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squeeneyart · 2 years ago

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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 31

AO3

Jon caves to his curiosity in the empty house.

Who was this woman he'd searched for?

Jon woke to the shock of an empty bed.

It couldn’t have been long since Martin left. Of course without the mobile on the nightstand there was no telling the time, but dull morning light hadn’t yet dragged itself through the cloud cover to reach the bedroom floor. Considering their physical arrangement, Martin must’ve taken great pains to let Jon rest. Had it involved gently prying Jon off of him, scooting quietly to the edge of the bed, leaving Jon to sleep off the previous evening in peace?

A kind gesture if so, but the sheets beside him held no leftover warmth.

He slipped out of bed and walked rather hurriedly out of the room, passing the upstairs toilet. Dark. If it weren’t for the still air of that house he might’ve assumed it to be the dead of night, but no, as he made his way downstairs Jon didn’t hear anyone shuffling around the kitchen. He didn’t hear much of anything as he approached the foyer, ignoring the downstairs toilet and its neighbor, both shut tight.

Jacket and shoes were gone. Bag too. He’d gone to work, obviously.

Cracking open the front door revealed the beach. Jon shivered as he scanned what he could see of the horizon, dark strip atop dark strip, finding no still figure in the mist. Yes, Martin had gone to work, or had made it far enough that Jon couldn’t see him.

He closed the door, glaring at the beach through the protection of solid wood. “No point in getting spirited away,” Jon muttered and circled back to the kitchen.

Without switching on the lights he approached the kitchen window. It took a good amount of squinting, but he thought he could see the trail winding up between the trees. Maybe. Or his eyes were filling in what he knew to be there, just out of reach.

He couldn’t go back to sleep, too aware of the cold that already seeped through the bedsheets. Turning, he looked into the dark mouth leading to the living room. It didn’t give a perfect view, but similar to the kitchen its window gave him a way to watch for anyone coming from the cliffs once the sun decided to show its face.

Which was hours away.

Jon walked onto the worn carpet and paused. The thought of bringing the laptop down for what had become a mockery of research made him want to bang his head against the wall. Should he watch something in that collection of tapes by the television? Dull his mind for just a moment with whatever reruns of game shows he could find flipping through channels? Should he draft his whole life story so when Tim and Sasha came he could hand them a piece of paper with a note reading please do not use this against me?

He rubbed his hands over his arms, barely protected by the t-shirt he’d slept in. Decisions were easier to make when someone was there to tell you that you’d made the right choice. All he had at the moment was a house empty enough to hold every doubt that had him looking over his shoulder.

Hours to fill with nothing but cursory internet searches, doors shut tight for good reason. It was enough to make him claw at the walls. Maybe if he just kept moving…

Back in the hall. Front door would remain shut. As would the downstairs toilet, doubly so. Upstairs to the attic which he’d already rooted through once since he’d hidden himself away. A backroom, again already inspected in a fit of paranoia as he tried to find a suitable hiding place for his skin. Better for Martin not to know the state he’d been in that night.

And the closed door next to the downstairs toilet, unopened since he arrived. He knew what it was, conceptually. He knew who it had belonged to. When he’d learnt of her flight from this place, it had scratched at the back of his mind with frantic visions of a woman he’d never met, dead at the hands of her son and rotting behind a locked door. But it wasn’t locked. He knew this because he’d turned the door knob deep into his first night, cracking the door open an inch before shutting it tight in a moment of clarity.

There was no rot in that room. If he had to take a guess from that quick peek into the dark, all that remained was furniture and dust.

His hand gripped the door knob.

There was no finding her outside, in the sea. Martin didn’t need him to, and he couldn’t afford the risk. But he was without answers and Martin was-

The knob turned without ease or great resistance; the door opened like an ordinary old door, dragging slightly on the carpet. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the hall light in his wandering state and groped for a light switch but settled for the string of a small table lamp.

Dust was right. A bed sat in the middle of the left hand wall, duvet rumpled and retaining the absence of a person. Worn slippers were pushed slightly under the bed next to a discarded bathrobe. Curtains rested half-drawn in front of a window with only half a view of the sea, butting up against nearby trees and that wooden frame deteriorating at the side of the house. The chest of drawers near the door was newer and of lightweight material, as was the side table, but novelty saved neither from the layer of grey.

His flat probably didn’t fare much better in his absence, and at least this place wasn’t ransacked to hell. A few drawers hung open, somewhat full when examined. Jon gently pushed them into place. He’d almost moved to the half-open closet when he saw the very edge of a piece of paper shoved between the dresser leg and the floor. It was a heavy piece of furniture and it was all Jon could do to pull some of it away, tearing it off at the corner.

Divorce paperwork, served to Martin’s mother. The rest of it might’ve been under the furniture, or thrown in the trash years ago. It was difficult to tell if it had ended up in that spot on purpose or was lost in the shuffle of life.

The skin had remained with her when her husband left for good. Was it a final courtesy to a relationship that had fallen apart? Had he meant to take it with him? Or was it of no interest to him? Unbidden, Martin’s form in the kitchen doorway came to mind, face a mask of shock and nausea.

He shoved the paperwork back under the dresser.

Standing up, he walked to the closet and was met with hanging dresses and jackets now abandoned. By the way his nose itched Jon guessed they’d been untouched for much longer than a couple of weeks. With the steep incline of the cliffs it was a wonder they’d stayed in such a place.

“Did he not want the house? It’s not a happy place, so it wouldn’t be out of the question that he’d leave it behind as well,” Jon said to the fabric, destined for moths. “You didn’t take any clothes, not enough for a permanent stay on land. Planning to spend your final days in the sea, maybe? Or you had somewhere to swim to.”

It became clear after a few minutes of searching that the shallow closet held no clues. He wasn’t sure he was going to find much about the woman herself, let alone where she would flee to. And what selkie would leave a trace that others not in the know could follow?

He turned to the bed, crouching to search below. A pair of slippers and a shallow box shoved all the way to the back. Dropping to his stomach, he wiggled underneath and dragged the box into the lamplight.

Papers. It held countless pages and scraps of paper, some stapled together in threes or fours, others left to fend for themselves in a sea of potential papercuts. At least in this he found solid ground, digging through barely-legible notes. A lot barely started, crossed out, a miracle they weren’t tossed. But he had enough of his own useless audio notes to not judge this particular habit. After a few duds, someone asking about another’s day, local gossip, etcetera, he found a letter that started:

‘Paula, I’m at my limit. He needs someone to set a good example, to make him a good, loyal husband for whatever girl finds him worth her time. But it can’t be me. I can hardly look at him-’

Everything after was crossed out and then eventually torn away. The paper was old, at least a few years, crumpled and tossed in this box, never for whoever Paula was to see. Too old to be useful, and too much to think about. He could ignore it.

Similar notes followed, addressed to the same name. ‘You’ve been a kind ear since he left-’ ‘Seeing him every day, it’s going to drive me mad-’ ‘He’s almost eighteen. None of me in him. What else can I do?’

Over and over, letters without conclusions on a topic he’d been stewing on for the last week, only to find it so mundane and hurtful he had half a mind to shove it all back under the bed. And sifting through, no last name ever came up, just Paula ad infinitum. Someone in town, perhaps? Martin might know, but then how would he explain knowing the first name? Or a person she once knew, the remnant of a former life? He continued his search, tucking the name away for later. At the very least it was someone involved in this whole familial mess.

Then, in between the pleas the writer (Martin’s mother, no point in being coy about it once Martin’s name appeared more than once instead of the boy or his son), a detour. A photo. An old, old photo, yellow and fading.

Two young individuals, one smiling bright, the other subdued but not unhappy. Did the second look like Martin? With winter hoods pulled tight over the subjects’ heads and having never seen his mother, there was no way to be sure. But the rocky beach behind was unmistakable.The first looped their arm around the other’s, pulling their heads close together to fit in frame.

He stared at them both, resting on his knees. No seal skins in the photo, of course, but… On the other side of the photo, a note read, ‘When you’re ready, I’ll be far north, around the-’ Here, a pen did its job and completely obliterated the word. Jon cursed and almost tore the photo in two out of frustration. Instead, he finished reading, ‘It won’t do well to make me wait!’

How long did they last?

The photo should’ve made him feel something else. A kindred pull, or… But he didn’t know these people. With shaking hands, Jon shoved the photo down to the bottom.

Then, in the middle of another letter, a digression.

‘The cliffs feel so much taller. Could be the aches in my legs. How long has the beach been a bait trap? It wasn’t so when I was a girl. Not when my father made his living.’

Stuffing this note into his pocket, Jon consumed every word of every other note with a manic fury. He reread letters, searched for hidden messages, scoured the box for any other notes in that handwriting and almost came up with nothing. An old woman writing to an unknowing recipient like a diary .One pause just to grab the laptop from upstairs, then he dove back in, taking notes of the most minute references to an old woman’s feeling that something had gone wrong. That something had changed.

‘The house is empty now, but for us. It doesn’t make a difference.’

‘I don’t think I will be coming to town anymore. It doesn’t help, and it all makes my head hurt.’

‘When did it stop feeling like my home? My family’s home?’

He closed the box, stuffed it under his arm, and stumbled out the door.

Back in Martin’s room, Jon opened the laptop and began a new recording. He opened with the small section of writing he pocketed, then continued on, “This is just one of many notes found in Mrs. Blackwood’s bedroom, being the most prominent to the matter at hand. She’d felt something change. Perhaps it was a reaction to her increasingly limited mobility at first, but why a bait trap? Why those words? This feels less old than the others, but with modern paper it’s impossible to-”

He breathed in slowly, then out again. “I don’t like it. I don’t like this place, and I don’t like what it may want from us. We can only hope to make a quick exit once the lighthouse is either dealt with or proven too big for us, property ownership be damned.”

Tapping his fingers on the empty section of bed beside him, Jon glanced out the window. His little investigation had lasted quite a while, but it would still be long before Martin returned. “This was her family’s house. Hers, not her husband’s. Does that mean anything? Is it normal for her family to stay on land for multiple generations? How far back did this start?”

Martin should know about the box. He took it in his hands, felt the light, shifting paper inside and all of its weight. He eyed the metal waste bin nearby.

The notes lingered in his thoughts the rest of the day, all of them sitting under Martin’s bed in wait for their demise or salvation. But it was something he could act on, so it was a good burden for a day.

His final notes, spoken into the laptop, “Based on context and handwriting, everything outside of the photograph was written by Martin’s mother. All letters, all unsent.”

By the time Martin returned Jon already sat at the living room window. Near the end Jon had submitted to the view of grey skies and crashing waves, standing up every ten minutes or so to shake away the creeping sensation of no one at all. He hadn’t seen Martin emerge from the treeline, must’ve missed him when clearing his head, but there he was with hair wet from the evening mist and bag hanging limp from his shoulder.

It wasn’t a happy sight, but Jon breathed out in relief, forehead against the cool glass. He heard the front door open and poked his head out into the hall.

“You’re back,” Jon said.

A slow blink. “Oh. Hi,” Martin said.

“Hi,” Jon replied. “Everything all right?”

“As best as it can be?” Martin said, smiling weakly. He lifted a brown paper bag out from under his coat. “Brought home takeout.”

It was warming at least to share some cheap takeout on the couch, though Martin’s exhaustion was palpable. More than once during their show did he catch Martin’s eyes glaze over or begin to droop. Waiting could be easier, but what were the chances that he would be more awake the night after?

It was after just one episode that Jon spoke up.

“Martin?”

“Hm?” Martin jerked slightly, blinking some of the impending sleep away.

“I have a confession to make. I went through your mother’s things.”

“...What?” Somehow, this didn’t perk him up.

“Her room. I went through her room and found a box of letters and other notes, crossed out or torn or- It’s somewhat personal, but I found a reference to someone waiting for her and something I think might be important to this place, and I wanted to-”

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

“You can burn them.”

Jon froze, hand frozen halfway between them.

Martin continued, “‘S dangerous, right? Even if she crossed things out, it’s better no one has a trail to follow her with.”

It was a sound argument, and matched entirely with Jon’s gut reaction. “Are you certain you don’t want to look?��

“I didn’t go looking for them, did I?” Martin asked. He didn’t snap, was too unfocused to be anything other than calm. “You said there’s something important?”

“I…” Jon looked down at the box. “I already took notes on what felt relevant. A reference to the strange nature of this place, some other things. Otherwise it’s all personal, I-I think.””

“Then the rest can go. I know my mum well enough to guess what she wrote about.”

“We can wait until you’re… more awake to discuss it.”

A shrug. “They’re not for me. Do what you think is right.”

Jon grimaced. “I…I’ll take care of it, then.”

With a nod, Martin took his plate to the kitchen and left Jon to his thoughts. Too much space for that these days.

Still, it was decided. As he finished and brought his own plate to wash, he hazarded a look at Martin’s face. Impassive.

Perhaps it was for the best, Jon thought as he trudged upstairs. Once in the bathroom, he sifted once more through the bin until he found for whatever girl finds him worth her time and set it alight. The rest of the paper went together. Finally the photograph was torn to pieces and sacrificed to the flame. None of it was his to keep. This woman was never part of his life and most likely wouldn’t have had an interest in him. Still, he wished this act stirred more inside him, that something could make destroying documents he’d have been desperate for weeks prior less of an anticlimax.

The smiling faces were gone and Jon walked downstairs to an empty kitchen. An empty living room. An empty toilet, door unopened with no light peeking from underneath. Jon walked to Martin’s mother’s room and knocked, cracking it open to find the same empty space.

Then he bolted to the front door and wrenched it open to find Martin standing, staring with his back to the house.

“Martin?” Jon asked, stepping out onto the wood with bare feet. “You should come back inside.”

He sighed, not turning around. “It’s fine. I just needed a minute.”

“I’m sure it’s been more than a minute,” Jon growled, sending a useless glare out into the night. He grabbed Martin’s elbow and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind them. “What were you thinking?”

He was met with the same blank mask. “I wanted some air.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Jon asked, “Did something compel you?”

“Wh-no, I just-”

“There’s no ‘I just’ here. If I can keep myself inside the whole damned day, you shouldn’t have a problem doing the same for a few hours. So if something feels out of your control-”

“Christ, I stepped outside!” Martin exclaimed. “Maybe I want to stand on my own damned porch without it being the end of the world!”

Jon took a step back, arms crossed. “It’s not that simple and you know it.”

“My mum was fine for years,” Martin said, rubbing his arms.

“You-”

“I know I don’t know that! I-” Shoulders hunched forward, Martin averted his eyes. “I think…I need to sleep.”

It wasn’t a win, but it would have to do for now. He placed a hand on Martin’s back and led him upstairs, kicking himself for not cleaning up after the box and ashes. Martin seemed happy to ignore them, though, completing the nightly routine with no mention of it.

Once he was done Jon gestured towards the bedroom. “I’ll be a bit, but not long.”

Once he’d sent Martin on his way, Jon stepped into the upstairs toilet and cleaned up any stray bits of ash or paper he’d missed. No notes remained tucked into a corner of the room or the box he’d found. He broke down the box, shoved it in with the trash downstairs,and called it complete. She wouldn’t be found by someone with more clues than him. She wouldn’t be found.

By the time he entered the bedroom, lights were turned off. Martin sat in bed and stared at his mobile, only looking up when Jon cleared his throat. For the briefest moment his eyes seemed to flash in the hall light and the faintest sense of recognition bloomed in Jon’s chest. Then the moment was gone.

He’d paused in the doorway long enough that Martin spoke up. “Are you sleeping here or…”

“Yes. Sorry,” Jon said, smiling a little as he closed the door and slid beside him.

Martin scooted over to make space. “You don’t have to, you know. It’s early.”

Jon waved a hand dismissively. “Easier to keep to your schedule. I have plenty of time to myself during the day.”

Martin laid down, fingers laced over his stomach.

Following suit, Jon pressed his face into Martin’s arm and hooked cold fingers through Martin’s elbow. “I wrote down what I thought was important, if you ever….”

“Mm.”

Sleep didn’t come immediately, kept away not by the dread of the outside but by eyes that shone in the light of his torch, and two people smiling into the camera.

Jon stood at the edge of the water, his toes just out of reach of the grasping waves. Without glancing back he knew Martin stood behind him, looking past Jon’s shoulder at the choppy waters.

“Do you think we should get inside?” Jon asked, watching the waves grow larger in the distance. Cold lapped over the top of his feet, and he shivered.

Martin inhaled quietly and said nothing.

“I wouldn’t mind it. It’s too cold out here.”

Exhale.

Jon turned around, the water reaching his ankles. “Martin?”

He still stood just out of reach, eyes blank behind dark frames. The house loomed tall, taller than it ever should be, and empty over his shoulder. A gaping mouth, the front door swung in the gale.

“Let’s go inside.” Jon reached out a hand for Martin to take, but it was left to hover as Martin turned and walked up the rocky shore.

The water brushed up against his mid-calf as he attempted to follow, clinging so hard to his skin that he couldn’t lift his leg.

“Martin, wait, something’s- something’s wrong-” He grabbed at his knee with both hands and yanked upwards. Nothing. The water clung, nearly tearing the skin for the effort he put into pulling. Looking up, Jon yelled again, “Would you-”

The man continued to walk and reached the front steps of the empty house without turning.

Something began to crack in his chest. Another yank, but the water swelled and pulled him down by the hands, forcing him onto his knees. He looked up, sweat and sea dripping down his face. “Please! Whatever is going-”

Martin stopped just short of the empty blackness of his home and turned to look over his shoulder. From that distance Jon could barely see the expression on his face, if there was one at all. It was too far to tell anymore. But he’d stopped. Maybe-

The water was at his neck. He couldn’t even wrench his hands above the water to flail, but he had to see, had to hear, had to have enough of himself above water for Martin to grab.

Martin’s mouth moved.

The water dragged him down, filling his eyes and lungs with salt.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #selkie au #celebrates first day post-top surgery recovery with a BITS #curses should be on it's way soon

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