a glass deep in. More than. It keeps refilling as he focuses on his plate and Martin isn’t doing a good job of keeping track of exactly how much he has drunk until Peter is pouring the dregs of the bottle into his glass.
The bellyfull of food stops the alcohol from hitting like a trainwreck, but Martin can still feel himself slipping into the drunkenness, too late now to stop. His head is a pleasant dizzy little blur, but there’s an emptiness to it as well. Like normal, he’s drunk and he’s missing something. He’s drunk and he’s missing touch.
A few more bites of that frankly delicious paella and he’s eaten his fill to just the right side of not being uncomfortable later. Peter has stayed crowded up against Martin throughout the meal, close enough that they’ve had to keep their elbows tucked in while eating, despite the fact they’ve a large table to themselves.
Peter won’t mind, Martin tells himself, and he presses up against Peter’s side and rests his head on Peter’s shoulder. It’s just a little too much effort right now to keep his head up by himself. Peter stiffens beneath him, moreso when Martin lifts a hand to explore the texture of his suit jacket, fascinated by the feel of it beneath his cheek. It feels like it might be silk and not even the fake plasticy shiny kind.
“Are you tired, Martin?” Peter asks.
He has his hand slipped over Peter’s bicep and can feel the strength of the muscle beneath. He rolls his head against Peter’s shoulder so that he’s looking up at Peter’s face instead of down into his jacket, meets Peter’s concerned look with a hazy smile.
“Drunk, ‘m drunk.” He replies. “Sorry, I get sorta...”
He rubs his face into Peter’s jacket one last time and steels himself to pull away, despite the lonely pang that will give him, because it’s clear the other man is uncomfortable like this.
“It’s alright, Martin.” There’s a hand on his head, in his hair. It’s more a gentle scratch than stroking his hair, but either would make Martin melt when he’s in a state like this. He slumps against Peter in a way that will probably make his back hurt more than usual tomorrow if he keeps it up. It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t want it to end.
There’s a knock at the door. Another quiet and polite waiter ready to be let in.
“You should get up.” Peter pushes an errant curl behind Martin’s ear and the skin tingles wherever it was touched.
Martin just mumbles something into the fabric of Peter’s sleeve. Even he’s unsure if it’s actually words.
“We don’t want them to think you’re drunk.” Peter is leaned in so close that Martin can feel his breath on his ear.
“But I am drunk.”
“That can be our little secret.” Peter’s hand rubs gently on Martin’s upper arms and he breaks out in goosebumps. “You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“Are we getting dessert?” Martin asks, hoping the answer is no, because while his mother always called his sweet tooth ‘the root of all his troubles,’ he hasn’t got room for another course now.
“There’s sweeter things than dessert I’ve got my eye on right now.” Peter says and Martin lets the words pass in one ear and out the other. Everything is a little too fuzzy to focus on right now.
Martin isn’t entirely sure he can do a good impression of a sober person right now, but he sits up and gives it his best shot. Peter calls in the person waiting at the door and Martin stares down at the patch of tablecloth in front of him. Peter is saying something to the other person in the room, hopefully asking to have the leftovers boxed up, but Martin can’t concentrate on the words.
The plates disappear, a glass with a small measure of amber liquid is placed in front of both of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin can see Peter take his wallet and phone out of his pocket. The waiter hands him a card machine and he pays for the meal. Then they’re alone again.
“I’m not sure I should have another drink.” Martin says to Peter, who is already sipping from his own glass.
“It’ll be worth your while if you do. It’s a very fine bourbon.”
That’s enough to convince Martin. Should and want are very different concepts. The liquor goes down smoothly. It doesn’t burn in the same way the cheaper stuff Martin is used to does.
Peter puts his empty glass on the table and stands. Martin follows him up and the world is swirling. He grabs the back of his chair to stay steady until it settles down again.
Peter looks at him contemplatively for a moment, then he opens his arms. Martin doesn’t even think before he’s in them. Peter’s arms are thick and warm and the embrace is exactly what Martin always wants when he’s drunk like this. Martin sniffs as he tries to hold back the tears. Peter’s cologne smells like some kind of pine, or possibly cedar.
“You’re… affectionate today.” Peter sounds as if he’s picking the words very carefully.
“I am a clingy emotional drunk.” Martin confirms. “Sorry, it’s uh been a while since I touched anyone.”
Peter strokes a hand up and down Martin’s back, pressing them in closer together. Even through his jumper, Martin can feel the warmth of Peter’s hand.
“It’s okay to be lonely sometimes,” Peter tells him, “but despite everything, you’ll always have me. You understand, Martin? You’ll be alright so long as you have me.”
Martin can feel his eyes prickling, but steels himself not to cry at a simple hug. It’s good though. Peter isn’t soft like Martin knows he is, but he is engulfing. He’s a couple of inches taller than Martin, a little wider too, and built thick like you’d expect a sailor to be. But still soft enough to sink into, although there’s a lump Martin can feel in his pocket. Probably his wallet.
“Your beard is softer than I thought.” Martin says. It looks scratchier than it is, but cheek to cheek Martin can tell it isn’t. He lifts a hand to stroke it and indeed it is wonderfully soft.
“A good beard oil goes a long way. I do like some of the finer things solid ground has to offer.”
Martin doesn’t want to let go, but they can’t stand here all night. Peter gives him one last pat on the back as he reluctantly pulls away.
“You’re not too drunk to walk?” Peter asks as he picks his phone and wallet up off the table.
Martin shakes his head, although the idea of pretending to be too drunk to walk so that Peter will let him lean against him on the way out is appealing. But the world is only a little bit wobbly and the floor at least appears to be flat.
The main room of the restaurant is emptier on the way out. Their waiter is by the door with a couple of plastic bags filled with food containers. No one speaks, but Martin participates in the round of nodding that occurs when Peter hands the man several folded banknotes.
The car ride is torturous, because Peter is right there next to him and Martin wants to feel his touch again, but he’s too busy driving. He’s not sure exactly what time it is. Martin’s watch says around ten past two, but the digital display on the dashboard reads 14:37. They stop in the car park for Martin’s block of flats and it’s only then that Martin remembers they aren’t going back to the Institute.
“I figured you’re in no state to work.” Peter says.
“You know where I live?” He’s never told Peter.
“It’s in your file.”
Martin gets out of the car. Peter doesn’t, which is a pity because Martin really wants another totally inappropriate hug right now. Instead, Peter waves once and drives away, leaving Martin feeling very alone with only the two plastic bags filled with food containers for company.
The climb to his third floor flat is an undertaking with this much alcohol running through his bloodstream, and Martin curses the building administrators for being too cheap for a lift. It takes two tries to get the key in the lock, but he manages it and is greeted to the sight of home.
Studio apartments are great because once he’s put the food in the fridge, the bed is right there to flop onto, which Martin does. Face down. There’s a wayward spring digging into his hip - this old mattress really isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. He should take a nap. He really should. Sleep off the alcohol and then stay up late so that he has an excuse to lounge in bed until the afternoon tomorrow. It’s not like he has any social plans to miss. He doesn’t do anything with anyone but Peter these days.
His phone starts to buzz and Martin digs it out. An unknown number, so he doesn’t answer. It’s probably a debt collector anyway. He could call someone, Martin thinks, scrolling through his embarrassingly short contact list. He could call Jon.
Jon’s… back, now. They haven’t talked, although Martin thinks he’s spotted the back of Jon disappearing down the stairs to the Archives. He looks thinner than he used to. But he’s up and walking and presumably capable of answering his phone.
That thought rushes over him like ice water. Apparently he isn’t far gone enough for drunken confessions. He misses Jon. Misses bringing him tea throughout the day. They work in the same building for Christ's sake, but Martin hasn’t even said five words to Jon since he came back to work after the coma.
He misses helping Jon chase away the tiredness in his eyes with caffeine, misses his sharp tongue and the way his lips quirk to one side when he so rarely smiles. He misses the one sinfully tight pair of trousers Jon sometimes wears and the way his arse looks in them. He misses those pockmarked hands and the way they’d look wrapped around Martin’s penis.
And there he goes, having sexual fantasies about Jon again.
It’s not new. It’s what he jerks off to most of the time, although god forbid if Jon ever finds that out. Sure enough, his dick is hard now and Jon proves to be as good a fantasy as ever, even if right now it’s just an abstraction of Jon’s hands and mouth.
Martin wriggles out of his trousers and shucks his boxers down to his thighs before fisting his dick. He’s not aiming to draw this out, just a quick wank to take the edge off. Jon probably wouldn’t appreciate being thought of in this way, but that’s too bad. He can picture Jon’s face as he wraps his lips around the head of Martin’s cock and slides down, and that’s it - Martin is gone.
His semen splatters like shame.
There’s an awful curl in his stomach as he wipes the come from his hand and does his best to get it off from where it’s splattered onto the bedsheets. That sinking, empty feeling follows him as he curls under the covers and pushes his head into the pillow like he wants to drown in it. Martin stays like that until he at least thinks he slept.