#internalized aphobia cw

[officialbruciewayne]

Have you ever considered a platonic relationship?

You can feel someone’s embrace without it being romantic. Cuddling isn’t inherently romantic or sexual

Not specifically, but I have been researching queerplatonic relationships which have the explicit commitment and intimacy of long-term romantic partnerships but without- but are different-

I think my concern is that not only is this not always what other people want from me, but that, perhaps I do not know how to- distill my own wants and desires from expectations and roles. The trust involved in- asking someone to navigate this with me, in asking that of a person...

It feels altogether too much. To ask so much and offer something that feels so broken.

[starfallpod]

A Slice of Life

Ace Podcast Week: Monday, Cake Fel considers getting into relationships, getting out of them, and how many slices of cake is enough. Set during the middle of Scene x. (976 words)

Getting into relationships had never been a problem for Fel.  As a general rule, he liked people, and he had his ways of getting people to like him, and so whenever the opportunity presented itself for him to be tied to someone in particular, it was so easy for him to jump in head first. Relationships as a concept - it was like being two halves of a whole person, dedicating yourselves to making each other’s lives more fulfilling, and if there was anything Fel could get behind, it was helping someone else feel fulfilled.

It was just actually being in the relationship that tended to be the problem for him.   Relationships in practice - they were messy in all the same ways people were, each with their own needs and demands.  Strange then, that this was what had become such a sticking point for him.  Fel was used to messy.  He was used to demanding.  He was used to dealing with a myriad of people, whether they be clients or managers or troupe members with a haunted mirror infestation, and doing whatever it took to get everyone what they needed.

But there was just something about it when it came to partnerships - romantic or otherwise.  When it came to another person entrusting you with so much of their life - of needing you to be the one to meet their needs, even when there were some things you couldn’t be for them, well -

Maybe for Fel, that was the difference between messy and unmanageable.  He could handle messy.  He couldn’t manage someone entrusting him with their heart and their life so fully and feeling like someday, he was just going to let them down.  So time after time, relationship after relationship, it kept feeling like no matter how much he cared for someone else, he would eventually just…not be enough.  It was starting to feel like the inevitable conclusion, the through-line from Bex to Evick to D’leya that - 

“Fel?” Leona said, glancing over at him.  “What are you thinking?”

For a long moment, Fel had to coach himself to not say what he was actually thinking, because “the inevitability of your inadequacy forcing you to drive away those you care about most” was probably not what she had actually be asking about.

She’d probably been asking about cake - which would make sense, given that they’d made a beeline from Sina’s Salon to the nicest bakery in town and had spent the past few minutes considering the variety of cake slices on display in the glass case before them.

Or, at least, Leona had.  Fel, of course, when given a moment to think, had immediately forgotten about the good things in front of him and started spiralling about all he had to lose.  And maybe that wasn’t totally unreasonable - seeing Leona start to bolt from the clothing store had alarmed him, after all.  She’d been scared into nearly leaving the troupe before, and the idea she might still have leaving on the mind was scary to him, because Leona was - 

Well, she was important, wasn’t she?

But she hadn’t actually planned on leaving today, had she?  She was worried about her past just as much as Fel, but she was worried about the things in her life right now too - things like money and new clothes and, yes, cake.

And maybe he could take a lesson from her for a change.

“Hmm, I’m really torn between the chocolate and the strawberry slices,” Fel said, raising a hand to his chin, as if in deep contemplation.  “Because I think chocolate is pretty good wherever you get it - much harder to mess up a chocolate cake.  But the strawberries on those slices are huge.  And they are nearly out of season.”

Leona nodded in solemn agreement, folding her own hands behind her back.  “They do both look good,” she said.  “But the lemon blueberry also looks very good.  And the carrot cake, and whatever that cake with the rainbow colors is.”  Her fingers fidgeted around the hem of that cloak she’d been so upset about leaving behind just half an hour ago and Fel could tell it was with all seriousness that she said, “It’s so unfair we have to choose just one.”

A smile twitched at Fel’s lips as a thought occurred to him.  Maybe they hadn’t been thinking about such different things after all.

“Y’knoooow,” Fel said, leaning towards Leona in the playful ‘I’m about to blow your mind’ kind of way he’d grown accustomed to, “we actually don’t.  Have to get the same slice of cake, that is.  You could get strawberry, and I could get chocolate, and then we could swap bites and see who likes what.”

Leona’s dark eyes widened ever so slightly.  Just wait until she heard what else he had to say.

“I mean, there’s not even any rules saying we can only get two slices,” Fel carried on.  “We’ve got clothes money to spend.  We could get three, four…maybe even ten kinds of cake if we wanted.”

For a split second, her mouth dropped open and she was clearly considering all the cake varietals, and what the experience of a combination of any ten of them could entail.

“That’s…I think ten kinds is a little too many,” Leona said before, very quietly, requesting, “But, could we maybe get three?  I’d really like to try that rainbow cake.”

Fel chuckled, slightly relieved he wouldn’t actually have to tell Dalyn they’d spent all his mothers’ clothes money on baked goods.  “Three sounds good to me too,” he said.

Yes, it was true - relationships were messy, and sometimes, they asked things of you that you couldn’t give while also being fair to yourself.

But they could be wonderfully comfortable things too, and sometimes, all you needed to make them work was an extra slice of cake.

[cyandelightz]

♣️♣️♠️♠️

-- Me -- 1. I'm polyamorous! I have a boyfriend AND a girlfriend right now. My girlfriend has a couple of her own girlfriends too. 2. I've been meaning to read more books and I JUST got a library card TODAY and so I've been reading a little bit. Hopefully I'll remember to use the thing a bunch, both so my local library gets their tax dollars and also to exercise my brain.

-- The Character -- 1. Buzzo will not wear anything that he deems to have insufficient pockets. The leather strap going across his chest is actually a bandolier with a bunch of pouches, and he's wearing cargo pants tucked into boots. He'd carry a backpack if it wouldn't make him look like a kid. 2. He's had brief flings with women pre-Flash, but he could never really enjoy any of them. (Oops, he's demi and the terminology wasn't really existing for that back in the late 90s!) Unfortunately he kind of internalized the idea that he's 'broken' in some way... he should probably talk to people on the aro- and ace-spectrums...

[infernal-selfships]

i'm feeling a lot of aroallo feeling so uh. uhm. a.smo. a.smo where u at. a.smo we need to celebrate pride

[ballsalsda]

Being a fictospec cavaero is so wild because most of the time its like this

Me: pleaese... i jUst want to be nOrmal and lOve reAl tangbile pEOPLE 🥺🥺🥺

Brain: No. Instead you are going to feel four (4) tertiary attraction for the same 6 fictional characters

[bat-the-misfit]

ok some rant under the cut and me being acephobic to myself

it's funny how usually when people find out they're not straight they get in denial and pretend they're straight and some time later they accept and love who they are

it's being the opposite with me lol when i found out i was asexual in 2017, i was so happy and proud and i would think about being asexual 24/7 and be so happy bc of it

but these past two months i started hating being ace. i hate being ace so much. i hate that i'm not allosexual like most people. all my romance problems would be solved if i was allosexual bc society ties romance with sex even if both are two different things.

idk i just can't help but feel envy. it's so easy for them to date. i never dated anyone bc all those dudes were all allosexual and i wouldn't force myself to have sex with them just to make them happy. that would kill MY happiness.

i fucking hate being asexual so muuuuuch and idk how to get back to the "i love being ace" state again 😭

[officialbruciewayne]

You mean a lot to me, my boy. LOL.

I did not want to teach you to feel that way, but I know the example I have made has been dire.

The secrets I keep from the world at large are not the secrets I should keep from you and your siblings; I have never experienced want or love in a- partnered fashion -and for a long time, I feared this condemned me to loneliness, to never being able to build the family I once lost.

You, your siblings... you are my family. I love you all with every breath in my lungs, each bone in my body and beat of my heart. I am sorry for lying by omission, and I am sorry for not setting a better example.

Hn. If now is- ahem- if now is convenient. I would like to have the conversation I alluded to from before... -BTW

oh, uh- yeah, sure. what’s up ?

[guess-that-ship]

S11 Round 1*

Silver and Gold

Silver and Gold first met in highschool, where they got to know each other pretty quickly due to being in the same after school club, and soon enough were best friends. They work exceptionally well together, something which their clubmates take frequent note of. To Gold, friendship is the most important and powerful thing in the world, and Silver is inclined to agree.

At some point, Silver realizes he's developed romantic feelings for Gold, despite knowing there's no chance of them being reciprocated. Gold is aroace, and already frequently annoyed by society's amatonormativity, and also has a bit of an internalized aphobia issue, so Silver believes that if he told Gold about his crush, it would only make Gold feel guilty about the fact that he doesn't reciprocate. And so, to avoid hurting his best friend in such a way, Silver instead decides to keep it a secret forever and ever and ever.

Chess Buddies

cw: major spoilers, illness

Kid’s parents had a messy divorce, and Guy is now dating Kid’s dad. Initially, Kid’s interactions with Guy are with the intent of getting a rise out of his parents (“I’ll do it if Guy tells me to”). But he comes to appreciate Guy, who treats him as an intellectual equal. The two play chess often, and even when Guy and Kid’s dad aren’t speaking to each other, Guy still cheers at Kid’s sport events. Kid views him as a healthy role model, and turns to him for advice.

Guy contracts a fatal disease, and Kid visits in the hospital to play chess. Both of them struggle with the concept of loss, and Kid is greatly distressed. When Kid has an important celebration coming up, he initially declares he’s not having it because he wants Guy to be there. However, he gets the idea to have it in Guy’s hospital room. Guy declares that as the host, he should toast Kid. Guy and Kid hold onto each other until the very end of the celebration. Guy is incredibly weak, but for Kid’s sake, hangs on until the end, only dying once it’s all over.

*Ship does not have to be romantic.

[lukethewitt]

Award-winning film about asexuality 'A Matter of Trust'

My short film 'A Matter of Trust' won Best LGBT Film at the Tokyo International Film Festival and Best Short Film at the Mabig Film Festival. It tackles some of the assumptions people make about asexuality, particularly that asexuals are all abuse survivors who are scared of sex.

CW/TW: aphobia, description of sexual assault, relationship troubles

[officialbruciewayne]

Have you considered Dick sleeps around because you never showed him what a healthy relationship looks like?

...yes.

I try not to be so self-centered as to think that my own failure in relationships, my own inability to somehow have the marriage my parents had, that Dick's parents had... I try not to wonder. He seems happy sometimes. It seems to make him happy. It is his choice.

But I see the shadow of my own... choices. They have...

They have not made me happy...

I was deficient in raising my children. Where they succeed is in spite of me.

[officialbruciewayne]

ooc. dialogue co-written with @official-clark-kent, this is a thread sum up.

Even speaking at what could be generously called growled subvocal, Bruce retreated back into more mundane topics; asking after Clark's family, and very readily discussing his own. He even brought out a handful of photographs and shuffling through the prints, narrating now and then-

There's Tim and Damian trying to milk Batcow, you remember when we called you in for advice on that...

Cassie and I did our nails together. Bit of a spa day together...

Oh look, there's Dickie at prom in Jump City- young lady named Kitten, I don't think they really got on.

Bruce's avoidance was communicated in a single, shared look that suggested the real conversation was not a public diner one. Standing to leave, Bruce carelessly tossing money around (what sort of tip required a money clip?) he found himself tensing as he reached for his coat, separated ribs complaining at the torsion. It was the discomfort, almost pain that justified not snapping at Clark for helping Bruce shrug the coat on.

As it turned out, Bruce didn't even want to have this conversation on the ground. Which was weird, because Bruce tended to sulk about airtime. Paranoia leaking off the man in waves, and dearly wishing they were eating their food and letting Bruce pore over the family album Bruce apparently kept in his pocket.

They were two miles up, before Bruce even said anything- and the man really didn't enjoy airtime -craning his head to eye rooftops two miles below them like he might just wriggle and jump out of Clark's grip. Satisfied, in some way, by the sharp whistle of air in his ears, and finally sure they were not going to be eavesdropped on, Bruce announced:

"I'm broken and incapable of love." There were several solid moments, before Bruce craned his head again, "right. Now you can put me down." He started to point out a promising square of concrete and the hem of Clark's shirt pulled in the straining wind.

Dumbfounded, Clark hovered, "may we discuss this first?"

"I don't see what else there is to discuss," Bruce lied. Like a liar. And knew it, judging by the askance eye narrow he offered. "I'm incapable of human connection."

"So what about your kids and friendships? Because I'd say they're human connection. I'd say you love them."

"I do," now Bruce was looking at Clark with a flash of anger, bristling in Clark's arms.

"I know you do," Clark said calmly. "You love them so very much."

And Bruce's gaze slid off to the side, head turning slightly. "I meant that... relationships. Romance." A pause, voice soft and stolen by the wind. Clark caught it effortlessly. "I don't love her the way she deserves and the way I wanted." Bruce's word was a fragile bird, alighting in his throat. "I've tried."

He'd tried too many times, over too many years, and yes- yes there was connection, yes it mattered to him, yes he would throw himself into danger to save Selina, or Harvey, or Talia, but-

"But why does it matter?" Clark asked earnestly. "You have so much love to give, why does it matter what kind it is?"

"...even if it didn't matter to me personally," and there was something very painful in admitting that, "it matters to other people." Bruce's gaze was faraway now. "For many people, it's proof that they're a human being; that they can fall in love, that they feel desire, that they find lovers to make families and build homes and spend their lives together and without it, I am- impaired. Insufficient."

Selina is going to leave me. The thought occurred, without fanfare. There was some proof to suggest it, anecdotal, an awareness that Bruce was withholding something Selina had every right to want, and yet it ached to contemplate.

He loved Selina very much. She knew many parts of him. It hurt badly to think of all of this- his love and his affection and the contentment he felt curled around her at night -as not enough.

"Is this kind of love something you want to feel, or something you feel obligated to feel?" Clark asked, and Bruce blinked back into the moment. He squinted at Clark, who looked back apologetically. "I don't think I understand fully. I'm sorry. I think that's a me issue though."

"Don't apologise," Bruce grunted.

"Only that I think you're enough as you are." Clark's eyes didn't waver. "You're a dad who tries very hard because you love your kids, and I feel loved around you."

A small hn, and Bruce looked away again. The sort of thing Clark had probably learned not to take personally.

"...your parents love each other. Martha and Jonathan. Right." Bruce didn't wait for a confirmation. "Haven't you... looked at what they have. And wanted it for yourself. Waited to grow up and wanted to feel that way about someone."

Then almost inaudibly. "Wanted to hear the music too."

The gears churned behind Clark's blue eyes, saying carefully, "I guess?"

"...do you ever wish you were human, Clark?"

Bruce wouldn't even look at him. It was an insensitive question. Five or six years ago, he might not have dared.

"...sometimes. But I'm not, and that's okay too."

"Then it's like that," Bruce said with finality, like he was utterly certain and utterly spent. "I apologise. I shouldn't have asked that."

The air curled around them, a cradle of wind currents that traced against their skin and even in his thermals, Bruce gave a small shiver.

"But you're not broken if you're not human," Clark said even more certain than Bruce. And really, he would know. "People should be more accepting of differences. I'm sorry if they're not... but you deserve to feel loved as you are."

A small swallow, "they're not. I'm sorry they're not as accepting of differences." A pause. His own words insisting that they were not strangers to one another, but kin. "You read my article."

And Clark's smile was all sunbeams. "I did. It means very much to me."

"Well. I wanted you to know."

A flyer was stuck under his door by a well meaning coworker. A new restaurant on Gotham. Mouse Munchies boasting a pet friendly atmosphere and safe haven for those in need. A coupon! 25% off or 50% if you bring at least one friend. Food is best enjoyed together! - MM (( @matron-of-pancakesmilly ))

Clark had texted @officialbruciewayne the address to Mouse Munchies, and taken a seat in one of the booths carefully. He'd dressed quite casually, a brown plaid shirt thrown over a black tee, with frayed gray jeans and sneakers. His glasses were pushed up as he glanced over a slightly sticky menu that had been left on the table, curious as to their offerings.

[aroaceconfessions]

CW internalized aphobia

I’ve been feeling so weird about my identity recently. I know realistically it doesn’t really matter but I’m wondering if I’m just asexual or if there is something genuinely medically wrong with me. Maybe both? I don’t know. I’ve been on antidepressants since I was 12, so that might be part of it but I’ve never been interested in other people, nor have I been able to feel any kind of… um. Pleasure of any kind. I don’t consider myself sex-repulsed I just genuinely can’t experience any part of sexual attraction or pleasure if I’m involved. It’s making me feel bad because I do fundamentally believe that asexuals aren’t “broken” or anything like that—but I can’t seem to keep that same attitude towards myself. I definitely think I’m asexual or at least on the asexual spectrum but yeah, I just feel a lot of strange guilt and premature mourning for how hard relationships might be if I ever want one (I am also arospec). If anyone has had a similar experience and can give some advice or kind words I’d appreciate it!

Submitted May 17, 2023

[queerplatonic-sculder]

(cw internalized aphobia)

i don't want to have sex or a romantic relationship irl but sometimes i feel like i should force myself to just so ppl won't make fun of me or think lesser of me bc i've never had sex or a romantic relationship... even tho ik that wouldn't end well bc i wouldn't enjoy it at all. (and i think i might have vaginismus which would make sex even worse, if penetration was involved.) also bc maybe it would fix me? what if i actually would like sex/romance if i tried it? i can be attracted to fictional characters (+ their actors by extension, if they're live action) and i love imaging myself with them romantically/sexually but if i think about actually doing anything romantic/sexual with someone i'd meet irl, i feel very uncomfortable and somewhat repulsed...

idk... i'm broken and i feel awful about it. i wish i wasn't. "but you're not broken" how can i not be if the idea of something that is suppossedly amazing and life changing, so much so that ppl say your life is unfulfilled without it, disgusts me?? there is something wrong with me according to society

[dramaticdads]

Sunk cost fallacy

Today I finished listening to season 4 of The Magnus Archives, and figured I’d contribute a small hurt/comfort fic to the “domestic life in the Scottish Safehouse before the whole finale thing” part of things. I hope it’s enjoyable.

Word count: 1602

CW: Internalized aphobia.

Summary: Jonathan Sims tells Martin he is asexual, unsure where the admission will lead.

If there was one thing Jon had learned the past couple of days, however much the fact perplexed him, it was that Martin Blackwood loved him. That the man, who had watched Jon destroy himself more than once, had been put in danger because of Jon, had seen far too much, had loved Jon for far longer than Jon could conceptualize.

If there was one additional thing Jon had learned, though he had no idea exactly when, it was that he loved Martin. That the word came so naturally to him that it scared him. That he wanted so desperately to be by Martin’s side, and would do just about anything to keep him safe.

By the time they’d reached the safehouse, the confessions were already hanging implicitly in the air, as if they’d both always known.

Soon enough, a request for confirmation was spoken out loud between them, when the night air was cold and they were both safe in the warmth inside.

“What you said-”

“Yes?”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

Everything changed between them, without it changing much at all.

And Jon knew with absolute certainty that he never wanted to lose this. Even if the all too powerful question of why was always right at the tip of his tongue. The question of why Martin loved the Archivist. And why he could possibly have fallen in love with Jon even before Jon knew what he was.

Because at the back of Jon’s mind, he couldn’t help but think about how little they knew about one another, despite simultaneously knowing far too much. He couldn’t help but think about how Martin most likely had an image of what a relationship between them was supposed to look like.

That part hurt. Made him flinch on his own when he thought too much about it.

People could never just know when they agreed to be in a relationship with Jon. The fact that Martin knew of the Archivist, knew of the entities and the impending threat of the world ending, but didn’t know of something so seemingly trivial, was almost funny.

Jon kissed Martin and he loved every single part of it. The soft embrace and the way Martin wanted Jon to kiss him, wanted the kiss to last, was intoxicating in ways Jon could hardly describe.

And Martin never asked if they could go further. It felt like a blessing, though Jon knew logically, that it was simply because the whole thing hadn’t lasted long enough for the question to come up. But it would. It always did.

Jon wanted to wait until it did. Wanted to live in this beautiful world where Martin loved him and he could love Martin freely and openly. Even if he knew that world wouldn’t last for multiple reasons.

But that would be selfish.

Martin had lived through hell, and he was now with the person he loved. It should be simple from there. Martin deserved it being simple, and Jon couldn’t help but despise himself even just a little bit, for knowing he was once again the complication.

Jon adored Martin, thought he was one of the most beautiful things left in the world, and the kindest person he’d ever encountered. He was beyond privileged for being able to cradle Martin’s face in his hands and kiss him, and feel that wonderful warmth directed at Jon of all people.

But the simple question would come eventually. A question of when rather than if, sometimes disguised as the latter.

Do you want to have sex?

And Jon would freeze up, as he’d done in the past. If he was even lucky enough for it to be a question rather than an initiating action he wouldn’t know how to break off.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t. He’d do it for Martin, he thought, if Martin needed it to stay. But it didn’t really matter so much whether he could, because if the want wasn’t there, it most likely wouldn’t be enough. Not like he’d be any good at it if he tried.

The least selfish thing he could do, would be to bring it up to Martin. As soon as possible, before things went too far for Martin to be able to back out. If he even would. That scared Jon too. He wasn’t sure which thought terrified him more: the idea that Martin would leave, or that he wouldn’t, even if he wanted to.

He could easily imagine it, telling Martin the truth, and Martin would smile at him as he always did. He’d say it’s okay, but Jon would be able to hear the vague disappointment. The slight regret.

That sort of thing built up slowly, until the tower was toppled. 

Perhaps it was silly to think this was what would do it, after everything that had happened, after everything Martin had seen and experienced.

The sunk cost fallacy.

It took Jon so selfishly long to bring it up. Indulging in the reason to get up in the mornings and make breakfast, the reason to see light at the end of the tunnel, and the reason to smile after everything. Without adding to one of the many reasons Jon wasn’t by any means the perfect man to be with.

As the right time never seemed to come, he ended up settling on a night where a comfortable silence had fallen between them. The two were resting next to one another in bed, and for a moment too long, the silence had left Jon alone with his thoughts. And he figured now was as good a time as any.

“Martin?”

“Yeah?” There was a smile behind almost every word Martin spoke to him, in these fleeting days of domestic bliss.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to… Mention.” Jon had gone over every word of this potential conversation in his head, and yet right then he couldn’t seem to recall any of it.

Martin inched closer, “Yeah?”

“It uhm…” he exhaled, already at a loss for words. And wasn’t that unfair, that the Archivist who saw so much, could extract so much, was hardly able to articulate things when he needed it? “It’s just a personal thing… Something I- I thought you should know. Before we go any further with this.”

Martin’s eyes furrowed with some concern, “What is it, Jon?”

Hearing his name made him exhale shakily. He shut his eyes and tried to find the words, “It- it doens’t have to matter. But I’m asexual.” Before Martin could respond, Jon quickly followed up with the explanation he’d grown used to, “I don’t- I don’t experience… attraction, in the sexual sense.”

“Oh,” Martin said, and Jon wasn’t certain what the tone meant. Uncertainty, waiting.

“I love you, Martin. O-of course I do. You are absolutely beautiful in every way, and I don’t ever want you to doubt that.” he dared to look Martin in the eyes for a moment, and caught a hint of that faint glow that always seemed to be there when they were close like this, “But there are certain things I can’t- I don’t feel. And it’d be unfair to you, to- i don’t know, lead you on? To make you think I can feel something in that way at some point.” 

He paused, letting the words land before he added, “But like I said, it doesn’t have to matter. I can still try to- to do something.”

There was silence, and Jon was unsure what sort of blow he was waiting for. 

Then, he felt Martin wrap his arms around him and pull closer, Martin’s head soon resting against his chest. “Of course it matters. What- what you feel. It matters.” 

Jon’s mouth gaped slightly, as Martin looked up at him, with that same pure adoration he always seemed to hold, “I love you Jon, God you make it sound like I’d ever want to leave.”

“What?”

“Do you think that’s why I’m here, Jon? Just to have a quick- a quick shag?” he smiled a bit through the joking words.

“No no, that’s not what I mean, Martin. I- I want you to know that I’d understand. That I want you to be as happy as possible and that even if you do- love me… There are some things I might not be able to give you.”

Martin laughed, quietly as if it was some private joke he had with himself, “I don’t care, Jon. I just want you here.”

The last words were soft, so genuine that they caught Jon off-guard. None of the expected disappointment or regret. “Oh,”

Martin looked at him, “Are you alright with kissing?”

It seemed like a strange question to ask, after the past few days where kisses had been something Jon had held so dear, but Jon could hardly bear the implications.

Have I crossed a boundary?

If I have, I’ll stop.

And I’ll still love you all the same.

“Yes,” the word came out like a whisper, but held much more feeling than Jon could describe, “I love kissing- kissing you.”

Martin leaned forward and kissed Jon with so much adoration, so much passion, and love, that Jon was once again amazed he could possibly have something this wonderful right beside him.

Martin spoke, when he eventually pulled away, “Thank you for telling me,” he smiled carefully, “I’m sorry if I ever made you think it would change anything.”

Jon had no idea what to say to that, so he decided to kiss Martin again, hold him close and safe so that he could make this moment feel eternal.

[officialbruciewayne]

"Okay," Bruce said carefully, though there was a hint of pride in Tim defending Damian. Interceding on his behalf, still- "but even if Damian's just being protective, it... can still- hurt people. How we treat others doesn't happen in a vacuum."

Still, he raised a hand in acceptance, "but if you think Damian isn't hurting any of the Kents, then I trust you."

Bruce faltered at the direct eyecontact, and broke away at the same time. "It wasn't really safe to say things when I was a young man," he said honestly. "I'm glad that things are different for you, but- I'm not sure you do know how I am."

Hesitant again, before Bruce murmured, "this isn't to say I do not... have not had relationships with other men. I have. I will probably continue to see both men and women going forward, but-"

Now he was trying to get eye contact, fear prickling in his throat, "I don't- I can't-" he held out both hands, feeling almost quietly defeated.

His eyes lowered as he confessed: "I hoped for a long time to have a great love, the way my parents had for one another. To be able to build a family around me again. And I found I did not have those feelings. Not for anyone."

"...and I was first afraid it condemned me to loneliness. And then afraid that to admit to a lack of love would be to risk guardianship of my children, just as my affairs with men had." A flicker of an old wound. "And now? Now I am just- I do not wish to read the headlines declaring me a loveless beast with notches on his bedpost. But I should at least be honest with my children."

Bruce rapped uneasily on Tim's bedroom door, waiting to hear an assent from within. "Tim, sweetheart? May I?"

@officialbruciewayne

Tim was sitting with the door halfway open, he took one of his earbuds out to give most of his attention toward Bruce.

“Yeah of course, come in.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (��You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there���s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.